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silverflqmes · 3 months

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໒⦂ 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐘 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄.

synopsis. the fates were cruel. peace was restored to the planet, the incurable illness had at last been quelled, but was all that awaited the hero a somber morrow?

genre. angst + eventual fluff

tw. gore, detailed descriptions of blood, self resentment, descriptions and implications of death, abandonment issues, ac cloud being ac cloud ( that should explain enough ), tiny bit suggestive.

notes. this has been rotting in my drafts for almost three months and taylor swift makes me absolutely disgusting, so enjoy this word vomit and lowkey character study. lyrics are in smaller fonts and italics! my tears ricochet is the song if anyone is curious</3

sephiroth x cloud strife.

we gather here, we line up, weepin’ in a sunlit room.

a frigid breeze swept through blond, unruly bangs, mako tinted sapphires dulling as they flickered to the dented metal surface.

blotches of scarlet still remained, now a shade of burgundy from age, like the finest of wines, pressed of the sweetest grapes. only, it wasn’t wine at all. but under certain circumstances.. what made blood any different from wine, when spilled from someone who dubbed himself to be the planet’s heir?

perhaps, that had been the reason the stains remained. a sign that the fallen angel would rise once more, and claw his way back to the surface. even if it meant swimming through burning waves of mako — the river of jades that rejected his being for his desires to seize what rightfully belonged to him; his birthright.

and.. if i’m on fire,

except, the personified calamity had yet to make his move. the game of back and forth that had been at play for the last eight years was left at complete standstill — unyielding, pieces covered in a sheen of dust and ivy. untouched. unmoving.

at this rate, the board may very well have been abandoned with no choice but to erode until another act would be made.

but having it abandoned was a good thing, right? it was meant to be.. at least.

cloud should be happy — relieved that the fight was over and that all was well again on the planet he’d fought to save all these years. and yet, he found himself feeling empty again, the hollowed sensation having occupied his chest almost ten times worse than the time before.

the blond feared whatever purpose he had was all but lost in his mundane lifestyle of playing delivery boy and house. dulled like the great sword resting a little more heavily than usual on his back.

he was honed and molded to become a soldier.. but what good was a soldier with no battle left to fight? no people left to save? no sephiroth left to-

abruptly, cloud peeled his gaze away from the damage, closing his eyes to calm himself. to breathe.

but even that was no good.

flashes of the battle came back in blurs to him, a broken mirror of memoirs with sharp-edged shards hailing down upon him. in his mind, protection was nonexistent — only a fool would bring an umbrella unless they wanted its fabric shred to pieces.

and so, cloud just let it happen as it always did. he stood and allowed the slices to wash over him. each one splintering impossibly deeper than the last — the more intense memories. otherwise, open wounds left unhealed with ichor left to spill.

cuts adorned his lightly tanned skin the more he stood, watched and endured, rouge pouring from the cracks as they met with lucid streaks that tumbled from his lashes.

was this.. punishment?

you’ll be made of ashes too.

but what for? had he not suffered a sufficient amount of it already? was there no end that finally meant ‘enough’?

even on my worst day,

for whatever reason, his father left his mother to fend for herself and play both roles to cloud, only for her life to be claimed soon after during his untimely return to a place that once was his hometown. a horror scene forever imprinted in his mind of his childhood hero’s slow descent to madness while his dying mother cried out final words for him to run away from it all.

however, cloud did not heed her warning — he did anything but. in fact, he went straight into the core of the flame, uncaring of how it decorated his once unblemished skin with puffy pink welts and smudges of dusty onyx. all insignificant pain when it boiled down to that which his heart had felt- witnessing his safe space crumble before his eyes into the ash that painted his lightly freckled cheeks.

did i deserve, babe.. all the hell you gave me?

it hadn’t stopped there. of course it hadn’t, as there was much to be added to his anguish. the sight of his collapsed friend — another to the list of people he could not face upon his return to nibelheim. his new friend, battered and bruised on the steps, pleading for him to finish off the man he once idolized. the figure in the posters he’d begged his mother to help him hang up on his walls — a pile of ash now, dead at her side. for a monster had killed the hero and taken up residence in his body once his mind had been at its weakest.

without a choice, cloud ignored his broken heart to lunge, cleave and toss aside the man that had once filled him with ambition — with dreams of purpose, and a desire to one day fight alongside him, even.. if fate was to be kind for a change.

it wasn’t, but cloud knew that, despite his aching wish to be proven wrong — to have his delusional, hopeless wants fed into.

'cause i loved you, i swear i loved you..

as if things couldn’t get any worse than killing someone he’d once called his hero, an entirely different form of agony filled his chest later down the line. one that erupted into screams of sorrow on the bloodied precipice outside of their journey’s final destination. almost there, yet so far away.

repetition came to haunt him, attachments stupidly created for cloud to wound up getting broken all over again by the narrative. by the man who repainted a fate that should have belonged to another. someone that slotted perfectly into the role of a hero.. only for it to get handed down to the understudy without a clue and a worn down heart forced to go on despite himself. despite the chipping away at his most vital organ, loss after loss.

and somehow, the greatest one of them all.. had been the very person that brought said losses. a person he should resent, and feel relief to not have walking the earth.

instead, cloud felt as empty as the billowing gray wisps in the sky that would not weep, and stood atop shinra ruins. head hung low, eyes sunken from the lack of rest and shivering skin that he’d refused to cover.

what did it matter, anyway? there was no such thing as a SOLDIER getting sick. death was so out of reach.

yet the greatest SOLDIER to have lived met his end. several times.

'til my dying day.

a strained breath left the former infantryman’s lips as he gazed up at the sullied welkin, puffs of fluff obscuring the usual azure tint that reflected the ocean. it was the same sky as that day, and many encounters before the most recent one.. only, today’s sky was just filled with rain. it thankfully or sadly, had nothing to do with.. him.

part of him wish it had.

what were the last words that had been uttered- vowed to him? that he would never be a memory. that was the response that had been made to cloud’s demanding of him to stay in his memories, where he belongs. it was a promise, to remain. to persist. to defy his nemesis.

but he didn’t.

i didn't have it in myself to go with grace.

sephiroth had gone against his own final monologue and heeded his instead.

the self proclaimed ex-SOLDIER should feel content that for once in the years of their feud, his enemy had finally listened. he went quietly with some petty last words and the peace was restored.

everything on gaia was great, life was carefree and edge was slowly being rebuilt. tifa, denzel and marlene were fine too, his old friends were doing great as well, even if they had their own lives now — ones they had fought to have.

even cloud had made a life for himself, a small business to pair. arguably, he should be at ease, finally retired from having to play the hero for everybody. happy, for a change.

and you're the hero flying around, saving face.

only, there was no feeling of contentment.

how could there be when the one persistent thing in his life — the single stagnant fragment of it throughout all the changes, was gone in spite of the amount of times he’d escaped his demise?

leather scrunched when his gloved hands clenched at his side.

had the possibility existed of taking his words back?

“no.” cloud immediately reprimanded himself, tearing his mako orbiting sapphires away from the last place the late general had been as he forced his legs to take him away. “don’t be stupid.”

but he was very stupid. someone who was smart would not cast aside happiness to go straight to reason behind his grief.

and if i’m dead to you, why are you at the wake?

someone in their right mind wouldn’t be standing there like a fool, risking their very life atop an unstable building, wishing for the source of their anguish to return. to come back and breathe life into them as their foe had on advent day.

“you swore you would never be a memory, but here we are.” cloud whispered the words into existence, hanging his head low. “it’s been so quiet.” he followed somberly, sucking in a breath.

cursing my name,

there was no humming in his head, no excruciating migraines that froze him in his tracks at every corner. hallucinations no longer frequented him, either, but nightmares haunted him till dawn, per norm.

for once, he hated the silence. loathed the tranquility that he nearly destroyed himself to provide.

wishing i stayed,

at least he felt alive when he had purpose, even if it was because his nemesis came back to provide him with one each time he lost his way.

so why.. why not now?

was it the final straw, or something? had sephiroth dubbed that enough was enough? that their endless fight was officially.. over?

cloud gritted his teeth to stop his lips from quivering. “you’re a liar..” he let out brokenly, shaking his head when his vision began to blur over. “you’re such a fucking liar!”

look at how my tears ricochet.

in the end, just like any other relationship, be it a friend, relative, beloved, or in this case, an archnemesis, cloud was left all alone on the planet to mourn those that have gone.

unable to hold himself up any longer, the blond sunk to his knees, clutching at the harness strapped across his chest.

we gather stones,

it was wrong, he knew it was wrong. tears should not be spent crying for his enemy. they should not flow so carelessly as hostility pours from his lips, when really..

he was just pleading to have him back.

he had meant to say.. something else.

never knowing what they'll mean.

sloppily, the former mercenary rubbed at his eyes, tasting the blood on his tongue after biting his lower appendage to still his cries.

sephiroth wasn’t coming back, and cloud.. should not want him back. even at the chance of feeling alive again, instead of the husk of a man that he now was. a boring, fruitless life would have to do. it was safer for everyone.

his choice did not matter, it never did.

a shaky breath spilled from his lips as he removed his hand from his eyes, but kept his head low for measures. not that anyone would be as idiotic as him to scale the shinra remains.

some to throw,

“he’s gone.” he muttered to no one in particular, an affirmation mainly to himself while he cleared the phlegm out of his throat when he swallowed. “you’re gone.”

no response came, of course. except for the light drizzle that finally began to spill over. impeccable timing.

dots littered the scuffed tiles, painting them a shade darker while once eccentric chocobo styled bedhead.. now resembled a rather deflated, depressed looking bird.

it probably suited him better.

some to make a diamond ring.

the wails of the heavens only made his own tears fall freely down his cheeks, gathering into a tiny puddle beneath him. perhaps he should have chosen another, more even spot to drop in, but there was little left to care about.

“you could get sick, kneeling in the rain as you are.” a voice echoed back in a low purr, but cloud kept his eyes snapped shut. of course he was imaging his voice now, that was the only thing that was missing.

delusions that belonged in his dreams to haunt him because his nightmare no longer existed.

you know i didn't want to, have to haunt you..

even still. “SOLDIERs don’t get sick.” he fired back with a sniffle rather than any bite, feeling his messy bangs cling to his forehead.

“interesting. i thought you were ex-SOLDIER. so perhaps,” the voice stilled, a noise akin to a snort following. “there still is a possibility of getting sick.”

cloud clicked his tongue, furrowing his brows. “once a SOLDIER, always a SOLDIER. now would you stop already? i-i shouldn’t even be answering my own delusions in the first place, so quit stoking them.” he mumbled, opening his eyes to glare down at the ground. “i sound desperate enough as is, i don’t need to be having conversations with myself..”

but what a ghostly scene.

“oh, cloud.. even after pleading for me to manifest once more, you still wish to neglect my existence and insist on your being alone.” the voice despaired, a soft sigh expelling from their lips, which this time.. sounded a little too real.

too real to have come from the mess that was his mind.

if only to quell his curiosity and just get his hope shattered already, strife lifted his head slowly, turning after a deep breath toward the direction of the source.

and there he stood, in all his horrific beauty.

clad in leather that shone from the rain, liquid moonlight dampened- darkened a little from the rainfall with an abundance of belts that glimmered against onyx.

you wear the same jewels, that i gave you..

only he could appear this mystifying in the pouring rain.

even on the last day that he’d seen him, oozing smoke after unleashing his omnislash upon him before dissolving into a flurry of charcoal feathers.

as you bury me.

even then, he had been beautiful.

“you- you’re not..” cloud paused, swallowing the lump lodged in his throat as he staggered to his feet. “you’re not real.”

a silver brow raised before a soft hum fell from the mirage’s lips, one that again, sounded too real to be imagined. “haven’t we been through this once before, cloud?” he spoke a little more solidly this time, less echoed, but there a hint of exasperation. “is it so difficult to accept that i am here? you wished for my return, did you not?”

i didn't have it in myself to go with grace.

the blond had, that much was true — but he was so ready to accept the male across from him wasn’t coming back.. he hadn’t accounted for the surprise he would feel upon seeing him.

it was just.. completely surreal. “i did,” he began a little hastily, blinking a few times before looking downward. “but i.. you didn’t come back, even after what you said.. and after all that i’ve done — that we’ve been through.. i was starting to think that you wouldn’t be coming back this time..” he finished in a small voice, praying it wouldn’t waver.

he wasn’t sure why he was being so honest, so.. vulnerable. there was usually a bite to his words, certainly whenever the other party was sephiroth.. but there was no hostility, just.. raw emotion.

maybe the man across from him wasn’t real after all, if he was allowing himself to be this honest.

“just as it isn’t simple for you to kill me, it isn’t so easy for me to come back either, cloud.” sephiroth lilted, ripples forming beneath the strides he took to reach the other. “but your memories of me suffice enough to return me to you.” he smiled back, not as cruelly as he normally would. “it just takes time, and perhaps,” he paused, slipping two fingers beneath his chin to gently lift it. “i may have wanted to prolong our reunion to hear your true feelings.”

'cause when i’d fight, you used to tell me i was brave.

cloud shuddered at the phantom contact, it felt all too real.. maybe, just maybe.. it had been.

but could he trust it?

mako-azure glistened as he gazed up into those familiar slitted jades. once upon a time he felt instant fear looking into them, wonder at an even earlier point in his life, but now.. he felt both, all at the same time, with an overwhelming feeling of familiarity.

relief.

he wanted to trust it.

“so you’re not mad at me?” cloud dared to ask, so quietly, it may very well have been a whisper in the wind. he’d allowed zack to die, aerith, his own mother, and sephiroth. even if they had never explicitly expressed disappointment or resentment for his incompetence.. he still couldn’t help but ask, if only to ease his intrusive train of thoughts.

something sephiroth knew all too well.

a chuckle sounded from above the blond, an indicator that his assumption might have been incorrect. well, he hoped so, at least. or that his inquiry had somehow been comical.

“should i be?” his adversary asked, sliding the hand on his chin to hold his cheek. “to further add to your guilt?”

it nearly had cloud flinching at the shift in touch, but he remained in his place, despite the blood that rushed to his ears. “no.” he mumbled back, averting his eyes. “just checking, that’s all.” half true.

sephiroth traced his thumb over his skin, smile stretching. “i see. well, i felt the need to ask, myself. given your history of self torture.” he answered bemusedly, reaching up to catch what might have been a fallen tear.

“i don’t-” the latter swallowed, searching for the words. “i don’t know what you’re talking about..” he grumbled finally, withdrawing himself from his enemy’s touch to turn away. “none of that.. is intentional.”

the silver haired swordsman lowered his hand, surveying his body behavior — the evident self denial.

while he could correct him, humoring his game had more appeal. “truly? perhaps i must be mistaken on my interpretation of you leaving to mourn for a year or two until my return.” sephiroth mused, approaching the other once more to place a hand on his bare shoulder. “why else would you be here, rather than amongst your found family?”

and if i’m dead to you, why are you at the wake?

cloud parted his lips to protest, only to end up flattening them instead. “because i can’t look at them. i don’t.. i don’t belong there.”

when the one winged angel received no reply, he took it as a sign to continue, fluttering his eyes shut. “you would prefer the company of the dead?”

“they don’t judge me, usually.” he returned in a murmur, hyper aware of the leather fingers on his skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away. it felt.. oddly comforting. grounding.

sephiroth looked up at the sky, weighing the words expressed to him. “is that why you wished me back?”

cursing my name, wishing i stayed,

was it? no, there was another reason. “i just..” cloud paused, feeling his heart in his throat. “wanted to feel whole again.. alive. and with you gone, i just don’t..”

“know what to do with yourself?” the self proclaimed heir of the planet tested, tilting his head towards him. “or was there another reason?”

there was. it just, wasn’t easy to convey, let alone put into words. so cloud shook his head. “it’s complicated.”

“i have all the time in the world, cloud.”

a sigh left said male’s lips. “i’m sure you do.” he rolled his eyes, folding his arms. where would he begin to explain himself? feelings weren’t his best conversation topic — he sucked at understanding them, let alone expressing them.

but one look at sephiroth’s patient visage told him he wasn’t going anywhere without an explanation.

which left him with little choice. “i guess i just, always expect you to be the one stagnant aspect of my life.. that you would be there, even when everything else changes, or when the planet decides it’s time to take someone else away.” he tried elaborating, shutting his eyes. “so when you didn’t come back, like you said you would have.. i thought that i.. had really done it this time.”

look at how my tears ricochet.

slowly he turned to look up at his nemesis, knitting his brows together glumly. “i thought that you were finally done with all of this- that the planet took you, too.. and that scared me.”

and i can go anywhere i want..

sephiroth was silent as he listened to his killer speak, noting the fear that flashed in his eyes, the instability.

he’d anticipated to hear something along the lines of what cloud had said, but nothing at all like this. nothing as raw as this.

“as much as i hate you, for everything that you’ve done to me.. i feel so incomplete..” he took in a sharp breath, lowering his head into his open palms. “when you’re not with me.”

anywhere i want.. just not home.

was he seriously crying now, in front of sephiroth? he could only imagine what was going through his head now. probably how pathetic he sounded.

“it’s stupid and weak, i know it is. you don’t need to remind me over it.” cloud continued when he received no answer, wanting to just brush over the topic already to avoid any further humiliation. “anyway, there’s your reason. satisfied?” he exhaled, wiping at his eyes.

it wasn’t often that he cried, least of all in front of sephiroth, but his tears seemed to have no end to them. if anything, the rain had been some kind of sick encouragement for more.

although there had been no judgment. silence, yes. but no judgment was expressed.

cloud seemed to be looking for it as he lifted his head up after a few beats of silence to find whatever face his nemesis had been making- to get an idea of what he might have been thinking, but as always.. his countenance said nothing. a plaster of indifference, perfected throughout the years.

the urge to interrogate him was strong, but he chose not to.

instead, he turned his body away, scoffing. “well geez, if i had known that would shut you up, maybe i should have said so back when- mmph!”

and you can aim for my heart, go for blood.

all at once, rose, vanilla and some other, less prominent fragrances overtook his senses, the realization slowly settling about the newfound contact pressing into him.

otherwise, the bare, soaked chest his face was smushed against, paired with the strong arms that encircled his body.

he might just be hallucinating, but sephiroth- sephiroth.. was hugging him.

and no, not an embrace paired with stabbing. just.. a normal, well needed hug.

his cheeks dusted with pink before he could think to fight the color off, not quite used to the proximity, let alone the addition of wetness due to the rain. but he couldn’t find it in him to shove the other away. not when deep down, it was.. something he had wanted all his life.

cloud found himself unable to stop his next act, which was wrapping his own arms around the taller man, even going as far as to shut his eyes and just.. slip.

but you would still miss me in your bones.

no judgment, after all. and the touch felt real.

sephiroth was real.

he wasn’t a fragment of his mind or a lingering memory. no mirage or shadow that followed him at every twist and turn. and definitely not the flurry of feathers that scattered across the parting clouds.

and i still talk to you..

maybe it wasn’t the man from the poster that was now the ashes of a village erased, replaced and deserted.. but neither was cloud.

the hero had died alongside the nobody, and in their places stood the remains of those men. two hollow souls, lost without their other halves, now reunited, and made whole.

for the first time in a long time, cloud felt he could breathe again as he let out an exhale, unknowingly clinging tighter to his the man he dubbed his nemesis. as though he might slip away from him again and leave him screaming at the sky as he once had on the outskirts of midgar for another that was taken from him.

when i’m screaming at the sky.

but sephiroth had no intentions of leaving, he never had. for as long as his other half persisted, he would continue to return.

“your reasoning is neither stupid nor weak, cloud.” he finally filled their silence, gazing up at the cracks in the sky — the shade of blue bleeding through puffs of gray. reminiscent of the sapphire irises obscured by the mako tint on the eyes of the male in his arms. “our lives are forever intertwined. to be apart from one another is.. death in itself. be it in reality for me, or a feeling as it has been for you.”

tenderly, sephiroth then brought his hand to cloud’s freckled, flushed cheek, meeting his gaze with a small smile. “why else would i have continued to defy my demise?”

and when you can't sleep at night..

the blond pursed his lips, growing slightly embarrassed the more those jade orbs bore into his. was he really being asked this right now? “world domination, i dunno.” he tried, rolling his eyes. “planet being your birthright and all — whatever shit you normally spew during your monologues.”

that made sephiroth laugh, a smirk coming to his lips. “perhaps,” he answered at length, moving a dampened lock behind the other’s ear. “but i always had you in mind, cloud.”

said male rose a brow before letting out a humorless laugh. “yeah, okay. i was a ‘puppet’ in those plans. you would choose your goals in a heartbeat over me, don’t even.” meteor was proof enough of that.

you hear my stolen lullabies.

or was it?

“would i?” sephiroth questioned, still adjusting his bangs. “if it was between the planet and you.. hard decision, but i know my answer. sadly, it does not align with your own.” he chuckled, leaning in closer. “i’ve said once before that i would be loathe to live in such a world without you in it.. and that statement still holds, cloud.”

a fuzzy memory filled cloud’s mind before he felt his breath hitch at the one spilling over his lips- a warmth amidst the chilling rain. “not a dream, real.” he chanted in his head, willing himself to remain calm through the blend of rose and vanilla that hit his senses. “so then,” he began, feeling the hand pause on his cheek, “you’ll stay.. for good this time? no more taking over the planet or trying to destroy it..?” asking the question aloud felt awkward, as though he had been that eager teenage boy once more, with silly dreams and high hopes of meeting his hero.

and maybe, to some extent, he was. despite everything.

i didn't have it in myself to go with grace..

“if it means this,” the former first class SOLDIER stopped, resting his forehead against the other’s, “then i suppose there is no planet to be had that i don’t already have.”

cloud blinked up at him, furrowing his brows together in confusion. “no planet to be had..? what do you mean by.. oh.”

oh.

sephiroth tilted his head, innocently. “without my assistance, you seemed to have pieced the answer quite well.” he commented, eyes half lidded. “but.. perhaps you will tell me, for certainty.”

and so the battleships will sink beneath the waves.

for certainty. yeah, right.

cloud tugged at a handful of platinum, an unspoken warning, only to receive a rather pleasant suggestive noise in return. don’t think about it. “asshole.. if you know already, then i don’t have to tell you.”

“you don’t, no. but i wish to hear it from you, anyway.” the silver haired swordsman insisted, smirking like a cat. his default. “go on.”

the ex-SOLDIER let out a frustrated huff, burying his face in his foe’s shoulder. “i’ll die of embarrassment, do you really want that? for me to die?”

a shrug was the response he received, along with a quiet laugh. “of course not, but as if i would allow you to do so. now come on, cloud.” sephiroth pressed, leaning closer to whisper in his ear. “won’t you do me the pleasure of hearing your response?”

the blond was almost tempted to bite his shoulder right then and there if it weren’t for the massive silver pauldron blocking his way. even for something like this, his foe was always one step ahead.

he wasn’t going to give this up, was he?

a sigh left his lips at the realization. for as stubborn as he was, his old idol was just as bad, if not, worse. and cloud was willing to bet that they wouldn’t be leaving shinra’s rundown building anytime soon if he withheld his response.

of course he gets stuck with the most meddlesome guy ever by the planet’s sick idea of fun, but it didn’t matter.

you had to kill me, but it killed you just the same.

at sephiroth’s, dare he say, eager expression, cloud flattened his lips, annoyed at how much he seemed to be enjoying himself ( at his own expense ). meddlesome, indeed.

though the spiky haired male wouldn’t go down so easily. “your metaphor, and don’t even bother correcting me on poetics, was referring to me, i guess. now can we move on from this topic?” he grumbled back, trailing his gaze away. “..please?”

silence enveloped them once more, save for another soft hum that drew from his enemy’s rosewood appendages- a thoughtful one. as though he had been weighing his plea- or, at least, that was it seemed like on the surface.

in reality, the ex-general had just wanted to leave him in suspense for a moment longer. “so soon? i rather enjoyed your reactions.” he finally relented, releasing a soft exhale. “but i suppose, since you asked so nicely. i do expect something in return, however.”

cursing my name, wishing i stayed,

relief flooded cloud, though it had been short lived. because who was he kidding, it was sephiroth. there was almost always a catch when it came down to him. “something.. in return? like what?” dare he assume a kiss?

yeah, sure. in his head, maybe.

“something heartfelt, perhaps.” he mused, curling his lips just slightly. “or will that cost me?”

cloud nearly spluttered. something.. heartfelt? was sephiroth aware of who he was speaking to? he was the least heartfelt person on the planet, he was no poet!

but at the mention of a price, he found himself unable to suppress his snort. “oh ha, ha, very funny. i’ll charge you double for mentioning that.” he rolled his eyes, but failed to hide the smile that reached his face. “you’re lucky i just have the delivery service now.” a mercenary drove a higher price, after all.

yet sephiroth could only chuckle. “what an intriguing pricing system you have. does the same apply for your courier services, then?”

“depends.” cloud began, eyeing the billowing masses that scattered to at last reveal the sun. “distance, weight and size has to be taken into consideration for a fair price to be made.” he continued absentmindedly, trailing his eyes back to his enemy’s cat-like ones.

he’d seen them so many times before, be it on paper, gleaming on his blade or directly in front of him. he thought little of them before, but right now, in this instance.. they felt like everything to him.

you turned into your worst fears.

it was strange how time away from continuous battling with his enemy had turned him into.. whatever he was now. feeling something he knew he shouldn’t, but could not help.

for whatever reason, fate wanted to entangle their lives in the cruelest way imaginable, dooming them with the weight of the world to save, and an intrusive alien entity that wished to see it destroyed. each of them played their parts, whether they’d desired those roles or not.

now, however..

the curtains had come down on the stage, encores ringing on deaf ears as they were faced with a new route to their intertwined lives. the ones they should have had.

“and for something heartfelt?” sephiroth inquired softly, hovering over his lips. “how would you calculate that, exactly?”

cloud felt the hairs stand on his neck as though they hadn’t just been soaked from the downpour, swallowing thickly. “that’ll.. be an additional fee..” he wasn’t even sure himself what that entailed, but the words left his lips before he could think.

his client, needless to say, seemed to face no qualms with his answer. in fact, it encouraged him more. “will this do?”

and you're tossing out blame, drunk on this pain,

the question of whatever ‘this’ had identified as fell silent on the blond’s tongue at the soft pressure that brushed against his baby pink lips. he’d carelessly thrown around the idea of sephiroth wanting a kiss, thinking the odds were too low of it happening.. and yet, here they were.

once again, cloud was reminded of how real sephiroth felt as he slowly reciprocated the act, wrapping a gloved hand around one of his suspenders to pull him down closer. if only to feel more of that electricity that transferred through to him.

it was most certainly the last thing he’d expected to be doing today, atop the war zone they had made out of the company that once doomed them. the agenda he had in mind was an abandoned spot to think and mourn, which happened, yea.. even if it was cut short.

but it was for the better, perhaps. it was.

bitter endings to drown away in the rain while new beginnings blossom as a phoenix would from its ashes to the light of the sun.

crossing out the good years.

an exchange of delightful sounds left the two before they broke from one another, having remembered the existence of air. a tedious necessity, but it was well needed ( much to somebody’s dismay — who was eager to prolong the kiss ).

when cloud recovered his breath, enough to speak at least, he dropped his head against sephiroth’s chest, closing his eyes. “it will,” he answered in reference to the inquiry the other had made, smiling tiredly. “for now, at least.”

the latter shifted his hand to the small of his back, letting out a contemplative noise. “i see more convincing is needed.” he hypothesized, leaning in again for what could be a second round. “shall i kiss you again?”

and you're cursing my name, wishing i stayed,

securing his arms around sephiroth’s neck, cloud brought him down closer, leaning up to his ear this time before whispering, “only one way to find out, right?”

look at how my tears ricochet.

notes. oh goodness this might very well be 6k words and a hot mess but i needed this to gtfo of my drafts😭 originally it was purely planned as angst.. but i caved because these two deserve happiness🥺 anyway, i’m still working on the sfkr fic i planned, not sure when i’ll be dropping it.. but if anyone is interested in joining the taglist, let me know via ask / comments!

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

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thotsforvillainrights · 2 years

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The amount of smut backed up in my drafts that I haven’t released yet is ridiculous. There’s some stuff I’m not sure I’m even going to drop or not so I guess I’ll get it off my chest here so that I feel better about having it locked up:

1.) There’s the oldest draft with Dabi in an alleyway with the reader. Middle of the night type of beat yknow. Not really too nasty but it depends on what you consider to be high or low.

2.) Three different Skeptic drafts. One is him watching through the camera as the reader (a member of the league) is putting on a show for him. Kinda like an “I know you’re watching me right now” sort of thing. The second one is a regular video chat fucking session. The third one also involves cameras and reader making a video with him.

3.) Hanabata blowjob and Degradation

4.) I’ve got some really soft Compress smut stored away that’s like half finished and I sorta abandoned it a month ago. It’s been gathering dust in the drafts almost as long as the Dabi one.

5.) And don’t even get me started on the Twice and his clones x Y/N because I’m not sure I will ever gather the courage to drop that one just yet...

#I have so many ideas just taking up space #i've got an entire fanfic half done up in there #what is going on with me???#drafts #im rambling #smut?#bnha

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dungeons-and-dragon-age · 2 years

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>>>:)

#FINALLY GOT THROUGH ALL OF THEM BAYBEE #....well on one blog anyway lmao #i got down to below 200 on my main but it's almost at 500 again rip #and theyve been accumulating more than i expected on my resource blog too #but hey one blog done!!!#these have been gathering dust since last year jsfjhsfhkfsdhk #the oldest ones in there were from may last year.....#that's what u get from combined indecisiveness and procrastination and forgetfulness lmao #that queue's gonna be running smooth for another good 3 months almost #if you add those to the queued posts so far + 1/3rd of that combined number you got the approximate nr of total drafts i had lol #lay rambles

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himitsukki · 4 years

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𝙩𝙨𝙪𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙖 𝙠𝙚𝙞 // 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

warning: unedited <333 plith ignore if u see any plot holes, this has been sitting on my drafts for a couple of weeks </3

wc: 2,453

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ☼ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

“hitoka-chan! someone’s looking for you.“

surprised at the news of someone looking for their shy younger manager, the team collectively move their heads to look at the gym’s sliding doors and see a female student taking off her shoes just outside of it. one of her hands rests against the doorframe bent slightly at the elbows to stabilise her body as the other picks up her shoes by the back of it.

you step into the gym with only socks on, moving quickly to bow at the team members and approach the new manager.

in the middle of the duo’s spiking practice, hinata and kageyama both stop and turn at the sound of your voice. the familiar sound of their usual bickers and running, jumping and whatnot go mute, and slowly, the normally loud and slightly deafening volume of karasuno high school’s second gymnasium goes quiet.

“are you guys okay?“ daichi asks as he approaches the first year duo. ”why’d you two stop?“ the captain didn’t get an answer from them; instead, they continued to stare at the guest by the front portion of the gym.

“is this...“ hinata murmurs, blinking every couple of seconds, his face is unmoving and stock-still. “...my chance?“

what? chance? daichi wonders. what chance is there for—

before his mind finishes the thought, hinata dashes towards the guest, and kageyama follows suit right after, sharing the same braincell thought with his partner. they both bow deeply and introduce themselves loudly before you.

“i’m hinata shouyou!“

“kageyama tobio!“

“please tutor us!“

ahh, must be an honor student. the team, who are all now just standing still, looks over to see what the commotion is about; they can’t hear the conversation from the other side of the gym, but they see you wave your hands in a rapid dismissive manner, most likely overwhelmed with the sudden appearance (and, quite frankly, the sheer aura) of these two.

“i’m tutoring a few students at the moment so i can’t right now, i’m sorry.“ hinata’s and kageyama’s shoulders droop dramatically, their disappointment clear to anybody with how the air around them seemingly became cold and depressing. “but... i’m free during breaks, so feel free to visit! oh, and i can give you copies of my reviewers for the upcoming exam!”

the two first years bowed deeper and thanked you profusely, sending you to another wave of overwhelmingness. the rest of the team, still in the same spots as they were before, only look at the scene with mixed reactions, staring in silence as they watch you try to make hinata and kageyama lift up their heads.

“i think i’ve heard of her,” tanaka suddenly speaks up. the team turns to look at him. ”someone was talking about this really kind and angel-like first year, gives away reviewers, tutors other people, helps out with others’ homeworks, stuff like that. no one mentioned that she’s really pretty, though.”

“ryu!“ nishinoya shouts suddenly. “we can only focus on kiyoko-san!“

“but they’re different!“ tanaka argues. “kiyoko-san is cool and beautiful! obviously, we’ll follow her forever!”

daichi steps up to forcibly make hinata and kageyama stand up straight, apologizing for their actions as their captain.

“it’s fine,“ you laugh slightly, bowing your head and thanking him for his hard work. “i’m hitoka-chan’s classmate! i’m here to return something to her, actually.“

“[name]-san!“ yamaguchi greets you as he jogs towards you, a smile on his face and his hand already up in the air in the form of a wave. he comes closer, and you jump up to reach his hand to high five it before he tries to heighten it further up where you can’t reach it anymore.

“i touched it!”

“i felt nothing, though~“

“yama-kun, that’s a lie!“

t.. they know each other? once again, the team is in a state of shock and silence as they see another usually shy teammate act differently. it’s rare to see yamaguchi being the initiator in teasing someone (as he’s always with tsukishima), much less being so... vocal and energetic and expressive.

“that makes it my third win this week!“

“sure thing, [name]-san~“

“say,“ asahi mumurs onto the rest of the team who never left their places. “is she... y’know... maybe... yamaguc—“

“oi,“ tanaka interrupts the small group of gossipers as he clamps a hand down sugawara’s shoulder, shaking it back and forth while keeping his eyes on the scene up front. “even tsukishima knows her, damn it!“

immediately, everyone looks back to see the most unlikely member of the team taking to someone else without glare on his face, not even a hint of irritation. in fact, whatever he says has you and yamaguchi giggling, while hinata and kageyama puff up with flames of petty anger.

well, daichi thinks to himself as he overhears tsukishima mock the other firstyear duo for begging you to tutor them in front of everyone else. guess we learn something new everyday.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ☼ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

you return a week later to the male volleyball club’s gym with a paper bag on one hand and a large plastic bag on the other.

“she told me to give this to you,“ the team overhears your conversation as you approach the tall blonde. “it’s strawberry shortcake, of course.“

damn, tsukishima has girls giving him gifts already? they collectively curse at him inside. lucky bastard...!

“ah— i’d like to give these for everyone!“ with an obvious perk of their ears, everyone gathers around you as you open the large, white plastic bag: it’s filled with various snacks and drinks, most likely bought from a nearby convenience store outside the school, which meant you walked out of the school premises, bought everything in this bag, then walked back to the campus just to give these for everyone.

an angel... she’s literally an angel!

“THANK YOU VERY MUCH!“ hinata, kageyama, nishinoya and tanaka shout in happiness, grabbing their favorite snacks and drinks (yoghurt for kageyama and melonpan for tanaka, of couse) with twinkles in their eyes and a dust of pink on their cheeks.

“you didn’t have to buy these for us,“ daichi steps up and accepts the bag with a small bow.

“it’s fine, captain! thank you for working hard!“

daichi announces a break for everyone, telling them to grab a snack or a drink of their choice before passing the bag to the next person. in a matter of seconds, everyone’s seated on the floor, enjoying the snacks or drinks you bought for them.

tsukishima, the only other person still standing besides yachi and kiyoko, converses with you just a few feet away from the group, but they’re all busy eating or drinking. the two female managers, though, listen in with a knowing look and the smallest smirk on their lips.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ☼ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

you return, one again, a week later. but instead of dropping by while they were in the middle of training, you opened the doors and greeted everyone with the dark sky of the night behind you.

“ah [lastname]-san! what are you doing so late?“ sugawara steps in as the vice captain, daichi being away to talk with their coach and club advisor about the upcoming training camp in tokyo.

“i’m waiting for—“

“we’re holding a study session later at my house,“ tsukishima speaks up right behind the grey haired third year, walking up to you after to say something before returning back to the court.

e..eh? did i hear that correctly? it’s almost past 7pm though...

“[lastname]-san!“ hinata and kageyama approach you with a slight jog, passing their frozen vice captain by the side. “thanks for the notes you gave us yesterday, it really helped make me understand the topic better!“

“thank you for tutoring us yesterday, even though it was a break time and you were probably busy and had other people needing your help and—“

“i told you, i’m happy to help, kageyama-kun!“

ah, right. she’s just an angel doing her angel duties, sugawara sighs, his mind now clear and grounded. there’s no way someone like tsukishima would be in a relationship with an angel like her...

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ☼ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

...right?

the team, currently on their break, discusses about the possible reasons why you’ve been visiting them weekly for the past two months. you’ve never spoken up about it specifically, and there’s nothing really obvious that the team can focus on to hypothesize about the question at hand.

ennoshita, having observed the times you’ve visited them and how you interact with the team, explained his insights on the situation.

first, none of the second or third years have spoken up about having a significant other, nor has any of them heard or knew you before you first visited them, so clearly, they’re out of the picture,

second, your first visit was because you had to return something to yachi, but only yamaguchi and tsukishima had talked to you freely as a friend would.

third, you once gave something to tsukishima, most probably a gift from one of her friends who liked him, and gave her gift through you. which means...

“i had a feeling yamaguchi was really close to her,“ asahi’s eyes light up in understanding. “it’s rare to see him be so talkative and cheerful.“

“no, but the air around them doesn’t seem like it,“ tanaka contributes to the discussion. “[name]-chan has this really light and air aura around her, you can really feel how angelic she is! it seems like there’s just a playful, friendly aura when she’s with yamaguchi.“

“that’s... a really detailed, creepy description, baldy,“ kinoshita strikes an arrow into tanaka’s body.

“first name basis? without asking her? invasion of privacy,“ asahi shivers.

“no wonder kiyoko-san keeps ignoring you.” narita finishes the blow.

“i did not— [name]-chan gave me permission!“ (”yeah, after scaring her into accepting it.” “stop being so brave for nothing, oi!”)

“it still seems off if tsukishima’s the reason,“ nishinoya pouts. ”our angel [name]-chan wouldn’t settle for a guy like tsukishima!”

“i agree!“

“yeah, she’s too kind for that!”

with collective nods and hums of agreement, the team returns to their training, the summer training camps they had in tokyo and saitama still fresh in their minds despite a few weeks having passed by since. summer had just ended, and the second term for the current academic year has barely started, so they haven’t seen you since the last time you visit them before the month long break.

night approaches, and the day ends for the karasuno male volleyball club without your prescence. eager to go home, they quickly changed and walked to sakanoshita market for their usual pork buns.

“a.. [name]-chan?!”

with a turn of your head, you greet the team with a smile and a small bow. “i figured you’d come here after training, so i went and bought you guys some pork buns before the get sold out.”

with a dramatic cry, hinata, tanaka and nishinoya fall to their knees and clasped their hands together as they thanked you profusely. after telling them that you had the worker keep the buns steamer to keep them warm, they immediately went to the counter; ukai, with impeccable timing, just entered from the back and immediately scolded them for being loud.

amidst the chaos, however, one person steps in and swiftly starts pulling you towards the exit.

“let’s go,“ tsukishima mumbles, his large hands easily caging your wrist in his grasp. “before the idiots notice—“

“tsukishima, what are you doing?!“

“how dare you steal our [name]-chan away from us!“

“give me a break,“ you hear him complain under his breath with a sigh. you giggle in response but try to hide your hands from the group, remembering that tsukishima had wanted to keep your relationship lowkey as much as possible. especially from the volleyball idiots, you remember him emphasizing.

“sorry, but we have a project to discuss! yama-kun, let’s go!“ with a last wave goodbye, the three of you escape the team and disappear from their sights.

as the team walks home while enjoying their warm pork buns, tanaka stops to a halt as he realizes something. “isn’t [name]-chan classmates with yachi and not those two...?”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ☼ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

“were you able to study?“

“yeah, thanks for the jacket! library’s freezing, as always.“

the team eyes the two of you from the other side of the gym, suspicious and doubtful of their thoughts due to tanaka’s insightful realization last time. it doesn’t really seem like they’re in a relationship, right? they ask each other through knowing glints of eye contact. there’s no way they’re—

“oh, i heard from this guy that you’ll have the spring high tournament soon!“

“tsukishima got demoted to ‘this guy’, pfft.“

“pfft, ‘this guy’,“ hinata bursts out loud. “tsukishima doesn’t even get called by his name—“

yeah, there’s no way.

for the first time since you started visiting them three months ago, however, you stayed inside to watch the team train for the said competition with permission from daichi and the two adults beside door.

it’s a change of pace from you and a change of scenery from the team: they’re not used to anyone who’s not a part of their club to watch them, nor did they ever expect that it’d be you, of all people.

“[name]-chan,“ tanaka jogs up to you when their practice officially ended and the time to clean and tidy up the gym has started. “are you waiting for tsukishima and yamaguchi again? to talk about your, uhm, project?“

“no, i’m just waiting for kei.“

“k-kei?“

“yes?“ tanaka turns around to see tsukishima standing behind him, his hands on his hips and bored look on his face, but if you look closely, you’ll notice a hint of mischief in his golden eyes and the slightest smirk on his lips. “do you need something, tanaka-san?“

“you’re kei? i thought your name was hotaru!“

“nope, it’s read as kei.“

“i thought you were over having people guess your name for you!“

“i’m too tired to put up with people asking how to read it.“

tanaka, in the middle of your bickering, can feel his brain explode and his heart shatter slightly. i can’t believe it. fuck you, tuskishima. nishinoya, noticing his best friend’s frozen form in between you and tsukishima, jogs up to tanaka with slight concern.

“it’s true.” it’s the only think he can say before numbly looking at the two of you still bickering.

“maybe i’ll call you hotaru instead of kei then—“ (”k-kei? who?”)

“fine, i’ll stop.“ (”him?!”)

“good. you’re no longer a middle schooler, loser.“

“with your height, you’re the middle schooler here.“

fuck you, tsukishima.

“rude!“

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ☼ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

m.list

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eldritchqueerture · 3 years

Text

Point of View - Original Statement Fic

Point of View (5004 words) by LadyNikita Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Original Statement Giver(s) (The Magnus Archives) Additional Tags: Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), this was intended as the eye but evolved into the vast as well, happens, cosmic horror, attempt at Eldritch Madness, unreality, Discussions of pointlessness and meaninglessness, Canon-Typical The Vast Content (The Magnus Archives), from the eps about space, Mentions of Death, Compulsion, discussions of free will (kind of), Dissociation, Panic, Mentions of addiction, Leitner Book (The Magnus Archives), except it was not possessed by Leitner, Pretty Colours <3, Neurodivergent Protagonist, Queer Protagonist, because I can project a bit as a treat, Can Be Read Without Prior Knowledge of the Podcast (I think)

Summary: "Humans crave understanding. They strive towards knowing more and more, that’s what all science is about, isn’t it? To study, to learn and understand; to seek answers to questions. But are we really equipped to handle the answers we seek? Even if we were able to reach them, are our minds advanced enough to grasp the truths about the world we live in? What if there are things just beyond our understanding, lurking in the shadows of reality, peeking into our world just enough to feed on us, on our uncertainty and our pathetic scrambling towards answers that would only bring madness?" --- Statement of Lyria Ellison regarding a different point of view and the dangers of knowledge.

Notes: Hiiiiii <3 I've been reading Lovecraft recently and as much as I hate the dude, The Colour Out of Space gave me so much inspiration that I immediately sat down and produced this in one sitting. I've been meaning to play with the concept of eldritch madness for a while; something about this trope is really appealing to me and I'm really enjoying my attempts at shaping it with words. Lyria is a preexisting OC of mine, I will give some background on her in the end notes because I love her very much. This is a form of practice for me; I'm playing with horror themes and I'd like to get acquainted with them to better incorporate them into my overall writing. Therefore I will accept constructive criticism if anyone wants to give it, but only in the form of DMs, either on Tumblr (your-queer-vampire-dm) or on Discord, if we know each other through a server. All of the warnings I think should be mentioned are in the tags, but if you think something should be added then please tell me!

Date: May 10th , 2018

Name: Lyria Ellison

Subject of experience: A different point of view and the dangers of knowledge.

—

How do you start telling a story that changed your heart, your mind, and your soul so profoundly that you can barely still function in a society? How do you say all that without sounding borderline insane? Nobody knows what I’ve seen, what I’ve been through. I know they would all say I’ve hallucinated it all and should seek treatment. But I know it won’t help. I know… I know so much now. Too much and not enough. Never enough. I know what happened was real . I don’t have proof so I’m guessing you won’t believe me either, but I need to tell someone about it. So I might as well tell you.

My name is Lyria Ellison and I’m a neuropsychology major. Ex-major, I should say. I dropped out after… Yeah. I dropped out; there’s not much point in continuing studying things about the feeble, insignificant human brain. Utterly pointless venture.

Humans crave understanding. They strive towards knowing more and more, that’s what all science is about, isn’t it? To study, to learn and understand; to seek answers to questions. But are we really equipped to handle the answers we seek? Even if we were able to reach them, are our minds advanced enough to grasp the truths about the world we live in? What if there are things just beyond our understanding, lurking in the shadows of reality, peeking into our world just enough to feed on us, on our uncertainty and our pathetic scrambling towards answers that would only bring madness?

Just a year ago, I was convinced I was going to finish my degree. I was so passionate about it too, eager to learn more and more, to research and seek knowledge. Curious and fascinated by the world around us. What a foolish thing it was to give into that drive. My mind was open to the supernatural, although I always approached it scientifically; I never said the supernatural existed, but I also never said it didn’t. It was plausible; all in all, every scientist must accept that there is still a vast amount of knowledge we don’t have about the world.

The ignorance was a blessing. But I shall not get ahead of myself.

It started around December last year; my dad had died, and my girlfriend, Shawala, and I were clearing out his house. There wasn’t really anyone else to do it; my mother had passed a couple years prior, I had no siblings, and extended family was out of the picture as well; and my dad had gathered a lot of things in his adventurous life; he was a traveller, and he loved the world, loved learning about it, just like me. I was feeling pretty overwhelmed with it all; my dad meant a lot to me back then, and Shawala proved an excellent support at that first shock. She promised to do some first view assessments of the ground floor, while I went to scope out how things looked in the attic.

It’s always either basements or attics, isn’t it? I used to read horror, Lovecraftian was my favourite – how ironic, isn’t it? How stupid . How utterly ignorant. The hubris of the human race at its finest.

Anyways, the attic was half-lit from the small windows in the roof, and dust was swirling in the faint light of the afternoon sun. It was cold here, but I didn’t pay much mind; the house was old, and it wasn’t surprising that there was draft. To say the space was cluttered would be an understatement; I could barely walk around the numerous boxes, old furniture, crates, and overflowing bookshelves; all of which made something in my chest curl tight, bringing tears to my eyes. I steered my steps towards the nearest bookshelf; I’ve always been a bookworm, fascinated by nearly any tome I came across; I’ve been reading popular science books since I was eight. So naturally, I was drawn to the books, taking huge steps above the cardboard boxes and careful not to hit anything else.

The books were old, of course, and dusty. Some of them had loose pages, and I treated them very gently, almost reverently. I have a little bit of a bookbinder streak, and I decided I would take them home and try to put them back together. As I rifled through them, I saw they pertained to a vast variety of subjects, from poetry, drama, and history, to science, metaphysics, and maths. The deeper I looked into this stunning collection, the more reverence rose in my heart; at my fingertips I had the oldest and the biggest accumulation of knowledge I had ever seen. I saw some books dated back even two hundred years ago.

At that point Shawala called me to check if I was alright. I put the book I had in my hands back and my knuckles brushed against the black leather cover of the next one on the shelf. I felt pleasant tingling in my palm at the touch and my heart leaped at the prospect; I didn’t know why – the book seemed ordinary enough on the shelf and there was no title on its spine.

I sometimes wonder if I could have just left it there and gone downstairs; chosen to come back later and then maybe, it wouldn’t have enticed me as it did. If, by that point, I had had any choice left on the matter.

Alas, intrigued by the book, I placed my palm on the spine and took it out. The leather was soft and smooth, probably sheep, with familiar subtle grains all over the texture. I remember it striked me as odd that it was warmer than the rest of the books in the drafty attic, but I shrugged it off. The front cover had a title, small but visible in the centre, etched in gold – Punctum Visus .

I, by all means, cannot read or speak Latin, but I figured it was something to do with vision. I opened the book, an unknown anticipation buzzing in my stomach. The pages were worn and old, their texture was slightly rough but pleasant under my fingertips; as I opened the front page, I saw the title again, this time in thick but still elegant, black letters, and the smell came up to my nostrils.

I tried to describe it in my head countless times after. I always loved the smell of old books, and I knew it very well, so it came to me as a surprise to realize it wasn’t the only smell I could feel from the book. It was… cold, somehow, distant but prickling at my nose, a little bit the way peppermint tastes. It reminded me of the night sky and distant stars somehow. The smell awakened an unease within me, as I couldn’t quite place what it was and why it seemed so weird , but it wasn’t by any means unpleasant. It was… enticing. Like a promise of a mystery.

I breathed it in again through my nose, closing my eyes, and for a moment I lost all feeling in my body. I was untethered and immaterial, somewhere in deep darkness that seemed to envelop me whole. It felt cold on my mind, stretching it thoughtlessly in the empty vastness, and I saw distant flickering lights of stars. Before I could form a coherent thought, I was back in myself, panting and shaking, staring at the front page of the Punctum Visus . I looked around with shaky breaths; the attic looked the same, and Shawala’s steps on the stairs reached my ears, with her voice calling my name. A shiver passed down my spine, causing goosebumps to bloom on my skin; was it the draft, the dread, or the excitement I couldn’t tell.

I knew I had to read this book, no matter what it took for me to do so.

I took it home, almost forgetting about the rest of the books upstairs. It had spent the next month laying in my room, as I dealt with the formalities and moving the rest of things that weren’t sold from the house either to my place or to charity. After the day we left the house for the last time, I collapsed in my bed, exhausted, but instead of closing, my eyes fell on the book unassumingly waiting on my nightstand.

A surge of excitement passed through me, waking me right up. I sat up and reached for the book. It was still warm; I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad, but warm it was. I think it made me subconsciously assign it more… being? Like, even before I knew anything, I somehow subconsciously accepted that it was more than just an object; that it was, in a sense, alive on its own. I brushed my fingers on the cover, feeling the texture of the leather and the etching of the letters. In the meantime during this month I had checked the meaning of the title – Point of Sight; a position from which a thing is or is supposed to be viewed. It makes so much sense now.

But then I didn’t know what dangers it held; or I didn’t want to think about them. I do remember feeling anxious, my hands trembling every time I opened the cover, but it was so mingled with exhilaration of the certainty I was discovering something important that I must have disregarded it. As I turned the pages, I wasn’t surprised to find the text in Latin; though I still felt a pang of frustration that it meant I couldn’t read it for now. I rifled through the pages, looking curiously at the letters that formed words yet unattainable to me. There was a hunger inside of me; a hunger to Know. As I turned the pages past various symbols, illustrations of the constellations, and of Earth, I determined it must be some sort of a metaphysical work. The point of view on the world around us.

Normally I just skim through works like this and leave them. While they are an interesting read sometimes, they’re not my favourite genre and, looking objectively, putting in the effort of learning a whole language just for the sake of reading a treatise on the meaning of cosmos by an unknown author seems strange at best. But somehow it seemed obvious to me that I had to read it. It called to me, sang into a part of my being that begged to be filled, promising knowledge that would finally leave me satisfied. I know now that it’s impossible. Once you’ve tasted the hunger for knowing, you will never find satisfaction; it’s like an addiction. You just crave more and more, and the knowledge never ends. After a certain point you know too much and when it all connects, when it starts to make sense… you slip. I didn’t know that, even though maybe I should have. I didn’t know what those things I was feeling meant then and I didn’t stop to question them; I gave into it as soon as it touched me. I was stupid.

What followed were a busy couple of months. Every waking moment that wasn’t spent keeping up the pretence of being interested in my major (back then I only thought it a brief hyperfixation, of course, and wouldn’t have called it a pretence at all), I was learning Latin online or staring into the incomprehensible words on the pages. This period of my life is a blur; I remember my friends checking up on me if I was alright, since I wasn’t particularly social anymore. Shawala got progressively more worried, but it fully escaped my mind to care. I know that staring thoughtlessly at the book took up more and more of my time; once, I remember, I returned from my classes at three PM and took the book out; when I came back to myself it was well past midnight. That’s when I started to feel truly uneasy about it. It was the second half of April; I looked back on what I’ve been doing these past months and this cold dread started creeping up to my throat. I realized I didn’t know why I wanted to read the book so much and I remembered the “vision” or the hallucination I had that first time in my dad’s attic. I had set it aside completely as unimportant, and I couldn’t wrap my head around why. I started shaking and theorizing in my head about the book being able to influence my mind somehow, to control it. Had my actions not been my own? How much of it was my own will and how much was the book? Was it even possible for it to influence me like that; could it be that it was supernatural in some way?

The house became cold, unnaturally so. It was dark and all the windows were closed, but a chill draft managed to find its way into the corridor I was in anyway. I sank to the floor and hugged my knees, trembling in panic. I was all alone in the flat, everyone I knew was surely already asleep in their homes, and I was small and weak in the face of something that maybe could have controlled my mind. I suddenly became aware of the leatherbound book in my hand, and I threw it along the corridor at the front door with a whimper, as far away from me as possible. The book thumped against the door, then the floor, and opened on a random page.

I’ve read enough horrors. I knew that the page would be significant, and that knowledge made me sob and hug my knees tighter. I didn’t know what was happening; I felt like I’d just woken up from a months-long dream… and perhaps I was right. The recent past felt alien.

I felt tears sting my eyes and that’s when the smell reached me. Again that mixture of old paper and peppermint cold, distantly sweet but freezing the blood in my veins. My breath came in ragged and shallow, and tears streamed down my face as I stared at the open book that was calling me in an inaudible whisper. The logical side of my mind was trying desperately to make sense of it, to assign the dissociative feeling to my father’s death and yeah, it was plausible, but somehow it just didn’t feel right. The whispers sounded again, swirling around my head, the golden sound almost touching the back of my neck, making me wince. It was enticing and promising, but this time, I felt terror instead of excitement. Disregarding how my mind was trying to rationalize the situation, I knew the book was cursed somehow. I knew that I was its victim. And I knew that I would not be strong enough to resist it.

I don’t know how much time I sat there, trembling, and sobbing into my knees, before I calmed down from the panic and decided I had to do something. I had to find out what this book was and how it found itself into my dad’s library. I couldn’t remember seeing anything in his diaries that would mention it at all, but then again, I didn’t read them all cover to cover. On wobbly legs I carefully made my way back to my room and searched the Internet until the sun started peeking out of the window; I found nothing about any book titled Punctum Visus . I tried all the libraries that I’d known of, that had their assortment online, all the research databases; nothing.

So, at the crack of dawn, with a fast-beating heart, I stood in the door of my room, staring out into the corridor, where the book still lay by the front door, unmoving. The golden strings of a wordless melody made it to my ears; it promised an explanation; that this time if I looked close enough, I would find what I was looking for.

What was I looking for?

Where else could I find the answers if not in the book itself?

I could feel its cold fingers slowly wrap around my mind, steering me to come closer. It called me with a hypnotising voice that awakened all the red signals in my brain, telling me to run and hide, but I didn’t. The voice meant danger, but I knew it also meant knowledge.

Dangerous knowledge. The pull dragged me through the corridor step by step; I hadn’t been fighting it as strongly as I could have had and I was about to start, since I was getting closer to the book, but suddenly I felt the chill of the influence let go, hovering close but out of reach. It was still compelling me to come, to Look, but I could move my own limbs. I had a choice to make.

Knowledge of danger. Did I believe my own warning thoughts that I would regret looking into the book? Did I take my own logical, rational side seriously? Was I ever good at resisting my own impulses?

I’ve never been addicted to anything, but then again, I never really had the opportunity, as it were; my friends were more of a no-alcohol types and I really ever smoked cigarettes once. I’ve never seen drugs in real life. So who’s to say if I’m not an addictive personality? And this, this was addictive. The thrill of mystery, the exhilarating process of learning, the anticipation of the answers.

Was it ever really my choice?

No supernatural force guided my steps that night; no cold fingers made me kneel next to the book and carefully cradle it in my arms, looking at the page with a shaky breath and tears in my eyes, as if I was coming back home like the prodigal son. But I’m sure it was by some paranormal means that this time I could understand the text on the pages.

I honestly don’t remember what it said. As I read the unfamiliar words, the meaning presented itself in my mind, not entirely unlike that first “vision” I had in the attic; as soon as I started reading I knew that I had made the choice and there was no turning back. That cold draft enveloped me, sat on my skin, and started to bite; I felt that smell again, stronger than ever before, something intangible but unmistakably inhuman . It was then that I realized that’s what had felt wrong to me about the smell since the beginning. It was inferior and alien. My hands started shaking as my eyes, glued to the text, moved now on their own down the page, drinking the words in. I was terrified out of my mind, but the pleasant tingling along my nerves was back, the anticipation of the promised understanding.

My mind was drowned with the tide of knowledge. This was just a prologue; a true discovery would require preparation, but I was almost ready. The voice said I was chosen, that I was a perfect candidate to bring It what It needs and that I would be rewarded. I cried tears of amazement and horror at the sheer scope of the voice – it seemed to encompass the entire world. I couldn’t comprehend it, but I didn’t know then that it was a blessing. I wanted to know, I craved to know what It was and how I could be of use to something so powerful, so huge. Divine. That was a word that crossed my mind, as much as I don’t like that. I don’t like many things, but I can’t change any of them.

The voice said I’m on the right path. I would Know and Understand. First, I needed to do something. As It told me what that was, doubt started to creep up to my mind. What was I doing? What was happening? How could this be real?

I came to on the floor by my front door, the cursed book in hand, with a tear-stained face and a bloody nose.

I knew what I had to do to get ready and, as I calmed down and went over everything in my head, I was surprised by how trivial it was. Honestly, by this point I was kind of afraid It would tell me to hurt someone, so I was glad this was just about reading a bunch of words in a specific location at a specific time. I was aware of the fact that this was most probably a ritual, and I was quite apprehensive. I kept arguing with myself in my head, over and over whether I should follow through, but deep down I knew that I would, no matter what I told myself. This part, I think, scared me the most; how compelling the promise of knowledge was, how reverently I’d found myself thinking of the book and its owner (which I assumed was the voice), how fanatical some of my thoughts sounded. I’ve never been religious, never really felt idealistic either. I was always focused on facts, on the here and now. Can knowledge be an ideal? Can you be a fanatic of Seeing and Knowing?

How much had I changed since I’d found Punctum Visus in that old attic.

I found a good, quiet spot, on the north-west side of the New Forest National Park near Southampton. I told no one about this, deeming it unimportant. I would come back after my big discovery, I would explain everything. I laugh at myself now; at my naivety.

The night of April 28 th was clear, and the starry sky looked back at me as I parked my car on the road in the forest and locked it. I tied a piece of a long red string to the wheel, not to lose my way in the forest, and started to walk forward. I held the book close to my chest, as if it could protect me from the dark, eerie outlines of the trees, swaying gently on the wind and whatever the darkness around me held. I didn’t light the torch; the moon was nearly full, bathing everything in its gentle light, and besides, for some reason it seemed that the crude yellow light would somehow break the sanctity of what I was about to do. I could see the ground in front of me and managed to lose sight of my car and everything else besides trees pretty fast.

I stopped when I found a small clearing. The moon was high in the sky, shining down on me like a big eye; I didn’t know why this comparison seemed the most fitting, but it did. I took a deep breath, feeling a chill plant little dots all over my skin, making my hairs stand on end. The wind died down and the trees froze, as if in anticipation. I felt something watching me closely; I was not alone here anymore.

The realization made my breath catch in my throat and the last streaks of sanity broke through my thick skull. Run! Drop the book and run! I didn’t. My hands trembled, my muscles tensed, and I stood there, frozen with fear as something stared at me, seemingly for eternity. Something bigger than me, bigger than anything I have ever seen was watching me, waiting. My eyes dropped to the book in my arms. The black leather was warm, as always, but this time I felt a pulsating sensation from it. A heartbeat.

I screamed. The book landed discarded on the ground, and I stumbled backwards and tripped, landing in the grass as well. It was cold and wet, and it glistened with something in the faint moonlight. At first I took it for water, but upon closer inspection I saw it was the grass itself that glittered – a shy rainbow, glowing iridescently in an impossible way. I froze, stunned, for I have never seen such colours before. It seemed utterly alien, something unfitting for the human eye to see; simultaneously beautiful and horrifying.

As I looked around, I noticed that everything alive in the forest – the trees, the grass, the bushes, the plants – had taken on that iridescent mixture of faint light that prickled my eyes and sent a shiver of terror down my spine. It was beautiful, utterly gorgeous in a way that nothing a human eye can perceive could be. It was horrifying in how different, alien, and other it was. My senses could tell this is not of the Earth; not of this reality, not of this world; everything in me that still had common sense tried to recoil from the inferiority of this magnificence and the danger it brought, but I had abandoned common sense a while back. Maybe even when I touched the book for the first time. I stared then, breathless and trembling, at this scenery as if from a fairy tale and decided to lock away my rational thoughts. I wanted to See, to Know; I wanted to experience and if this was the death of me then hell, it was a pretty good way to go. To behold such a sight, I thought, was a reward in and of itself.

Of course, I had no idea what any of it meant. I slowly rose to my knees and patted the ground down until I felt the book. It still pulsated with this heartbeat and the letters etched in the leather glowed with golden light. My hands were sweaty, and I didn’t know whether I was shivering from fear or the cold. I opened the book on the first page.

What I saw was not what I had expected. I remembered that the first page, after the titular one, was the beginning of the introduction, that much I had understood, but now it was a big picture in black and white; a night sky, with an almost full moon and strewn with stars. It was a shot from the ground and treetops could be seen at the edges of the picture. As the book swayed in my hands, the stars glittered, and the perspective shifted ever so slightly, as if it was in 3D. Stricken by a surge of dread and cold certainty, I looked up. My suspicion was right – the picture in the book depicted the exact image that was now above me. I gasped quietly and looked down at the book—

And this is where things started to really go horribly, horribly wrong.

The book was gone. What’s more, the ground was gone too and suddenly everything was not where it should have been. I blinked but it did nothing to ease the dizziness; and when I composed myself enough to register what I was seeing I froze, the most intense horror I have ever experienced crushing my body from all sides and inside out.

I realized that I was Seeing. I was finally Seeing, and I Understood it all.

I don’t know how to convey in words what I saw. I don’t believe it’s possible; humans were never made to see and understand such things. I should have never touched the book, I should have never asked for knowledge. All my life I believed that knowledge was the point; it was a tool, and it was power. I don’t know what I think anymore. I think some knowledge should always be hidden because we were not made to know everything. We can’t , it’s physically impossible for us to comprehend.

For one moment in my life. For one moment I became something else, and I saw the world in the way It sees the world. For one moment I shared a mind with an eldritch being, a thing that is Fear itself, and I saw the Earth through Its Eye. I can’t… I can’t tell you just how horrible it is. How… How meaningless; we’re all intertwined things, guided by strings of web that lead us through life, and we’re all connected in this maze of fear . We’re not individuals; we’re not special. We don’t have souls and none of our experiences matter. We’re just fear. These… These entities are a part of all of us. They’re our fear and they live inside of us, inside of every living creature that can feel fear. Can you comprehend that? How can you be sure you are yourself when there’s a cosmic entity, a power as old as life itself, living you ? And no one has any idea. Nobody knows and if I tell someone they’ll think I’m crazy. Sometimes I think I’m crazy. But deep down I know what I saw. I know it was real. And I’m terrified. I’m terrified because I know that this Being of eyes that I became a part of watches everything I do. I feel Its presence here very strongly, and I guess it makes sense. It will never leave me. It’s a part of me, just like the rest of them; just like they’re all a part of every one of you, yet you have no idea. But I know. And I know I’m all alone with that knowledge, the knowledge that I can’t comprehend, but I know I could in that one moment. It’s a very lonely place to be and I’m scared.

I’m scared as I have never been before; this fear doesn’t leave me anymore. Every second of every day I’m aware I’m watched by something as great as cosmos. I’m aware I shared my mind with that being and it makes my skin crawl.

I don’t know what to do now, but I don’t expect any advice from you. I’m leaving the book with you, as proof. Its heart doesn’t beat anymore, and I’ve seen what I was supposed to.

Don’t read it.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving me a comment!! For people interested in a little bit of background: Lyria is a D&D character I have created that still awaits her chance to play in a campaign. She's an arcane scholar that has a dark little secret of actually being a warlock of a being she doesn't know a lot about. She's in love with knowledge and she seeks to learn about her powers as well as the world around her. I'm currently DMing a Ravenloft campaign and I just couldn't miss the fact how much potential for a corruption arc she has. Then I listened to TMA and I was like, she would definitely become the Avatar of the Beholding.

#i discovered you can copy tags straight from ao3 #ive been using that site for how many. 5 years now #:|#anyways #tma #the magnus archives #tma original statement #cosmic horror #niki.writes #lyria elerieth #goes in my oc tag because thats technically an au #im really happy with this one guys!

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pur-pled-aw-thor · 4 years

Text

The Truth

Sherlock x Reader

Summary: Y/n has been keeping up the truth everyone, but one day the truth will afloat.

Word count: 4.9k (whaaat the-)

Warnings: none

GIF not mine

THIRD POV

Saturdays are meant for having fun or just staying inside your room and rest. But of course Y/n's life isn't like that. Especially she's working with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

"You know we can just leave this case with Lestrade right?" Y/n asked the tall man in front of her.

"If you would just look up the security footage, then sure we can turn those over and continue this." Sherlock said not even looking at Y/n. John is busy with searching more about it, or trying to update his blog.

After a few, ten, tries Y/n got in the security and downloaded all of the footage from last night and prior the incident.

"It's already downloading, just wait for a few minutes." She stated standing up and went to the kitchen for some tea. But then she heard her phone's notification is blowing up. Sighing in annoyance, she placed down the kettle and got her phone.

-Mr. Blabbermouth

• Why on Earth is my brother on a case again

• Don't tell me you've downloaded something again

• Meet me in British Public Library, 20 minutes.

• Do bring your I.D, we'll be staying for a while.

Y/n read the texts and tried to choose, get rid of him and continue drinking tea, or get rid of him and continue drinking tea.

'Either way my life will still be a mess.' She thought and sighed. Getting her coat and tying her hair up, John looked up from his screen.

"Where are you going?" He asked, causing Sherlock to look also at the y/h/c girl.

"I need to go to my mum's house, she needs help with my sister." She lied, like what she's been doing for a long time.

"Well what about the footage?" Watson asked pointing at the laptop on the couch. "It'll be done in 15 minutes, after that it'll automatically leave the site." She said adjusting the timer and entering her code.

"Okay just take care." Watson said smiling at her. Nodding, she immediately went downstairs and passed by Mrs. Hudson.

"Where are you going?" "To my mum's, Mrs. Hudson!" She exclaimed leaving faster.

Walking down the streets of London, the cold breeze of the morning is never new to Y/n. It made her feel happy that she chose to change her life.

Upon reaching the Library, a car parked by the curb. The person got out and Y/n followed.

She knew this whole place like it was just the alphabet, but more on security and alarms.

She walked through shelves and shelves of books until she reached a corner, her corner. The person is already sitting down flipping the pages of a book.

"I know you did something just to help my brother again, and I would like to know what." He stated, well demanding.

"It would've been better if you were the one to ask him, Mycroft." Y/n said confidently, not feeling any intimidation from the man.

"It's better if he knows about the truth." He said proudly. "Do sit, Y/n. It is your ridiculous corner after all." She removed her coat and hung it on the chair.

"Tell him the truth and I'll visit him." "I would rather let you get hit by a train before the truth leaves my mouth." Y/n said rolling her eyes and crossing her arms.

"Any truth will be accepted." "I don't have that much of a choice." "The past or the present. You decide." "Neither, Mycroft. You're basically the British Government, so how can you not know anything about what's happening in 221-B Baker Street?!" Y/n almost shouted at the man in front of her. The man snapped the book close, Y/n didn't even flinched.

"Just tell me and we can wrap this up." He said and Y/n sighed. "It's about those random killings that don't make sense." She said rolling her eyes. "It does make sense to Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft stood up from the chair and got his umbrella.

"It's easy for you to tell me the truth but never to Sherlock." He said turning towards the aisle. "One day the truth will afloat, Y/n. Good day." He said walking away from the corner.

Y/n stared at the chair in front of her and tried not to let Mycroft inside her head.

"I made a promise to be careful with my choices and whom to trust. I can't break that." Y/n said to herself, trying to remember what happened 3 years ago.

3 years ago

'I can live by myself and made the right decision, yeah?' Y/n asked herself while the man pulled up on the curb.

'I hope so.' she got out of the cab and the man helped her carry her stuff inside the building. She paid generously and took up the boxes herself.

When she was about to get the last box, she ran into the landlady carrying a tray of tea.

"Oh hello dear! You're already here, you have your keys right? Anything you need?" Y/n smiled at the landlady's kindness.

"No Mrs. Hudson, I was just about to get the last box from downstairs." She said politely and got curious about whose tea is she bringing.

"I'll see you for a while dear, I need to bring this up." Mrs. Hudson said and continued to ascend the stairs.

"You should stop hoarding books, it's gathering up dust." She heard Mrs. Hudson scold at the other flat beside hers.

"Well if you would clean up then they won't, Mrs. Hudson." A man with a deep but smooth voice said.

"I'm your landlady, Sherlock. Not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson exclaimed storming out of the flat and passing by Y/n.

'I'm still wondering how Mrs. Hudson never noticed.' Y/n asked herself while placing the box down and tried to search for the key to her flat.

"It's the silver key with a round head and a line engraved horizontally." She looked around and saw him.

'Sherlock Holmes'

She got the key and it fits in the keyhole. She silently chuckled to herself for being smarted up by him.

But then she realized what Sherlock Holmes would have done for the past 2 minutes she was just standing there.

She immediately went inside and closed the door. She heard about Sherlock Holmes and his talents in being a detective. Most of the policemen don't take him seriously because of his assumptions and ideas that he gives immediately.

But they are left befuddled because he is right all along.

"Great, the plan on living a new life is starting to crumble with him knowing who I am." She said face palming herself.

"As long as I'm not suspicious, he won't notice it." She said standing up and opened up the blinds.

A week

'Oh god no. Please no.' She said trying to feel every pocket and slot she has in her coat, pants and purse.

'I did forget my keys in.' she said kicking the door in frustration. She sat down by the steps and tried to call a locksmith.

A few calls later they all said they can't go to their street because it was filled with snow. They can help her tomorrow morning.

"Why did Mrs. Hudson need to leave today?" She said hugging her coat more to gather up warmth. Next week is already December and snow got here early.

She tried to pull her bonnet down more to cover her ears with her hair, but the draft coming from the upstairs and moving behind her got colder.

"At least my laptop isn't going to freeze overnight, lucky bastard." Y/n said rolling her eyes and huffing.

She heard shuffling from Sherlock Holmes' flat and saw him placing paper on the table. Sherlock saw Y/n and looked at the door to her flat.

He went closer and Y/n smiled in embarrassment, "I forgot my keys inside." She said paying attention to her gloves now.

Sherlock went back inside and started removing books and papers from the couch and placing them on the table or floor.

"You can stay here for a while. Who knows when Mrs. Hudson might return." He said leaning on the door frame.

Y/n stood up and passed by him, trying not to look like she's taking it up for granted. She sat down on the couch and Sherlock prepared tea.

Sherlock can't comprehend why he welcomed her into his flat even though he's only seen her every afternoon to get food and comeback with it.

And what disturbs him, is that he can't read her like everyone else. She's like, an unexplainable being.

Sitting down on his chair, Sherlock tried to think a way to get to know her.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective, because I invented the job. I have an older brother named Mycroft." He said as a starter and she smiled.

"I'm Y/n, I don't have a job right now but I will find one, hopefully. I actually don't have a sibling, just me and my parents." She said chuckling and Sherlock smiled. He heard the tea was ready and he asked her about what she likes.

Handing her a cuppa, she accepted it and Sherlock let her remove her coat so she can get comfortable. Y/n removed her coat, gloves and bonnet and placed them beside her.

They continued chatting, leaving unfinished experiments and paperworks in the kitchen and not noticing Mrs. Hudson got home because the road was already cleared out.

A year ago

"How did you do that?" Sherlock asked Y/n and she almost fell from her seat. "Did what?" "Getting into the security cameras of Baker Street." He said pointing at the screen.

"You won't tell?" She asked and Sherlock nodded. "Obviously I can hack into them, besides cameras are very easy to hack." She said rolling her eyes and Sherlock celebrated about learning what Y/n can do.

"This is amazing! You can help me in cases and everyone can know!" He exclaimed proudly but Y/n said otherwise.

"No one can know! You promised!" She exclaimed and slapping Sherlock's arm jokingly.

"Besides I can only be accessible within 20 meters away from you." She said showing the map to Sherlock, "Well then come with me every day but of course just stand by. Wait till I tell Lestrade!" He said and reassured Y/n that he was an inspector that she can trust.

'I know Lestrade alright.' She thought smirking on her screen while Sherlock tried to find his phone.

A month after that

"Hello Sherlock." Y/n heard a woman entering the lab and she stopped on her tracks when she saw her. "Hello Y/n." She said sadly.

It's been a month since Y/n was silently working with Sherlock. She met Molly in the process, well she was always around wherever Sherlock is.

Especially if he's in the lab.

Y/n's phone got a notification and she looked at the message.

-Lestrade

Someone was on the phone for you.

Y/n

Who was it?

-Lestrade

Private matters they said.

'Private matters they said'

-Mr. Holmes

The car is waiting at the corner.

'Not this again.' She thought reading the message. Either she goes now or let them wait and risk getting fetched by them.

-Y/n

I'll be leaving for a while. Please look out for Sherlock, Lestrade.

-Lestrade

I will.

"Sherlock I'll be going out for a while." She said getting her coat and wearing it. "Can you get me coffee?" "I can get you one." Molly intervened and both of them looked at her.

"The usual Y/n, if it's not a burden." Sherlock said looking again at the microscope.

"Oh umm, I think I'll be gone for an hour, so Molly might help you with that." She said looking at the messages.

-Mr. Holmes

The longer you take, the longer this talk will be.

"It's fine with me, what's your usual?" Molly asked Sherlock and both of them replied.

"Black 2 sugars." They said in unison and Y/n left immediately while trying to run through everything or everyone.

She saw the car and immediately got inside.

"Stop haunting me, Mycroft Holmes." She said keeping her phone away and looking outside the windows.

Today

"It's almost 4 years now since I moved and 2 years since I started working with him." Y/n said laughing at the page she had a note on.

'Before the December morning came, a chance and a person changed the game.'

She closed the book and walked back towards Baker Street. It was almost noon and she knows Sherlock and John is waiting for her to come back.

Entering the flat, she already heard footsteps coming down the stairs and saw Mycroft with John and Sherlock behind him.

"What did you do again Sherlock?" She asked trying not to look like she knows Mycroft.

"I can reassure you miss, he didn't do anything wrong. Good day brother, Dr. Watson." He said leaving.

"Lunch?" She asked the two and they nodded.

They went to a Café and started to eat lunch. Went back to Baker Street and John took a rest for a while. Leaving Y/n and Sherlock continuing to solve the crime.

"It doesn't make sense! He's just killing random people!" Sherlock exclaimed looking at the wall. John is still asleep on his chair, covered with papers.

"Maybe you just need to look at the minor factors they have. Maybe they all have something very important that the killer would want." Y/n said getting through the files about the case. Sherlock stared at the girl in front of him.

'How can you be so smart at the same time be bossy?' he thought returning his gaze at the wall.

They continued their work and John woke up an hour ago. Until it was night time and Mrs. Hudson brought them tea.

"Sherlock, why is there a big toe on your sink?" She asked rather disturbed. Y/n laughed at Sherlock's constant behavior of experimenting with things.

Sherlock's phone rang and it was Mycroft. He sighed and answered the phone.

"What is it Mycroft?" He said dropping the papers he was holding on the table.

"What?! An emergency? Where?" He exclaimed causing the three to look at him. "What's the matter, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked walking nearer.

"We'll be right there." He said dropping the call and got his coat. "What the hell is going on?!" John exclaimed trying to get Sherlock's attention.

"A family is now on ransom and Mycroft thinks it's the killer." Sherlock said wrapping up his scarf and the two wore theirs.

"I don't get it? A family? How are they connecte-" "The father is an official in the government, a close person to the royal family." He said climbing down the stairs with John following.

Y/n got stuck on the doorway and processed what Sherlock just said. She got worried and immediately went down the stairs.

They got a cab and they reached a building. Police and a few government employees were there to plan out.

"Sherlock! In here." They saw Mycroft went inside a vehicle a few feet away the commotion. It was filled with monitors connected to the cameras inside.

"An empty building perfect for a murder isn't it?" Sherlock said rather excited and John nudged him not to be happy.

"Any news from the inside?" "No, the killer won't let anyone in. He's controlling the entrances, except for the cameras which is odd." One of the men said showing the doors.

They stayed there for almost 10 minutes without any movement from the killer. They found him sitting on an antique chair looking at his phone and wearing a ridiculous mask.

The television beside him lit up and the camera couldn't clear out what the television is flashing.

"This is the Y/l/n Family, if you still want to see them alive. You know who you are, give me what's so precious to your family." The killer said laughing under his mask.

"That is the live stream, we can see them here on camera 16, inside a room tied up. The same as the television is showing." The men said but they noticed something blinking at the middle of the chairs the family is sitting.

"And there's now a bomb planted. Call the bomb disposal team!" They tried to contact people from the outside to find a way inside faster.

Because there's a bomb on the middle of the room, and it wasn't making the job easy.

"I just need to talk to youuu~" The guy sang and laughed like a psychopath. He stood up and started dancing.

"Sherlock, anything?" John asked the man scanning around the monitors and starts to get frustrated. "Are you sure all of the exits are closed?!" He exclaimed and they nodded showing every camera angle of the exits.

Y/n opened up her laptop and plugged in a USB. Mycroft noticed and he looked at her telling no. But her eyes said it was the only way.

After transferring files from the USB, she took out her phone and connected it to the laptop. Before finishing up and shutting her laptop, she typed something on the notes.

'Might be the best time to say it then.'

She closed her laptop, stood up next to Mycroft and handed him her phone. He was confused on why she gave him her phone.

"He'll think I might call the police if I brought my phone with me." "Well you're already with the police." They whispered at each other. Y/n started to leave the vehicle and Sherlock noticed.

"Where are you going Y/n?" "Outside, I need to speak with them. I'll be back." She said hopping out of the vehicle and closing it.

Grabbing the chain that she got from the inside and locking it, she made sure they'll be safe. In case the killer notices her trap.

Sherlock's POV

Y/n left a few minutes ago and she still hasn't returned. The Y/l/n family is still inside and the killer kept repeating the phrase.

"I just want to talk to youuuu"

"Why can't anyone enter!" I said frustrated and ruffled my hair. Trying to think a way inside. "Vents?" "What's that, Sherlock?" "The vents! Is there any vents?!" The men showed me and there weren't any vents big enough for a human to fit in.

"Great." I said and they returned the monitors back to the cameras we were monitoring.

"Aha! I knew you'd come my dear!" We heard the man say and he pressed a button on his phone causing the doors to open.

Third POV

The doors opened on the main entrance, Sherlock and the others were glued to the screens.

Y/n entered with no hesitation and the doors closed once she was in. "Y/n?!" Sherlock exclaimed and went towards the door. It wouldn't budge and John started helping him.

"Did she locked this after she left?" John asked Sherlock and he nodded. They went back to the monitors and she was standing at a safe distance from the killer.

"Isn't this nice, Y/n? You and me seeing together again and talking." He said followed by a laughter that echoed through the whole hall.

"It's nicer if you didn't do any of those killings." She said standing there feeling the gaze of the camera towards them.

"I thought I would get your attention." He stood up immediately that surprised Y/n and made her back away. "And it did!" He said laughing like a maniac now.

"See this red button on my phone?" He asked and Y/n nodded. "Well, It's connected to the bomb. Just give me what I want and I can forget about pressing this." He said placing the phone on the table and handing out his hand.

Y/n looked at him seeing any tricks with this. Her eyes lingers on the screen and she saw her family, tied up inside the room and starting to panic.

The killer saw this and laughed, knowing this is going to be fun. "Need inspiration? I'll give you one." He said getting his phone and pressing a button that made her family look behind the camera.

"Say 'hi', they've missed you so much." He circled around her and she started to take the risk.

"No, Y/n don't do it!" Mycroft yelled at the monitors that made Sherlock look at his brother. "Getting attached?" John asked and Sherlock shook his head in disapproval.

"He knew Y/n all along. Don't you brother?" Sherlock asked and Mycroft nodded. "Before she lived in Baker Street." He said earning a laugh from Sherlock.

"So is there anything I should know about more?" He asked Mycroft and he nodded. "A lot." He stated not removing his eyes on the screen.

They continued watching the scene and Y/n is starting to take something out her pocket.

"If you have tricks on your sleeves, you know what will happen." He stated reclining and looking at her.

She raised up her chin and took out a phone. But it was a different phone, different from her day to day phone. She looked at it and handed it over to him.

"Why does she have another phone?" John asked the two Holmes, Mycroft looked at Dr. Watson and pointed at Y/n's laptop.

"How do you think she has access with every security and anything the government controls?" "That's a government phone controlling the security, data, archives and information about the whole United Kingdom." Sherlock intervened looking at his phone trying to call Lestrade to get them out of the van.

"Thank you for giving this Y/n." He said looking at the phone checking any tricks. He gave back the phone and showed her the lock screen. "Open it." Y/n swiped up the phone and unlocked it with the pattern.

Mycroft seeing the lock, he got confused. Sherlock noticed it and asked him. "Government phones don't unlock with patterns and pins. They rely on fingerprint and facial unlock." He said getting the phone Y/n gave him.

He turned it on and swiped up the lock screen. "Just like that?" Watson asked and Mycroft nodded. "She switched the phones." He said in disbelief and laughed. He grabbed the radio and started giving commands to get ready at the entrances.

"Thank you for unlocking it." He said standing up and circling her again. "You know your parents are very disappointed but relieved that they won't get blown up." He said laughing maniacally going through files.

"But I must say, they, especially Sherlock Holmes, still don't know the last thing you're hiding." He said pointing at the camera and opening his arms.

Y/n turned around and looked at the camera. "I don't know what he's talking about." "OH! That's a good one. Tell me more jokes!" He exclaimed laughing, Y/n is on the verge of punching him.

"You're a psycho." She said making the guy stop in front of her and smiled. "Well I thought you loved psychos, hence liking one of us." He said leaning towards Y/n and raising his eyebrows.

Y/n noticed the camera moving and pointing at the door and back at her. She sighed and bowed her head.

"I'm right, am I? You looove psychopaths!" He said and Y/n shook her head.

"Sherlock Holmes isn't a psychopath, he is a high functioning sociopath." She raised her head smirking at him, "And the only consulting detective with that title." She punched him through his mask that caused him so much pain and police started to enter the room.

They started to surround the guy and picked him up. They handcuffed him and gave back Y/n's phone.

"Before you take and lock him away-" she said getting near the guy, "I never knew you'd take it this far, Kevin." Taking of the mask, 3 men entered the room and going behind Y/n to back her up.

"B-but how did they entered the room! I have the controls over the entrances!" Kevin said and Y/n smirked. She waved her hand and the police took him away, yelling about how she did it.

The 3 men behind her looked at her proudly. She looked behind them and saw her family getting untied and the bomb was inside a case now.

Her family looked behind the camera and smiled. Mycroft handed her the phone back and took off the case to place it back on her phone. The television turned off and they heard people assisting her family.

"I know you two have a lot of questions, but I can summarize everything." Y/n said looking at them and sitting down on the chair.

"I made a deal with my family to live a normal life in exchange to continue hiding who I am.

Growing up behind doors was never easy because you can't make friends or learn social skills. Only few close family friends and the Royal Family knows who I am.

My brother and two sisters can live a normal life because they attended private schools which only rich people can attend. But I can't have that because I'm the first ever child of them and it would be a great plan to kidnap me right? In exchange for files.

But when I attended college, It was a private school and people don't care who you are anymore, and that's where I met Kevin.

He was nice and sweet just like how I thought all of the world's population is. But I was wrong.

Then that's when we broke up. A few years just living inside the house again not going out.

Then almost 4 years ago, me and my family agreed for me to leave and live somewhere and make sure that I'm safe.

And I am safe, especially having Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson as my neighbors and friends.

Having meetings with Mr. Blabbermouth, a.k.a Mycroft Holmes.

And having this phone with me that helps my family to know where I am."

She finished up but the three men are still confused. She understood why and she chuckled. Looking at the camera, the men followed her gaze and she stopped at the sign beside the chair.

"He was sitting near this sign and the phone's reflection is seen on the camera. I tried to make out his layout of the controls with the doors and placed all of it in folders."

She explained and opened the phone, "With every click of a folder, a door opens." She clicked one and they heard a door opening upstairs.

"I forgot to mention, I also studied with hackers and security when I was in college and living with my parents. That's how I learned it."

She said keeping the phone in her pocket. John smiled at her and looked at the two men. "And what was about the whole Sherlock Holmes thing?" He asked and Y/n sighed. "That was nothing." She said standing up and walking pass by them.

They exited the building and stood near Lestrade's car. He was assisting the family and talking with them.

"My name on your contacts is 'Mr. Blabbermouth'?" Mycroft asked and Y/n laughed.

"Don't worry, Mr. Sociopath and Mr. Oblivious aren't left out." She said walking away and nearing her family.

"Mom, Dad." She said hugging them almost crushing them. "I'll leave you lot to talk for a while." Lestrade said smiling at the scene before him.

"I knew you had a way, but I never thought you can pull that off!" Y/n's father exclaimed patted her back.

"She's a Y/l/n, she can do anything." She heard her brother and she ruffled his hair. "But of course, don't forget to introduce us your boyfriend." One of her sister said and she rolled her eyes.

"You can go back to them, we'll be okay." Her mother said but Y/n shook her head.

"I don't think I can leave you guys again." "As long as you can be safe and keep that safe, we'll be safe too." Her father said and her sibling nodded.

"Just remember to visit us on Christmas Day, okay?" Her younger sister said and she nodded. Tears brimming her eyes and she sniffles while trying not to burst out.

"I will always visit you lot." She said hugging them all, causing her to be surrounded by blankets that covered up her family.

Standing up, she waved good bye and walked back towards the car.

"Shall we leave?" Lestrade asked getting his keys. "Yes, let's go." Sherlock said opening the door for Y/n and she entered.

Their ride was quiet until they reached the apartment. "See you three tomorrow? Well if we have a new case for you three." Lestrade said and Sherlock nodded, getting inside first and leaving the door open.

"Yeah, see you Lestrade." Y/n said waving and entering the building.

John got to sleep immediately when he entered the flat, leaving Y/n and Sherlock.

"Well, erm, I guess I should be go-" she was cut off by Sherlock's mumbling. "I'm sorry, what was that?" "That's why I couldn't analyze you. You are unreadable and amazing at it." He said still staring at the fireplace.

"Yes, because of being able to hide from people, I'm never showy with anything." She said standing up and nearing the door.

"Good night Sherlock." She said turning towards her flat. "And yes, I like you. For almost 3 years now." She said never turning to look at him, and entered her flat.

She should've turned, because she never saw the smile Sherlock had hearing it from her. He leaned on his knees ruffling his hair. He continued smiling and sighed.

"Likewise, Y/n. Likewise." He said leaning back on his seat and stared at the ceiling.

#bbc sherlock #sherlock benedict cumberbatch #sherlock #sherlock bbc #sherlock smut #sherlock x reader #john watson #mycroft holmes #sherlock holmes #reader #x reader #sherlock + reader #bbc sherlock x reader

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slapshot-to-the-heart · 4 years

Text

Flatbush & Atlantic: part iv

And here’s part iv! I’d love it if y’all would reblog, this is a work I’m really proud of and the more people it’s shared with the better! My inbox is always open, and I’d love to hear your thoughts, even if it’s just “AAAAAH.” Enjoy!

part i part ii part iii

part iv

December 12

Cass grimaced, looking over at the tab on her laptop that had the Islanders game open. They were down 3-1 late in the third, and it didn’t look like they were going to be able to pull it off. It was the last game of a ten day roadie, and they had lost all but one against the Red Wings right at the beginning. And the Wings were 10-21, so it wasn’t even a confidence booster. To make matters worse, Mat was on a points drought; he hadn’t gotten an assist, let alone scored, since the first game of the trip, a 4-1 loss to the Blue Jackets. They also were playing a few players down, an MCL sprain and the ever-vague “lower body injury” kept the team from being at full strength.

As the game came to a close, she didn’t even know if Mat wanted to talk to her. His relentless dedication was one of her favorite things about him, but it also led him to take things way too personally and be way too hard on himself even when — especially when — the situation didn’t call for it. He was probably beating himself up as the boys headed back into the locker room, being short with his teammates and trainers and whatever poor sports reporter had been sent to ask “how they planned on snapping this unfortunate streak” in the post-game interviews. He’d never be deliberately mean or unkind to anyone, but just like anyone, her boyfriend got stressed and overwhelmed and didn’t always know how to deal with it. I saw the game, she texted him, I’m proud of you. Call me if you want.

Dec. 15 (wed)

Mat had barely spoken to her since the return from the roadie, and it was starting to get on her nerves. Texts were responded with single words, if they were answered at all. They were supposed to have visited the Met yesterday , but that hadn’t happened either. He had cancelled, saying that “some team thing came up” and he wouldn’t be able to make it. Barely apologized. And what pissed Cass of more than almost anything was that she wanted to help, she wanted so badly for him to just talk to her, she wouldn’t judge him or make him feel like he was a shitty player or a shitty person, but she couldn’t do that if he wasn’t even picking up her damn calls. Who do you talk to when there’s almost nobody in the world who understands the position you’re in?

Maybe that was just it. She’d go to the people who did understand. Paige had added her to the WAGs Whatsapp group the week prior, and from everything she had gathered so far, it was exactly the sort of place to go for advice. Cass pulled up the chat, torn between not wanting to seem like she was oversharing but not really sure what else she could do. Hey, guys, she started. Mat’s been taking the losing streak pretty personally (as I’m sure a lot of your guys are) and seems to be pulling away. Any advice? I don’t want to push him but I know it’ll get worse if he just keeps it all bottled inside. Clicking send, Cass sighed, leaning back in her desk chair and trying desperately to study for her Environmental Law final.

At some point after midnight, she closed her books and laptop with frustration. The test wasn’t until next week, but she wasn’t going to get anywhere trying to study as distracted as she was. She grabbed her phone, heading to the bathroom to brush her teeth and check the group chat. No fewer than six of the women had written back, some of whom she hadn’t even met, with long, sympathetic paragraphs overflowing with advice. She read them all, touched by the time, effort, and care that everyone has put into making her feel just a little less anxious. But the overwhelming message was clear. Find balance, but don’t let him blow you off. Be a support system, but you’re not his therapist. And repeated again and again, Talk to him.

She tapped out a message before she turned her bedside lamp off, hoping that with morning would finally come a proper response from Mat. Can we meet for coffee tomorrow morning? You know as well as I do that we need to talk. I’ll be at Donahue’s at 8.

Read: 12:23 AM

Dec. 16 (thurs)

Her foot tapped nervously, hands clasped tightly around the cup in front of her and beanie pulled over her head, curls poking out from under. He had read the text, but Cass had no clue if Mat was actually going to show up or not. He hadn’t responded. It was ten past eight, and Cass was just about ready to give up and head to school early. She had just put her laptop back in her bag when she caught Mat out of the corner of her eye. He gave her a small smile, equal parts nervous and almost — bothered? “Hey,” he said softly, unzipping his puffer coat and sliding into the chair opposite her. “You said you wanted to talk?”

Suddenly, the whole elaborate speech Cass had prepared, about letting her in and supporting him and communication, left her mind. “Yeah.”

“So, talk,” Mat said, with a slight edge to his voice.

She looked down at her cup. “I get that you’re disappointed about the losing streak. I get it and I’m sorry that you’re not doing as well as you hoped —”

“I don’t think you do get it, Cassidy —”

She cut him off. “Let me finish, Mathew. I’m sorry that you’re not doing as well as you hoped, and I do get how shitty it is when you know you’re putting in the time and effort and practice and it doesn’t seem like anything’s working, but you’ve barely talked to be about any of it.”

“‘Cause I don’t want to,” Mat mumbled.

Cass leaned back in her chair. “And I get that. I get if you don’t want to talk to me. But you’re not talking to anyone. You’re not talking to Tito, I asked him and he said you’ve been just as closed-off with the team. You’re not talking to any of the other guys. And I’d bet you’re not talking to your parents or your sister either.”

No one gets it!” Mat said in frustration, a little louder than was necessary. “I go through so much shit and have so much pressure on me and…” He trailed off for a minute. “I don’t want to disappoint the team, I don’t want to disappoint the fans. I don’t want to disappoint my family. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Everyone had their ups and downs,” Cass started.

“And I get that,” Mat said, holding his head in his hands and looking down at her coffee cup. The same white-and-blue one he had gotten her two months earlier. “But it’s hard. It’s hard when I’m feeling like the fans aren’t getting what they deserve when they come to games, and like I’m not worth what they’re paying me right now. I know you want to, but you don’t get it.”

Cass looked away, turning her eyes to the street. The sidewalk was dusted in white, turning to slush every time someone walked past. It was the first snow of the year. “Then help me to.”

He breathed out, finally relaxing a little. “It’s not that easy.”

“I want to help you,” Cass said, leaning over the table and clasping his hands in hers. “But you can’t keep freezing me out like this, chou. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to me.”

Mat closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “I just don’t want this to become your thing too. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. I know right now kind of sucks for me but that’s just how it is sometimes, you know? It’s just how it is and I have to get over it. I have to get over myself.”

“Mat, your well-being and mental health isn’t something you can just ‘get over.’ Or even something you should. I’m not a professional, and if you need one that’s something we can find,” Mat wrinkled his face, and Cass was pointedly reminded how often men’s mental health was ignored, “but I’m here for you to talk to. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

He ran his thumb over her hand. “But you didn’t sign up for this.”

Cas shook her head. “Mathew Barzal. This is exactly what I signed up for. I’m pretty smart,” he cracked a smile, “and I knew what I was getting myself into. Dating someone with such an unconventional job and schedule can be stressful, and frustrating, and confusing for everyone involved. But I chose it, Mat. I chose you.”

Dec. 21 (mon)

For once, Cass wasn’t headed straight home after work, or headed to a game, or — God forbid — back to the library to study. Her last final had been that morning, and she was free for three blessed weeks until the New Year. Which meant that she didn’t have to worry about turning in another essay or memorizing another case, which meant that she was more than free to go to the team Christmas party with Mat later that night. He had somehow been coerced into hosting, and Cass had promised to get to his apartment early to help set up. He was mostly done by the time she got there, so “setting up” turned out to mean setting up the bar and putting out snacks, Cass mixing up an enormous pitcher of her favorite sangria, a signature standby from her sorority’s Wine Wednesdays.

Mat had even put up a proper Christmas tree, and Cass smiled at the piney scent as she headed down the hallway, bag in hand. “Cool if I change in your room?” She shouted down the hall at Mat, who was currently engrossed in pouring a bowl full of chocolate-covered pretzels. “Yeah, go for it,” he called back. Cass didn’t have a lot of excuses to dress up, but liked taking advantage when the occasion called for it. Her dress was short, red satin with a slit on one side and silver embellishment on the other. She used his bathroom to touch up her makeup, swiping her burgundy lipstick on and double-checking her brows. Cass shoved her work clothes back into her backpack, tossing it onto the plush armchair in the corner of his room.

She walked down the hallway, which was pretty much bare save for a few pictures of his friends from home and one with his family on the day he was drafted. She was kind of surprised that Mat owned a single picture frame. Cass sat on the couch in his living room, looking at the Christmas tree. There were one or two Islanders ornaments, a paper Santa that she assumed had been a kindergarten art project, a photo of his family around the fireplace that looked like it had been taken a year or two earlier. Mat wrapped his arms around her, hugging her from behind. “Whatcha looking at, babe?”

She smiled. “Your ornaments. They’re really pretty.”

“Not as pretty as you.”

The door rang, Mat kissing her quickly before walking across the room to open it. A group of the younger players piled in, mostly rookies and call-ups from Bridgeport. One of them had brought along a keg of beer, and Cass had to fight back a laugh while showing him to the kitchen and setting it on the counter. He was just out of college, she’d stake her life on it. By the time she’d secured the keg and started getting people set up with drinks, the living room had started to fill up. “What can I get you?” She asked Paige, who had left Tito with the boys by the tree and made her way over to Cass.

“What are my chances of getting a Moscow mule?” Paige asked. “I don’t want to be a difficult guest, but,”

“Very good,” Cass said, turning around and grabbing the vodka and ginger ale. “We don’t have the proper mugs though, so don’t be complaining.” One shot of vodka. Half a can of ginger ale. Squeeze a lime. She had bartended for a little over a year when she first moved to New York, and it was still one of her favorite things to do for friends. Mixing herself a whiskey sour, Cass wandered back over to Mat and Tito.

---

It was well past eleven and the party was nowhere near stopping. While everyone was conscious of the noise level — for the most part, she had seen a few of the guys being reminded to use their inside voices — the conversations were still going and the drinks were still flowing. Cass had passed the tipsy point somewhere around 10:30, though she was nowhere near as hammered as some of the team. Or their dates, for that matter. She was cuddled up against Mat on the couch, heels long having since been abandoned and nursing what she was pretty sure was a vodka sprite with way too much vodka and way too little sprite. Whatever, Cass thought ruefully as she tipped the last of it back. It gets the job done.

Mat was a touchy drunk, Cass had learned, and one hand seemed to have taken up permanent residence at her waist while he sipped a beer with the other. “What do you think Christmas will be like for you?” Cass asked softly, tilting up her head to look at him. “Since you won’t be with your family.” Mat knew it was a possibility, but he was still pretty upset when he looked at the schedule and realized that his family wasn’t going to be able to fly out to spend the holidays with him, and he didn’t have enough time to go back out to Vancouver.

Her parents had extended the invitation for Mat to spend Christmas with them when she had been back up for Thanksgiving; he couldn’t make Christmas Day, but was able to carve out two days to visit. He smiled at her, leaning down and kissing the top of her head. “You’re cute when you’re worried, y’know that?” Cass scrunched up her nose. “It’s not like I’m going to be alone. I’m doing Christmas with Beau, since Paige’ll be out of town too, and some of the guys usually plan a nice dinner thing for anyone who’s not with family.”

“That sounds nice,” Cass noted, still feeling a pang of guilt.

“Hey,” Mat said, noticing her distraction. He sat up, turning her face to look towards him. “I’ll be fine. I’m a grown-ass man.”

Cass cocked an eyebrow. “Sure about that?”

Mat giggled. “Okay, okay, fine. Point taken. But yeah, it would be nice to have my family, but I kind of do, y’know?” He said, nodding around to the guys. Cass could have sworn that in that moment, her heart melted. “And I want you to spend time with yours. I’d be kind of a shitty boyfriend if I didn’t want you to.” Mat leaned in, and his lips brushed against hers so that they were almost touching but not quite, hesitantly. Cass pressed against him, her fingers finding purchase in the baby hairs at the nape of his neck. She loved that he was letting his hair grow out. He tasted like whiskey and tequila and some cheap beer that she was pretty sure was Natty Light, but she couldn’t have cared less, just like she ignored the not-so-subtle wolf-whistles from the teammates.

Everyone started clearing out around midnight, a few staying to help stuff cans and bottles into trash bags that were left unceremoniously in the kitchen to be dealt with the next morning. Cass yawned, rubbing her eyes. She had sobered up some, but was still well past the legal limit. “Whatcha doing?” Mat asked, seeing her about to order an Uber.

“Calling a ride?” Cass questioned.

“Why don’t you just stay?” Mat asked haltingly. “If you want.” Cass had obviously been over to his place before, multiple times, but hadn’t stayed the night yet. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, because she did, but it was something that was a big step for her. That meant a lot to her. But it was late, and she was sleepy, and Mat did make a really good pillow. “Okay,” she conceded.

Mat smiled, taking her hand and leading her back to his bedroom. He rummaged through his dresser, grabbing an old Thunderbirds t-shirt and athletic shorts and handing them to her as she walked into his ensuite. “I don’t have stuff to get your makeup off, but there is soap?” He offered.

Cass laughed. “I brought some wipes, but thank you. That’s really sweet.” She changed and took her makeup off, finding a spare toothbrush in one of the drawers and brushing her teeth. She popped out after a few minutes. Mat was already changed, dressed in pyjama pants and a comfy-looking heathered grey top. “The red toothbrush is mine now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded, cracking a smile. A few minutes later, she had claimed the left side of the bed and he had come back from the bathroom. They were lazily kissing, Mat’s hand just barely brushing the skin on her waist from where the shirt had ridden up. Cass was still tipsy and she knew Mat wouldn’t try anything, not like this, but God, it was nice just to feel close to him. After a few minutes he pulled back, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear that had fallen out of the loose messy bun she had thrown together. “What’s running through your head, babe?” He murmured.

Cass looked down, biting her lip. She was usually good with emotions, good with communication, but something about Mat made her heart skip a beat and brain go into overdrive all at once, and somehow she was convinced that it was the best feeling in the world. “I’m just really happy right now,” she breathed. “It’s Christmas, with our friends, and you...It’s everything I could want.”

Mat gave the softest smile. “You, with me, right now? That’s all I could want, Cass.”

Dec 22. (wed)

Cass zipped her suitcase shut, double-checking that she had everything she’d need for her two weeks in Connecticut. It wasn’t a big deal if she forgot something, there was probably some stuff left in her old dresser, and her little sister Eliana was about the same size. Mat had just texted that he was almost there. Cass grabbed her backpack and suitcase, stopping for a moment to pop out the final few chocolates on the Advent calendar her mom had sent down. She closed her bedroom door, wishing a harried goodbye to Ryanne and Stella, and ambled down the stairs as fast as her bags would allow her. She didn’t want Mat to have to double-park and risk getting a ticket.

True to his word, Mat was just pulling up when she came out of the building, waving one hand and double-checking the street was clear before flipping his hazards on and hopping out to help her put her bags in the trunk. Kissing him on the cheek in thanks, Cass slid into the passenger’s side, giving Mat a very pointed look when she saw that the first song on his playlist was Justin Bieber. “Don’t make fun of me,” he mumbled, blushing.

“Who said I’m making fun of you?” Cass said lightly, trying and failing to hide her smile.

They had decided that Mat would make the drive, since he was only staying two nights they had figured it would make more sense. The directions had been plugged into the Bluetooth system, and they had just made it out of the city when Mat looked over at the passenger’s seat, furrowing his brow when he saw Cass’s expression. Something was bothering her. “What’s up, babe?”

She bit her lip. “Nothing.”

“C’mon, we both decided we weren’t going to do this anymore. You don’t have to tell me if you really don’t want to, but I think you want to talk.”

Cass looked down at her lap. “I got a letter from the company that’s handling my student loans.”

“I thought you didn’t have any debt?” Mat asked quizzically.

She let out a single, humorless laugh. “That was for undergrad, and that was only because I was really, really lucky. I got some money from the school and I worked some, but that only covered about half of my costs? A little less?”

“Which leaves you with how much?”

“A hundred and ten thousand dollars, give or take. They were sending me the payment schedule, I have to start paying it back late next year.”

Mat breathed out. He knew that Cass didn’t come from money, but being from Canada and not having gone to college himself, he wasn’t really aware of just how debilitating student debt could get. “Do your parents know?” He asked gently.

Cass picked at a loose thread on her scarf. “Yeah. They helped as much as they could, but there’s three of us and they’re not made of money. “I, uh,” she paused briefly, “I told you I went to private school, yeah?” Mat nodded. “Catholic school doesn’t come cheap, so I was actually on work-study at my high school, which helped a lot. But I hated it.”

“Your school?” He questioned.

She shook her head. “No, I loved my school. It was great. I just hated feeling like a charity case. My school’s in a pretty well-off neighborhood, so most of the families there had money, and some were like proper ‘old money’ New Englanders. I had some great friends and nobody ever really outwardly was an ass about it if they knew, but still…” She trailed off.

“You felt like you never quite fit in.” Mat finished.

She nodded. “It was hard and it sucked sometimes, but that’s just how it is, I guess,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

Two hours later, Mat pulled into Manchester, following Cass’s directions down the winding roads and corners of her hometown. “Do you think they’ll like me?” He asked nervously, eyes flitting between Cass and the road in front of him.

Her brow furrowed. “Who? My family?” Mat nodded. “My family’s going to love you. You’re kind and you treat me with respect. That’s all they’ve ever wanted for me. And my brother already worships the ground you walk on, practically,” she added with a smile.

“He’s a junior, yeah?”

“Mhm,” she responded. Cass’s younger brother Noah was a junior in high school, and one of the best players on his club hockey team. Hockey didn’t run cheap and he had been lifeguarding the past few summers to pay for it, but it was all starting to pay off and he was having some interest shown by college scouts.

Mat pulled up beside the curb in front of her house, killing the engine and shoving the keys back into his pocket. Cass popped the trunk and took her backpack, while Mat got his duffel and her suitcase. She reached for his hand as they walked up the driveway, giving it a reassuring squeeze as she rang the doorbell.

“Cass!” Eliana squealed, hugging as much of her sister as she could manage around the bags. “Put your bags by the door, Dad’s grilling out back and I think Mom’s making your bed.” Mat had had an afternoon game and the two had left not long after, so it was dinnertime and Cass was ravenous. “Grilling in December?” She questioned.

Eliana shrugged, closing the door behind them. “You know Patrick, you go be the one to tell the man he can’t make burgers in the winter.” She turned to Mat, also greeting him with a hug. “You must be Mat, Cass talks about you a lot.”

Cass swatted her. “El!”

Mat chuckled. “Yeah. Mat Barzal, nice to meet you. Good things, I hope?”

“Only the best,” Eliana said, leading them through to the back porch, where her dad was grilling on the patio while Noah was doing sprints up and down the lawn. He almost fell when he spotted Cass and Mat, causing Mat to have to hide a laugh behind his hand. Her dad turned around, setting the spatula down when he saw them. Mat swallowed, sticking out his hand for a shake. “Mat Barzal, sir.”

“Call me Patrick. Good to meet you Mat, go get settled and we should have dinner ready in a few, okay?” Mat nodded. “Noah, pick your jaw up off the floor and go help them with their things, okay?” Noah ducked his head, brushing the dirt off his shorts before jogging over to where Mat and his sisters were on the porch.

“Do I hear my Cassidy?” Cass could hear her mom inside, walking down the hallway with Noah and Mat before she ran into her by her old bedroom. “It’s me, Mom!” Cass said excitedly, hugging her mom. Mat initially went for another handshake, but she shooed it away, embracing him. “We’re huggers in this family,” she said by way of explanation, pulling away after a moment. “Ysabel Cabrera, so nice to finally meet you, Mat.”

Mat smiled. “It’s great to finally meet you too.”

Ysabel pointed down the hall. “Noah’s got bunk beds, so you’ll be with him in there, it’s the last door on the left. Cass, I trust you still can find your room.”

“Yes, mamá,” Cass said, rolling her eyes. “See you in a few, chou.” He kissed her on the cheek, under the watchful eye of her mom, and followed Noah down the hall.

---

Two hour later, Mat and Cass were cuddled together on the living room couch, his arm slung around her as they half-watched reruns of Parks & Rec. “D’you just want to do presents now?” He asked, looking down at her. “Because I know we’ve got plans tomorrow, and I don’t see how it really matters if we’re not going to be together Christmas Day.”

Cass looked up. “Uh, sure, if you want?”

“Meet you back in a minute,” Mat said, hopping off of the couch and disappearing down the hall. Cass rolled her eyes, walking into her room, grabbing the envelope, and returning to the living room. Mat got up when she entered, proudly handing her a surprisingly well-wrapped present.

“You look very pleased with your work,” Cass noted, laughing.

“I watched a Youtube tutorial,” Mat admitted, “but did you know that there’s so much that goes into folding neat corners? It’s practically an art!”

“I’ll take you word for it,” Cass said, handing him his envelope. “Open yours first.”

Mat sat back down, running his thumb through the flap and pulling out a coupon. He looked at it quizzically for a minute. “Beer delivery?”

“Craft beer delivery,” Cass corrected pointedly. “Because I don’t want you to have to resort to Natty Light ever again. I saw your fridge, it’s actually the worst. You need taste, babe.” Mat snorted. “And they deliver to Canada, so you don’t have to worry about missing out on the offseason.”

“I love it, pretty girl,” Mat said, kissing her. “Now open yours.” Cass carefully popped the corners open, unfolding the wrapping paper. My Beloved World - Sonia Sotomayor. “You said once that you really admire her, and I didn’t see it on your bookshelf, so I thought you’d like it.”

“I do, I love it. I love that you remembered even more,” Cass added.

But Mat wasn’t done. “Open it,” he said expectantly.

Confused though she was, Cass opened the cover of the book. “It’s...signed? She said softly, reverently tracing her fingers over the inscription.

“Yeah.” Mat went on, explaining, “I found it in this little bookstore in Brooklyn, and knew I had to get it for you. Knew what it would mean to you.”

“It’s incredible. You’re incredible. I can’t believe you’d do something like that for me.”

Their foreheads touched. “Why wouldn’t I?” Mat whispered. “It’s for you.”

And in that moment, there was nothing anyone could do to take away how happy that made her feel. How happy he made her feel.

#hockey imagine #hockey writing #nhl imagine #mat barzal imagine #hockey smut #mat barzal #nhl smut #nhl writing #nhl imagines #nhl fluff #hockey imagines #hockey fluff #islanders imagines #islanders writing #new york islanders #islanders

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imagineclaireandjamie · 5 years

Note

Is Cry Me. A River done? I thought there was more coming or did I read something wrong?

Not done, nearly though

Part Five:

The tingle of something altogether too pleasant ran along the inside of her thighs, bringing Claire out of her slumber. Two hands gripped her, keeping her gently in place as Jamie nestled himself neatly between her legs. She opened her eyes, squinting but unable to lift her head enough to see him clearly.

“Oh...God…” She moaned. Her lip caught between her teeth as her back arched off the mattress, one hand fisted in the sheets whilst the other sought out the confines of his hair, her fingers twitching against his skull as his tongue worked some sort of magic against her needy flesh.

It wasn’t long before she found herself shaky and spent, her head resting solidly against his chest as he kissed her forehead.

“I think we should finish it...together,” she whispered. The thought had been rattling around since the funeral. WIth all of Lamb’s friends gathered under one roof, Claire had been asked on numerous occasions whether his manuscript would be forthcoming and, although she couldn’t give an accurate response, she hadn’t been able to say no. “I don’t think I could do it by myself, and you have the better insight. But I would hate to see it languishing on our computers - unread.”

“When do we start?” In all honesty Jamie was excited by the prospect. It didn’t mean Claire had committed to a life in Glasgow, but it meant he would have more time to silently convince her.

“Later,” she mumbled, turning quickly in order to catch him unawares, “right now I think we have some unfinished business of our own.” Pinning him to the bed, she kissed him once on the lips, keeping him still with her hips as she began the painfully slow trip down his neck and along his chest.

-- --- --

With a fresh cup of coffee in her hands, Claire peeled open her laptop, drumming her fingers against the wood of the desk as she waited for it to load.

“So, I think we should discuss where we take this from, aye?” Jamie began, blowing the steam from his hot tea. “We’d been sort of sticking to a chronological order, ye ken from what ye’ve already read that most of the early years tales have been written, the middle too. It’s mainly the later years we have to finish off.”

“I have some of his letters, if that helps?”

Lamb, like clockwork, had written to Claire. Being caught up in her own life, she had read them -replied to a couple- though had never gone into the sort of detail he’d hoped for. But she had kept them safe, read them over and over until the ink had begun to fade from some of the pages. She had treasured them when she’d been so down that she had wanted to take him up on his offer and leave Oxford. Now, it seemed, they might be all the more useful to them.

The scent of toast wafted into the small lounge as the buzzer beeped in the kitchen. With breakfast nearly ready, she left him to finish off the food while she rushed upstairs to collect the tin. Clutching it tightly between her fingers, she placed it delicately on the table, leaving it for Jamie to open.

“He certainly covered all of his bases, didn’t he?” Jamie chuckled, taking a bite of toast and passing Claire a plate of her own. “Now we can just interpret them, I can help fill in some of the blanks and we can get a great end - something Quentin would be proud of.”

They spent the rest of the day surrounded by paper, trying to reorganise as many letters as possible, finding some semblance of an order to the stories told within them. By the time the sun was setting, the automatic lights turning on in sequence around the small room, they had already found a few that could be discarded as well as some incredibly valuable *new* anecdotes that Jamie had loosely remembered Lamb talking about but hadn’t been able to fully add to their timetable of events, not until he’d read and re-read the words a few times.

Standing, an envelope in her hands and a biro tucked neatly through her messy bun, Claire scratched her head with the end of the paper. “How long do you think this will take to finish?” She asked, knowing he might have a better idea now they’d finally completed the task of skim-reading most of the letters. “Not that I’m in a rush, of course.” A distinct red blush coated her cheeks as she smiled across at Jamie, her memories of their mornings adventures flashing before her eyes as her stomach clenched.

“Ach well, that all depends on how fast I can type.” He jested, winking -both of his eyes closing for a brief moment as his inability to do so reared its head. It looked rather like an extended blink rather than a wink which caused Claire to bite her lip as she held back her laughter.”But in all honesty I reckon we might have a good rough end in a month or two. That includes a couple of draft reads and edits.”

“Two months? Max?” A bolt of fear shot through her at the prospect of an end. After their first encounter, she had grown fond of their daily interactions. Whether it was the agonising lust that seemed to set her on fire from the inside out, or the little touches of his hand on hers as he past her on the stairs, there was something otherworldly about the way his body called to hers and the idea of another few guilt free months in his company made her heart race and her toes curl.

“What will ye do when we’re done?” The question fell from his mouth without him really thinking about it, but he could tell by the widening of her eyes that she wasn’t really sure.

In the week after the funeral, neither had really made any steps in returning to their proper routine. Jamie had made sure the shelves were stocked with good food, he had called his bosses and kept them abreast of the ever changing situation, putting their minds at ease as him and Claire had discussed some varied details of what Lamb might want in the wake of his death. Other than that, though, both had just basked in the quiet company of the other.

Claire had a few things in mind for her immediate future, she had been dreaming vividly and the more she delved into the early life of her uncle, and his days lost with her in the wilderness, the more she wanted to pen her own version of events -though she had no idea where to start.

“Maybe I’ll become like Mary Poppins,” picking up the much abused video box of the classic movie from Lamb’s shelf, she ran her finger over the front cover and smiled, “and go where the wind takes me.”

“Are ye feeling the need for an adventure now?” Tapping against one of the smaller piles, he cocked his head to the side. With the tales fresh in his mind, he could almost feel the intoxication, the lure of travel from the stories Lamb had woven into the very fabric of the paper.

“Maybe,” she sighed, a very basic plot forming in her mind, “but there’s a chance I’ll need your assistance with it.”

-- --- --

Days turned into weeks and before either of them knew it, a whole month had passed in a blur. Working day and night, powered by caffeine and the company of the other, Jamie and Claire began to put the final words down on the biography. They barely spoke of what would happen once they’d finished, but on the days she wasn’t working on Lambs memoir, Claire was thinking of her own novella.

“I think we’re ready for this version to go to the publishers now. What do you think?” Pulling his glasses from his nose and placing them beside his laptop, he stretched his legs beneath the table and suppressed a yawn.

“I agree, I think we’ve done all we can with it -- I think he’d be proud.” Gazing out of the window, the dulled glass caused the passers by to appear disjoined as they walked by. She was in a world of her own, the words swirling around her as if Lamb were here himself. His voice seemed to speak to her and it wasn’t until a flurry of activity caught her off guard and brought her out of her daydream that she realised Jamie was still talking. “C-can you repeat that, sorry…”

“I just agreed wi’ ye, he would be.” A slow smile spread across his face as she turned back to him. “He’d be so proud of you too, Claire.”

“It was a while back now, but do you remember the phone call you took for me, from Frank?”

A cold shudder ran down his spine but he nodded as he tried to hold back the vitriol. Though no more had been said about the man, he knew from the way she occasionally reacted to him that nothing good could come from her mentioning him. “Aye, I do.”

“Before you I had little to no knowledge of proper *human* relationships. I met him, Frank, in Africa when I was there with Lamb, though the two never really crossed paths. He was my first kiss and when we finally bumped into one another again back home I sort of just found myself gravitating towards him. When I was away, in the desert, in the jungle, anywhere really with Lamb he had an unconscious way about him. He kept me grounded in some way. But alone, I was useless. I was trapped, wrapped up in this elevated world hidden from mere mortals where people like Frank are completely untouchable.”

Pouring her a wee dram, Jamie walked Claire to the sofa, sitting her down before handing her the tumbler.

She took a swig before continuing. “I’m so scared.”

“Of what, lass?”

“I don’t even know!” She sighed, exasperated. “Of finishing this and having nothing. Of staying and then this turning to dust. Of going home and falling straight back into old habits - but those are the ones I know. It’s daft. I know which the terrible decision is, but you represent something infinitely worse.”

"Aye, worse am I?" He tried to joke, but it fell flat the moment the words left his mouth.

"No- harder."

"Which is it Claire?"

"I don’t know, I don't know how to explain, I’m sorry, Jamie,” she spluttered, passing the glass back, her hand shaking as she stood quickly, “I think I just need some space.” Rushing from the lounge, she headed straight up to her room and slammed the door shut.

It was the first night in a long time that she spent alone. Jamie, still shocked and flustered by her fast exit, sat for a while by himself before gathering some of his belongings and returning to his own flat for the night. Claire heard the front door slam, her hand covering her mouth as she cried almost silently. Curling up on her bed, she kept her eyes on the case she had never quite unpacked as if it’s half-filled mass was indicative of where she was always meant to end up.

There were a couple of letters she had held back from Jamie, ones that had more personal comments that she wasn’t comfortable sharing. Yet.

Morning arrived, the sun streaming in through her open blinds. She’d slept on and off and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes as she crawled out from beneath the thin blanket that she’d pulled over herself sometime during the early hours.

“Claire?”

She jumped a little, shocked that he had somehow managed to sneak back in without her hearing him. The first reply barely left her mouth, her throat dry as she swallowed and tried again. “Yes, Jamie?”

The door opened slowly, the hinges creaking as he popped his head around the wood. “I have somewhere to take ye, will you come wi’ me?”

Nodding, she plucked a piece of stray fluff from her creased jeans. “Yes, sure, can I change first?”

“Of course,” he replied, “I’ll wait downstairs.”

Quickly, she used her en-suite to wash and re-dress in clean clothes before placing her purse and notepad into her small bag. Making her way downstairs, she felt a heaviness cross her chest. He was waiting, his car keys resting between his fingers.

“Driving?”

“Aye, ready?”

“Yes.”

-- --- --

The motorway wasn’t too dissimilar from the train ride, though the sound of the wheels on tarmac were slightly more relaxing than the chug of the metal wheels against the tracks. “Do you want to tell me what surprise you have in store for me?” She tried to sound light, but somehow she still sounded worried.

“Ye’ll see.” He returned, a tight smile lifting his lips slightly.

“Have you sent the manuscript off?”

“I emailed the first PDF this morning before we left. I’ll hear soon and I’ve cc’d you into it, so ye should know the moment they respond to me.”

As they drove over each county line, a new sign popping up to indicate their direction, Claire started to feel more and more nervous. As Dumfries and Galloway came into view, she felt this almighty lump forming in her throat. Just before the Gretna junction, Jamie pulled off the motorway just as the sun peaked high in the sky. Small villages came and went until a borders train station came into view, giving her a glance at the side of a carriage as it sat quietly on the partially hidden platform.

“Will you tell me now?” She asked calmly, though she had an idea of what was about to happen.

“It isn’t due to leave for another thirty minutes,” he said, pointing at the ScotRail service idling beside them, “I’ll wait, to make sure ye get away alright, and I’ll make sure the rest of your belongings get back to Oxford safely. But I think ye might need something more than I can offer ye here.”

“You think I should go back?”

“That’s what ye’ve been thinking about, aye? Yer home. The one you’ve belonged in.”

“Home.” She mirrored, the word seeming foreign on her tongue. “What about the rest of Lamb’s biography?”

“We can email. And I can phone. It’s written, no’ much will need completing on it now.”

“...and there’s nothing for me here?” Her voice was steadily lowering, getting more inaudible as cars started to pull in and park around them.

“Only ye ken that.” Opening the car door, he gallantly walked to her side and held out his hand for her to take. “I’ll wait until yer gone, to make sure you’re safe and ye can call whenever you like.”

Finding her voice seemed impossible and she couldn’t help but replay their last conversation over and over in her head. Having confessed to him that he was the more terrifying option, she had fled and hidden in her room. Walking over to the entrance, she turned only to find him hunched over, his back facing towards her as he rested against his car bonnet. Her feet kept moving, though every step increased the stabbing pain in her chest.

Hauling himself back into the front seat, Jamie let his head flop onto the steering wheel. It was highly likely that his plan could backfire massively, but from the moment he’d mentioned the end of the book he had felt an immediate disconnect from Claire. It was fear, that much was clear, and he didn’t want to send her back to somewhere she was deeply unhappy. However, something in his gut told him that her misplaced sense of self was too fragile to be convinced to stay with words alone. At the first sign of trouble, she would run. If she wanted to stay, to make a life here with him, she needed to make this choice herself.

Sitting with her hands wrapped in her coat, Claire watched as various passengers wandered up and down the platform, the guards opening and closing the doors for them. Though it wasn’t freezing cold, she couldn’t help but feel chilled. Though she hadn’t picked up on it before, reading back through Lamb’s letters it had suddenly become clear about his intentions for her. Clearly he hadn’t voiced those opinions to Jamie but it had been silly of her to think he didn’t know of her situation in Oxford. A man in uniform raised his brows as he walked by her for the tenth time. Standing, she brushed the creases from her trousers. This wasn’t a choice between Jamie and Frank because that would have been an impossibly easy decision, but a choice between who she’d always been and a new variant of herself. As the clouds of steam cleared from the front of the train, the sight of the car sat stoically in the car park made her stumble backwards and she sighed loudly as her bottom hit the warmed wooden seat once more.

A loud horn echoed through the trees surrounding the station as the engine pulled out and disappeared off into Cumbria. As promised he waited, long enough to watch as the car park emptied and the lights dimmed in the entrance to the platforms.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he tried to calm himself enough to turn the engine on and drive away.

A knock on the window made him sit bolt upright, sweat running down his back as he twisted to see who’d disturbed his pity party.

“Claire!”

She stood, tears in her eyes as she stepped back from the car. “Take me home, Jamie, please. To Glasgow”

Taking her hand, he bought it to his lips and kissed her softly. “Aye,” he replied, watching as she sniffed, shaking her head as she made her way to the passenger side and climbed in. “Home it is.”

#Anonymous #;Mod MBD #Cry Me A River #jamie x claire

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allenmendezsr · 5 years

Text

Ultimate Copywriting

New Post has been published on https://autotraffixpro.app/allenmendezsr/ultimate-copywriting/

Ultimate Copywriting

Buy Now

If you’re looking for a way to make money from writing…

Special Report by Paul Hancox

How would you like to be part of an industry where…

There’s always a big demand for your services, regardless of the state of the economy?…

You’re the boss… you can get up when you want, and finish whenever you want?…

You can do it wherever you like – at home, in an office, or even from the beach?

There’s no fixed upper limit to the money you could make, depending on your skills?

It might sound too good to be true, but there IS an industry where all of this can happen.

It’s the world of copywriting.

A copywriter is someone who writes persuasive sales material. This form of writing is called “copy.” As long as you can write reasonably well, and have the skills I’ll show you, you could become a copywriter.

The facts are…

(1) Good copywriters are always in demand.

Millions of new businesses are started each year, and they all need sales. Great “copy” from a skilled copywriter can turn readers into buyers.

(2) You can write “copy” just about anywhere.

You can write from your computer at home, from a laptop in a Starbucks, or even the beach or countryside! You can do it part time or full time, it’s up to you.

(3) There’s no real limit to what you could make.

Some of the world’s top copywriters have made literally millions of dollars a year. (I’ll tell you their secrets later on.)

But I want to be completely straight with you.

It’s

highly unlikely you’ll get anywhere close to that to begin with. Not impossible, just unlikely.

New copywriters might charge $500 or $1,000 to write a sales letter like the one you’re reading now.

More experienced copywriters might charge $2k, $5k or even $10k… and some negotiate a % of the sales revenue, which can really add up for big selling products.

So the question is…

How can YOU become a copywriter… and what’s the quickest, easiest and best route to making good money from copywriting?

First of all, you need to understand…

Despite What They Say, Here’s Why The Classic Books And Courses Are Probably The Worst Ways To Master Copywriting

There are hundreds of copywriting books out there… but they have major drawbacks, if you want to QUICKLY become a highly paid copywriter.

(1) A book can’t give you the critical feedback you need, so you know how you’re doing. Without feedback, it’s easy to

make mistakes, develop weaknesses and fall into bad habits.

(2) It can’t keep you motivated. It can’t give you a pat on the back when you’re doing well, or a kick up the rear end when you need it! With a book, you’re on your own.

(3) The so-called “classic” copywriting books were written in a different era… usually before the Internet, and almost certainly before all the breakthroughs in consumer psychology we’ve seen over the past 5-10 years.

(4) It’s likely to end up gathering dust on the shelf. That 500 page copywriting “classic” can be a handy reference for how to sell in the 1970’s… but you need to wade through it all to fully benefit from it.

(5) OR you’ll try and “cram” it all at once into your brain. Ever tried eating a month’s worth of food in one day? Didn’t think so. It doesn’t work for your stomach, and the same is true for your brain. You can’t cram if you want to get GOOD at copywriting.

(6) They don’t reveal their best secrets. Copywriters tend to hold back in their books. I know, because I’ve read many of them.

They’re not going to reveal their “trade secrets” in a $30 mass market book!

(7) You don’t get to see the “raw” copy or drafts. Copywriting veteran Joseph Sugarman says writing copy is like turning rough coal into a smooth diamond. Most books only show you the final copy, so you never get to see the messy PROCESS of turning coal into diamonds.

By the way, most of this also applies to the DVDs and seminars put out by veteran copywriters.

In some ways, the situation is worse. You’re usually paying anywhere from $500 to $3,000 for those.

The DVDs are usually seminar recordings… and there can be a lot of filler, as the copywriter spends a long time tackling questions from members of the audience who are the slowest to catch on.

You can be left with the feeling that a 10 hour DVD set could have been boiled down to 2-3 hours of solid material, IF they trimmed the fat… but I guess they wouldn’t be able to charge quite as much!

Of course, with DVDs, you’re passively watching or listening to the information, so there’s no opportunity to practice and get feedback.

When you write your first piece of copy, having an expert to provide you with reliable feedback is a MUST… and a pre-recorded set of DVDs can’t give you that.

Even in a live seminar setting, the host can’t usually spend more than a few minutes with each person. In other words, forget about them reviewing your drafts and final copy!

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Practice, along with expert feedback, on all stages of the copywriting process, from figuring out who the target audience is, and what they want… right through to the final draft, and…

Someone

to give you the motivation to keep going, especially during those times when you might be tempted to throw in the towel.

Let me show you how to get all of this.

My name’s Paul Hancox, and I’ve been writing sales copy for about 20 years now.

Behind the scenes, I’ve written for people you’ve probably never heard of, along with celebrity names such as Chicken Soup For

The Soul co-creator Jack Canfield, real estate guru Robert G Allen, and veteran speaker and marketing expert Brian Tracy.

Since 2010, I’ve also been coaching new copywriters. At first, it was mainly to keep my own copywriting skills sharp… but I soon found that I really enjoyed training others.

I came to see all the mistakes made by new students. One of the biggest ones made by a handful of them was…

trying to rush through the training.

I understand why they did it. It’s human nature to want results NOW. We call it “instant gratification.”

The ones who rushed wanted to be

stupendously

paid great copywriters, practically overnight!

These were the ones who spent much longer writing sales letters, because their drafts were much weaker.

The truth is…

It’s quite easy to get a superficial knowledge of what’s going on in a sales letter.

That’s why

reading a book can fool you into thinking you know how to write great copy.Let me put it like this: Would you have brain surgery from a guy who’d just finished reading “How To Perform Brain Surgery” the week before?

Of course not!

ow, copywriting

will rarely be as dramatic or life-threatening as poking around with someone’s brain!… but to get good still takes time, practice, and expert feedback and guidance.

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… and just as important…

I wanted to keep it affordable, just a small monthly cost rather than an enormous lump sum you’d have to slap down at the start.

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personal

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Many of the earlier Missions are designed so you can put together your first practice sales letter. But don’t worry… I’ll be there for you every step of the way.

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(1)

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Research over the last 5-10 years shows that the order in which you present information to people, and the context, makes a BIG difference to how they respond.

All of the “classic” copywriting books were written well before this research was discovered, so they don’t take advantage of the new knowledge.

My “Agreement Point System” for copywriters does. It’s based on what works NOW, not what worked in the 1970’s! (2) I have a unique approach to training, which I call “Layered Learning.” It’s

the result of my 7+ years as a copywriting coach, which has involved a learning curve for me as well.At times, I’ve had to explain things a little differently, before a student has that “Ahh… I get it!” moment. (By the way, that’s another reason you need personal training. If you don’t understand a point, you can always ask!)

It’s caused me to keep coming up with newer and better ways to

help students grasp important copywriting concepts and techniques.One method of my “Layered Learnning” approach is to stealthily introduce a technique to you in advance, before I “officially” teach it to you.

A simple example would be: writing headlines and subheadlines in the modules, as if I’m writing copy… before I officially teach you “How To Write Great Headlines.”

This allows the deeper part of your brain to more easily understand the concepts involved, when I formally introduce them to you.

Actually, I do this a lot… for most of the techniques and concepts I’ll be teaching you, but you might not notice the first time round.

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Most books only show you the end results… the sparkling diamond of winning copy that’s been shaped from the rough coal.

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Truth is, writing copy is a messy business. Even the top copywriters write multiple drafts… and if you saw their first efforts, you’d probably think, “What the ***** is this?!”

I think it’s important to show you it all… the ugly first drafts as well as the final sparkling copy.

That’s a vital part of the learning process.

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With 7 years of copywriter coaching under my belt, I’ve also seen a LOT of ugly drafts from students.

I hate to break it to you, but your first draft will probably be just as ugly.

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I’ll show you some of the mistakes made by previous students, so you can avoid making them. (I don’t mention names, because my purpose isn’t to embarrass anybody. I’ll show you plenty of my own mistakes as well!)

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Did I mention the importance of feedback? I think I might have done!

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and doubting your own abilities!

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I’ll

spill the beans on the secrets of the highest paid copywriters.

Here’s A Sneak Peek At What You’ll Learn As You Train To Become A Highly Respected, Highly Paid Copywriter In The Months Ahead.

In Module 1, I’ll introduce you to perhaps the

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The four “levels” to why people buy. Features and benefits really just scratch the surface.

Discover

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Discover

my unique “Word Weaponry” strategy, that enables you to implant ideas in people’s minds in an almost “covert” way. (NLP junkies… no, it’s nothing to do with “embedded commands.”) Warning: I will ONLY teach it to you if you promise to use it with care and compassion, because it’s like word dynamite!

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Coaching is very labor intensive. I guess that’s why universities charge so much, and why some copywriters charge their outrageous mentoring fees.

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Right now, it’s only $99 a month plus VAT or sales tax, for 12 months… which is really nothing compared to what you could be making shortly as a copywriter.

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Come and join us today. Read through the training modules. Watch the videos. Take advantage of the missions, and my feedback. If you don’t think this membership program is for you, let me know by email or through the Helpdesk

within

the first 60 days, and I’ll happily give you 100% of your money back.

That means you get to try it out completely risk-free for the first 60 days!

Of course,

you can also cancel your membership at any time.

Please note: The only thing you can’t do is use the Deep Critique service within the first 90 days, because it takes up a lot of my time to read through and critique drafts… so it’s only fair that I know you’re not signing up just to take advantage of these free critiques!

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form quoting your ClickBank order number.

Frequently Asked Questions

– “How long does this program last?”

The program lasts for 12 months, but you can cancel your membership at any time.

I’ve designed it so you can have a solid, deep understanding of what I call the “Core Skills,” and plenty of practice, within about 6-9 months.

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– “How does the coaching work?”

Each Training Module comes with a “Mission,” an assignment that allows you to practice what you’ve learned. You send the Mission to me via the Helpdesk in the membership area, and I aim to give feedback within 2-3 business days (i.e. Monday to Friday).

The same is true when it comes to writing practice sales letters using the Deep Critique service. You send me the drafts usually via the Helpdesk, or sometimes via email. I aim to respond within 2-4 business days for practice sales letters, and within 1-2 business days if it’s copy intended for an actual client.

– “Will you help me to get clients?”

I’ll show you what to do, and what to say, to land clients and negotiate with them, and to find higher paying clients. In future, I do intend to include services that can help you get clients directly. – “How much money can I make?”

The simple answer is: I don’t know. I don’t make ANY income claims or promises, because much of it is in your hands. If you do nothing with what you learn, you’ll earn ZERO.

At the other end of the spectrum, I’ve known copywriters who charge $10k for a single sales letter like the one you’ve just read, and who also get a cut of the final sales, which can be quite substantial.

These figures aren’t typical.

I can show you their secrets, and how they did it. I can give you the knowledge, tools and feedback, but I can’t magically make you one of them. It all depends on what you DO with what you learn.

Also, there’s no “standard” copywriting fee table, because what you charge is up to you.

Disclaimer:

ClickBank is the retailer of products on this site. CLICKBANK® is a registered trademark of Click Sales, Inc., a Delaware corporation located at 1444 S. Entertainment Ave., Suite 410 Boise, ID 83709, USA and used by permission. ClickBank’s role as retailer does not constitute an endorsement, approval or review of these products or any claim, statement or opinion used in promotion of these products.

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icemountaincomix · 7 years

Text

Second fic for Yukimura! This one is sort of more his autobiography than anything else, but I hope you guys enjoy.

Read it on AO3 or here under the readmore

In my study there was a clockwork puppet, old and gathered with dust, that I had paid no mind to unless I had to move it aside to find some reference materials. This puppet was of a young girl and when you wound the key upon its back it would dance and play a song. I’ve long forgotten what sort of melody would play out of it; I could not even be sure that it works now, as over a decade had passed since it had last found proper use.

It was something I had built for the woman I loved, and when you reach my age you certainly feel nostalgic for such old dreams and flights of fancy. However, I cannot seem to find this puppet now, as my study (I loathe to admit it) is not well organized--though I suppose that you already could tell my private quarters would be as messy and disheveled as its owner.

Well now. If you’re curious who that woman was, that’s certainly my secret to keep. But perhaps if you truly wanted to know, I hope you don’t mind listening to my story, as taking it to my grave does not seem very appealing to me.

Where shall I start? Perhaps I should start by talking about myself. My mother was a strong woman, kind and courageous, and willing to give everything up for her family. Or so I was told. I never knew my mother; she had passed away while giving birth to me. My father was a serious and austere man, talented in almost all scholarly endeavors. It’s hard for me to remember much of him. The thing I remember most vividly about him was his broad back, bent over as he pored over books.

He certainly was not a man talented in child-rearing and as a single father he could hardly keep me out of trouble. He would read me books but as far as actually being taken care of he left that up to the maidservants. He had many duties and simply could not attend to the many needs of my infant self; though now as an adult I wonder if his neglect was because he blamed me for his wife’s death. I have been told that I resembled my mother and maybe seeing me reminded him of his loss. But if he held such sentiments, he most certainly never let them be known to me.

Lord Sumeragi was younger than my father and I remember he would come and play with me. I do recall following him around, doing everything I could to win his approval. I liked this man who came to play and watch over me. When I was 6, my father fell gravely ill and died on his sickbed. It was Lord Sumeragi who took me in, and raised me as his own son. I could never properly repay him for his kindness. I began to study earnestly in order to fill my father’s shoes and properly serve Lord Sumeragi as an advisor, though he’d laugh and say such things weren’t necessary.

When I was 12, I gained a younger brother. I remember that day in late spring when Prince Ryoma was born: Lord Sumeragi held him swaddled in blankets towards me and whispered “you see him, Ryoma? This is your big brother.”

In between my studies of my father’s books and notes, I would watch over Ryoma. He was very well behaved, but that was truly only in hindsight that I understood that. At the time, I found him quite a handful but when Princess Hinoka was born a year or so later, she was most certainly more of a handful that he. I was soon a young teenager with two younger siblings in tow. “You have to be a good big brother to her, ok Ryoma?” I implored. “I can’t be Big Brother because you’re Big Brother,” he whined. It had taken me nearly an hour to explain that big brother was not my name but simply a title signifying our relationship.

In my father’s notes he had mentioned what he called “an automated army,” a series of machines and automations created to replace soldiers in order to minimize loss of life during the war. There were many hastily drawn blueprints of these clockwork soldiers, and I had spent a great deal of time analyzing them and building small projects to gain an understanding. Some of my projects included many small toys for Ryoma and Hinoka, though none as sophisticated as the clockwork puppet I had mentioned earlier.

I had begun to create strategies and tactics in earnest now, with much praise from Lord Sumeragi. However, I had devised a strategy that would cause the enemy army to be completely eliminated. The more enemy soldiers that we killed, the less force they could retaliate, I figured. It was the first and only time Lord Sumeragi scolded me, saying that loss of life on both sides should be minimized. “But why?” I asked. “Keeping our soldiers alive is much more important than that of the enemy, so preserving our forces while keeping the enemy’s down is the best strategy.” When he couldn’t get through my thick skull that compassion for all life was important, he had struck me across the cheek, telling me that even the enemy soldiers had a family to go back to, and to take them away from their families is no different from killing our own. I thought he was a soft fool. It had taken me many months after to truly understand what he had meant by that, and from then on my strategies took his values into account.

Soon years passed, Prince Takumi was born, and Princess Sakura a year later. It was with Princess Sakura’s birth, however, that caused health complications for the late Queen, and she passed away. Lord Sumeragi mourned greatly, though I could do nothing to help ease his loss.

A year later, Lord Sumeragi told me he had fallen in love with someone. A wonderful woman, bright and beautiful like the sun who had chased the clouds away from his heart. I was 19 at the time, not quite an adult but most certainly no child. My experience with the fairer sex was limited to the maidservants at the castle and my younger sisters Hinoka and Sakura, so I could not begin to fathom what emotions Lord Sumeragi described to me.

And one day I found a woman wandering the castle halls lost. Her clothes were of an unfamiliar style and make, but I surmised she was only a handful of years older than I. She had raven black hair and soft features, with eyes that held a hint of sadness. She was breathtakingly beautiful to the young and immature me. Well, I believe to an outsider listening to this tale now, it sounds like love at first sight. I can assure you it wasn’t, though I feel as if you wouldn’t believe me even if I insisted it wasn’t.

She asked me if I could bring her to Lord Sumeragi’s quarters, and I willingly obliged. With this woman was a small child, no more than 3 years old, with silver hair. This child hid behind her, and I could only guess that she was this child’s mother. She and the child waved back when we parted ways.

Imagine my shock and surprise when later that evening Lord Sumeragi brought her forward and announced that this woman, Lady Mikoto, was to be his new wife. I’m not sure what emotion I had felt at that moment. Perhaps it could be described as heartbreak and disappointment, but for what exact reason I feel that I’ll let you speculate. He also introduced Lady Mikoto’s daughter, a young girl by the name of Corrin. She was shy, but she had the same smile as her mother.

With the new additions to the royal family, I became acutely aware of my status as an outsider. I had no place in this family of theirs, and Lord Sumeragi had stopped treating me as his son long ago. I soon started urging Ryoma and Hinoka to stop calling me “big brother” because I simply was not their brother. Ryoma put up a decent fight regarding this, but eventually he conceded and started simply referring to me as Yukimura. There certainly was some heartache on my end, but I simply could not longer pretend to serve the role of a son when I had become Lord Sumeragi’s confidant and advisor.

I had begun to nurture a blooming talent in drawing, as I spent tireless hours drafting automations and maps and battle plans. It was a fun diversion for me to draw things other than battle plans, such as the flowers that bloomed on the grounds. One day I was caught doing so by Lady Mikoto. She told me I had a talent for it, and her smile made my heart beat faster. I could tell you that my pulse quickened due to the unexpected praise, but I’m sure you have other ideas.

As Lady Mikoto began to become more comfortable in the castle as the new queen, Lord Sumeragi implored her to take on some retainers, even offering his own retainers for her to take upon as servants. She declined, saying that she’ll be the judge of character on her own. Despite her appearance, it seemed that she could be stubborn when she wanted to be.

She soon took on the Kinshi Knight, Reina, as her retainer. Reina was around the same age as Lady Mikoto and, though skilled in battle, she and I would often butt heads over the implementation of my tactics. She told me I was going too easy on the enemy. The me of a few years ago would be inclined to agree, but of course she was never scolded by Lord Sumeragi like I was. To say she bullied me is putting it too harshly, but teasing doesn’t carry the exact gravity of how she would verbally tear me apart. However, no matter how small your problem, Reina would listen. I felt that Reina’s strength (and surprising softness) were a good asset to Lady Mikoto.

Her second choice of retainer was Orochi. Orochi was just a teenager at the time and heavily ostracized for her fortune telling ability. I sympathized with her. It’s never easy being the bearer of bad news, but the way people treated her as if she were the ill omen causing the bad luck made her somewhat reclusive. Though she had given some ominous future forecast to Lady Mikoto, Mikoto took her on as a retainer. As I recall, Orochi had foreseen an attack and protected Lady Mikoto and was subsequently scolded for it. From then on, Orochi began to be much more outgoing, free of her demons and fear that had held her back. After all, she had Lady Mikoto’s full confidence. I feel as if Orochi’s relationship with Lady Mikoto was not dissimilar to my own and Lord Sumeragi.

And her last retainer… must I say it? It was me. She had asked me to make a box of pictures for Corrin which was easily done with my craftsmanship, and soon after I had finished she asked me to become her retainer. I refused at first. I was one of the servants offered to become her retainer when Lord Sumeragi first gave her the idea, and I felt that if I wasn’t good enough for her then, I certainly was not good enough for her now. But she was persistent, I’ll give her that. There wasn’t a time where she wouldn’t try to make small talk and sway me to become her retainer, and eventually she had won me over.

Life was wonderful for a time. I spent time adding to that memory box, drawing the family as they played with one another. I began making toys for the siblingd and Corrin at Lady Mikoto’s request, though there were a vast majority of them that unfortunately did not pass muster. As the years went on, Lord Sumeragi and Lady Mikoto became increasingly busy, leaving making the amount of new memories I added to it dwindle in frequency. Something about it made my heart ache terribly, though perhaps it was misplaced loneliness. Though the siblings played with each other well enough, Corrin would always take time to look at the picture box when she found the time between her lessons. I couldn’t really imagine a child being nostalgic for how things used to be, especially for a girl so young, but I suppose I found a certain pride in being able to provide her some comfort in that way.

The years following soon became a blur of events. King Garon of Nohr agreed to a temporary ceasefire, and invited Lord Sumeragi to negotiate a peace treaty. I had my doubts about King Garon’s intentions, but Lord Sumeragi assured me that things would work out. He was dearly wrong. It was a trap set by Nohr; Lord Sumeragi perished and Lady Corrin taken from us. Lady Mikoto lost not only her husband but her child as well. I recall as she wept, not fully capable of taking the brunt of her personal loss and shouldering the burden that was ruling a nation.

It was wrong of me to have planned without Lady Mikoto’s approval, but I had plotted to try to bring Corrin back as quickly as possible. Gathered intelligence had indicated that Corrin was under constant surveillance, so I devised a plan to do a hostage exchange. I had hired Shura, a rather notorious outlaw and leader of a gang of thieves, to kidnap one of King Garon’s children. I had done a bit of research beforehand, and found that the daughter of Garon’s favorite consort was the least guarded and most likely the easiest to kidnap. It was a severe miscalculation to have believed that this was the best course of action.

When Shura returned with the Nohrian princess, I sent a message to King Garon informing him that we had his daughter and that we wished to offer her in exchange for Corrin. He refused. When I demanded to know why, he replied thus: “I have no use for her. If you have no use for her as well, you may kill her if you wish. It is no concern of mine.”

It truly shocked me how compassionless he was and how little he cared for the wellbeing of his own daughter. I felt overwhelming guilt that I had stranded this innocent girl to a foreign land with no home or family to return to. This girl, Azura… I would not be surprised if she hated me, but I could not bring myself to inform her that her own father did not care for her. When we told her she could not go home she was quiet and seemed oddly accepting of the outcome.

Lady Mikoto scolded me after. I could only bow down and beg for forgiveness at her feet, but she would not forgive me so easily. She took in Azura, declaring that we must treat her as if she was a princess of Hoshido as well. For many years after, Hoshido recovered from the loss of their king and accepted their new princess.

During those years leading to Lady Mikoto’s death, I spent my years repenting for the error of my ways by assisting Lady Mikoto any way I could to make sure Hoshido’s governance went smoothly. Certainly it was a thankless task, but I could do little else to express my desire to make things right.

When Lady Corrin returned to us, I felt as if I should stay by her side for Lady Mikoto’s sake. With time, however, I began to stay by her side for my own personal reasons, as selfish as they were. She wanted to know more about her parents and sought me, their close advisor, out to learn about them. It had taken me some time to find it, but I presented that picture box full of fond and wonderful memories to her. She was delighted. She would frequently visit to see the box, asking about each picture with urgency as if making up for lost time. It made me happy to be relied on in this way.

Then came a time in which my selfishness reached a tipping point, and I could bear no longer with simply being a conduit with to past. I wished that she would seek me out for my company rather than because of a service I provided, but I knew it was never in my place to demand such things. I felt that I was falling apart. I had admitted to Corrin that I had used the box to boost my own morale at times, to remind myself what I had to live for. Happiness. Family. I had based my life and happiness chasing after a family that was never mine. It was a form of deviancy in a way to have claimed happiness vicariously through their family, but there was no atoning for it now. It was pathetic of me, a man slowly reaching his 40’s, to feel this way but perhaps I am not so mature as I thought I was. I could only describe the feeling as loneliness.

But after coming to term with my feelings, I no longer feel this way. Whatever regrets I had before certainly do not apply anymore; after making this decision, I feel like no matter what the outcome, I will have something better to live for now. I’ve been pushing this back for far too long, and I know the more I wait the less confidence I will have to say it.

I’ve talked too much. Now then. Where could that clockwork puppet be? Ah, if I can’t find it, I’ll figure something else out. It seems I’ve been trying to excavate more and more of my old inventions out of my study lately, starting with that picture box. Perhaps something old would not be the best way to say it… I know! I’ll draw a new memory for that picture box we both hold so dear and maybe I can finally say it.

“I love you.”

#Yukimura #yukimura (fire emblem)#fire emblem #fe14

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necromancyforfunandprofit-blog · 6 years

Text

i. My Background

Some necromancers find their start in the death of a loved one, inspired by the desperation and denial. Some are spurned to take up the path of locusts by some innate psychosis that twists their minds.

Some were just bored.

I began my path early in my life. I would come home from school and do my homework, then either play with my friends in the neighborhood or play video games in my room. My path began when my dog died.

His name was Alcohol, and he was the best dog that the world had ever seen -- an incredibly large specimen of an Alaskan Malamute who fiercely defended what was left of my family by that point. I took him on walks every day and he was closer to me than even my sibling(...s?). Alcohol was hit by a truck in the summer of ‘96. He spotted something across the road which apparently warranted further investigation and bolted. My tiny hands were no match for his strength, and the leash was ripped from my hands. With comically good timing, a moving truck rammed into Alcohol with no time to brake.

I wasn’t aware until that point that living things could contain such a vast amount of blood. The truck driver slammed the brakes shortly after decimating my dear dog. He jogged up to me in the searing June heat, taking off his baseball cap as he ran. He was wearing a dirty off-white tank top and ripped blue jeans. Everyone older than you seems like a grownup when you’re a child, but even this kid was gangly enough for me to tell he was no older than 18 or 19. I watched blankly as bits of my dog peeled off of the truck and the fresh meat hit the ground. “Ohhh, shit, kid, I’m so sorry-” panicked the young man. I remember him trailing in his words for a solid 5 minutes without forming any actual sentences. I walked slowly towards the mess which used to be my dog, still waiting for some kind of emotions to coalesce in my mind besides an overwhelming confusion. After my father died when I was 2 or 3 years old, my mother kept me incredibly well-sheltered from any mention of death whatsoever well into the years when acceptance of death should have been bred into me. I reached the head of my dog.

“Alcohol?” I said, half expecting his open eyes to meet mine. I heard the teenager behind me vomit. I reached down and grabbed the neatly severed head of my pet, raising it to meet my face. I studied it with intently curious eyes, then began to walk home, the canine head in my hand. As sheltered as I was, I knew that my mother would worry, and so I stored the head of Alcohol in my shed, buried beneath some papers I had used to draw maps of the neighborhood with my friends. When I went inside, I washed the dog blood off of my hands. My mother walked into the kitchen, approximately as drunk as was normal. She didn’t say a word to me as she grabbed a beer from the fridge and waddled back to her game shows. I let out a sigh of relief and went back to the shed to play with my pal Alcohol. I didn’t truly start to become concerned about Alcohol for a few days, but then the decay set in. Despite regular baths, Alcohol’s head started to smell worse and worse, and parts of his face started to droop. Maggots ate at his flesh, even though I preened him and attempted to keep clean. So, I took my school backpack, dumped the papers on my bedroom floor, and stuffed Alcohol’s head inside. We were going to the library.

My teachers always celebrated the library, and so I grew to hold a sort of reverence for the place. It seemed like a vast labyrinth of knowledge to me, always able to solve any problem. The librarian, a young woman with a messy bun and glasses, smiled at me and asked me if I needed some help.

“Yes ma’am, I would like to learn about maggots, please.” A slight look of disgust overcame her face, a brief but tangible moment of true disgust that she rapidly melted into faux-disgust appropriate for children.

“Maggots? Ewww!” she laughed. “Wh-... what does a kid like you need to learn about maggots for?”

“Alcohol got hit by a truck,” I said, knowingly. I confidently dropped my school bag on the counter. She regarded it with some intensity, then quietly rattled off some reference numbers. I learned a lot during that trip to the library. I learned what “death” was, I learned how it affected normal people, and I also picked up a wonderful hardcover copy of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, unaware of its fictitious nature.

I rapidly grew frustrated after reading Frankenstein. It had quite clearly outlined that Victor Frankenstein had succeeded in his endeavors to create life, but he was too stubborn to reveal his secrets. I read it unhappily in my shed, glancing up at Alcohol. I didn’t want my friend to waste away into dust, and if this Frankenstein guy was onto something, then maybe I could even give him his legs back and everything.

In my following trips to the library, I became quickly acquainted with the occult. There is always truth in fiction, and so by pure trial and error I began to piece together the first necromantic ritual I would ever perform.

It was a simple little thing. I learned quickly that necromancy was all about making a cosmic trade, about gambling for something to live, just like science gambles for knowledge. I gathered my supplies and wrote down my plans. It took months to devise and collect everything I’d need, and Alcohol had been reduced to nothing but a decaying black mass with white bone shining through.

The baying of the neighborhood dogs in my shed almost gave me up, but they were quickly silenced. The floor of the shed ran slick with blood, but still I kept to my work, sewing, electrocuting, and occasionally using the touch, before I even really knew what the touch was. My plans were childishly drafted and in retrospect would have never worked, but in me was the familiar spark that I’m sure you’re well acquainted with, that spark that lets you hand the wheel over to something deeper within yourself. By the end of the process, I was no longer fixing Alcohol. I had entered a trance and was working without thinking.

To this day, Alcohol is still with me. I learned shortly after my experiments that not everyone took kindly to his appearance, and so we no longer take our little walks around the neighborhood, but he is certainly better at taking commands now. Malamutes are a stubborn breed, but he’s no longer a pure bred.

#nffap #necromancy #gore #occult #story #fiction

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rosheendubh · 7 years

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Updated Barking draft...

Rome--early Spring, 182 some bustling district spread out from the Wealthy People's Hill... lost in the overgrowth of sprawling plazas, a virtual rabbit warren of winding, narrow lanes where the buildings on either side of the street rise like a collection of children's toy blocks, heaped, scattered, or piled along the avenues that snake past ___Basilica, bridging the ____Forum's eastern boundary... -- Despite the novelty of masquerading as a commoner, described in adventure tales by the bored sons of wealthy magistrates, or advocated by philosophers seeking their own claim to wisdom, walking in the footsteps of those born into poverty, the problem with assuming the identity/rank of a peasant was that one not only had to bear the squalor of a peasant's life, and all its myriad inconveniences, one also had to anticipate the contempt and disregard, the exploitation wrought by those occupying positions of privilege and power upon those they considered with no more thought or concern than the dust clogging the soles of their sandals. After 3 years with her mother, trudging the vast byways of Imperial territories stretching beyond the eastern provinces, into mysterious India even, Nemiane believed she had adapted to the array of the challenges inherent to the life transience and the lot of assuming the guise of an eternal vagabond. The hostel advertising the cheapest prices for exhausted venturers seeking lodging sparked the kernels of suspicion; the street vendor, too liberal with their pungent meats and fried vegetables curdled one's bowels with the visceral recall of the last experience where food had been purchased at curiously low/discount cost compared to other stalls; the knife/dagger became another bosom friend, a safeguard one kept beneath the folds of the tunica, for when tavern keepers and male caravanserai felt that female travelers journeying without men were open season for hopeful gropes and unasked for advances, even after it was distinctly clear neither Nemiane, nor her mother, were in the market for road-side romance, and the casual coupling which occurred along the lonely expanses cross-crossing Rome's domain, were strategies employed from the accumulated 1000s of miles of their long sojourn. A cry, full of a laboring woman's struggle to push a new life into the world, shudders through the din of the brothel's public hall. The soldier, outfitted in the indigo tunic, the silver buckled leather belt with the ___logo of the Praetorians, lets out a high pitched wheeze, his face moving through the various signs of agony as Nemiane, disregarding her blood-stained hands, grabs between his legs, finding the sacs of his generative organs, and strangles them in her pressured grip. Her voice is hard, past her own fatigue, clipped. "I promised if you tried groping my ass one more time, I would have you singing the castrate's tune all the way to Samarkand." He's a big man, thick featured, with shoulders like a plow ox, and a neck full of bulging muscle, especially now as his face pales in strain, victim to her merciless vise. "Venus's tits," he grunts, "I was trying to be friendly." She squeezes harder, and she hears his squealing intake of breath, his eyes bugging beneath his broad domed scalp, his hair shaven to the skin so stubble covers the ridges and creases of his skull (think the dude who played Titus Pullo in 'Rome') "And you were informed with each attempt that I was not interested." "Help," the words squeak past his tight lips. Before she can turn to see who her over-eager admirer is addressing, the creak of leather and metal armor, the heavy fall of a boot a few paces behind her, the way the boisterous patrons and brothel staff mute, retreat to other tables and less conspicuous booths, signals she's about to have a very unwelcome encounter. "Can someone explain what exactly is going on here?" Caution prickles over Nemiane, hearing the question resound with a careful/subdued aristocratic tenor. Practically hyperventilating in quick, pained gasps, her victim blurts, "Juno's mercy! She's about to--" "I was informing your man on how not to impose himself on unwilling women," she says throwing a glance at the guard behind her, still keeping her fingers latched around her unwanted admirer's privates, through the fabric of his tunic. The impression of height, an athletically built physique, lean, accentuated by the glossy black armor, a muscle cuirass, and the polished leather fringe, the trapping of gold bulla and brass studding his shoulders, a well pressed cloak hanging from his shoulder guards of deepest purple are the regalia of a Praetorian. "An unwilling woman in a whore-house," the comment spoken musingly. "Are you a freed-woman, or a slave?" She glances back at the guard, still askance but meeting his face directly for the first time, unable to keep the annoyance, against her better judgement, from her voice (she asks scornfully), "What relevance does that have?" The lift of his dark brown brows (dark brown brows rise, expectant) tells her he's not used to being questioned by those he views as civilian subordinates, and Nemiane curses inwardly at her careless slip of anger. "It's the difference between whether you are charged with assaulting my officer, or my officer indeed, deserved this provocation of attack." His looks down upon her, a spare boned face, distinguished by angles of chin and cheeks, his close trimmed beard lining his thin, wide mouth, that despite its stern set, posturing of his rank, twitches in a sublimated amusement at her apparent annoyance (think the actor who played Oberyon in S4, Game of Thrones). His helmet was left at the door upon entering, meaning the Praetorian was intending to stay for longer than a mere patrol check. She raises her chin meeting the guard's look firmly. "Free, and freeborne," she says, her victim grunting like poached boar as she tugs his precious sacs hard, his face a ghastly shade of green-gray, before abruptly releasing him from his torture. He spills over, catching himself just short of falling to his hands, bent as if he'd been punched in the gut, clutching at his belly, and so clearly wishing to clutch at his groin that's it's almost painful watching him fight for/gather his composure as he straightens, before the brothel's assorted clients. His voice is still thin/shaky for such a substantially built man. "Come, brother," he smiles shakily, his speech melting into the slur of the inebriated. "As you said, we're in a whore-house, Full of women." "Off-duty or not, you only address me as your commanding officer," the guard snaps, bringing his subordinate trooper up sharply, fighting for a semblance of his martial posture. "Do you understand soldier..." "Aul's, I mean, Aulus Vitalianus, of the First Cohort of ______," he pronounces his name and rank carefully, turning a blurry/sloppy grin her way. "Juzz't Look at her. Sheez lov'ly, and they said she waz th'midwife. Th'lazt time I's here, the midwife waz sucking cock in th' back alley fffer two denarii/assus a pop...so ta'speak." Looking back, later in that evening, that ought have Nemiane's first clue something in this situation was off. Despite the wine flask hanging off his belt, and the numerous gropings he'd forced upon her prior to this last encounter, she had detected no scent of alcohol on his breath. That observation escaped her in the moment though, only recalled with the wisdom of hindsight after she was unwillingly swept up in a series of events she had no choice but to partake in, or risk the consequences of arrest and death. He gives a lusty wink to his commander, and gestures a comradely slap to the trooper's shoulder which begets a withering glance, directed at Aulus. Aulus's attempt at ribaldry falls flat, dissolves to chagrin/sheepish cast sobering his previously garrulous actions. Despite his pigment looking like a plucked/poached chicken's, he no longer looks like a bull frog being strangled till his eyes burst out of its head. "Let me guess, soldier. This was a new promotion for you, in the last month. After toiling all those seasons along the front, marching until your skin wore off your feet, and freezing though winters so cold your piss froze before it left your cock, you now feel you've earned this, this cream at the crop of assignments. So now, you're off duty for s few days, to enjoy your leisure. And this is how you think to squander it? In menial pleasures drowning in drink and whores?" "What else is there?" Aulus asks, sounding genuinely deflated. Nemiane, bristling at the Praetorian's superior air, the arrogance he believes his rank imposes, speaks distinctly in that moment. "I'm not one of the prostitutes. I'm not the midwife. I'm the physician they summoned bc one of their women appeared to be facing a complicated delivery." Nemiane flushes under the guard's close scrutiny/the guard directs his scrutiny toward her. Never flattering with her hair color, heat flares to her cheeks, creeping across her neck, which only makes her more self-conscious of how she's failing in all counts, trying to enact the intimidated commoner. "Physician? How liberally do our foreigners lay claim to such learned arts that any village herbalist or a witch-healer might advertise to con the desperate and gullible." It's the gratified sneer, the arrogance, superiority she can't abide in his tone. Drilling him with her gaze, she raises her hands up like an orator, her fingers covered in glistening membrane, and dried blood. "I'm not a quack. What other evidence do you need?" She sees the disgust stir across the Praetorian's face, recognizing the source of fluids staining her skin. A wail echoes through tavern from a hall which branches off from the adjoining kitchen lying behind the bustling serving bar, at their right. "Withstanding the fact I would have been performing a favor for the rest of womankind," she says, her glance dropping to Aulus's groin, "sparing them the travails that poor creature is suffering right now bc of this churl's attentions." Aulus's hands slide to his groin, trying to shield his privates from the poison in her look. "You think this piece of pig shit is the father?" Derision in the Praetorian's voice tells her otherwise. Nemiane's seething/ire dims, curiosity/caution skewing her brow. "He's not? Then why would the Praetorian be so...oh." She trails off, seeing the warning light of the guard's gaze, her mind racing through the myriad possibilities in reflection to her own question. A chill crawls over her skin, and she swallows, trying to moisten a throat gone suddenly parched/dry, gaze skirting to the back hall beyond the kitchen, then meeting the Guard's warily, the entire situation of a random slave-girl's delivery imbued with a new portent. His nod is almost imperceptible, the flash of his grin, ironic, a grim humor reaching his eyes. "Quick wits will ensure a healthy income, doctress. I'm sure you now appreciate how much your fate is tied to your patient's unfortunate situation." Another scream rattles through the back hall, stalling the raucous laughter, the cavorting of the brothel clients with the attendant women, before they carry on with their antics of binge drinking and binge coupling. Aulus's ill-timed comment, soaked in the soul-searching of the sop, does not soothe Nemiane's anxiety. "That waz 'ow my m'ther zounded 'fore she died birthin' my baby zister." He adds a sniffle, bordering on outright blubbering, "She died too, th' next year, from a flux. Zo zad, grow'n up, nev'r t'know yer mother." "Hades Incarnate!" The Praetorian mutters, ripping his intaglio ring off his index finger, grabbing Aulus's hand, and dropping silver band into his palm with an impatient disgust. "Get yourself back to the barracks, man. My escort is outside. They'll see you safe through the streets." "Ye-yez, zir," he garbles past a magnificent snorkel of snot sucked back into his nose. "I nev'r even go'to zay g'd-byyye!," he wails, as The guard pushes Aulus toward the door, his expression one Nemiane knows too well from her own experience, having sought refuge in the bland regard of professional nonchalance when listening to one of her patients back home explain why trying an enema of boiled chicken feet, toadstool (some other fungus with curious properties), and ground salmon bones/guts sounded like a brilliant idea to relieve a mild episode of constipation, and wondered where the raging rectal inflammation and bleeding came from after. She sees the Praetorian's momentary lapse, the slip in his mask of sternness, pure frustration before he turns to address her. "You're serving under the imperial sanction, doctress." She lets the silence between them lengthen/linger, her hands still raised out in front of her. It's when he blinks, as though trying to fortify himself before her cool regard, she realizes, in that moment, how new he must be to his rank and it's commiserate duties. She assures with a quick, mocking/grating smile, ingratiating smile, meant to be grating as well, "Don't worry, soldier, she'll not die by my hand." He bridles beneath her nonchalance. "Guided by Hippocrates, no doubt." Heedless of the etiquette she's broken in not awaiting his permission to be dismissed, she tosses the words back over her shoulder (she replies with a heedless glance back over shoulder), "Soranus, actually. And _____(female gynecologist of antiquity who wrote on obstetrics and WH). Hippocrates understood much, but knew little, especially of the gravid woman. And for your knowledge," Nemiane adds, waiting for the young woman to join her, who just entered the tavern from from outside, and approaches from behind the Praetorian, "while I might question the midwife's judgement in timing on when to offer consult regarding the health risks inherent to the prostitute's profession--"the pretty brown-haired (ringlets gathered back from her face in a bun) woman, just shy of her second decade has the sense to look apologetic, catching Nemiane's eye as she takes in the encounter between her and the Praetorian--"I can assure you, she was definitively not performing favors of fellatio in the back alley for 2 asses a mouthful of spunk." He sputters some garbled response insisting he wasn't the one who had made that accusation while Nemiane, strangely satisfied, watches the showdown commence from a righteous midwife. Demetria feeds him a furious look. "So, Virius Lupus? You think I suck men off to earn some kind of side income? Is that the rumor you've been spreading?" Virius Lupus, all arrogance wilting beneath the force of the petite midwife's indignation, her chin raised, hands planted firmly on her hips, can only manage an awkward/stiff rally/tripping/stuttering/falling over his words. "No. No, I wasn't the one who-there was an off-duty officer--" "Yes, it's actually your off-duty officers who seem to be the problem right now. One of them apparently wouldn't listen when one of the ladies refused services bc of the sores around his mouth. He complained. She submitted, and now the herpetiform has spread to their nether regions. You might drill into your men standards of hygiene, so they would respect our standards of maintaining a clean brothel, rather than spreading their pustulance to women whose livelihoods depend on the integrity of their sheaths." Stiffly, Virius Lupus says, "I'll take his name, lady, if you can supply it, and see he gets evaluated accordingly by the barracks medic." Demetria informs him darkly, "Don't worry. I'll be sure he's reported to your camp prefect. Which should be your job, not mine." With a stomp of her foot, she storms past him, to the passage/aisle behind the serving bar, disappearing into the kitchen. Nemiane turns to follow, knowing she shouldn't curdle/stir the pot. But she can't resist giving him a shrug of mock sympathy, glancing in the direction of the angry midwife, and back at him. Virius Lupus doesn't appear particularly chagrined/put in his place/threatened by the midwife's lashing. He seems thoughtful, Nemiane keenly aware of his watchful gaze, as she turns, beckoned by the cries resounding from past the kitchen. A harried waitress complains to her coworker at the bar, whisking another round of drinks up, how she wishes they would just cut the brat out, before all the patrons scatter, thinking they're skinning dogs alive in the back rooms. -- She shakes her head, fighting the contractions wracking her body. "You need to push, or this child will never come." Nemi tries to keep her voice calm, but the edge of her own endurance, a sharpness pierces/edges her words. She's been at this for nearly 6 hours. The mother, for almost twice that. "Push! Now!" She wills as another convulsion writhes the woman's protruding belly, like a sand dune rising out of the desert of her flesh. Nemiane peers between her legs, her fingers slick with the fluids of birth, shining in scarlet mixed with the translucent juices of amnion. "No. I can't anymore. I don't want to. I don't want this child born," she gasps, forces the words out past her heavy breaths and sobs. Demetria, who was supporting one leg, hooked over her shoulder, while holding the girl's hands, trying to lend what strength she might through touch, throws Nemiane a troubled glance. The mother's face is slick with sweat, her thick strands, a honeyed brown, are plastered to pale cheeks, sunken and hectic pink with the exertions of the birth. Her eyes dull, taking on a dimming which blunts their hazel shade, bright, pretty she must be if she weren't enduring this torture of her current state. Nemiane recognizes the exhaustion as her body goes slack, and the girl's head falls back, released for precious moments from the impulse of emerging life, and she gulps air into her lungs. She can see how the the infant's scalp, mattered with moisture and slim, pale blue, retracts back up into the birth canal. It reminds Nemiane of a mole retreating from the light back to its burrow beneath the earth, of its ruggarated brow palpable to her touch, its squished features she can define with her fingers, a nodule of the nose, the squishy recesses of its closed lids, the cleft of its round chin, all facing the wrong way, up towards the mother's belly, her hands wedged into the woman's distended vagina, the outer tissue swollen and bruised. There's no need to tell that to the exhausted girl, who, Nemiane suspects, never had a choice in the matter of the child's father, nor the mode of its conception. Nemiane's meets the girl's eyes over her swollen belly,/captures the girl's hollow eyes with her own, her voice low, and urgent. "Listen to me. This can go one if two ways. Either you let your body bring forth this child, and give it a chance at life. Or you die, drained of blood and spirit. And I cut this child out, who may still have a chance at life, but now without its mother to raise, love it, or protect it." "You have to say that. You're a physician," the young mother says, a sullen defiance that causes Nemiane to lift her brow, her lips twitching in a smirk, as the girl grimaces in the advent of another building contraction, her abdomen going rigid, distended where Nemiane pushes gently into the crest of her protruding navel, her fingers braced gently at the mouth of the birth canal, preparing to ease the pliant flesh to allow the infant's passage. The young mother starts panting rapidly as the contraction builds. Demetria positions herself, this time, at the head of the pallet, grasping the girl under her shoulders, as she catches Nemiane's eye, and Nemiane nods in silent agreement. Her face skewed with straining, the mother has no breath to protest when Demetria hefts her upward into a squatting posture. Nemiane catches her from the front, easing her onto her hands and knees. "What...are you doing?" the young mother asks through her broken gasps. Nemiane strokes back the lank strands of hair off her forehead as the girl lifts her head. Fear and pain are etched across her face. "You contractions are coming quick and strong now. This position will ease the transit of your baby. With your next push, put everything of your anger, your grief, into this. Even your hatred, child, for what was done to you in conceiving this baby. And then let it out, and never think of it again." "How-how do you know?" She chokes out as another constriction begins to work across her belly. "Doctress." Demetria's voice is calm, but her glance imperative/urgent, signaling for Nemiane to take her place in back of the young mother. "The same way I know that when your baby comes facing backward, you'll have an easier time of it forward. Bc I've done this a long time, child." Nemiane sees the mother's gaze/concentration turns inward as the stricture coursing over her body forces her head down, and she groans with the building contraction. Demetria comes to her front, cradling the girl's head against her breast as she uses one arm to keep the mother's heavy belly supported from underneath. In these pressured/harried/frenzied minutes from pushing to the baby crowning, there's little care for dignity, the girl resembling a lowing heifer, in her unorthodox posture, desperate for the evening milking. Demetria lets the the girl crush her shoulders, her thin arms strangling around her waist, her face buried in the midwife's lap. Nemiane crouched behind the mother, has her hands placed within the blood engorged birth canal. Her instructions imbued with a low voiced confidence/calm, which combines into the potent chant of Demetria's vigorous coaching, cheering the struggling mother to the finish line with all the vigor of spectator at the games, rooting her favorite charioteer. Nemiane guides the child's head down through the pelvis, the infant's skin slick, the skull which feels like the cracked exoskeleton of a crab/shellfish/chips of an eggshell, pieces of its skull, molding/grinding to her gentle touch along its transit. A last violent cry erupts as the young mother drains all of herself into that final contraction which descends into a silent, shuddering moan, her body frozen into that last, wracking convulsion which finally expels the baby, maneuvered by Nemiane to free its shoulders from the entrance of the canal as it emerges, slippery as an eel with matter and birth waters spilling from between the girl's legs. Clinging to Demetria, still prone on her knees, she casts/peers wearily back, trying to catch a glimpse of the being she's brought into the world. "It's-it's too quiet. It should be crying." "It takes a few moments sometimes," Nemiane reassures, looping the birth cord about her wrist, as balances the infant in her hands, blue-skinned as a ____fish. The baby, plumb and well-formed, and patently a male, Nemiane observes, begins squirming like a beetle thrown/turtle thrown on its back, puffy eyes blinking open, moist membrane sticky over his lids. A wet gurgle slips between his lips, mouth gaping open, and his chest retracts, fighting for a first swallow of air. Brown stained mucus dribbles down his dimpled chin. As smoothly as an orchestrated script, Demetria helps the young mother onto the pallet, rolling her onto her back, while Nemiane blows gently into the child's mouth, forcing his lungs to fill, and the infant to cough, gagging as his he writhes, regurgitating more thick brown fluid, and a thin cry, grows in strength with each gulp of air, his skin warming from blue into the faintest pink, his cheeks ruddy with every loud wail. Demetria settles the girl back, and grabs a clean linen towel off a pile near the pallet. She takes the newborne from Nemiane, rubbing his chubby arms and legs, warming miniature hands and feet as the child continues squalling. Nemiane kneels between the girl's legs, gently putting tension on the cord to bring forth the afterbirth. "Sometimes, they stool if the mother has been a long while in labor. The fluid gets into their lungs." The girl rises up on her elbows to bear down, passing the jellied mass. Through her grimace, she asks, "She'll be alright though? She's whole." Nemiane wraps the placenta in cloths, sliding the swaddling aside as Demetria places the wailing babe, folded in a blanket warmed by the kitchen brazier against the mother's breasts. With quick, efficient motions of habit, Nemiane ties off the cord between two pieces of twine, and clips the segment, the child finally freed from that leash of primal dependence connecting it to its mother's womb. "She is a he," the midwife says with a benevolent/peaceful/definite smile, "and he is beautiful." She draws out his tiny hands and feet, perfect in their number and proportion, showing the young mother how to guide his questing/rooting mouth to her nipple. She's hesitant to fold him in her arms at first, but in moments of her son latching, instinct takes hold and the child's cries fade into the peaceful sound of suckling, and she lowers her head, brushing her face across/sweeping her cheeks across the downy fine wisps caked against his scalp. Aggressively massaging the mother's lower belly, Nemiane feels the uterus firming. To Demetria, she says, "You know to use the yarrow--" "--and an infusion of coagulating/astringent herbs with moistened cobweb," Demetria says smartly/brightly. She bustles around the cramped confines of the kitchen backdoor/pantry/larder, discarding bloodied rags and mixing up the concoction to wad into a banting/packing, applied to against the mother's raw nether region. You aren't the only one who's studied Soranus, doctress." The girl relaxes, relieved that the discomfort of Nemiane's check is past. Satisfied by the mother's status, Nemiane slanting/grants her an amused glance her way, Demetria's expectant gaze melting into smile, a shared moment of mirth. Placing the packing between the girls legs, she shifts to the girl's side, stroking a lank strand of hair back from her hollowed cheek. "Rest now, child. I'll see you get some privacy, tonight anyway. It's a damn shame, having a new mother and her babe recover in a brothel larder," she mutters, hastening over to the entrance, poking her head out into the kitchen aisle. She flags down one of the brothel slaves, instructing them in a firm voice, and explicit instructions, to retrieve a clean stack of bed linens, towels, and a fresh night-dress/robe from one of the cabinets. Nemiane wipes her hands with a vinegar wetted cloth, then wipes them along her stained apron/equivalent clothing. Kneeling on the floor by the end of the pallet--the brothel couldn't even supply a foot stool to sit upon, let alone a birthing chair for the mother--Nemiane focuses on sifting through her medical chest, taking inventory of contents used and those remaining. "I'll be here through to dawn, child. And in every half an hour to check on you and the babe." A single, hopeless sob, dies away into the silence of the girl's misery, her eyes shining and empty upon Nemiane. "She will kill him. Knowing he's a boy, she will see him dead." The mother hugs her child to her, the baby having drifted off into a peaceful rest. She weeps raggedly into the little form bundled in her arms. Frowning, Nemiane exchanges a look with Demetria who returns with a stack of fresh bedding and clothes, directing the slave carting a large ceramic basin of steaming water to place the container at the side of the pallet, and shows her off promptly. "No need for them to be hearing all of that," she says. "Come girl, you'll feel better after you've bathed, and slept." She takes the newborn from the young mother, placing the boy on the pile of clean bedding. Then, she takes a clean cloth, helping the exhausted mother wash up, combing out her dark blonde waves, and change into a fresh robe of soft wool to cover her nakedness, Nemiane switching out the single threadbare sheet to s fresh covering before they situate the young mother with her child back on the worn pallet. It's a sorry nest for a newborn and his mother to spend a first night. "You see," Demetria assures, handing the newborn back as the young mother cradles him possessively against her breast. "He'll be right next to your side, the safest place in all the world, and the only place a child needs to know it is loved." The girl's tears abated, as Demetria predicted, but the hollow/defeated/resigned look/haunted look/air of the waif hasn't left her eyes. Kneeling beside her, Nemiane gently reaches for the girl's hand. When she tries turning the girl's wrist up. The young mother clutches her arm to her chest, then let's her hand go soft in Nemiane's grasp. There, on the underside of her forearm, a tattoo of a pisces, two fish in a concentric circle from head to tail, had been scratched into her skin in dark blue ink. "This child was conceived in sin," she whispers, gazing at Nemiane in misery. "Your god is not only just, but merciful," Nemiane says softly. "The sin does not belong to you." She squeezes the young mother's hand, trying to offer/imbue a measure of comfort/confidence to conceal her own ambivalence of the future facing the young mother and her infant. "You follow the teachings of the Christ?" Curiosity eases the girl's sorrowing expression. Nemiane, not wishing to give offense, ruefully replies, "I'm familiar with many teachings, child. I choose those which align with my conscience." Her childhood had been full of competing theologies between her mother's titular goddesses of the Briganti, her uncle's claims to some Druidic restoration resisting Romanitas of occupation, and her grandfather's adherence to the faith of an extinct Jewish pauper, Nemiane reached maturity having little belief in anything divine other than the pantheon of dogmas that did little to improve the lot of human suffering other than reinforce hierarchies of dominance and submission of the powerful upon the weak. Nemiane wasn't about to indulge the girl's piqued interest in her religious views, turning the focus back to the immediate circumstances of the young mothers present situation. "You should sleep now. You'll need to recover your strength." The girl's eyes droop, her small, fleeting smile sad as she nods, hearing Nemiane's mild tone. Demetria makes a scornful noise. "How is she supposed rest in a kitchen larder with the rats and roaches?" The girl rests her weary gaze on Demetria as the midwife fluffs a down pillow, helping the mother to lie back, her sleeping newborn, now fed, cradled by her side. "I feel safer here than in a gilded palace, caged with those monsters who--"the words breaking off. She blinks back her tears, features stark with fear and a heartbreaking resignation as she studies her child. "She'll see us both dead. She'll not abide a boy child while she's given the emperor no living heir." Her words fill Nemiane with a slow broiling anger. "There is no one of you or your child who will be harmed. Not this night, or any night thereafter, under my watch," she vows, past her own caution/dread, suspecting, as she can see Demetria does as well, by the way the crease of concern across her midwife's brow grows deeper, who the girl means. The young mother's moist eyes overflow, tears trickling down her thin/wan cheeks. "You may not be adherents of the Christ, but you both have good souls. I am grateful for that, and will ask my God to bless you." Demetria dabs them away with a soft wool kerchief. "Spare your prayers, girl," she says, her teasing smile warding the sting out of her words. "From the sounds of it, you'll need all the divine mercy you can beg for yourself and your child." Nemiane, with a wry glance between the young mother and the midwife, says, "Speak for yourself, Demetria. I, for one, willingly accept favors from any divinity in this line of work." Her tone/comment even evokes a passing shadow of a smile from the young mothers, who yawns in her fatigue, exhaustion finally claiming her. Nemiane strokes the wisps of dark blonde back from the girl's forehead. Only when her eyes have dropped shut completely, and breathing grows long and regular, her infant snuggled at her side, does Nemiane finally hunker back to her heels, drawing in a long, quiet sigh. Demetria eyes her knowingly. She gestures to the doorway, out to the kitchen. "Go get some refreshment before you faint on your feet." About to protest, insist she's fine, despite the sudden grumble from her stomach, and a wave of dizziness, Nemiane finds herself overridden by Demetria's admonition. "You're no use to me if you're passed out on the floor from lack of nourishment." She lets Demetria lead her out to the kitchen, sitting her down at the servants' table. Two hours past midnight (however that translated in Roman time), the only staff remaining are the head cook's assistant, a boy, scarce into his teens, left with the undesirable overnight duty of stirring the morning porridge for the brothel ladies. In a dingy corner, a rag-garbed girl, her cheeks dirt-tinged, her body as thin as reed, with a mess of brown knots atop her head, that Nemiane can almost see the lice squirming through the tangles, works over two large bronze tubs, her hands immersed in steaming water as she washes a selection of platters, pots, and drinking vessels. In minutes, Demetria procures a roll of grainy textured bread, soft herb cheese, and early spring greens soaked in fish garum. Nemiane sips a cup of hot nettle tea, the beverage, the nourishment, reviving her out of the stupor, and clearing the drowse from her mind. Demetria takes a seat on the stool across the table from Nemiane, pouring herself a cup of the herbal brew. "You should get some sleep," she says, meeting her eyes/studying her/watching her through the steam curling up from vessel in her hands. Nemiane rubs the gritty feel from her eyes with a finger and thumb, blinking away the tired ache between her temples. She gives Demetria a wry look. "Where exactly am I supposed to put up? In one of the prostitute's cubicles?" A low chuckle reaches her ears from Demetria, her pretty features bright with humor/merriment/amusement. "Oo--perhaps not. With your luck, the entire Praetorian would come beckoning." With exaggerated groan, Nemiane rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. "Ugh! Spare me the onslaught. Two was plenty more than one needs to encounter of that lot in a night." Scraping the last chunk of bread and cheese through the pungent fish oil, Nemiane washes down the food with a final swallow of her beverage. A glimpse up to a high window set above the cook stove for ventilation tells her it's still in the dark tide hours of morning. She resigned herself, hours ago, to the possibility of a sleepless night, one of many already tallied through the years of her trade. "I'll be here till daybreak anyway. You should go home--"she arrests the midwife's protest with with a raised hand"--and relieve me within the hour after dawn. Any post-parturition complication that might arise will be most likely over the next few hours. I would have to be summoned regardless. It's easier for me to stay right now. It's a superstition founded on experience." Seeing Demetria bristle at the notion the midwife may be inadequate to managing any potential crisis threatening the young mother's recovery, Nemiane hurriedly adds, "Because you will have your hands full over the next few days taking over their care." Demetria's pinched/pursed lips relax, the quick, playful ease returning. "A fine salvage, doctress. I almost might have been offended." With food and drink in her, and now laughter, Nemiane feels a refreshing surge of energy. She rises from the high table, Demetria following after her, each thanking the sleepy eyed youth by the cooking hearth, and the wisp/waif of the girl-child kneeling as she empties more water from an urn lifted of the fire-pit into the wash basins. Demetria lights an oil lamp, raising it in front of them to cast its soft orange glow about the small space of the larder. The young mother looks up at them as they enter, crooning a sweet melody under her breath while her baby suckles at her breast. Demetria's soft spoken encouragement brings a tired smile to the girl's face as she checks on the infant's swaddlings. A brief exam of the young mother reassures Nemiane of her improving condition. She cleans her hands on a woolen towel, placing it in a basket with the other soiled cloths/fabrics. Frowning as her eyes move over the closeted room, Nemiane says, "I wish I could offer a more suitable environs for you and your babe to rest." "It's alright," the girl says is quietly. She replaces the shoulder of her nightgown, her son having fallen back into a twilight doze, belly full, and warm near his mother's body. She tucks the blankets closer about his rounded cheeks, stoking back a white blonde lock from his brow. "It's said Mary bore her child in a stable shared with asses and oxen," a wistful, ghosting smile, Glancing between Demetria and Nemiane. "You are so kind. That is more than I could have hoped since the emperor..." her words dying away to tears. She shakes her head, arms tightening about her child, burying her face against his. The young mother's situation reveals itself to Nemiane in her trailing words, inciting a stone weight of pity, and a cold, slow burning anger churning deep inside her. She rises to her feet, trying to contain her anger, but her words are thick with her emotion. "Sleep, child, and Don't fret yourself through this night. No one will harm you." knowing her words are meaningless, but they're the best she can muster in the moment. Striding out of the room into the kitchen passage, Nemiane slows her pace, letting Demetria catch up to her. The midwife's eyes are full of concern. "Pardon, doctress, but perhaps you should reconsider, and take your own advice, catch some sleep yet. You've had a long evening. Everything seems exaggerated when we're upset, and reactions come stronger/heightened than normal when we're past our stamina." Nemiane's laugh is short, ironic. "Past my stamina? How new do you think I am at this?" Taking a slow breath, she steadies her mind, trying to ease Demetria's consternation/worry, and calm her own sense of impotency towards the young mother's circumstances. "She didn't deserve this, however it happened." "And you want to do more for her, don't you?" Demetria's words float into the darkness, softly between them. "Something that might actually protect that poor girl and her baby." Nemiane nods once, briefly. "Yes." A muted glow of mounted torches seeps past shuttered windows, and between the fissures in the wood of a heavy oak door leading to an alley winding in back of the brothel. Demetria pushes the door open, and they step out onto a sheltered stoop covered by an awning of boiled ox hide/tent material(??). The odor of stale cook fires, rotting food, and sewage hangs in the damp spring night, thick in their nostrils and smudging the stagnant/still damp of the alley. The midwife considers her with a sniff and turn of her mouth, appraising. "Call it a silly intuition, especially bc I only just met you tonight. There's something about you, though, I could almost believe you won't desert that girl to her fate until you've tested any chance that might open up an escape for her." With a rueful/wry look, Nemiane says/ returns her comment with a rueful look, "Tonight my aspirations are of a more humble bent, like trying to get a breath of fresh air for a few minutes." Demetria tests/inhales the foul air of the alley, her face crinkling in disgust. "Uck! You'll have better luck finding a magic carpet for the girl." Sharing a smile, Demetria places her hand on Nemiane's wrist with a gentle/light pressure before disappearing back into the brothel. "Relax for a few minutes. I'll be here for another hour yet. I've some things to finish up with a few of the other girls." After the midwife leaves, the silence of the shadows, the alley, descends in that expectant stillness/hush of predawn. Nemiane tips her head back, rolling her shoulders and neck, trying to relieve the knots in her muscles the strain from the last few hours have left her. Seeking a glimmer of stars through the fretful clouds in the strip of darkness visible high above the narrow lane, All she sees/can decipher is a strip of black, the heavens crowded out by the jumbled rooftops, adjoining balconies from business fronts and tenement blocks reaching seven stories high. The rattle of pipes, the trickle of water draining down tile gutters from the earlier rain, rushing in streams toward the plaza cistern at the end of the lane, to eventually wash out into the Tiber carries the echo of damp, dank caverns, and subterranean gloom, places buried far from the warmth of sun and life. Emperors were known to indulge whims of vengeance with a unique cruelty that could rival some of the gruesome executions she had remembered reading in the histories she had been exposed to by her tutors as a child. Anyone who had studied the briefest of passages from ______(historians up to mid 150s), knew how the Vestal____ had been forced seal the entrance to her own tomb, having run afoul of Domitian, and condemned to a slow death beneath the earth. With what had she become embroiled? Palace slave girls, bastard sons of emperors, Praetorians inexplicably hovering around a squalid ____Subura brothel. Nemiane had accepted the summons to attend the girl's delivery with welcome relief, an excuse to escape the banquet held by the emperor, to which her uncle, as a senator of some renown, had been invited. (Frustration, often mystification/perplexity filled the years since her own adolescence, yearning for something far beyond the predictable mold of a woman born to provincial nobility, and Like her mother before her, using that privilege of rank to indulge her fancy, lose/embrace/immerse herself in the study of medicine.) As obscure as the causes of illness, securing any hope in an effective treatment often proved, such challenges were far more familiar, and woke/provoked far less anxiety than did the thought of mingling for hours on end with the sophisticates of Latin aristocracy, whose bloodlines ran back to the founding of the Republic, or so most of the fine adorned women, and their arrogant husbands liked to expound until Nemiane's glazed/distracted/ look stifled them into sputtering silence, unimpressed by antiquated pedigrees, and they strode away, faces full of disdain and voices tinged with antipathy, remarking on the uncouth refinements of provincial idiots. Nemiane held rather differing views on Royal bloodlines, provincial or otherwise, having been raised in the shadow of Roman and British heritage, and a hundred years worth of a traitorous queen's legacy shadowing everything of her upbringing. A restless girl whose childhood had been spent in that savage wild country beyond the Antonine frontier, Nemiane's first memories were of scampering with her cousin, Vanora, across a crag filled lands of wind, heather, and majestic forests, where cold, mountain air dizzied in its purity, full of the music of crashing seas and quiet/hush flower thick/strewn valleys fed by sparkling falls and fast flowing rivers/streams. Her first lessons had been amongst a community of priestesses who still followed mysteries Rome had never vanquished from that savage north country, learning to decipher the language of the trees, and read the choreography of the moon and stars upon the silhouettes of leaf and flower in the altered seasons/unseen forces of spirits animating breeze or wave upon the erratic weavings of men's lives. Torn at age ten from the only world she had ever known, wide swept skies and lush moors, wild (bird pierced) wind that would always whisper through her heart, she was brought back south of the Hadrian divide, to join her grandfather's civilized court, in Isirium Brigantium. A decision, Nemiane discovered as she grew to maturity, that had been the outcome of a bargain struck long before her birth, the truce which had severed any tie of love or devotion between her mother, and her mother's twin brother, who were the heirs to the tribal kingship of the Brigantine nation. It was the impotency of that title, a neutered puppet-magistrate accountable to the legionary and civil authorities out of Eboracum, Londinium, which had led Nemiane's uncle to sow the seeds of rebellion amongst discounted members of Britannia's northern tribal nobility, and erupted into the chaos of wide spread revolt that swept over the Hadrian frontier. It was her mother's own strategizing, fearing the consequence of Roman retribution, counter-plotting against her own rebel brother and his fellow conspirators, and carelessly offering herself on the _____Plains, in marriage to the young legionary tribune assigned to stamp the Brigantine into submission. And like her four times great grandmother, Cartimandua a hundred years before, renewing the fealty of the Brigantine tribes to Roman occupation. Such was the impression Maeve must have made, a fearless eyed/bright eyed young woman, barely fifteen, clad in the white robes of a queen and priestess, proud of form, lithe, dangerous as a spear, tangles of her black hair blowing about her face in the early spring squall blasting across the land, facing the contigent of the VI's commanders, that Antius Crescens Calpurnianus had accepted her proposal of peace in that very moment, against the vehement objections of his older brother, Claudius ____, now Pompeianus. *Line from old GL--story*. Nemiane had heard the rendition multiple times through her youth, after arriving at in Isirium Brigantium, where the genteel Romanized nobles praised the wisdom of her mother's decision that had led to the desertion of the war bands faithful to her uncle's cause, who saw more to lose than gain in her uncle's ill-planned act of sedition/rebellion that was ultimately doomed to defeat, and leaving the sorely outnumbered insurgents to the mercy of Roman spear and blade. Grief overtook Maeve's brother, and Medrau became Mryddin Wyllt, witnessing the slaughter of his fellow warriors, an amalgam of ruffian dreamers and recalictrant Druids, witnessing the betrayal of his sister to his cause, and madness turned him into a deluded, wandering hermit, lost in Caledon Forest, haunted by the bloodied ghosts who fallen that day before the banners of the Eagle. With a familial heritage like that, Nemiane had arrived at her own private decision, early in those first years joining her grandfather's court, that any path leading to power or authority was fraught with far too much risk to make such struggles worthwhile. Despite the indoctrinated customs of Latin society pounded into her head, she never quite assimilated herself to the genteel society of Romanized Brigantines who populated the dining halls, the fine country estates of her grandfather's relatives, the refined couture of continental/Italian/Latin aristocrats and officers who were stationed in Eboracum, calling at the legionary mansion occupied by her family as her father rose in rank to legate. Nemiane's brothers, three older siblings, Reminses/Priscus, the eldest of Maeve and Antuis's brood, Gesius and Marcus, the middle twins, never seemed affected by the isolation, the dissociation afflicting/tormenting their youngest sister. Amid the daughters of the Roman elite in Eboracum, the Ophelias, Emilias, Julias, and Octavias of various distinguished families, Nemiane felt like a displaced weed uprooted amid a field of fine garden roses/flowers, or a wolf cub amid a pack of lap dogs. Vanora had been as intimate as a sister to her, sharing every moment from waking to sleeping, exploring every secret of stream, ravine, mountain path, and seaside cliff, even wrapped in each others arms, huddled together on a rough reed mat that had been their resting place in the roundhouse they shared in the community of initiates, a glorified hut as Nemiane came to see, later exposed grandeur of classical architecture, but for all that Roman majesty, there were only empty halls and and echoing corridors, that reflected the emptiness in her own soul, no fellow sister, or cousin, or even close female companion who ever filled that void in the remaining years of her girlhood. In the vacuum of her loneliness, Nemiane found solace in study and scrolls, her grandfather's library a denizen of strange texts, obscure philosophies, and mystery cults, professing his Christian beliefs mingled with manuscripts of the Alexandrian schools of science and natural philosophy, this benefit of her mother's status as a native princess, where British women still held a certain privilege of autonomy left over from the days prior to the Roman invasion, that Maeve insisted all of her children receive a formal education, even convincing Antius of the benefit to the common folk and rural peasants, encouraging their daughter to receive formal training in a profession often thought more appropriate to the sons of scholars, wealthy tradesman, and philosophers. So, physic became her abode, Hippocrates, his successors, Nemiane's succor in the lonely years of her adolescence. Medicine was full of its own frustrations, often impugned by the limitations of understanding disease, how an effective treatment might be rendered, the sufferings of patients she served, often abiding in the most destitute of rural subsistence or urban filth/squalor. For all of that, she would still choose crouching between the legs of an abused slave girl, troubleshooting a the potential complications of a pending birth, than mingle for untold hours of boredom, serving as a set-piece to the Imperial family, awkwardly navigating the ceaseless prattle of court fashions, the latest scandals, insipid questions about the supposed promiscuities of British women in the Roman histories, or devising some empty sympathy about the rising price of slaves for an elite who bled/poured exorbitant amounts of money into their own private mansions, replete with fish farms, and marble floored/gold paved bathing halls designed to host dinner parties, in Italian resort towns like Baie. Indeed, Nemiane had once been reprimanded for having pointed out that very paradox at a dinner hosted by one of her father's distinguished commanders, on a visit to Londinium years ago. One hardly required any intelligence or keen understanding to see this mess of an emperor's bastard son, and a Christian slave girl's life was the kind of situation that promised only trouble. The challenge now, was how one extricated themselves gracefully wo raising suspicions from the palace of some counter-intrigue, and avoided becoming further involved. The awareness formed a permanent knot between her brows which hadn't eased in the passing hour with these ponderings, in fact, only increased the weary ache engulfing her head so to the point where her scalp actually felt sore. Undoing the linen wrap securing her hair, Nemiane closes her eyes, trying to relax her mind as she massages her fingers through her scalp, trying to ease the constricted vice trapping her skull, untangling a mass of springing curls that hangs down the span of her back, the ends feeling coarse and stiffened by accumulated oils. She intends to take a good, hot bath when she returns to uncle's villa, and scrub away the residue, bodily and in her mind, of this evening. -- The sound of rickety floorboards beneath booted feet shatters/breaks her fleeting tranquility. Out of the shadows emerges the Praetorian from earlier, pausing at the threshold of the stoop. Scowling at him, she hastily coils her hair back into the linen band. "You're still here," she comments, annoyed at how self-conscious his scrutiny makes her feel. "Till dawn, or the child was delivered," he answers. A fitful torch from down the hall throws enough light across his features that she can just make out the way he regards her, a little too much interest glowing in his dark eyes, following the brisk motions with which she tucks a last curling tress into the the wrap. He steps out into the small space, seating himself next to her, bearing two wine goblets. "Royal women pay half their dowries to don wigs woven from hair that color," he says. "Only in Rome would people pay the equivalent of all Britannia's wealth/worth for someone else's hair." His laugh at her sardonic tone is short, muted. He mistakes her glance directed at the wine goblet her offers her as suspicion. "It's well watered, I swear. A pity, really for such a fine vintage." Nemiane says nothing, accepting the delicate vessel with a raised brow, before looking back out to the alley, where the strand/string of buildings, puddled recesses in the lane, timber framed awnings and the dark nooks of streets channeling further into the heart of this slum all gradually take shape from the graying light. Even in the pallor of pre-dawn, the liquid, scented of sun ripened berries, and spice-leaden moist earth after a summer shower, filling her nostrils, is so deep a red, the vintage appears black, like old blood. Nemiane sips the wine, full bodied, lush as the berries with which its bouquet perfumed the air, chasing away the foul odor of garbage and feces heavy in the alley. Swallowing, she is still keenly/acutely aware of the Praetorian's steady, expectant gaze. Virius Lupus, was that how Demetria had addressed him? "Honey in firelight," he says softly. "Darker though, like aspen leaves in an autumn sunset/copper/auburn shaded leaves of tree/ just before they fall." Nemiane skews a doubtful look at him. "I think your sleep deprivation, or your wine, has addled your brain, soldier. I thought you had sent my over-eager admirer home for being too drunk." He swirls his cup, raising it to his lips with a quick flash if white, well-formed teeth. "My single indulgence, and only at the downside of my shift." Bringing the goblet away, his smile disappears, but this new warmth, the companionable/amiable ease of his manner hasn't, leaves her feeling on edge, leery of his motives. "British wealth for British worth. My nurse, while I was a boy, was a British woman, a slave, the wife of some insurgent tribesman or other. A good woman, actually, when she had finally accepted her fate. --"That would have been a hard course to accept, if she had been free before that." --"She hated my father, but she came to love us children, I think, perhaps as replacement for her own. She remained loyal to my family, even after I freed her when I had come of age, paid for her grave stele the year after when she had passed from an ague." --"How generous of you." "Like I said, a good woman. But she was as illiterate as a fig, and even more so in the Greek medical texts I would imagine." --"Britannia has been known harbor a Greek or three somewhere upon our misty shores. Even a few physicians amongst them, it's said." --"A few? Is there any Greek who isn't a physician? And you're not Greek. What would take a woman so far from her homeland, to live alone in a city like this!" "A quest for knowledge, and to plunder the secrets of the East, discover the wisdom of sciences that have been lost from my homeland, or more surely never existed there at all," she replies with an expansive gesture. Humor quirks his mouth at her melodramatic flare. "That's a grand aspiration/sojourn. And what have you found so far?" "A few scripts, a few scrolls, a valuable insight here and there, and...whole lot of lonely soldiers." His laughter rings down the alley. "And frustrated affections, I Presume, strewn all across the provinces. A pity really. I had hoped-- "Continue hoping soldier," she bristles, she smiles, through her bridling, but there's an edge to her words, which doesn't seem to off put him. With a crestfallen sigh/crushed look, he grumbles with a teasing grin, "Women like you are the reason why establishments like this exist." Nemiane can't contain her chuckle, shaking her head. "Oh, I beg to differ, soldier. Establishments like this exist bc men always need women who will tell them what they wish to hear, even if they have to purchase such testimony in return for words or moans." His releases a sharp breath, toasting her with his raised goblet. "You're merciless, lady." "Doctress," she corrects him with a pointed look before taking a swill from her wine. Its spice/piquancy slides down her throat, and she rests the empty vessel on her knees, fingers clasped about its stem. The faintest blush of light just skims the highest rooftops, clay/stone tiles glinting ruddy/rouged in the first touch of the sun. "Till dawn? Your shift is done, soldier." "Virius. Virius Lupus. If Demetria has no compunction addressing me by my name, then her fellow colleague ought not either." Nemiane frowns, turning away from his intent dark eyes, pondering/contemplating the alley in silence, her reflexive sauciness/mockery/irony/wry/ruefulness lost in the sudden awareness of how crowded is the small stoop they inhabit, seated next to one another, shoulders, arms almost touching, the heat of his body, a scent of leather and sweat, warming the air she inhales, makes her a feel a little lightheaded, the sensation not eased by her wave of exhaustion that's crept back, dragging/dulling her mind. He's handsome, with an easy grace that must characterize his true nature rather than the stiff-lipped authoritarian he came across as in the public hall. Nemiane senses he's also quite conscious of his effect on women, and perhaps were she not occupying this charade of a common working woman/working class commoner, indeed, assuming the rank of her true identity, she may have been more inclined to indulge a flirtation. Though she would also wager that had he known her true rank, the niece of Claudius Pompeinus, he wouldn't have been so relaxed in his comportment. His words, his actions, the subtle suggestions alluded in his comments, reflect a man who views himself as her superior, for all his familiarity, an officer of the Imperial Guard, thinking Nemiane, in the grim chastity required of her livelihood, fearing the dread of wasting away as a shriveled maid, would be awed by his status, an easy conquest, if irregular novelty, in the monotony she imagined he indulged, bedding rich, lonely widows, and the nubile young wives of crusty old senators. The buildings lining the narrow street begin to animate with the growing light. Shutters from upper story windows opening, the entrances fronting the cobbled path/lane unlocking, and the morning staff of various shops and vendors, heading out to face the day. "You'll be blasting /eating/carving a new window into the launderer's keep if you keep staring at the siding like that." He seems taken aback when she turns/tears her gaze off the building face across from them, and searching his face, asks, "What would have happened at dawn had she not yet delivered her child?" "They would have induced a Caesarian procedure," he answers in a flat voice. "Gods Minions, you people," she says under her breath, looking down into her wine glass, trying to contain her derision/disgust before she dares look up again. "Would they have at least allowed me the appearance of an elective decision?" "Or brought in their own surgeon." "Butcher, you mean?" There's a rueful light in his eyes. "Fortunately, her baby was born before dawn." "Fortunately, her labor didn't turn out to be as complicated as initially feared." "Will she recover?" *Do you care*, the thought hanging bitter in her mind. Instead, she replies, "Yes, I believe so, at least in body. Her child is strong, and will give her spirit back a will to live too." "A boy?" "A boy," she says carefully, recalling the young mother's dread/fear for her child's future, at the mercy of the Augusta. "Your eminence!" The words reach them down the hallway. The cook's assistant appears from the kitchen, earlier drowsiness/somnolence chased away by the urgency speeding his steps toward the Virius Lupus. With a garbled apology to Nemiane, the boy gushes something into the Praetorian's ear. Nemiane pretends to be distracted, trying to not listen too closely, but apprehension/her disquiet churns in her stomach, able to just make out the words 'palace' and 'his majesty'. Virius nods, a distracted tight concentration/urgency suffusing contracting his jaw/clouding darkening his already lean/intense features. He sends the youth away with a coin, waiting until he's disappeared into the kitchen before turning to Nemiane. "My regrets, doctress, being unable to prolong sharing your company. It seems I've been summoned under haste by the emperor." With a tip of her head, she tries to keep her reply casual/light/uninflected. She needs to know what's happened. Her mother and uncle had been in attendance at the palace tonight. "There's nothing one can do but comply to the call of duty." He hesitates at the doorway a moment, facing her, an unspoken question in his eyes. She arches an eyebrow, prompting him to speak. "Your name, may I have it, in case I ever cross your path again?" A rueful sniff, a ghost of a smirk, and Nemiane honors his request. "Neva." "Neva." Her name sounds like an exotic or magical property, something foreign and mysterious upon his lips, the way he tests out the short syllables. "How Latinized. How is it spoken in your island's tongue/native tongue?" "Nyvein/Nyfain." The way he watches her, seeming to contemplate her rather, with those dark eyes awakens a flutter of desire, a shiver across her skin that also constricts her breath, a whisper of warning at the edge of her sleepy sense that tells her to be wary, not trust him. She lets him take her hand as he unties a coin purse, secured beneath his belt. Undoing the strings, he places a small vial/philter, cloudy liquid in a corked container of blue Phoenician glass, into her palm, along with the purse that she feels, is full of coin. Her drowsiness bursts into a blaring trumpet of alarm buzzing between her ears, the swish/rush of blood from her pounding heart loud as her mind races a few beats ahead of his words. "A gift for the young mother, and her babe. From the Augusta. A medicament meant to fortify her recovery, and thicken her milk. It's to be administered only by you, as I'm sure you understand...doctress." So this is the moment of reckoning, the precipice upon which Nemiane precariously balances, sucked into the rotten corruptions of power play and Imperial intrigue. She says nothing, merely focusing beneath lowered lids, upon her hands like ice where rests the blue glass vial/shimmering blue vial/clear blue vial and the purse, bulging with coin, her palms turned up, cradled in his strong, gentle fingers, an almost a caress, the way his thumbs slowly circle the soft flesh of her inner wrists, the pulse thrumming away there. "That's 100____coin, solid silver. For your services tonight. Spend it on something pretty, like a new gown, or a some ruby ear drops from India." Finally collecting herself enough to sublimate her rising contempt, turn the anger at this ultimate act of injustice against the young mother and innocent newborn into a disguise of sarcasm, Nemiane looks up at him, her gaze level, tone dry. "Perish the thought that some women might find such fripperies nonsensical. What use would I have for earrings or a new gown? I would rather spend such funds on a few offices to rent for examination rooms." Virius's lazy grin tells her he's hardly offended at her arched/bristling reply. Heat and hunger glow from his shadowed/scorching gaze, not bothering to hide his keen/scorching appraisal of her looks "You do play hard, don't you? Such virtue. What does Minerva find tempting in the wooing of her affections?" Nemiane raises her chin, her eyes locked with his, responding to his desire by letting the thick, heavy silence lengthen between them. He shifts forward, seems about to close the space between them, perhaps thinking to sweep her into an embrace, claim her lips in a passionate kiss. "Integrity." She lets the word drop like a metal platter clanging through a silent temple, full of the cool authority she learned to wield through the years, following her mother's lead, that brief crack in her commoner's guise, harkening her true status. As she anticipated, her chilly tone catches Virius off. He pulls himself straight, the light in his eyes changing, his expression growing cool, still humoring her with that infuriating, subtle/ironic grin. Like he's laughing at her and himself, having rolled a gamble to see how far he could push his wager until she either succumbed or pushed back. He does manage to get away with raising the hand in which she holds the vial to his lips. Hearing her sharp inhale, at the brush of warm breath and softness, he says with a teasing glint, "So, you have some fire with that ice in you after all...Nyvien." Wisely, noting how she stiffens at the liberty taken, Virius frees her hands, reiterating in his mellow, articulate voice, that the medicine must only be administered by her, and no other. Containing her fury behind a clenched jaw she hopes Virius merely reads as her indignation for his presumptuous flirtation, Nemiane tries to keep her voice smooth, features carefully schooled to calm, looking him directly in the eyes. "Of course, I understand completely." With a small bow, he straightens. Through the doorway, he exits down the hall, passing into the kitchen, and out of sight. It's only then that Nemiane lets her fatigue/weariness/fear take over, and she slumps back with a great sigh, against the wall of the small porch. The coin bag and medicine vial burn like coals, clutched in her stiff fingers. Tipping her head back to strip of gray sky, brightening by the minute to a washed out blue, scored with wafts of light, curling clouds, a cool breeze hushing down the alley, airing out the dampness of the previous night, she fills her lungs with another great breath, trying to seek the freshness sweeping with the current, blown from the heights of of the metropolis, diffused/diluted by the stench of sewer and refuse drowning these lower districts. Slowing her racing heart with each breath, Nemiane's wit and determination gradually return/restore themselves. A calculating glance to the objects in her grasp, and she lifts herself from her support against the wall, her gait, full of purpose, taking her along the the Praetorian's path, back into the kitchen where she finds Demetria setting out clean cloths and dressings. Nemiane's medicine chest is on the table top, its varied instruments and medicines neatly sorted into respective compartments. The cauldron, hanging off an iron tripod over the cooking hearth, bubbles with a morning porridge, honey and ___nut filling the air. The thundering/booming/rumbling voice of the tavern keeper carries past the door from the pub beyond, as he barters with a delivery man over a cart load of pastries, sweet cakes, salted pork, and eggs, to be offered the morning customers. Thankfully, they're alone in the kitchen for the moment. Noticing Nemiane's troubled expression, Demetria puts down the length of linen she had been rolling. With a puzzled little smirk, she says, "The brothel ladies adore him. Something about that dark, broody look seems to attract the female passions. Pardon, doctress, I didn't think you were so susceptible." Nemiane's expectant silence/skeptical/eloquent lift of her brow, elicits a burst of laughter from Demetria. "Oh! Oh my, he's not used to being subverted/rejected." "Demetria, I have to go." The midwife sobers, gaze stilling on Nemiane, hearing the gravity/tension in her voice. "And I don't anticipate being able to return later today." Seeing the unspoken question in Demetria's face, Nemiane says, "Whatever happened last night in the palace may have affected people I know. I have to be sure they've not come into harm's way." Demetria regards her with a new found caution, head cocked slightly. "High ranked patrons, doctress?" A quick nod, and Nemiane says past the brief shaft of guilt for the evasiveness, "To say the least." Demetria's attention falls to the objects contained in Nemiane's grasp. "They're a dangerous commodity to mix with, doctress. What's that you have?" Nemiane opens her fingers, holding out the glass vial and coin bag, and Demetria's face hardens, looking as though she would incinerate the the very flesh off Nemiane's hand. "Give me those." Nemiane's fingers curl around the pieces, drawing her hand back. "And what do you intend to do with them?" "Tell Virius Lupus to swallow whatever rat poison is in that vial for himself, and if that doesn't do the trick, I'll make him hand feed every coin in that purse to a cobra until he's in throes, foaming like a rabid dog." The wrath contorting Demetria's pretty features recedes into confusion at Nemiane's abrupt laugh, relief flooding through as she says, "Oh, I could kiss you right now...were I of Sappho's persuasion, anyway." Indignation floods Demetria's voice as she bristles, her cheeks flushed in high color. "You were testing me." Nemiane takes one of the midwife's hands, placing the glass vessel and the purse there. "I had to know I could trust you." A small chuckle chases away Demetria's short-lived hostility. "I could kiss you, doctress. I knew you weren't such a sellout/swindler/ambitious freak/lacking morals/so easily bought." Nemiane's fleeting smile conveys her enticement. "I'm afraid the customers wouldn't know how to handle that kind of titillation, dear," making Demetria blink in surprise, giggling when she adds, "And we wouldn't want to steal custom from the regular staff, would we?" Quickly recovering herself, Demetria's sly smile and wink leaven the flirtation to a light hearted jest. "I'll have to choose a more complicated case to monopolize your attention next time." "You'd have me back?" Nemiane asks with a teasing/taunting glance as she locks the lid of her medicine chest. Solemnity suffuses Demetria's voice/reply. "I would sacrifice my eye-tooth to learn from your expertise." With a wry sniff, Nemiane says, "I'm not sure what expertise was employed of which you weren't already capable." She hefts the leather carrying strap attached to her tote over her head and across her shoulder, Demetria's open pleasure at her words, the most inspiring of sincerity she's seen all night. Eyeing the vial and coin purse in Demetria's hand, she fails to keep the her anxiety out of her voice when she says, "Be careful. I'm not the only one here courting danger by deception." Demetria snorts, bursting into a short, contemptuous laugh. "Please, you mean Virius? He wouldn't dare harm me. He's my...brother." The floor rocks, sways as Nemiane chokes on the twist of news, steadying herself, her shock, against the table until her mind works through the new convolution. She recalls Demetria's bold manner in her earlier public/verbal chastising/flaying of the Praetorian in the tavern. Her cast down scowl, the way she peers up hesitantly at Nemiane, as though she's both fearful and resentful of the reaction she expects from Nemiane is borne upon the hesitation/expectation in her voice when she adds softly, "He's smart, but not when it comes to resisting the wiles of scheming young empresses. I don't divulge our relation often. It gets tiresome explaining why a woman might insist on laboring/toiling in my profession when she comes from a family of evident means." Five, maybe six years she has on the younger woman in age and experience, and nary but the better part of a night and morning as professional colleagues unified in their purpose to protect their ward, but the midwife's confession glows through Nemiane with the warm sunshine of discovering a kindred soul. "You'll have no judgement from me on that point, Demetria." Her smile is bright, her black eyes, so very like her brother's, Nemiane now sees, full of warmth. "Guard yourself." "And you," Nemiane returns. She shakes her head, stopping Demetria from picking out any of the coin from the purse. "I don't require it. Use what would have been my fee for your own funds." Demetria motions with the money bag, about to protest, when Nemiane suggests gently, "Were it I, I would use the rest of the coin to find a safe haven/shelter for that poor mother and her babe. Someone that you trust, who will keep them out of the way from Imperial spies and their lackeys." Approval stirs over Demetria's keen gaze. "Oh, I do like how you think." By the tone, Nemiane can already see the midwife testing her options. For good measure, she adds, "And give your brother back the vial unopened," letting Demetria's innate cleverness speak for itself. "Yes. Nothing inspires a sense of commitment like self-preservation. He'll find any reason to avoid Bruttia Crispina's wrath in order to conceal her failed plot," she nearly purrs. Nemiane adjusts the strap pressing/impinging her into her shoulder. "I need to go." Demetria nods, growing focused. "You'll do best to exit out the front, as though nothing were remiss/amiss." Nemiane follows her directive, heading towards the front kitchen passage. She turns one last time, imparting her respects. "Gods guard you, Demetria." "And gods preserve you, doctress," the midwife answers. Her next words, revealing the cause of Virius's sudden exit, pour into Nemiane's ears/wash through Nemiane like the surge of a cold surf, fighting down a wave of bile/nausea/acid filling her mouth, as she tries to slow her rapid breath/fear roaring through her stomach to shreds with her poise. Demetria's gaze rests deep and troubled upon her, her smooth forehead crinkled in worry/thought, color drained from her face. "You must be more connected to the Imperial family than I suspected." Nemiane's fingers form talons into the edge of her kit/wooden sides of her kit, punctuating her warning with a slow shake of her head, her words sounding brittle, empty. "No more, Demetria. In case I'm caught. Don't ask anymore, for your own sake. The only thing," she shapes the words carefully, her voice as piercing as her commanding will into Demetria's eyes, "that matters now is the life of that mother and her child. Remember that." Demetria's breath catches harshly in her throat, as she moistens her lips, trying to find her voice. "Of-of course," she stumbles out. Nemiane has no time to pity or comfort the younger woman's rattled composure, as the awareness awakens in her of just who and what they have dared. She can only hope her instincts aren't wrong in judging the midwife has both the intellect and gumption enough to steer the murky waters into which she has inadvertently drifted. Murmuring a last parting, Nemiane Inhales deeply, setting her mind to what she's about to confront back at her uncle's mansion. Moving toward the tavern hall almost against her own volition, she pauses, Demetria's words catching her for a moment, at the entry way leading from the kitchen. "You are a rare one, doctress. I'll remember that as well." She doesn't glance back, but nods over shoulder, acknowledging the portent in the midwife's words. And settling her gaze forward, Nemiane heads on her way, out across the quiet space of the brothel's tavern, now emptied in the early morning hour.

#Arthuriana #King Arthur #Merlin #Guinevere #Morgan le Fay #Nimue #Lucius Artorius Castus #Nemiane #my own crazy take