#wot wave mistress

[idlethoughts-idolthoughts]

of warp and weave pulled through rhyme

serenely or sensational bend or blow

ken we not or ken we do

fling our torment to the skies.

the wind she howls to take the cry

charged by morrows promise.

[tbookblurbs]

Wizard's First Rule - Terry Goodkind

TW/CW for rape, SA

0/5 - I'd give this negative stars if I could. Poorly written, weirdly rape-y for the ENTIRE book, misogynistic, derivative, unimaginative magic system, 15-20 pages dedicated to BDSM sexual assault? Save yourself the time, energy, and brain cells.

Where to start? Ah, I know! Let's start with the fact that this book is a blatant rip-off of the Wheel of Time (I just read Eye of the World, so I can confirm). Even if it weren't following the plot beat-by-beat, its unimaginative at best. Everything you read here has been done better by someone else. The parts that aren't lifted from Eye of the World are poor copies of Tolkien's work (which WoT is also guilty of ... but that's for a later post).

Goodkind's writing style seems to consist mostly of just narrating. There is minimal dialogue. There is technically action. But mostly, there's the author telling you exactly how the characters are feeling and why they might make the decisions they'll make with no evidence to WHY that might be true. You don't get to experience any of this for yourself. Richard and Kahlan allegedly fall in love within 24 hours of meeting each other, but without the author telling you this every other page, you'd never know based on how they act with each other. I saw them as colleagues at best, despite the professions of love at the end. Personally, I'm convinced Goodkind has never been friends with a woman.

Beyond this, Kahlan spends ALL of her time bemoaning the fact that she can't be in love with a man properly without forcing him to fall in orgasmic love with her. I'm being 100% serious here, that's the beginning, middle, and end of her magical powers. She rarely talks about having friends or family, and when she does, that singular friend is the main character of an anecdote about sexual assault. Lovely.

Richard, on the other hand, doesn't ever seem to BE thinking. Goodkind tells you that he is the most special boy to ever live and that also, twist! he's the product of rape. His power is *waves hand* Truth and no, that is never explained.

This is all without even TOUCHING the BDSM plotline which, frankly, does a disservice to anyone who has ever engaged in kink. It's all hot women in leather who are torturing our protagonist to feel pain and the men (yes, it's always men) usually die from the experience. But Richard, being the most special boy to ever live, is different. He has this experiences, sleeps with his mistress under dubiously consesual circumstances, and defeats her with the power of falling in love with her, because she was actually just a nice girl with issues this whole time. Oh, also a key point of these women is that they're tortured into becoming torturers. The whole plotline is absolutely miserable and that still leaves about 30% of the book left. I almost quit right then.

One of the few joys of this book was Zedd, but honestly, if you've read one whimsical wizard, you've met him already. He doesn't hold a candle to Gandalf or Yoda or any other quirky magical mentor.

To conclude! I hated this book, will never read another one of Goodkind's book, and I hope and pray that none of you will ever be subjected to his writing.

[the-letter-horror-lover]

That Butler, Revelation {Sebastion's POV}

Notes:

Chapter illustrations from Unsplash

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

{Sebastian's POV}

A maelstrom of feathers shrouded the dastard. “I-impossible,” he breathed. “Ye…ye can’t be real.”

“Oh, he’s quite real,” said Cielle. I could discern a smile in the mistress’s velvety tones. “In fact, Sebastian, why don’t you show him how real you truly are?”

I chuckled. “It would be my pleasure, but first…” I released him and held out my hand. “I believe you have something that belongs to my mistress.”

“W-wot?”

“The trinket you pilfered.”

“Take it – take everythin.” He threw Miss Elizabeth’s bracelet and all his counters to the floor before raising his hands in surrender. She collected all the items and stood in front of him, Cheshire-Cat complacent.

Slowly, Cielle turned to me, a nasty little smirk upon her lips. Something wicked flickered deep within the sapphire irises. Her mouth curved at me like a hellion delighting in a game or a mischievous kitten up to no good. “Sebastian… why don’t you do as you please with our depraved friend here. I imagine a starving demon like you would enjoy ravaging him—wouldn’t you?” Smoldering cerulean eyes fixed my own.

That little imp.

As if I’d actually relish some vermin on a platter. While blood could portray the essence of a soul, the essence from the man reeked of him –vile and despoiled with corruption. Hardly a comparison to the tempting, intoxicating essence that stood before me…I stared at that creamy, unblemished neck.

A sudden pang of hunger pierced through me.

“Well?” prompted Cielle.

I straightened my tie, regaining myself. “I’m afraid I do not find the essences of half-rats palatable, young mistress.”

“How dull. Then, I suppose the prudent course of action is to see that he won’t dare to lay his grimy hands on a lady.” She spoke in dulcet accents, but her eyes blazed at me like cold fire.

“Of course, young mistress.” I bowed to her, concealing a serpentine smile at her consent. In the blink of an eye, I grasped the half-rat’s wrists from behind and hummed in a sing-song manner. “You seem rather attached to these.”

He glanced over his shoulders in horror. “No –no please…not that.”

Chuckling, I gave his arms a gentle tug and increased my force, little by little, until I found myself wrenching his sinews. The man released a guttural plea and writhed like a helpless fly caught in a spider’s web.

“S-stop it. Y-yer going to break ‘em…”

“My, I fear I’m not feeling that generous. You should consider yourself most fortunate if I do not rip them from your person.” A deep throaty laugh escaped me.

I yanked his sinews harder, breaking the skin. Exhilaration barreled through my veins, my restraint slipping away with it. The shadows cloaked my transformation as I fully succumbed to my true form. My fangs lengthened; my eyes tightened to slits, hellfire blazing within the fuchsia orbs; smoky tendrils enveloped my full length – the graceful butler no more.

All my senses heightened. Every essence around me grew sharper. The saccharine essences of debutantes at the dress shops blocks away, the man’s fetid essence of debauchery that rolled off his skin in waves and then…another essence. One that prevailed over them all. My head swam.

I greedily drank it in—a delicious contradiction of flavors. Strong, musky, tart, all masked in an outer Elysian-like sweetness. I could feel my slit-like pupils constrict. The tantalizing essence overwhelmed me…consumed me… invigorated me. “Yess,” I hissed. I fastened my eyes on my mistress and wetted my fangs, hardly paying attention to the crack and snap of tendons. Unbridled hunger surged through me with intensity unlike ever before. Veiled in the shadows, I raised my dark silhouetted hand at Cielle, excitement coursing through every nerve.

“That’s enough.”

Cielle’s voice rang sharp, breaking me out of my disgraceful reverie. The dark tendrils retreated like a wave from the unconscious man. Breathing hard, I ran my tongue over my lips and tilted my head back. What on earth had spurred such a reaction? My unseemly features began to fade as I regained myself though a deep frown edged my face. I couldn’t recall the last time I had lost control in such manner. I stared contemplatively at my hand. Oh dear...I had been a moment away from breaching my impeccable aesthetics.

Frowning, I stepped out of the shadows, reverted to the prim and proper butler. “Young mistress, I— ''

“Just like a beast,” Cielle whispered, eyeing me with revulsion.

“My apologies, my lady.” I felt my forehead crease. “I suppose I had gotten a touch carried away.”

“Well, I guess I shouldn’t expect anything else from your kind –should I?” A brackish laugh escaped her. I lowered my lids as the mistress doubled over in laughter and then choked out my name. “Sebas…tian.”

Cielle’s body went rigid as an ice sculpture, save for a trembling hand outstretched towards me. Her breath grew labored. Then, an uncomfortable wheeze escaped her. In the blink of an eye, I was by her side as she succumbed to her asthma. My hand curled around her small waist. With the other, I angled her face to mine and loosened the eye-patch.

My eyes reflected in her large, dilated pupils. Concerned orbs of fuschia, but deep within them, the slits flickered with excitement.

"S-sebas…tian.” Cielle clutched my cuff links and panted my name like litany. I reveled in those pitiable, sputtering gasps, a rich, cadence that aroused my senses. “Sebas…tian.”

I rubbed my finger along her flushed lips and whispered, “Young mistress, I am here…You only need but to call my name.”

“Sebastian…” Cielle’s contracted eye illuminated and bore into mine. I felt the mark on my naked hand, surging hot and stronger than ever. Slowly, the coughing fit subsided into soft, shallow breaths. When her breathing slowed at last, Cielle managed to stand upright.

“Are you quite alright, young mistress?” I held out my hand for support, but Cielle rejected it.

“I’m fine.” Cielle feigned a cough and avoided my stare. “The weather is atrociously cold.”

“Indeed.” I removed my overcoat and tightly wrapped her within the much-too-large attire. “Perhaps, this will prevent another episode.”

“It’s…warm,” Cielle said in strained voice, pulling it tighter.

“Most fortunate it clads the young mistress’s petite frame completely.”

“Tch. Just get me my boot.”

“Yes, my lady.” I retrieved the fallen boot off the ground and bent to her feet. “Shall I?”

Her eyes narrowed with a cat-like inscrutability, but she nodded. Cielle raised her skirt up, revealing small, creamy white ankles. I slid the boot on, one at a time, cupping the ball of her foot. When my fingers grazed the graceful arch of her foot ever so slightly, she jumped to her feet.

“I’ll do it myself,” Cielle said in a tart voice. As she fumbled with the laces, a troubled look marred her delicate features.

Sensing the tension in the air, I collected the cards off the ground near her. “Permit me to commend on that entertaining trick back there. You scented the cards remarkably well –Queens with rosehip, Kings with myrrh, Jacks with lavender, the Jokers with –”

“Wait a minute.” Cielle’s expression shifted as the realization hit her. She grasped my tie and pulled on it—hard.“How dare you?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Don’t beg-your-pardon me, you slippery demon. You witnessed that entire charade without intervening. I take it seeing me in peril provides some sport for you.”

“Though I cannot deny that . . .” I disengaged her hand, a faint chuckle escaping me. “As the head butler of the Phantomhive, is it wrong to see that the young mistress flourishes into a proper and self-reliant lady of nobility? However…” My voice dropped an octave. I lifted her chin up, my thumb trailing her jaw. “Had you been in real danger. I’m sure you're aware I'd intervene. After all, I'd never permit anyone to fondle my mistress so crudely . . .”

Cielle paused, that troubled look washing over her once more. Then her face hardened. She swatted my hand away. “Enough. We’ve tarried on here far too long. Come.”

I followed her to where Miss Diaz lay. Cielle gave me a sharp side-long glance. Nodding, I stuffed a hand into my pocket, brought out some strong scented camphor, and waved it under Miss Diaz’s nose. Slowly, the opera singer came into her senses. At the sight of me hovering above her, her face blanched.

“Fancy seeing you again, Miss Diaz,” Cielle said softly. “Though shouldn’t you be someplace else right now?”

“Brixton,” the woman breathed as I helped her to her feet. “The Yard threatened to place me in Brixton’s Prison for Female Convicts. They didn’t believe a word I said. I’ve been in hiding since—” She drew in a sharp breath and swayed.

I caught her before she hit the floor. “Young mistress, perhaps we should resume this discussion elsewhere.” I glanced meaningfully at a small tea shop in the distance.

Cielle frowned at the opera singer, then sighed. “Very well. Carry her, Sebastian.”

We made our way to the tea shop. Under the mistress’s instructions, I purchased a cup of Bohea tea, stale Seville Orange Biscuits, and currant teacake (rather poorly prepared) from the High Tea menu. I handed the paltry provisions to Miss Diaz who began devouring the meager bite. Once some of the color returned to her face, Cielle launched into an interrogation.

“Care to tell us how exactly you escaped, Miss Diaz?”

The opera singer went stiff, her fingers tightening in her lap. “The Inspector dropped a key after he placed me in the holding facility. I had no other choice, but to steal it. I couldn’t go back home since they would check for me there first…so I’ve been hiding on the streets since. Hiding from the Yard and those…awful, awful men.” She stared, brows pinched, into her tea as if reliving her escape from the whoremongers that loitered in the alleys.

“Well, your escape is really nothing more than a trifle to me," Cielle murmured. "I’m much more interested as to why you attempted to thieve Her Majesty’s diadem in the first place. “Why don’t you tell us what really occurred last night, Miss Diaz?”

Miss Diaz exhaled a white puff and nodded. “My Grimsy has been away on the Continent the past few months working on Venus in Furs. His correspondence with me has dwindled since. Of course, I'm sure he has a rather cumbersome schedule. I figured it'd be best for me to go about my own pursuits and thus, I began taking on more opera performances at the Lyceum Theatre. I had a performance last night—a 7 o’ clock showing of The Curious Incident of the Dog at Night. After the play had ended, I headed back home alone. Hardly a few minutes passed when I noticed a figure shadowing me.” Her voice grew quiet. “I hastily picked up my pace and just as I turned the corner, the person called to me—by my name. When I spun around, I saw it was only a young man.”

“What did he look like?” Cielle demanded.

“A bit of an Adonis. He seemed a few years older than you...but much taller." I smirked at Cielle whose lips went taut as bowstrings. "Rather proper fit fellow, though he possessed effeminate features. He had sea-green eyes, flaxen hair, and an air of self-assuredness about him.” Her brows pinched. “I knew I had never met this gentleman before, and I asked him how he knew me. Apparently, he had he attended one my opera performances and has been an ardent admirer of mine every since.”

“But then our conversation drifted." A subtle wistfulness tinged her voice. "After Grimsy left, I've had not many to talk to. The more we conversed, the more I realized we shared many interests apart from theatre. He spoke of his terriers at home, and I of my Pekingese dog. We spoke and spoke, losing track of time until Big Ben tolled eight. Since it was rather late, he offered to escort me back home. I accepted the gesture–in retrospect, a bit imprudently.”

“And then?" I inquired.

“The young gentleman led me to the front door of my quarters where we both wished each other a goodnight. And then…” Miss Diaz’s voice turned sheepish. “We, er…that is to say, he…”

The young mistress scrunched up her face, her voice smooth but distasteful. “You need not go on. It isn't difficult to deduce what happened from there, Miss Diaz.”

I suppose I couldn’t blame Cielle’s frosty demeanor. Afterall, she was hopelessly bereft in those matters. In the few years I had resided with her, I had never seen her glance at any gentlemen. At soirees, Cielle studiously averted all of them like a wallflower, until forced to engage in a waltz—wherein, she wouldn’t even attempt to hide her disinterest from her dance partners. Though hardly my business at all, a part of me mused if perhaps young men simply weren’t her cup of tea.

Cielle sniffed. “I presume this sporting gentleman—and I use that term loosely, Miss Diaz—atleast gave you his name before he...”

The woman shook her head and bit her lip, chagrined. “He did. A Mr. Sette Adodici.”

A half-stifled gasp cracked the wind. My attention pivoted to Cielle. Cerulean eyes flared wide, and I could practically see the cogs in them racing. Miss Diaz gave us both a quizzical look, and seeing the young mistress absorbed in her calculations, I diverted the woman’s attention. “Pardon me, Miss Diaz. I fear we still fail to see how the diadem connects to this.”

Miss Diaz shuffled her feet under the table. “I don’t quite understand that part either. After Mr. Adocici led me to the main entrance, we spoke a few private words." A tell-tale flush crept to her cheeks. "Then he told me to close my eyes. We shared a few… meaningful exchanges. I had my eyes close till then, but when I opened them, I found myself inside London Tower's Jewel House –the terriers barking around me—all while holding onto the diadem like some phantom thief!”

I blinked. Was the woman jesting us? “Surely, you have something more to add to your account, Miss Diaz.”

“That’s just it,” she whispered. “I don’t.”

Cielle exchanged a dark look with me before turning to the woman. “Miss Diaz, do you mean to tell us you cannot recall anything that happened after seven—ahem, after Mr. Adocici dropped you at your residence and before you found yourself inside Jewel House?”

“That is exactly so.” Miss Diaz bit her lip. “When I told the Yard my account, they thought I was playing them fool. One of them even laughed in my face!”

“The Commissioner,” murmured Cielle. “You’ll have to excuse them, Miss Diaz. However, despite the Yard’s usual incompetence, even I must agree with them on the absurdity of your statement.”

“I know it sounds absolutely ludicrous,” she said exasperatedly, “but I swear, I can’t remember the rest. It’s all a blur to me.”

“Truly—all of it?” I inquired.

“Yes, I haven’t any recollection of anything else.” I couldn't detect an inkling of a lie in her statement. I locked eyes with the young mistress and shook my head.

“I see.” Cielle fell mum and stared at Miss Diaz, impassive and unblinking for an uncomfortable ten seconds. What on earth was she— Suddenly, her frustration unfurled like tempest. Before I could intervene, she grasped Miss Diaz by the shoulders and shook her with a violent start. “For goodness sake, do you hear how unconvincing your story sounds, Miss Diaz? Give me something to work with here. Think harder. It isn’t only for your own blasted sake! My cousin Elizabeth is—”

My hand tightened over the mistress’s shoulder. Cielle flinched at my touch. “Compose yourself, my lady. I realize tact has never been part of your virtue, but you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

Cielle glared daggers at me as though I weren’t the right person to be lecturing on composure. And given what occurred moments ago, well…perhaps I wasn’t. Nonetheless, I turned to the opera singer and spoke in smooth, even tones. "You'll have to excuse her impoliteness, Miss Diaz. That's simply her personality. Are you quite sure you recall nothing else at all?”

A curious shadow swept over the opera singer's radiant face. “Well, perhaps there is…one thing, but I fear it’s only a trifle.”

Cielle’s voice went sharp. “The art of deduction is founded upon trifles. What did you see?”

“I recall, very vaguely, a dark shade of…blue.”

Blue? I raised a brow and leveled my gaze at Miss Diaz’s sapphire colored cloak. When she noticed me staring, she blushed.

“I’m well aware it could’ve been merely my cloak,” said Miss Diaz, “though I fear other than that, there is truly nothing more I can add to my account.” She chewed her lip. “If the Yard finds me out here, they’ll undoubtedly send me to Brixton’s. I can’t go home either –they’ll look for me there first, if they haven't already.” Her eyes grew wider. “And my Pekingese dog is still at home, with no one to—”

“Miss Diaz, regain yourself. Your dog is the least of your problems.”

Despite Cielle's bluntness, I quite agreed. Goodness. The woman’s fondness for the canine persuasion was a bit much, wasn’t it? I could never understand the appeal of such ghastly creatures.

Miss Diaz clasped and unclasped her hands. “What’s going to happen to me now?”

Cielle pinched her nose-bridge and then with a resigned sigh, reached for the woman’s wrist. “Come here.”

“Where are we going?” The opera singer’s voice rose in panic as Cielle dragged her into the streets. “You’re…you’re not taking me to the Yard, are you?”

“No. I have a more suitable place to keep you confined.”

I trailed the two behind. Cielle scanned the vicinity for a minute until she spied our carriage parked in front of a closed tea shoppe. Our hired coachman sprang out of the curricle when he saw us approaching. “Is everything alright? I had thought—” He paused, noticing Miss Diaz behind us.

Cielle looked at me and nervously licked her lips. “This here is…er.”

“Miss Mary Sue Houndsworth,” I said with a smile, deciding to go with the character she played in The Curious Incident of the Dog at Night. “An acquaintance of the young mistress’s that she had the good fortune of recognizing on the streets. Miss Houndsworth will be staying at Phantomhive manor until her own manor’s refurbishments are complete.” I made a silent reminder to procure some wainscoting on the return journey.

“Right,” murmured Cielle. “Hence, I’d like for you to return her back to the manor this very moment.”

“I shall gladly oblige your request, Lady Phantomhive. but what of you and your butler? There is still some distance from here to Imperial Academy.”

“Please go ahead. Sebastian and I will take some hackney. Now, if you would just step inside Miss Di—Houndsworth.” Cielle opened the compartment door and paused. “I suppose I shall also see to it that your pekingese dog is taken care of.”

For the first time, Miss Diaz broke out a smile. She threw her arms around the young mistress and hugged her tightly. “Oh, I simply can’t thank you enough. You truly are generous, Lady Phantomhive.”

"Think nothing of it, Miss Diaz. It would be my pleasure." Cielle caught my eye and donned a devious smirk. Simply marvelous. Now I had a mangy dog to play nursemaid to.

Giving the opera singer a pleasant, but forced smile, I took her hand and assisted her into the four-wheeler. Once settled, she waved her hand to the mistress, who awkwardly waved back. With a snap of the reigns, the carriage plodded away through the snow, leaving us alone. I turned to the mistress. “Are you sure housing a potential convict is a prudent decision?”

“Of course not. It’s a terrible idea. The Yard would be at my neck if they found out, but there’s not much of an alternative.”

“Surely, you must have strong conviction for Miss Diaz’s innocence if you are offering her your quarters?”

“In fact, I do.” Her eyes darkened. “If she truly was guilty, I doubt she is foolish enough to accept my offer to stay at the manor knowing that I can easily hand her on a platter to the Yard at any moment. Moreover…” Her voice lowered. “Miss Diaz’s account elucidates several other points.”

“Like the curious Mr. Adocici?” I supplied. “I surmised the gentleman had given Miss Diaz an alias for the name ‘Sette Adocici’, despite sounding Italian, seems too peculiar for an authentic Italian name.”

“Actually, that name isn’t peculiar at all. In fact, it is a rather common in Italy.” Cielle’s pupils grew darker yet. “‘Sette’ is the Italian word for seven, Sebastian.”

Without listening to the rest of her deduction, I knew what this signified. I narrowed my vision. “That numerical signature from before…”

“The very one,” Cielle said darkly. “Sette Adocici can be broken into ‘sette a docici’, which in Italian translates to ‘7 to 12’.”

I traced a finger along my chin in contemplation. “Then this would imply that the gentleman who escorted Miss Diaz to her residence is connected to the attempted diadem theft and responsible for Lady Elizabeth's disappearance.

“Not to mention, he's probably the cipher sender,” added Cielle, staring distractedly at my finger.

“The case grows curioser and curioser.” I prodded the alchemy cipher in my pocket and frowned. I hardly could imagine how that tied in with this. Goodness, what a tangled web this was turning into.

“Well, don’t just stand there thumb-twiddling. We’re already running behind schedule.” Cielle lifted her chin, shaking the snowflakes out of her hair, and trundled ahead away from the paved roads and towards a secluded area filled with trees and undisturbed snow.

“Since you sent away the carriage, I presume I am your mode of transportation?”

An impish smile tugged her lips. “Your presumption is correct.”

I sighed. The trials of a butler.

We walked side by side, soon coming into a clearing. After double-checking the vicinity and making sure only our presence remained, I turned to my mistress and offered her my gloved hand. “If you would…”

Cielle gave a stiff nod and laced her bare fingers through my satin-clad ones. The moment she did, I drew her close and slid my arms under her knees. Without giving her a warning, I kicked off on my feet. Cielle gasped, wrapping her slender arms around my neck.

Snowflakes and gusts of frigid wind buffeted our faces. We passed the ice laden trees at such a speed that the branches blurred. Exhilaration coursed through me. I jumped from branch to branch effortlessly even when the snowflakes began coming down hard, thick and ubitiquous. Though the cold hardly bothered me, from the petite form that shivered against my gloved fingers, I knew the young mistress was putting on a farce. Cielle’s breathing hastened. Her muscles clenched tight under me. I spared her further pretense.

"Young mistress, forgive my impropriety, but might I suggest you to lean into my overcoat? To provide you with a little extra heat, of course.”

With palpable reluctance, she buried her face against my chest. Nestled in the thick fabric of my attire, she curled against me childishly, clinging to my warmth. Still, her cheeks possessed a pinkish tint—almost flushed. I frowned. The sooner we arrived at the academy, the better. The last thing I needed was a sniffling mistress to attend to.

I increased my speed. Cerulean hair blew wildly, the long, silky strands taking on a life of their own and wrapping us in partial darkness. All of a sudden, amidst the flurry of untamed hair and snowflakes, I caught it—that essence.

Sweet and tart, delicate and musky—a paradoxical array of flavors that whetted my palate. But these nodes transcended to much more. Cleverness and foolishness. Innocence and prurience. A pleasant shiver stole over me, contrasting against the hot, pulsating force that traveled across my arms and extremities. Repressing a strange carnal urge, I gazed at the young mistress and licked my lips.

How troublesome.

While I always found the mistress’s essence pleasing before, it had never roused such strong reactions in me. I might have been starving before, but now I was ravenous. The essence of her soul had changed in some way . . . but what?

Unable to contain my curiosity, I tuned myself to Cielle's emotions. In an instant, they resonated within me. Strong and powerful, as if they were my very own. Her frustration on the case, her unwavering resolve to rescue Lady Elizabeth, and then a trace of self-consciousness I couldn’t quite place. Could it be . . ?

Subtly, I tightened my fingers under her knees. Color raced to her cheeks, and her emotions soared from her–tenfold now and poured into me like a vessel. I closed my eyes, avariciously taking them all in. Her deviant impulses, her reprehensible desires, and then a distinct image of . . . My eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed.

So young men were her cup of tea afterall. No, not young men, I amended.

I was her cup of tea.

The few years I had resided with the mistress, dalliance with her had never crossed my mind. Or rather, I had never entertained the thought. I suppose in humans such closeness over the years would inevitably breed feelings of familiarity. But this went much beyond the lines of familiarity. This was almost . . . dissolute.

The mere idea of consorting with Cielle now was preposterous, utterly improper, and yet . . . tempting on every level.

So this was why my restraint had slipped earlier. The sweet essence from her childhood had matured to something musky and more potent. Till now, Cielle’s soul had been seasoned by various murky, traumatic experiences. Each had lent a flavor to her soul, however, this new flavor was solely due to . . . me. Small wonder it had incited such a strong reaction. My mouth curved.

The delicious irony that my young mistress, so cold and unfeeling, could become so affected. To think she was even capable of such illicit feelings. Least of all about me. While our contract remained, I wouldn't consume her soul. However, I could easily encourage this foreign musky flavor to grow richer yet. To take her essence to a new height. A ghost of a smile touched my lips.

Very slowly, my hand migrated a few inches above her knee. A white puff of breath escaped Cielle. “Young mistress, is everything alright?” My voice lilted sticky as a spider web.

She glanced up from my chest and glared at me, her eyes mingled with desperation and foolish pride. “I’m fine.”

"I am glad to hear." I masked a smile.

What an interesting game this had turned to.

I leaned against her and slowed my pace. Her fingers tightened around my neck. “Why . . . are you stopping?” she said in a breathy voice.

“Because, young mistress,” I whispered against her temple as we alighted onto the snow blanketed grounds of Miss Elizabeth's academy.

“We've arrived.”

Notes:

A preview of the next chapter: Cielle's past demons return, more ciphers are cracked, and a few other characters make an appearance (Lizzie's secret admirer, Joanne, Violet, etc).

Meanwhile, Sebastian begins his agenda to further taint Cielle's soul.

EDIT 7/21/18: My first book, "Alice in Winterland: A Fangirl Novel", is out! ^o^ It's a story for fangirls by fangirls. You can read the first chapter HERE ^^

Chapter 6: Imperial Academy

Notes:

I know, this chapter has been longg overdue. To make up for the hiatus, I already finished the next chapter as well. It's quite dense. I hope you like it! Also, a special announcement below ;D

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

{Cielle's POV}

Sebastian eased me to the snow-covered ground. Through the endless swath of snowflakes, I made out diamond paned windows, turrets, and balustrades fashioned in Versailles style. The academy towered before us, tall and white, exuding majestic serenity. The irony of its aesthetics given the ongoings within.

"Shall we?" Face like chiseled marble, Sebastian leaned to my side. His eyes bore into mine, the depths nearly glowing from the reflected snow. An unfamiliar sentiment stirred in my belly. Squashing it away, I edged away from him.

"Let's hurry this up. The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can return to the manor."

"Indeed. And attend to that little project for Mr. Noble."

I groaned and trudged through the snowy entryway alongside Sebastian, his suited arm occasionally brushing my shivering one. My breath clouded the frosty air. Blast. He was so insufferably close. I ambled beside him to the entrance, focusing on the crunching sound of snow. Calmly, Sebastian reached for the knocker and brought down the gilded handle. Not even a minute had passed when the door opened with a flourish.

A slender woman greeted us. Every inch of her spoke of severity. Wearing a monochrome walking dress with long, puffed sleeves and black ribbon at the blouse, she raised her chin. Through her pince-nez, her eyes flitted from me to Sebastian, then me again. "May I assist you?" she asked in a voice that conveyed precisely the opposite.

Sebastian bowed his head. "Pray forgive our intrusion. Lady Cielle Phantomhive has come here to oblige Lord Randall Delacourt's request concerning . . . a peculiar matter troubling the academy."

The impatience in her tone evaporated. "Oh, it's you. Do pardon me." She gave me a taut smile though I sensed the underlying tension behind it. "The headmaster did not inform that the assistance he sought for would be so young . . . or female."

Before I could quip back, Sebastian took over. He smiled this time, in that particular manner that made so many feminine heads blush. "Not unlike yourself, miss . . .?"

Crimson stained her cheeks. "Calypso. Calypso Hulda. Vice chancellor of Imperial Academy."

"A beautifully enigmatic name," Sebastian murmured. "Did you know, it means 'she who conceals' in Greek?"

Nodding, she swallowed and smoothed her hair—a pointless gesture since she had done it in a tight, unrelenting bun. Suppressing an eye-roll, I cleared my throat. The woman collected herself and promptly went back to looking both interested and disinterested at him all at once. "Do come on inside, Lady Phantomhive," she said in more obliging tones. "Dreadfully cold weather, isn't it? Perhaps you two would care for some tea." She gestured us inside a faux-marble foyer. "Allow me to show you the way to the headmaster's quarters."

We followed behind her heels, taking in the the greco-roman styled furnishings. Impressionism and neoclassicism paintings of young women lined the walls. Grecian statues of similar subjects littered the hallway. When the secretary noticed me staring at a sculpture of nine goddesses, she beamed. "Those are the muses—the goddesses of arts and sciences. They served as my inspiration. The headmaster assigned me the task of furnishing the academy. I take great pride in the design."

"The space is truly a Palladian masterpiece," remarked Sebastian.

I had to agree. I rather found the ambiance refreshing in a society so stifling for women. As I past a bust of Venus de Milo and turned the corner, I gaped. The hallway overflowed with young ladies—those unmistakably of an international stamp. Oriental, European, Indian, and other ethnicities I couldn't place. It was as though all the foreign young ladies residing in England had congregated in one place.

"Not the usual sight, is it?" Miss Hulda mused. "The academy offers the finest of education to host of international students. Some of the young ladies commute; the majority, most of whom have more ethnic roots, reside in dormitories. We are the first academy to offer this, which have young ladies from High Society flocking to us from all over England. Though we do take the occasional Scholarship students as well."

"That is quite progressive for a school in England," I replied honestly.

"Yes, our establishment trains young women for a place in society. It is one of a kind. A blossoming rose in a garden of poorly kept flowers. Other institutions would rejoice if scandal befell the school."

Just then, a group of book-bosomed girls spotted Sebastian and did a giggle-whisper in each other's ears. I lowered my eyes. "I presume the students aren't aware of the recent happenings?" It wasn't a question.

She gave me a pointed look, brows tensed. "It is not in my place to discuss that. Well, here we are." Relief flooded her face as she stopped in front of a door that contained large, grey letters engraved HEADMASTER. Hulda turned the doorknob and poked her head inside. "Mr. Delacourt, I have—"

The commissioner jolted up from his seat at the sight of me. "Heavens, about time you came. Well, don't just stand there. Come in, come in."

I sniffed and entered inside. Furnished with old, leathery tomes, a grand desk covered by a slew papers in French, and a Chinese vase of wilting flowers, the study smelled like antiquity and black tea. I seated myself in front of the man. Despite his usual hard angles and controlled composure, his craggy eyes betrayed a wild, desperate fervor.

"Bitch the pot," he grumbled to Hulda before facing me. "I presume you have read the contents of my letter."

"I have," I said, accepting a cup of tea the vice chancellor had poured out.

"Most troubling news. First my daughter and now more." He threw himself against his chair and grunted through a sip of tea. "To account, they have been six disappearances so far."

"Yes," I murmured. "My cousin, Elizabeth, in the mix."

The commissioner choked on his tea. "Your . . . cousin?" He racked his little hair and stood up, his composure flying out the door. He paced the room, face convulsed, his clenched hands raving in the air."Bloody hell! What a muck this is turning into. For once, you have my sympathies, Lady Phantomhive. I'm sure you must be overwrought as I am with my Isabelle . . . " He paused, eyeing me through his quizzing-glass. "Though I must say, you contain your distress rather well."

I pressed my lips tightly and kept my tones clipped. "I see little point in wallowing like a watering pot or rampaging like a blundering fool. Since when has that ever provided a solution to one's dilemma?"

Delacourt stared at me hard. After some time, he released a long, exasperated sigh and returned to his seat. "Perhaps one could take a page out of your book, Lady Phantomhive."

I waved a dismissive hand at him. "Might I see a copy of the student records?"

"Of course." He rummaged through the muddled papers on his desk. "Ah, here it is. Perhaps this will shine light on things."

I sifted through the documents he handed me. Each page contained the girl's picture, full name, address, family background, and birthday. Substandard information. When I flicked to the photograph of Lizzie's bright, innocuous face, my breath caught. Without being aware of it, I had reached for her gemstone bracelet on my wrist. Commissioner Randall cleared his throat. "Well?"

I forced myself to turn the page. The cogs in my mind clicked away, trying to glean some connection—any connection—between all the girls. Nothing. Frustration taking over, I thrust the papers in Sebastian's direction and faced the headmaster. "Perhaps a tour of the grounds would prove more fruitful—"

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I did not mean to interrupt your meeting."

My head jerked around to the deep, honeyed voice. Winsomely coiffed, an arresting creature of seventeen or so stared at us. Or rather, me. Exceptionally tall (rivaling the height of Sebastian) and willowy, the older girl possessed a classic beauty of a Greek goddess, the type that beautified all those in the room and the drab room itself. With striking sea-green eyes and long, amber curls, she covered a hand to her mouth in ladylike fashion. Yet for all her artless radiance, I could tell she relied heavily on enhancers for the effect. A dusting of rice powder on the face, Spanish papers on the cheeks, and a carmine stain on her smiling lips.

"I was not aware you had visitors," she said demurely.

"You've arrived in good time, Miss Greyling." Delacourt faced me. "Allow me to introduce you to the headgirl of the academy. She delivers the weekly memos to the faculty and oversees the other students."

"Jane Greyling." The young lady curtsied and extended her hand to me. I met it. "And you are?"

"Cielle Phantomhive."

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Phantomhive." A gracious smile edged her lips. Her fingers, much longer and larger than mine, held my hand for a few seconds longer than necessary, when her other arm accidentally brushed a vase of snapdragons and foxgloves beside her. It began to spin in place, then toppled.

"Oh!"

I watched in disbelief as Sebastian watched on with indifference, only attempting to salvage the situation when he knew it was already too late. The vase shattered to the ground, spilling water all over the head girl's sleeves. She stifled a yelp.

"Miss Hulda!" the headmaster sniped.

"Coming, sir." Kneeling, the secretary hurried to clean the area. She handed Jane a handkerchief.

"A thousand apologies. I should have acted sooner." Sebastian gave a stoic bow. "Please, at the very least, allow me to assist you." I glared at him retrieving the snapdragons and foxgloves from the mess. When was Sebastian, the paragon of elegance and grace and infuriating perfection, ever out of step like this? If I didn't know any better, I'd say he'd allowed the blasted thing to happen on purpose.

The head girl hastily rolled up her wet sleeves and dabbed her arms. "I think I shall excuse myself if you don't mind. Change into something more . . . dry." Giving us a slight curtsy and not making eye-contact with Sebastian, she pivoted on her heels. A strange disquietude marked the butler's face.

Watching her retreating figure, I shifted my attention back to the headmaster. "You have informed the students aware of the recent happenings?"

"Well, er, not quite . . . But all the faculty and headgirls are aware. In fact, Jane has agreed to discretely watch over the other students under my request."

"How considerate of you," I murmured. "And yet, you fail to inform Scotland Yard for fear of enrollment numbers."

The headmaster grumbled. "Scotland Yard has not been doing too well as of late. If word of these disappearances were to get out, the academy would close and—"

"And your finances would plummet?"

"Lady Phantomhive," Delacourt said coldly, "My personal matters are none of your concern. Perhaps I can humour you with a tour of the academy instead?"

"That'll do."

"Miss Hulda, please see to it."

"Of course." The secretary gestured to us. Before I stood from my seat, Delacourt interjected, "Lady Phantomhive, for everyone's sake I do hope I made the right decision in calling you."

"My track record speaks for itself. Also . . ." I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a fine, gold plated watch set an hour forwards. "Do you plan everything in advance?"

"Where did you get that?" he said sharply.

"I should think that hardly matters." I tossed the trinket onto his desk and rose from my seat. "I am sure this would provide a little help to said finances." With that, I turned my back on his bruised face and flitted out the door.

"Was that quite necessary, my lady?" Sebastian murmured. I didn't reply.

The secretary beckoned us to follow through a maze of corridors. We past by a sea of whispering faces, most of them focused on Sebastian. Hushed voices in foreign tongues settled around us. A sharp pang twisted my insides, an emotion I didn't care to name. I suppose seeing a uniformed gent, well-proportioned and proper fit, would have an over-warm reception at an all-girls school. Irate, I snuck a glance at the butler.

His uniform shifted over his elegantly clad limbs, the creaseless trousers sheathing his slender, yet muscular legs in a manner that emphasized his tall height. The crisp collar, buttoned high, completely covered his chest, leaving one to imagine about what lied underneath. And those gloves…. I shivered, envisioning the long, sculpted fingers and contracted seal only I was privy to. In short, he represented the forbidden fruit offered to Eve.

Or more fitting, he represented the snake.

His lids were low, and though he didn't even look at me, I discerned that familiar smirk begging to grace those ever parted lips. An aureole of light from a gas-lamp flickered across his fuchsia eyes, making them look luminous . . . as if lit with with some renegade thought. His lips parted. His long tongue lapped his sharp canine. My heart beat faster. A odd tingle raced through me. I was reliving my nightmare from yesterday. When we past the gas-lamp, I blinked. Sebastian's eyes were the usual muted vermillion. He looked . . . normal. Every inch the proper butler. This time, Sebastian was looking straight at me. Face marred in concern, the butler tilted his head. "Is something amiss, young mistress?"

Confound it. "No . . . it's nothing."

"This here is the music room." Hulda gestured us inside a palatial space. The hall was filled with violins, cellos, harps, and a grand Steinway piano in the centre. "This is the largest room in the academy. Hence, we will be holding the masquerade ball here in a few days. You'll find the acoustics here work rather well."

"I can see that." The clicks of my heels reverberated through the auditorium. I inspected the floorboards with each step. Sebastian lifted the hood of the piano and peered inside. After several minutes, we still found nothing. I moved along to the large windows while Sebastian inspected the large mechanical clock in the corner.

Ennui taking over, my gaze drifted to the snow covered balustrades and garden outside. In all the whiteness, my eyes flicked to a moving dark spot on the roof. Long, dark hair blowing from her hooded cloak, a girl precariously ambled along the roof like a tightrope performer. I rubbed my eye and stared in incredulity. Hands straight apart for balance, she walked through a gusty wind, her cloak billowing around her. Her every movement, no matter how slight, came off stiff—controlled. Just like a marionette to a puppeteer.

"Lady Phantomhive, is everything all right?"

I spun around, my voice sharp. "Do you see that black speck?"

"Where?"

"On the rooftop—" I paused. A sense of unease crept over me like rising fog. There was no girl.

Miss Hulda regarded me warily through her pince-nez. "Maybe a bird was all?"

"Perhaps you're right . . . An addled mind can do as much." A bird my foot. Granted, it made little sense, but I clearly had saw a girl—hadn't I?

As I mulled over what I had just seen, the secretary's expression changed before me. First from pity, as though she thought I regularly suffered from hallucinations, to cool disdain, like I had contrived the whole thing to compensate for my lack of clues. I groaned, glancing at a large marble grandfather clock Sebastian eyed. With silver paint and intricate design work, both its hands pointed to twelve.

"Goodness, half an hour passed by so quickly." The butler retrieved his pocket watch. "Or so one would think."

"Don't pay mind to that." Hulda tapped the floorboard in loud, impatient clicks. "That clock always reads as noon. It's broken but kept more as a showpiece now." Seeing how fruitful my results were here, the secretary didn't mince another word. She whisked us out of the space and through a set of mullioned doors that led into an English garden. Keeping a measurable distance between her, I slowed my pace.

"Back there," I whispered, tugging Sebastian's sleeve. "I wasn't going insane, right?"

"I do not believe so, young mistress," he murmured. "However, I regret to tell you I could not sense any unusual presence outside." He paused. "Compared to the inside."

"Inside?" I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean?"

"The broken clock I had been examining. Though it looked ordinary enough during my inspection, it possessed a subtle, yet distinct energy. It is difficult to say more, however, with the essences of these many academy students clouding my perception."

"So you're saying there's a chance whatever you're sensing might be insignificant?"

"...Possibly." Tch.

"This is the atrium," interrupted Hulda. "The centre of the academy." I took in the glittering snow covered flora and rustling trees outside the greenhouse. Holding my cloak tighter around me, I passed a line of topiaries when—My eyes flared wide. Brief as the flicker of candlelight, a phantom-like Spector, lanky and vaguely masculine, hovered against the glass of the furthest window. I blinked, and the shadow in the hothouse vanished. No, there was no mistaking it this time.

Sebastian dragged his gaze away from the greenhouse and to me. His eyes darkened with a hint of warning. He had seen it too. I licked my lips. Someone had been watching us.

"Miss Hulda," Sebastian began in casual tones, "perhaps you will be so kind as to show us inside the hothouse."

"The hothouse?" I could read the confusion in her face, but to her credit, she did not press on. She sauntered ahead and opened the green tinted door for us. I flitted in first. My eyes narrowed at the recently watered hothouse flowers. A half-opened window at the back end. And then a petite girl emerging behind a topiary next to me. Seeing us, she stifled a gasp.

Sporting an emerald dress of trimmed serge and ribbons in her ebony hair, the girl placed her hands behind her. Her fingers fiddled with an almost petal-less flower. I surmised she had been preoccupying herself with a charade of loves-me-loves-me-not. Casting a quick glance over her small stature, I knew she couldn't have been the mysterious Spector.

"We have company, Miss Sullivan. This here is Lady Cielle Phantomhive and her butler." Hulda paused. "They are, er on tour."

"Phantomhive," the girl repeated in a thick German accent. Her eyes fastened on my hair, my face, and my patched eye. Her face brightened. "Oh! You must be Lizzie's cousin. She speaks a lot about you."

"You are friends with my cousin?" I inquired.

The girl flushed at her small heels. "Not friends exactly. An acquaintance," she said in a small voice. "We only spoke twice, that is when she came here to collect flowers. But I often see Lizzie in the halls—hard not to notice a girl like her—though I've always been a bit of a trottel to say much to her."

"I see. Did—does she frequently visit the hothouse?"

"Lizzie only comes in when we have blue flowers. She must really like the color." Sullivan smiled at her feet. "I expect she'll make another trip soon once she sees the latest addition. Would you like to see?" She beckoned me forwards and swept aside some shrubbery to reveal a flowerbed. She clasped her hands. "Isn't it such a unique shade of blue?"

Like a snap of a reigns, I quelled a gasp.

"Are you quite certain you're fine?" Miss Hulda flicked her eyes to me and squinted.

"A seasonal cough is all." I fixated on the flowerbed. Dozens upon dozens of Dentelaire du Cap. I reached into my pockets and pulled out a dried petal I had pocketed from the Jewel House break in. It was a perfect match. They both came from the same variety. Bleu Ciel.

"Such a lovely scent." Sebastian stroked a petal in between two gloved fingers. He inhaled the flower deeply, his eyes fastened on me. An unbidden shiver ran through me. "If you don't mind, Miss Sullivan, perhaps you could tell me where I could procure this rare variety?"

Sullivan frowned. "I'm afraid I do not know. I found them just sprouting one day and have been tending to them ever since as keeper of the hothouse." Sebastian narrowed his eyes at her.

"Will that be all then?" Hulda tapped her foot and regarded me like I was an insect. Bother, the woman couldn't even maintain a facade of civility.

I raised my chin, unfazed. "Perhaps we can speed up this tour by heading to the actual scene of the disappearances?"

"Of course," she said curtly. She led us to the dormitories in the North West quadrant of the academy. We climbed a marble staircase that floated upwards in an elegant spiral and found ourselves into a hallway of rooms. Gaslight sconces lined the path, bathing the damask wallpaper in a soft glow. We stopped in front of a sconce — the missing twin's room. The door creaked, and we followed in its wake, silent as shadows. The bobbin had remained undisturbed near the doorframe. Glass pieces were scattered underneath piles of clothes and books. The scene looked every bit as the Commissioner had described. In other words, staged like an intruder had broken in.

"I hope you'll excuse me momentarily. I have a brief errand to run," said Hulda. "You may investigate as you please." She gave me a withering stare paired with a forced smile.

"I think we can manage without your assistance, Miss Hulda. You've already done so much." I flashed her a poised smile of my own. The woman's ears turned crimson. She pivoted on her heels. Once she left, I spun around to Sebastian, my voice low. "Search every nook and cranny. I know the culprit didn't make a clean job of it."

"Is there something in particular we should be looking for?" His voice contained an evocative air.

"Yes, you know what."

Sebastian nodded and searched. And searched and searched. Under the four-posters, inside Arwen and Astoria's armoires, around a miniature christmas tree, inside pillow covers. I moved my search to the ground, observing various artifacts from the glass littered floor, including a intricately fashioned partridge ornament. My fingers reached for it when they brushed against gloves ones. My head jerked up. Vermillion eyes pinned mine. Warm fingers lingered against my cold ones. It was a mere whisper of a touch, and despite myself, I found myself breathing harder than usual. Like a reflex, I snatched my hand away.

"My skittish young mistress," Sebastian whispered as he retracted his own hand and placed the partridge ornament back on the christmas tree.

"Check the dust-bin," I said, struggling to gain mastery of my voice.

"Very well." On bended knee, Sebastian rummaged through the contents, tilting it to a side. I vaguely made out some scraps of fabric, parchment with neat, practised lettering, and more rubbish. "There doesn't seem to be anything hidden here."

I paused to consider his words. "Maybe it's not hidden. What if the culprit has placed our clue plain sight?"

Sebastian circled the room, his eyes probing. "Do you mean something like that?" He pointed to a small christmas cracker.

I narrowed my eyes on the christmas cracker. It was a cardboard paper tube, wrapped in brightly coloured blue paper and twisted at both ends. When pulled apart by two people, the cracker would make a snapping sound and reveal its content. “It usually contains an abysmal love poem," I said, gripping at an end, "but maybe this has something else.”

"May I?" Sebastian reached for the other end, and together we pulled. I jerked at the snapping sound, but Sebastian did not even blink. He retrieved the scrap of paper and read the writing aloud.

"Tis the day in all the year,

For kissing you shall see,

That underneath the mistletoe,

Tis the place for you and me.”

“How nauseating," I replied.

"Quite so." Sebastian flipped the letter to the other side and his vision narrowed. "Young mistress..."

I glimpsed at the letter on the back, taking in the address neatly printed on the header "Twelfth Notthingham Street. Does that address even exist? And no sender name either. "What—" I froze at the black stamp underlying the address. That symbol. A nauseating sense of panic seized me in its grip. My entire body began to shake violently. The room around me skewed. It was as if someone had pulled a rug under my feet.

"T-that stamp," I said, staggering into something solid.

"Depicts a staff entwined with two snakes." Sebastian's brows slanted into two hard lines. "It appears to match . . . the same brand mark on you, young mistress."

"It can't be," I breathed. The haunting memories poured in against my will. I clutched my cloak, succumbing to my past demons. A ring of hooded figures surrounded me; terrifying white faces and masked eyes laughing at me. Their verminous hands gripped me, ravaging me. A silent scream froze in my throat. No. Please. L-leave me alone. Don't touch me . . . In my struggle, I managed to look up. An unmoving figure, pale as birch with cerulean locks, lay sprawled on the altar . . . The figure's hair began to change colors, the cerulean tresses turning into blonde ringlets. I felt sick.

"Lizzie!" I screamed.

Head thrown back in menacing laughter, a cloaked figure hovered above her. Over and over, I screamed Lizzie's name, my litany blending into the cackles. Then came a voice which drowned all else. Young mistress. Beyond my outstretched hand, Lizzie's outline blurred, only to be replaced with sharp vermillion eyes.

"It's them. T-they're behind this." Unable to choke out the word, I groped at the air, panting. "They t-took her—"

"Shsh." Sebastian reached for the gemstone bracelet on my hand. "Such a dainty, delicate trinket, but fashioned of a strong materials most humans would find difficult to crush." Gloved fingers slipped under Lizzie's wristlet, sliding against me. "Just like her, young mistress." His gave the wristlet a slow, forceful tug. Stinging, the pressure made my skin flushed.

"S-Sebastian," I breathed. "Sebastian."

"You are exerting yourself too hard." He raised my face to his, gently cupping the sides of my chin with a single hand. "You have nothing to fear as long as I am right beside you, young mistress. Now breathe slowly. Hold it in and release." His breath tickled my earlobe. "In and release. In and release . . ."

Lips, fingers, legs aquiver, I leaned against him, borrowing his strength. I rode the rise and fall of his chest. Following the lilt in his rhythmic voice, I inhaled and exhaled. In and out. In and out. In and . . . An strangle prickle raced over my skin. Sebastian's fingers circled my wrist. The gloved tips had slipped into my own glove, intimately touching my bare digits. My body still shook but this time, from something other than fear.

A frisson of heat replaced the cold. His touch felt hot. Scorching. Akin to the intensity he was staring at me with. His body tilted towards mine. He was close, closer than he needed to be. Moistening my lips, I pressed my legs together. Dark, silky locks curtained his face, framing his languid and burning eyes. Eyes that constricted and swept over me like a morsel he longed to have a taste of. Serpentine lips parted. I had seen that look before. In nightmares. In unspeakable dreams.

Breathless and disgusted, I spurned him away.

The focus in his eyes shifted. He frowned into his gloved hand, brows tensed.

"G-give it to me," I said shakily.

"As you wish." Gathering my wits, I snatched it up.

After scanning the contents, I swore. "What in blazes . . . Look at this-this gibberish!""

Air the radical novel house the evidence? R ealize lady of they Pick such they sure. The advocate you jams pick the mythological power a from

Lies telescope amazes a hell contained my education. Rogue dozen as hearts by garret. Have will a gay melody flooded Calculus flowers your

Chemistry seven From outside until dozen famine! Its smoked ingredient by circus preceding satin. When will theatre pretty flowers friend

Hat the by leisure. An orthodox ladybird curls the tongue.The lonely by debugger the nine tools an opera. Friends on a break lovers seven

Enigma moon tarot the ship creepeth. An award northward the ten locked room. Else the bow full sweets despairs beside the shoppe eight

Map winter the resident advances eleven t he celestial light divide from him she'd sixth violets. They're lights, gathered. Appear dress nine

Yin twelve air Spirit creature the our likeness face also it the signs horoscope prolific merry angelic balsams contained laud advise space ten

blank education mesmerism Greek vulgar as will hearts by garret. Renaissance determination to be no forfeited he. Contrasted face eleven

space Depraved child cloaked light darkness neglected but supported hothouse doom midnight stars tick tock Halves of whole twelve

A gloved finger along his lip, Sebastian hardened his gaze. "The missive looks a mere touch of grotesque wit or perhaps . . ."

"Another bleeding cipher," I groaned.

The door burst open. Sebastian and I jerked around. The secretary stood at the entryway, shaking all over and pale as a ghost.

"Miss Phantomhive," she whispered. "It's happened again . . . "

Notes:

Holy moly. I realized I haven't updated since last JULY (like whattt O_o). I can't believe a whole year flew by so quickly. I apologize for not updating this fic in like foreverr, but I have an actual excuse for being MIA.

Soo . . . few of you already know, but for those who don't, well, I've been working on a pet project this year on the DL. I don't want to give too much away, but I'll say this: it's a BOOK. Specifically—a fangirl themed novella. It's quite different from anything I've ever written before. There's a slew of fandom references in it. From HP to YOI to . . . Kuroshitsuji (how could I not?) and many, many more. Essentially, it's the book I wanted to read, but couldn't find. Actually, I think it's a book a lot of fellow fangirls would like to read.

As a reader, the lack of books for fandomers has often frustrated me (which honestly isn't a big surprise given that fangirls and fanboys tend to be neglected as readers). That's partially why my co-writer and I worked on this project together the past year. To have one more book out there that celebrates fangirling, fanfiction, and fandoms in all their glory.

Well, that's all I can give away from now. ^^ The novella has gone through rounds of beta-reading and now at the editor's. Maybe I'll do a sneak preview of the cover art or inside manga illustrations later on. Stay tuned, and as always—thank you for reading along.

<3

P.S. Kudos to anyone who figured out the cipher/message in the cult's letter. Sebastian and Cielle decode it in the next ch.

EDIT 7/21/18: My first book, "Alice in Winterland: A Fangirl Novel", is out! You can read the first chapter HERE ^^

Chapter 7: Hourglass

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The door burst open. I jerked around. Pale as a ghost, the vice challencor stood at the entryway. "It's happened again," she whispered.

Narrowing his vision, Sebastian stuffed the letter into his overcoat. Miss Hulda whisked us into hallway. Following the sound of muffled sobs coming from the far end, we poured into one of the dormitories. I rushed inside with such haste that my feet caught on the fringes of a Persian rug. I gasped in a sharp breath. Sebastian steadied me by the waist, the full of his hand, warm and strong, spreading over my belly. In the blink of an eye, he withdrew his arm, leaving me with both feet planted firmly on the ground though my insides teetered erratically. I calmed my quickening pulse.

My gaze darted across the shared space. Two desks, one containing a nosegay of violets and the other, of white gardenias, faced a large window. Following the yin-yang color scheme of the rest of the room, two beds lay at opposite ends. One with rumpled sheets and pillows of dark Chantilly lace, while the other, a nary a wrinkle in sight in the pastel linens. A watercolor of Sapphos embracing her fellow poet Errina bridged the space between the four-posters. The art vaguely mirrored the two other girls in the room. Hunched over in a damask settee, a girl attired in soft peach muslin, covered her face with both hands. She looked delicate, as if a gust of wind would blow her away. The headgirl draped an arm around the frail girl. Face drained of colour, Jane Greyling held the other girl's trembling shoulder and offered words of reassurance despite her own visibly shaken state. Jane glanced up. "Miss Phantomhive . . ?"

"Please tell us what just happened, Miss Greyling."

"Ah, I fear Joanna—that is, Miss Harcourt has become fraught that her roommate, Miss Violet, has not returned to their dormitory since this morning. After searching the school grounds, she believes she has reason to worry after finding an, er, unfinished piece of writing on Violet's desk." Jane gestured to a mahogany desk facing a half-opened window.

"It seems Violet was in midst of translating a poem from Ovid's Metamorphoses when . . . well, best to look for yourself." I took a gander.

Iphis to Ianthe:

Equal the flame, but unequal their flare;

One filled with hope, one filled with despair.

The mind of Iphis suffers a greater grief;

Her flame fiercely burns, with no relief.

Her despair adds fuel to the fire;

Another maiden, the girl's desire.

A strange love simmers within,

Should she extinguish the feelings therein,

Thus love-sick Iphis in her passion mourns;

With equal fervour fair Ianthe burns.

Tears followed words while Iphis spoke,

But Juno listened, and her altar shook:

The strength of Iphis suddenly grew,

And her long, curling tresses withdrew.

Her doe eyes narrowed and shone,

Deep was her voice, bold was her tone.

The reveal of latent parts soon began

It lengthened and burnished into man.

The fair Goddesses from above

Descended to bless their happy love;

The Gods of marriage showered their aid;

And Iphis enjoyed his lovely maid b l u e

"They say handwriting can reveal one's true nature," Sebastian mused as he inspected the writing. Long, florid curves and loops came with every stroke, but the words jerked up, then down, then up again, each line resembling tumultuous waves. "Though I must say your friend has a rather . . . interesting fashion of writing. Does Miss Violet write like this often?"

"Always." Joanna gave a small, sheepish nod. "Violet was never one to write very straight."

"I see," I murmured. "Despite the eccentricity in the handwriting, the last word written is rather jarring." I pointed to the word 'blue', which contrasted starkly from the rest of the poem. Rendered in abrupt, heavy strokes, it had a knife-sharp quality, which suggested the last word was written in duress. "Is this your friend's handwriting as well?"

The flaxen haired girl rubbed her eyes and squinted. "Yes, it is. Though it looks like she wrote it in a hurry, doesn't it?" She bit down on her delicate, pale lips. "It's strange. It feels like Violet wrote it but also didn't write it. Gracious, that sounds silly."

"What a queer thing to write." Hulda adjusted her pince-nez. "Then again, the girl possesses some rather . . . queer habits."

A pained expression washed over Joanna. Her head sank to her chest. Jane patted her back, her deep contralto voice turning soft. "There, there, Joanna. Even you must admit that the last word is written rather queerly. Even for Violet's standards." The girl rose and strode towards me. Her skirts brushed against my leg. She fixed me a gaze, and I retreated a step back. "Why, look at the force Violet used. Her quill indented through the next two pages! She must've been in quite a state of mind." Jane glanced in my direction again. "Don't you think so, Miss Phantomhive?"

I didn't reply. I couldn't divulge my suspicion in front of everyone like this. Could the cloaked girl on the roof have been Violet? Though only a conjecture, I had more solid theories. The bleu ciel flowers, the word blue. Undoubtedly, the culprit was trying to get under my skin. But on the off chance, the color blue meant something else . . . My eyes flared wide.

I recall, very vaguely, a dark shade of blue.

Sharp as a blade, Irene Diaz's words cut through my speculations. That night she had been caught thieving from the Queen's Jewel House . . . Despite her queer, amnesiac bout, she had remembered that minutia of a detail—the color blue. Was there a connection between that and the disappearances? Noticing Jane was awaiting my answer, I diverted her question. "I'm not sure if that is enough evidence to assume ill fortune befell Violet. For all you know, she may have been taken by a sudden fancy and decided to resume her writing lat—"

"No!" Everyone in the room stared at Joanna's outburst. She flashed me a look that was anything but timid. Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, shining like the sun amidst a rainstorm. "I know Violet better than anyone here," she whispered. "She would never leave that behind."

Brows knitting, Sebastian frowned. "Leave what behind, exactly?"

"That . . . " Voice aquiver, she pointed to a golden ring beside a tiny vase of violets. "She never takes it off, unless she's writing. She would never abandon it on her desk like that."

"A special momento for Violet, is it?" Sebastian's gaze drifted to a matching golden ring lying on the crumpled sheets. Joanna flushed.

"I think it'd be best to leave Miss Harcourt alone." Hulda face's finally softened at the flaxen haired girl. "You've been through much in one morning. I'm sure Violet will turn up, dear. In the meantime, Jane, will you keep her company?"

The headgirl nodded solemnly. "You need not even ask, Miss Hulda." She reached into her long skirts and withdrew a pack of playing cards. "Games often stave off gloom. Care to have a match with me, Joanna?" The other girl hiccuped a tear away and nodded.

"Good," Hulda remarked. "Now then, Allow me to escort you both out. I doubt there is much else to be gained here." Her voice had grown considerably cooler. I could tell she thought of me as some foolish girl playing detective.

Before I spun on my haunches, Jane caught my hand. A card drifted to the ground. Her thick, sooty lashes fanned out as she peered down at me from her tall height. "I do hope we'll meet again, Miss Phantomhive."

"...likewise," I said, feeling somewhat self-conscious from her touch.

At my discomfiture, I caught Sebastian's low-lidded stare. He studied me slowly before his gaze drifted to Jane. The little gesture did not go unnoticed by the headgirl. Color rising to my cheeks, I retracting my hand from hers and mumbled an adieu to Jane. I swept out of the dormitory, the shuffling of cards soon coming behind me. We made our way back to the headmaster's office. I had barely crossed the threshold of the study, when Delacourt pressed me for what I had discovered. Not wanting to divulge the cult's reemergence, I reported I had found nothing of significance to his case.

His mustache bristled. "I bet if this was a case for the Queen, you'd put some effort into it!"

"Need I remind you my cousin is missing."

"Oh, I'm aware of that. In fact, I'm beginning to believe you really are that soulless."

"Pardon?" I said coldly.

"Seems like you don't give a damn even for your own fam—"

"Lord Randall," said Sebastian, raising a hand, "pray do compose yourself." Delacourt's face deflated. "I assure you the young mistress cares a great deal for Miss Elizabeth's return."

"Very much so," I mumbled. "Else I wouldn't have bothered wasting my time here."

The older man grunted. "Apologies for my outburst. I fear I have become rather addled with my daughter's disappearance." He looked up at me, with something imploring in his stare. The expression suited him. "Perhaps . . . you could investigate the grounds more thoroughly as a student? That is if you wish to. "I can understand if you prefer to leave matters to someone else. It may be hard to distance sentiment when investigating when one has a personal stake, especially when that someone is of the fairer sex." The glock drew his brows together. "Believe it or not, Lady Phantomhive, I am a gentleman. Guard dog or not, to involve someone of your kind in these sorts of matters is the last thing I wish. "

Jaw clenched, I smiled at the patronizing fool. "From my experience, I find the fairer sex can often assist in detective work in ways her masculine counterparts cannot." As if recalling the Scotland Yard fiasco from the other night, he looked away in chagrin.

"Let me speak plainly, Lady Phantomhive," he said at last. "I am at my wits. Your cooperation in this matter is paramount."

"That much is evident." I heaved a sigh. "I suppose I don't have much of a choice. What's my time table?"

Relief flooded his face. "You shall receive your schedule and dormitory arrangements shortly."

Clearly enjoying my reluctance to attend an all-girls school, Sebastian smiled at me. A trace of amusement flickered in his eyes. "When will the young mistress begin her classes?"

A sliver of light flashed against Delacourt's spectacles. "She has already begun them."

The headmaster drew up a schedule of morning and evening classes—Music, Etiquette, Literature—with my occasional input of classes I preferred—Astronomy and Latin, unusual offerings for an all-girls academy in England, which Miss Hulda had proposed fervently. I scraped up a modicum of respect for the woman after that.

Miss Hulda briefly stepped out of the study and returned later with a list of assignments that were due tomorrow. I eyed the pile she handed Sebastian. Wonderful, I grumbled inwardly. Not only did I have a heap of missing girls to find but now I had the droll task of analyzing Carmilla on my plate.

After requesting Delacourt for a copy of the students records and exchanging a few curt words concerning dormitory arrangements—I would move into a single dormitory tomorrow morning—Sebastian and I left the academy. Once outside, I grasped the arm of his sturdy black coat. "The letter in the dust-bin. Maybe we can make sense of it now."

"Indeed." Sebastian retracted the missive from his pocket. We stared at silently for several moments until the butler gave a hum. "The idiosyncrasies of a man’s typewriter can offer profound insight."

"Do you mean the R's? They are lined rather straight compared to the other letters—" Realization struck me like a wave. "Sebastian, the other missive and this . . . " The butler curved his lips. "They've been written on the same bloody typewriter."

"It would appear so, young mistress."

I swore under my breath and re-read the letter for the umpteenth time.

Air the radical novel house the evidence? Realize lady of they Pick such they sure. The advocate you jams pick the mythological power a from

Lie telescope amazes a hell contained my education. Rogue dozen as hearts by garret. Have will a gay melody flooded Calculus flowers your

Chemistry seven From outside until dozen famine! Its smoked ingredient by circus preceding satin. When will theatre pretty flowers friend

Hat the by leisure. An orthodox ladybird curls the tongue.The lonely by debugger the nine tools an opera. Friends on a break lovers seven

Enigma moon tarot the ship creepeth. An award northward the ten locked room. Else the bow full sweets despairs beside the shoppe eight

Map winter the resident advances eleven t he celestial light divide from him she'd sixth violets. They're lights, gathered. Appear dress nine

Yin twelve air Spirit creature the our likeness face also it the signs horoscope prolific merry angelic balsams contained laud advise space ten

blank education mesmerism Greek vulgar as will hearts by garret. Renaissance determination to be no forfeited he. Contrasted face eleven

space Depraved child cloaked light darkness neglected but supported hothouse doom midnight stars tick tock Halves of whole twelve

I gave Sebastian a long, side glance. “Strange, the need to provide a fake address rather than nothing at all. I do not believe that was a mere coincidence. If there was no name, the sender clearly wishes to remain anonymous. Why provide an address at all then? Or better yet, why not do the whole thing properly and provide a fake name to match the fake address? This singularity can only mean one thing.”

Sebastian lowered his gaze to the address. "That the fake address—Twelfth Street, Nottingham—contains the key to unraveling this message."

“Twelfth Street, Nottingham,” I said to myself. My eyes darted between the envelope in one hand and the nonsensical letter in the other. “Twelfth Street . . . Twelfth—” My fingers tightened around the envelope. Twelve. Could it be that simple?

“Sebastian, a quill, quickly.”

A glint in his eye, Sebastian handed me one. I marked up the letter, pulse hastening with each circle drawn. My chest rose sharply as the cult's message unraveled. "Bollocks!" I gripped the letter, trembling with rage.

“So every twelfth word forms part of a hidden message.” Sebastian leaned in behind my shoulder and read the words circled in green ink.

'Pick a dozen flowers by the full moon,

Else the violets, the balsams will face doom.'

"Undoubtedly, the flowers in the poem refer to the missing girls. Violets seem to refer to the most recent missing girl, while balsams. . ." My voice shook. "Are associated with the name Lizzie." I balled up my fist, a turmoil of emotions assaulting my mind. My vision went red. Unbridled rage undulated through me in waves. I refused to have the only wisp of light from my past snubbed out.

"We only have until the full moon to save them, Sebastian," I said coldly. "That's twelve days."

"Yes . . . twelve." Sebastian eyed the envelope on the ground and picked it up. "What a peculiar fixation the sender has for the number twelve."

“Don’t ask me how some rogue's mind work.”

Sebastian parted his lips in a bare whisper. “Well, the young mistress would know.”

I smothered a snort. "Whatever....though I do agree it is a little strange they had chosen Twelfth Street instead of Third, Fourth, or Fifth Nottingham Street as the key."

"Perhaps the cult centers itself around the number twelve.

"A mathematical cult?”

Ignoring my sarcasm, Sebastian tilted his head and hummed. "I had the opportunity of witnessing the formation of Pythagorus's cult in the 6th century. Most fascinating group. Some of Pythagorous's followers had discovered the square root of 2 was irrational, which muddied up other's theories. Instead of accepting the existence of irrational numbers, they were ordered to keep it a secret. Those who dared to reveal this knowledge were killed."

I gave him a withering look. "Are you serious?"

"Very, my lady . . ." Sebastian trailed off, his eyes slanting. "Oh my."

"What is it?"

"I fear we made a miscalculation, young mistress. The sender has left their name after all."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"If you will allow me." With a long, sculpted gloved finger, Sebastian slowly trailed the end of each line until his pointer grazed my thumb. "If you take the first letter of these sentences, it spells 'alchemy'. Moreover, if you string the last word in each sentence, it reads—"

"I can see it," I hissed.

Air the radical novel house the evidence? Realize lady of they Pick such they sure. The advocate you jams pick the mythological power a from

Lies telescope amazes a hell contained my education. Rogue dozen as hearts by garret. Have will a gay melody flooded Calculus flowers your

Chemistry seven From outside until dozen famine! Its smoked ingredient by circus preceding satin. When will theatre pretty flowers friend

Help the by leisure. An orthodox ladybird curls the tongue.The lonely by debugger the nine tools an opera. Friends on a break lovers seven

Enigma moon tarot the ship creepeth. An award northward the ten locked room. Else the bow full sweets despairs beside the shoppe eight

Map winter the resident advances eleven t he celestial light divide from him she'd sixth violets. They're lights, gathered. Appear dress nine

Yin twelve gems loch creature the our likeness face also it the signs horoscope prolific merry angelic balsams contained laud advise space ten

blank education mesmerism Greek vulgar as will hearts by garret. Renaissance determination to be no forfeited he. Contrasted face eleven

space Depraved child cloaked light darkness neglected but supported hothouse doom midnight stars tick tock Halves of whole twelve

Damnation. I ripped the letter and envelope to shreds. And then the shreds into shreds into shreds. How deplorable for a Phantomhive to be toyed like this. Chest heaving, I poured my anger and frustration in every move. Lids low, Sebastian watched on impassively as I did violence to the message.

Breathing unevenly, I blinked in the icy air through burning eyes. This time, I refused to let my past repeat. I'd retrieve Lizzie by any means necessary.

I crushed the seal under my heeled foot.

Any means.

Notes:

^^ I hope you like the book of cipher so far. Kudos to anyone who figured last chapter's one. The ciphers progress from easy to medium to difficult. We're in the middle now. (And yes, there is an explanation as to why all the ciphers). It may be a while until I update the next chapter, but it starts to connect the clues and slowly, untangles the sticky web Cielle is caught in. I really miss writing from Sebastian's perspective, so I think it might be interesting to write from his pov the next chapter.

If you liked it (or didn't) drop me a line. I always like reading reviews, positive or critical, as they help with the writing process. And as always, thank you for reading along <3

EDIT 7/21/18: My first book, "Alice in Winterland: A Fangirl Novel", is out! ^o^ You can read the first chapter HERE ^^

Chapter 8: That Butler, Temptation {Sebastian's POV}

Summary:

The butler's aesthetics begin to pull apart at the seams . . .

Cielle and I had arrived back to the manor. She had uttered not a single word throughout our return journey. Offering her my hand, I led her through the snow covered entryway.

"Perhaps a cup of tea will alleviate your mood—"

Cielle gasped as I opened the door. Frowning, I looked away from her and to . . . oh dear. Before us, the entire manor had been decorated with violet. Violet ribbons, violet lambrequins, velvet cushions of the same colour, violet Japanese lanterns that swayed above our heads, and clusters of actual violets.

"What-what is this?" Cielle looked at me for an explanation, though I was searching for one myself.

"It's the young mistress!"

"Mister S-Sebastian."

The three servants presented themselves, cowering. They glanced at one another, at me in trepidation, and at one another once more, making audible noises but nothing of coherence. Since no else seemed to possess an ounce of testicular fortitude, I mustered the calmest voice I could and asked, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Ask her," griped Bard.

I looked beyond him. A moment of deju vu took over. Irene Diaz, resplendent in a lavender muslin gown, scuttled downstairs. At the sight of Cielle and I, she clasped her hands. "There you are! I've been busy all day sprucing up the manor. Consider it as a token of my gratitude." She gave the young mistress a deep bow. "Is it to your liking?"

"It is . . . different. But I appreciate the thought." I could hear the strain in her voice as she choked the words out. I couldn't blame her. Though I never held prejudice against the colour, standing under the frilly, purple draperies made me reconsider greatly. Brows pinched, I stared at the violet confetti littering the recently cleaned carpet. This was worse than the incident with Lady Elizabeth.

Miss Diaz seemed not to notice her obtuse obtrusion. She jovially pointed upstairs. "I've also done the same for your room, Lady Phantomhive. I hope you'll like it."

"M-my room?" Cielle contorted her face into a pained smile. "You really shouldn't have, Miss Diaz."

Irene's eyes gleamed. "But I must! It is the least I can do for one who has welcomed me into their home under such circumstances. Well, don't just stand there. Do take a look." The woman shooed Cielle upstairs. "Did you know lavender is currently fashionable? I was surprised that you had few attire with that colour, so I took the liberty of adding some into your armoire."

Cielle stopped. "You . . . went through my personal belongings?"

Irene waved her hands. "Nothing like that at all. It is only us ladies, after all." Suddenly, she leaned close to the young mistress and whispered into her ear, thinking I could not hear. "I had little idea that Lady Phantomhive possessed a secret stash of pretty little things. Judging from the wear of them, I'd say a few are new purchases." She gave Cielle a conspiratorial glance. "I added a violet one to your collection."

The young mistress went scarlet.

I raised a brow. Restocking the armoire only yesterday, I had seen nothing of that sort. Perhaps, I did not know my mistress as well as I thought. I always considered she had a distaste for such articles given her unpleasant reaction to one during an investigation. Though it was no business of mine, I wondered how long she started to conceal these items and for what purpose. I could only imagine... Catching my amused gaze, Cielle snapped her head away, lips trembling slightly. Goodness, what a flustered mess.

"Miss Diaz," I said in a composed tone, "Perhaps you'd like a carriage ride for some fresh air. Preparing all of this must have put a strain on someone of your delicate sensibilities."

The opera singer nodded. I quickly motioned to the three servants to take care of her. Once they had left, I turned to Cielle. She didn't look at me. There were many things I could have asked in the moment, but I decided to spare her the embarrassment and settled for the safest one. "Tea?"

"Please," she murmured.

I gestured to the dining space where I brewed a cup of darjeeling, using leaves from the Autumn flush for a deeper flavor. I decided the mistress needed something stronger today to calm her nerves.

The mistress sat quietly in her Queen-Anne chair, watching my preparations. Her eyes fixated on the steady stream of liquid filling her favourite Royal Doulton cup. I deposited the floral glazed cup into her open hands, my fingers grazing hers. "Careful, young mistress. It is rather hot."

"Good," she said quietly. "Maybe it'll rid me of the numb coldness inside me." She brought the teacup to her mouth and closed her eyes. A satisfied sigh escaped her lips. "It's . . . nice, Sebastian." Reluctantly, she glanced up.

I fixed her gaze, letting only a shadow of a smile touch my lips. The girl had always been stingy with compliments, especially where I was concerned. Save for obligatory ones reserved for Lady Elizabeth, Cielle rarely gave compliments to anyone—including herself.

"It greatly pleases me to hear that, young mistress. Perhaps you'd care for a croissant while you await Madame Hopkins's arrival."

Cielle scowled at my reminder. She grabbed the pastry from the plate I set before her and pressed back into her seat until the cushioned seat swallowed her small frame. As the mistress was set to attend Imperial Academy tomorrow, it was my responsibility to see that the transition occurred as smoothly as possible. Books, parchments, and quills were purchased. Winter clothing was packed. The only thing that remained was uniforms. She loathed Madame Hopkin's visits as the woman's temperament often entailed the mistress wearing some ridiculous unconventional fashion, but on short notice, she was the only seamstress who would deliver the items.

"I'd rather borrow Elizabeth's old uniforms than be fitted by that woman," she said bitterly.

"An undoubtedly good idea, if only the young mistress was taller and filled her dresses more."

"Tch." Her scowled deepened. She tore the croissant off in mouth size bits, but made no means to eat it.

"Young mistress, please stop playing with your food."

At my comment, Cielle gave a derisive laugh and rose to her full height. "Inform me when Madame Hopkins arrives." Abandoning her unfinished tea and defiled pastry, she descended upstairs to her bedroom. I discerned a slamming of a door that was likely reserved for my ears. I sighed. The girl rarely passed up an opportunity to engage in the satirical banter which had grown commonplace to us both. In fact, I often suspected she enjoyed them. Why, then, was she taking it to heart now, after all these years?

The door-knocker sounded.

I strode to the entrance and opened the door. An amicable faced man in a common red uniform tipped his hat. "A parcel fer Lady Phantomhive," the postman said in an Irish brogue. He presented me with a package that contained the mistress's name. That handwriting . . . My eyes narrowed. I collected the package, bid the official a good day with a shilling, and closed the door. What ever could it be now? I could have opened it, but recognizing the petite, curlicue handwriting, I thought it prudent that Cielle should open it.

I made my way up the stairway, frowning at the odious purple decor wrapped around the handrails. The sooner this investigation came to a close, the better. Parcel in hand, I strode upstairs. Despite the silence which hung in the air, it did not mask the small, curious sound coming within the young mistress's quarters. I neared closer and glimpsed the door slightly ajar. I raised my hand to rap her door, then paused.

Through the crevice, I saw Cielle, face strained. One hand grasped the bed linens while the other clutched the small of her back. My eyes travelled to the flushed skin that exposed her shoulder blades. Her slender fingers toyed with the red strings of a corset. Panting, she struggled to lace it single-handedly. I watched her bend over the four poster, trying to better angle herself. She closed her eyes and pursed her trembling lips, murmuring a soundless word under her breath.

"Might the young mistress require assistance?"

Cielle jumped at my voice. "Confound it, announce yourself, Sebastian!"

"My apologies," I said, still behind the door.

Cielle threw on a shawl and sharply addressed me, "Well, don't just stand there." I opened the door and casually strode inside, setting the parcel on the nightstand. Lids low, Cielle crossed her arms over her chest. Despite her forced indifference, I could tell was she anything but. A rosy tint stained her cheeks, her eyes shone with libidinousness, and she was trying hard to slow her breathing.

What a pretty little mess she was.

"I'll have you know," she said, not looking at me, "that I was merely putting this blasted thing on so that the fitting would consume less time. I rather not spend more time in Madame Hopkin's presence if I can help it." She pulled the shawl tighter around her, poorly concealing the strings of the unlaced corset.

My eyes traced the outline of her face. I could read her shame, her frustration, and a secret she was stifling deep within herself. I edged closer to her four poster. "Why not ask for my assistance?"

"I don't need your assistan—"

A sharp gasp escaped her as my gloved fingers grazed her back. "Let me help you," I said in a lilting voice. I traced a finger along her spine, languidly and purposefully, until I came upon the loose corset strings. My fingers played with them, teasing a reaction out of her. I waited for a protest, a quip, a harsh reprimand. Curiously, none came.

"Bend over, young mistress," I whispered into her ear.

Cielle arched her back as I tugged at the strings. The shawl fell to the floor, soon to be forgotten. Bit by bit, I undid the lacy corset. With a provocative slowness, my deft hands began to re-lace it. I pulled with force, then slowed into a gentle pace. Over and over, I alternated the movements. She shuddered, twisting her hands into the linens.

"Leave yourself in my hands," I murmured against her skin. I gazed at her rising and falling shoulders, the flush that spread over her creamy skin, and her trembling legs. Her lips parted and moved, whispering a soundless name like a litany. Seeing her in such a susceptible position, I could not resist tempting her into her own dissolution. My lips curved. The young mistress was like clay in my hands. I could sculpt her into a beautiful, chaotic masterpiece. I could transcend her soul. I could satiate it.

I gave the corset a sudden, rough tug, and Cielle held back a strangled sound. "My apologies."

Cielle swore at me under her labored breath. My hands lingered over the base of her spine. "Does the young mistress like this?" I whispered over her back, my breath heating her skin.

"What . . . what are you saying?"

"I think you very well know." A silky timbre coloured my chuckle. "I wonder why the young mistress has a sudden interest in collecting unmentionables. Does she enjoy putting them on?" My breath tickled her earlobe. "Or does she imagine someone else putting them on—like this?"

"Hng . . . don't be revolting," Cielle whispered breathlessly as I pulled on the strings.

I trailed my hand along her corseted abdomen until it rested on her hip. Her breath came faster, a wondrous euphony to my ears. Her essence grew unbearably pronounced. Sweet, musky, and intoxicating, it cloyed my senses into an excruciating height of ecstasy. I shivered. How long had this seed of desire laid dormant in my years of service to Cielle? No matter. I had every intention of cultivating that seed now.

I took in Cielle's vulnerable position. Eyes clamped, back arched to its fullest, hips raised. How easy it would be to revert to the days when I was a wild demon, sampling souls without a contract. I often mused if she thought the contract protected her in some way. Did she not know the one who had given her this power could just as easily break it? The contract were a mere game to me, and like every game, what fun would it be if rules weren't followed?

"S-Sebastian," she said under her breath. A delightful flush spread across her creamy skin. I could discern her quickening pulse, the quiver of each exhale, tension mounting. The forbidden emotions within her spilled onto me like an overflowing sea. I greedily drank them, revelling in her release. Deeper and deeper, I sank under the tumultuous, churning waves until I was drowning in her essence. I ran my tongue over my lengthening fangs, my control slipping. Waves of exhilaration rose and crashed within me. A pang of feral desire seeped into my veins, teeming to my core. My gloved fingers curled around her middle with force. The sound of ripping fabric filled the air. So consumed in my tempestuous fervor, I hardly noticed my shadow growing larger until it cast its darkness upon Cielle's exposed flesh. I could have her like this.

"L-let go now, Sebastian!"

I released her, breathing hard. At once, the dark tendrils of my true form retreated. It had happened again? Regaining my control, I stepped away from her and glanced at the torn corset strings lying on the floor. I took in my slightly shaking gloved hand. The aesthetics I had always prided myself was suddenly pulling apart at the seams.

Cielle spun around, her cerulean tresses whipping me. A sheen of sweat glistened along her forehead. Her dilated eyes flashed me an acrid stare, one filled with revulsion—at me or her own reaction, I could not tell.

"Get out," she whispered.

I gave her a deep now, using those seconds to salvage the situation. As a I rose, the distraction presented itself at once. "If my mistress desires my absence, I shall comply, of course. I only came to deliver a parcel and thought it fitting you should open it." Her eyes flashed at me, then landed on nightstand. She took in the handwriting on the tiny parcel, and her face went white as a sheet.

"Is that . . . from Lizzie?"

I brought her the parcel to her. "Only one way to be certain."

With shaking fingers, she ripped the wrapping. Inside lay cogwheels and a torn, musty parchment. "What in the devil . . ." She pulled out the silver clock gears and ran her fingers over the cogs. "I suppose things like this shouldn't come as a surprise anymore." Giving in to her frustrations, she hurled the gears to the floor, then snatched the half torn parchment. On it lay zodiac symbols, paragraphs written in allegorical text, and a queer illustration of humans engaging in what appeared to be some hermetic ritual.

Cielle ran her fingers over the torn edge which had a tiny, faint page number. "Clock gears and a page out of a book. Why on earth would Lizzie send me these?"

"Why indeed . . . " I studied her handwriting on the wrapping Cielle had strewn on the carpet. Every word on the address was written smoothly, deliberately, so unlike the writing by Miss Violet. I lifted a brow. How curious . . . If Lady Elizabeth had indeed written this, her demeanor when writing did not reveal a hint of duress.

Cielle fixated on the torn page before her, devouring every word and symbol with her eyes.

[coveredinbees]

I started writing another kathony thing. And it's... well... it's smutty as all hell, I'm not going to lie. It's an AU, and includes references to sex work in the regency period, male impotence, and a few creative swear words that would make your mother cry.

So I'm going to post a little teaser for my new fic under the cut, to spare those of you who are not particularly interested in that sort of thing.

"Duels and Duality"

Anthony Bridgerton was not a man that was used to frequenting bawdy houses. But, after a duelling injury leaves him feeling a little insecure in the bedroom, he decides to try his hand - and other parts - at Covent Garden's most exclusive establishment. It all appears to be for nought when he finds none of the ladies can peak his interest. Until he sees one exotic beauty from across the room...

Kate Sharma is not a lady of the night. She is, in fact, a destitute war widow and nurse struggling to make an honest living after the end of the Napoleonic War. But one evening, as she's tending to a broken wrist of Covent Garden's leading courtesan, she finds herself being propositioned by a handsome stranger. She can't deny the attraction, and she might even have been tempted to go with him, if he hadn't started waving a wad of money in front her face. Instead, however, she offers to do something else - to fix his lame leg, and rehabilitate him back into polite society.

Could this be the start of a beautiful friendship?"

Teaser under the cut:

For the second time that evening, it started to snow. This did not bode well for Anthony Bridgerton. As he had not been able to navigate his carriage through the narrow roads of Covent Garden, Anthony had to satisfy himself with limping along the iced-over cobbled streets until he found the place he was looking for. It was a less-than-ideal situation. There was something about the chill in the air that made the muscles around his old injury ache, and more than once he felt his right leg give way underneath him. If it hadn’t been for his walking stick, he would have keeled over entirely. Thankfully, it didn’t take too long for him to find the right place. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket with numbed fingers, checking the address there against the townhouse in front of him. Hind Close. Yes, this was definitely the place. Unfamiliar as he was with this part of town, it had taken him longer than usual to find where he was going, and it was only the cold bite of the January wind that meant he could make his slow journey without being accosted by anyone. This part of town was normally rife with pickpockets and drunkards, but unlike Anthony, any man, woman or child with a lick of sense was sitting indoors right now, huddling around a roaring fire. He sighed, dragging his lame leg up the steps of the townhouse. There were times in life when you didn’t realise you had done something stupid until it was too late. And then there were times when you were fully aware that you were in the middle of doing something stupid, but you carried on doing it any way. Even as he lifted the knocker on the nondescript townhouse, he realised that today fell into the latter category.

Knocking on the the door, he waited for a moment for someone to open it. Instead, the door remained firmly shut, and thick, cockney voice emanated from somewhere within.

“Wot’s the password?” The password? Damn. Benedict had told him this. Hang on. “Elysium.” He said. There was a moment of silence, and for one horrible moment Anthony thought they might turn him away. He desperately needed to rest his leg, and he wasn’t sure he could make it back through the winding streets of Covent Garden without assistance. But then there was a metallic thunk – the familiar sound of an iron deadbolt being pulled back, and then the door was opened. Anthony was met with a blast of warm air and the sweet scent of rose and lavender water wafting from inside. The man standing at the door was a wall of a man, with brutishly thick arms and a cauliflower ear. He wasn’t the sort of man Anthony had seen before, not even at Gentleman Jackson‘s boxing ring. This man, with his scarred face and non-too-inviting sneer, he was not like anyone Anthony had ever met before. Regardless, the man stepped aside and waited patiently while Anthony dragged himself through the door. Anthony didn’t wait to be invited. He collapsed onto a chair by the door, not even caring that he was leaving a trail of muddied snow behind him. As the doorman closed the front door behind him, he regarded Anthony with little interest. “Y’new then?” “Pardon?” “I said, are yer new 'ere, or what? I ain’t seen you round ‘ere before.”

No, Anthony supposed, he wouldn’t have. This was his first time at such an establishment.

“Yes. I suppose you could say I’m ‘new’.” The man grunted. “I’ll get Madame Charlotte then. She’ll sort yer out.” “Much obliged.” Quite against his will, Anthony felt his head fall back against the wall. He closed his eyes. God, his leg was throbbing. He already knew that this was a mistake, but there was quite literally no turning back now. At least, not until he’d had a chance to rest his leg and hopefully a dram or two for the pain. He opened his eyes lazily, watching as the great, hulking doorman disappeared behind a red curtain, presumably to find Madame Charlotte.

Anthony sighed. He was miles from home, and his footman had parked the carriage somewhere in the more respectable area of town. Even after he rested his leg, he would have a devil of a time walking back – especially if this snow kept up. But then, he supposed, wasn’t that the whole idea? In order for his plan to work, he had to go to a place where he wouldn’t be recognised. To be clear, despite Anthony’s rakish reputation he had never actually visited a bawdy house before. Or rather, perhaps he should say that he had never engaged the services of une femme galante before. All of Anthony’s previous dalliances – of which there had been many – had been with either divorced women or women of the stage. And yes, he’d kept a mistress or two in his time. And yes, he had spent more than his fair share of money on trinkets. But that was different. Those were gifts. There was something about the transactional nature of bawdy houses that didn’t really sit well with him. To Anthony, the whole point of pleasuring a woman was to, well… pleasure a woman. It had to be reciprocal, otherwise he didn’t see the fucking point.

Paying a woman to bed with you, well. It was a bit embarrassing really, wasn’t it?

And honestly, if Anthony had his way he certainly wouldn’t be sitting in a Bawdy House right now, if he had any other option. Anthony grimaced, rubbing his face with an ice-cold hand. So what was he doing here now?

Of course, he already knew the answer. He was here, because he was desperate.

You see, Anthony Bridgerton was not a man that was prone to misjudgement; but when he did misjudge something he did so spectacularly and with long-lasting effect. It was a misjudgement that led him to challenging Lord Carnarvon to a duel some three years previous after a particularly heavy night of drinking, and it was a misjudgement that led to him getting shot in the leg. If it wasn’t for his brother’s quick thinking, and for the skill of a particularly renowned surgeon, he most certainly would have died. Hell, he thought, sitting up in the chair and stretching his pained leg out in front of him, it was a damned miracle that he’d got to keep his leg at all. But as it was, there was a large, tennis-ball shaped indentation where his thigh muscle used to be, and it was visible even through the thick fabric of his britches. The dead tissue of his leg had been purposefully removed in a grotesquely painful procedure that the surgeon had called ‘debridement’. Anthony, feverishly out of his mind the entire time, remembered little of event except that it had involved applying maggots to the infected area. Maggots. Those damned maggots. He saw them in his dreams, even now.

So apart from being in near permanent pain all the time, Anthony was now grotesquely misshapen. His former lovers couldn’t even bear to look at him, let alone take him into their beds. And, Anthony thought, even if he could somehow persuade some poor, desperate woman into seduction, he was in near permanent agony. Although his wound had long since healed over, the muscles spasmed like the devil himself was twisting a knife in his leg, and the sorry fact of the matter was, (and in many ways, this was the worst part)…

The sorry fact of the matter was that the famous Viscount Bridgerton, (the society papers’ darling and the once the ton’s most sought-after bachelor), was now a disfigured monster that could go weeks at a time without even getting a fucking erection.

It was painful. No, it was more than painful – it was humiliating. He’d once been famous for his appetites, and sought-after for his skills as a lover. Now here he was in his late twenties, looking down at his stubbornly non-tumescent cock and wondering if the bullet wound hadn’t somehow nicked a muscle or a nerve or something that was integral to the most valuable part of his anatomy. For any man, not being able to get a cockstand would be bad enough, but for a man with a title – a Viscount no less, who regardless of his injury, was still somehow expected to marry, produce an heir and carry on the family name – why, it was the end of the world.

If his cock couldn’t work, well – he might as well sign the viscountcy over to Benedict right now.

Benedict had been none-too-pleased with that particular suggestion. Anthony knew his brother and had no interest in a title that had been earmarked for Anthony all his life, but he never appreciated how much of an aversion the man had to being the Viscount until he floated the idea past him one day. He’d never seen a man turn quite so pale. And so, without going into too much detail, Anthony had relayed to his brother the distressing news that his injury was preventing him from, ahem, partaking in his preferred activities, and somehow Benedict had managed to produce a copy of Harris’ List of Covent Garden Ladies with surprising alacrity.

So that was why he was here. Suddenly, he had seen the appeal of the transactional nature of bawdy houses. Perhaps if he could pay a woman enough, she would be willing to overlook his deformity. And it wasn’t like he was looking to fuck anyone – in fact, he didn’t rightly see how he could, the pain being the way it was - but he was sure that given the right woman, she could take him in hand, or maybe in her mouth, and try to breathe life back into his stubbornly flaccid cock. If he could get the damn thing working again, then at least that would be a step in the right direction.

So here he was. Hind Close. Which, according to Harris’ List of Covent Garden Ladies, housed the most exclusive and high-price cyprian beauties that money could buy. He had chosen this establishment firstly, because it was far from home and he didn’t want to be recognised by anyone, but also because the women here had a reputation for being choosey in their clientele. No man could walk up to these women and demand their services for a price; no, the woman had to agree. And allegedly, Hind Close’s books were so full and their clientele so numerous that the women here could afford to pick and choose their gentlemen.

As hideous as he was, he didn’t want to force himself on anyone – nor did he want a women to feel obligated to take his money and his body. He could make an offer here, and feel secure in the knowledge that the women would be able to say ‘no’ if his leg was too disgusting for them to bear.

Which, he thought sadly, they probably would.

[thurilostiel]

For the OC and their partner(s)!! 💗,❣️, and 💓~!!

A little word ahead as this wasn’t stated in OC post. I’m not sure what’s the time in BC manga as of today so while Nozel is 29yo Oracle is 23yo. They first met while she was 19. She doesn’t know her real name, Nozel called her Gulisa during first week of them knowing eachother, later he called her Libi. And now: 💗 Describe your OC’s partner(s) from their point of view! What do they really think about them? “Calm man with no chill.” and “A loveable idiot” She knows he’s smart and really disciplined, doesn’t care about the other traits that much. She liked him from the moment he forgave her the robbery. Mer likes him so for Oracle he can’t be a bad person, birbo even tried to betray his mistress to become Nozel’s pet, but Nozel isn’t best with animals so Mer came back with his head down, not that Oracle could see that anyway. She loves the fact that Nozel will make it known that he came somewhere near her, will walk to her slightly louder than usually, knock on something so she won’t get startled. For first time Lilith/Libi used a spell that made her regain sight for a short while she saw Nozel’s cold expression and just “oh... so you are an emotionless bastard :/ ” *Nozel is confusion* “YOU KNOW EMOTIONS?!?” *Nozel is angery confusion* She still calls him emotionless bastard, but she learned that he just doesn’t like showing off what he feels. Now she’s able to tell how he’s feeling just from the way he speaks and how much noise he makes. Oracle half-way gets it why SE members describe Nozel as the Cruel Captain, but to hear that from his sibs is weird. Especially after all that Nozel told her about them. “Brother Nozel sent me on that stupid mission in peasant village again :c He hates us all after that accident in the dungeon” *Blind Oracle.exe stopped working. Critical Error* “...wot?”   ❣️ When did your OC first realise they were in love? How did they react to the realisation? That would be about 2 years after their first meeting! She got up earlier than usually and cought a maid preparing clothes for her, and well, even is she had money now, [thanks to Silver Eagles helping her out with a little magic supplies bussines], she hasn’t yet get to search, let alone employ a house help, so she asked why was the woman doing this is she wasn’t getting paid for this, “But I am. Lord Nozel told me to do so. His family summer house is nearby, but they don’t use it too often. There is little to no work there, so I take care of your house as well.” *Is shooketh. Realises that’s why whenever she comes back from her adventures to borders her house is neat clean and not even a fly sits on the floor*  In a span of 2 minutes she got flashbacks to everything that was happening to her when she was near Nozel and the feeling just hit her. “Thsh! ... emotionless bastard” She made a mental note to always have his favourite tea in stock. She didn’t think of this as true love at first, but she wanted to be someone he can open to and speak freely in her presence. Lilith even started inviting Dorothy, as Nozel mentioned her as a good friend, and so the three of them once in Glamour world would talk out the entire night. But Nozel is still the bastard he was before the realisation, Lilith was just slightly more touchy with him from that point on. Would always want to at least grab his shoulder or hand if they met outside her house/SE HQ and give a tiny sqeeze for noone knows why but she’s made it an ordinary thing by now. Lil Bonus: Mer was extremly ‘touchy’ with Nozel from the start. Birb never in his life cuddled with Lilith out of his own will, outside cold winter nights but they don’t count- those were life or death situations, but he will not survive if he’s seeing Nozel around and won’t get a cuddle with said man’s neck. Will sit on his shoulder and comb his hair with his beak, or he’ll pat Nozel’s hair down with his wing, looking proud as never, like Noz’s hairstyle was his doing. Mer is probably one of very few animals that ever come to Nozel out of own will and not cuz he got food, according to Tabata’s rankings Nozel, Noelle and king Augustus were in the Most hated by animals so... Birb saw a man looking similar to himself. Birb loves the man. 💓 What is their favourite activity to do together (that isn’t time in the bedroom)? READING! Also tea parties to talk about everything and nothing. So Oracle can use a spell that’ll help her see more clearly than with her mana sensing skills, but they work for about 4 minutes max and depending on her current mana pool situation and health she’d be able to see quite a range of colours or just black, white and grey scale sketchy things that are worse than what she’s able to see[imaginairy] with mana sensing or mana layer- sending out a thin layer of own mana like a wave to cover your surroundings so to know where you can put down your feet, so it’s not really helpful after a day of working on a magic artefact or while catching a cold. Nozel visits her at least 3 times a week, always in the evening hours and they sit together on the fluffy couch and Nozel reads out loud whatever book she wants, mostly it’s just some old archives about findings from dungeons and ancient relics. They were doing this almost from the start! Back when she was living in SE HQs and working directly for the squad to redeem herself from trying to rob their Captain in the light of day, [with HER OWN BIRBO SELLING HER OUT!! Mer screatched at Nozel while Lilith tried to untie his pouch from the belt], with the first two days they’d sit a bit further apar, and she’d try to take notes of what he’s reading to her. Noticing her strugle he made sure to get another member into the room to read the informations from books while he sat down with her and helped with the notes. And before anyone will say “But she’s blind, she won’t be able to read the notes, she didn’t have the spell yet!” Yea, and there is no braille or anything like that as far as I know in the Clover Kingdom, but if you press the pen/pencil down really hard it will make such mark on the paper you’d be able to read it without looking, only rule is that you need to know how the letters look before trying this out, and Oracle was made blind at her 15th birthday so she knew how to write and read before. They also started enjoying the evenings, when the sun is about to go down. If they’re outside for this, Lilith will sing silently or hum something, and Nozel will try to describe the sky to her in most details so her hums/singing will fit the scenery. He calls it “troublesome evening walks” she calls it “entertainment of the day”. She’s innocent in her ways of thinking, innocently gloomy. Mer loves to interrupt any activity they do together without inviting him at first. Hope that’s what you wanted to know.

[bee-kathony]

“Heartbeat” - Claire E.B.R. Fraser One Shot 

There were three times in Claire’s life after she left Jamie to his destiny on Culloden Moor that she thought her heart might one day beat again. Three times that she felt like she had something to give and something to take if only to remind herself to live.

Claire’s heart had been ripped out of her chest the moment she passed through the stones, leaving Jamie behind in 1746. It nearly killed her when she realized just when and where she was. He was dead. And there was nothing Claire could do now or ever that would change that fact. She had made a promise to him — to return to Frank, her first husband and raise the child she was now carrying, with him.

It was a lie. Their child was raised in a lie. Frank had been extremely happy when she returned — in shock and disbelief that she had come back to him. But she hadn’t come back, at least not fully. Her heart was with Jamie back in 1746 on the battlefield of Culloden. The only thing that Frank ever had was the physical body of Claire — even then, she could not fully give that to him either.

Try her best to forget the past and move forward, every day was a day lived in agony without Jamie. After her return to Frank, they had stayed at the Reverend’s Manse for a few weeks while she recovered from the journey and they sorted everything out in Scotland. Claire couldn’t help but flinch every time Frank tried to touch her. She knew he was seeking comfort from his long lost wife and she hated herself that she wasn’t that woman anymore.

Once, she had loved Frank and dearly. Young and naive, she had married him when she was nineteen and had followed him wherever he led them. Then when they were parted for six years during the war (the majority of their marriage), Claire and Frank naturally grew distant. That’s what led them to Scotland in the first place — a second honeymoon. Only Claire would wander upon standing stones that called out to her and when she touched them, her life would never be the same.

She had explained to Frank time and time again that she was in love with another man and that he was existed in another century. Thinking her insane, Frank struggled to accept her truth. Only when she told him she was pregnant did he come around and choose to believe whatever story she wanted to tell him. Frank wanted a child, no matter the father. Except he made Claire promise to raise the child to believe that he was their father and not Jamie — a tall, red headed warrior from the 18th century.

Agreeing to this, Claire and Frank moved to Boston where he accepted a job as a professor at Harvard. It hadn’t always been easy and at times, Claire felt extremely lonely. Her marriage with Frank was that of convenience and obligation, but not of love — not as it had been and not as it ever had been with Jamie Fraser.

There were three times in Claire’s life after she left Jamie to his destiny on Culloden Moor that she thought her heart might one day beat again. Three times that she felt like she had something to give and something to take if only to remind herself to live.

Frank and Claire tried in the beginning. But no amount of trying on either end would save their marriage. A couple of years after Brianna was born (with flaming red hair), they decided to no longer share one bed. Several times Claire had come to Frank, feeling desperate, aching with desire, but when she made love to him, it wasn’t Frank who she was thinking of. It was always Jamie and with her eyes closed, she could pretend it really was him. Frank was a prideful man, and smart as well — catching on to the fact that she couldn’t and wouldn’t fully be able to give herself to him.

So they continued to raise Brianna as best they could while also managing to live their own separate personal lives. It was when Brianna was seven and brought home her friend Jessica Nelson to play that Claire found out her heart could beat — even just a little.

When Claire and Frank first moved to Boston, they knew no one. But Claire found a quick friend with Millie Nelson and over the next several years; her and her husband Jerry were invited over for many dinners. Claire didn’t have many friends save Millie and Joe Abernathy who was working to become a doctor just like Claire.

Millie wasn’t as daft as she seemed, she knew something wasn’t quite right between Claire and Frank and had asked her as much one day when Millie brought over her daughter Jessica.

“Is everything alright between you and Frank?” Millie took the martini from Claire’s out stretched hand and took a seat on the couch in Claire’s living room.

“Everything’s as fine as it’ll ever be,” Claire smiled, pouring her own drink before joining Millie on the couch. “Why do you ask?”

“I notice these things,” her friend touched her knee lightly. “I only ask now because I can tell you two aren’t the perfect couple you try so hard to show.” Claire started to object, but Millie raised her hand. “It’s also because I see mine and Jerry’s relationship reflected in yours.”

“You two are having problems?”

“Have been for years,” Millie said over the top of her glass. “I found him cheating on me with his secretary, some blonde bimbo. I wanted him out of the house, but he promised to work on our relationship,” Millie rolled her eyes.

Claire was hesitant to reveal too much of what it had actually been like between her and Frank. The arrangement they had come to agree upon worked for them. It was far from ideal, but their circumstances were also extremely rare.

“Frank and I —“ Claire began, shamefully looking down at her lap. “Well we’ve both seen other people. I haven’t in quite some time, but the fact of the matter is that I was married to Frank when it happened.”

“An affair? Oh how juicy!” Millie nodded, urging for Claire to go on.

“Don’t you think I’m a horrible person? You just called your husband’s mistress a blonde bimbo,” Claire smirked.

“When it’s not my life, it’s fascinating,” Millie remarked, biting the olive from the toothpick. “So you slept with another man and Frank cheated as well?”

It hurt to hear the reality out loud, but it was also a relief in some ways to be able to talk about it with someone. “Yes, it was many years ago and just the one man. Frank and I have agreed to have sort of an open relationship.”

“That’s progressive,” Millie’s eyes shot up. “I’m sure Jerry would love that! He’d probably even suggest we invite his secretary to join us in bed.”

Claire finished her drink, tossing her head back and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She set down the glass on the coffee table in front of her. “You and Jerry are still together though, so did you work it out?”

“Oh we’re trying, been seeing a counselor for weeks now, but I don’t see it working,” Millie scoffed and set her glass down next to Claire’s. “It’s not like I wanna get divorced, but every time I look at him I see… her, writhing underneath him, Christ it makes my skin boil!”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Claire said, reaching out to lay her hand over Millie’s. “Let’s talk about something a bit lighter shall we?”

While their girls played upstairs in Brianna’s room, Claire and Millie discussed everything from new recipes to the latest flick in the cinema. Even though it was late afternoon, they both had another round of martinis and relaxed without the presence of screaming children nearby.

Claire had just finished telling Millie about Brianna losing another one of her teeth, it had fallen out when she was trying to eat an apple and gotten stuck. Blood had poured out of Bree’s mouth and soaked the front of her dress. It was a front tooth, but Bree was so excited she had run around the house, holding up her tooth and screaming about the tooth fairy.

“Jessica lost all her baby teeth,” Millie smiled. “Keeps asking when’s the next time money will appear under her pillow!”

“Yes, well Brianna only has a few left now.”

Glancing up at the clock, Claire realized that Frank would be home in about an hour from work. She really should start preparing dinner, but her woozy head and the company of Millie was keeping her parked on the couch.

“Can I ask you something Claire?”

“Of course, I’m an open book,” Claire smiled. Well, she was open about everything except a particular red headed scot, but she was quite certain Millie wouldn’t be asking about that.

“Have you ever—“ her friends cheeks blushed and she shook her head. “Nah, it’s silly.”

“Wot is it, Millie?” Claire laughed, nudging her leg.

“This may come off sounding strange, but I just wondered if you’ve ever kissed another woman,” she rushed it all out, letting out a deep breath in the process. In fact, Claire had never kissed another woman. She knew of girls that did during the war, mostly from loneliness, but Claire had experimented like that herself. It wasn’t exactly talked about either, at least not in public.

“I haven’t,” Claire shook her head. “Have you?”

“Oh God no!” Millie’s hand flew over her heart.

“Why do you ask?” Claire smirked.

“I was just curious what it would be like is all, I thought maybe you had since you certainly aren’t getting any from Frank,” Millie blushed. “Forget I asked,” she waved her hand away.

As she sat there, looking at Millie, she noticed how pink her lips were. How soft her skin looked and how beautiful her friend really was. Claire had never harbored any feelings towards other women and she didn’t think she would suddenly start now, but something compelled her to lean in closer and so she did.

“What are you doing, Claire?” Millie asked as Claire scooted closer towards her. Claire laid her hand on top of her shoulder, her other hand coming up to cup her cheek.

“You said you wanted to know what it was like…” she waited, looking into her friend’s blue eyes, looking for a sign.

“I did,” Millie gulped audibly.

Claire’s heart was racing and it was all she could hear as she closed the small space between her and the other woman. It was odd at first, mostly because she hadn’t actually kissed anyone in a long time, but soon her lips found the way of it again.

Millie was stiff at first, simply sitting there and letting Claire move against her. Sliding her hand down over her arm, Claire squeezed Millie’s hand and then parted her lips, urging her to give in. To give in to whatever was happening between them and forget everything that said it wasn’t right. The feeling of her lips on Claire’s felt right. Even if it was just this one moment that they shared, Claire felt something stir up inside her that she thought long dead. It was that feeling of being wanted. Not that Frank hadn’t wanted her, but Claire was only reminded of what she couldn’t have (Jamie) every time she looked at him.

Soft moans came from both of the women as they relaxed and began to kiss each other. Claire took charge, brushing her fingers back through Millie’s hair. She parted her lips, pressing her tongue against Millie’s and sucked lightly. Shifting slightly on the couch, Claire pressed herself flush against her friend, feeling the softness of her breasts on her own. She knew how irresponsible this was — Bree and Jessica were just upstairs. But she needed this, she needed to know that she was capable of feeling once again.

Millie was breathing hard, her own hands resting lightly on Claire’s back. The women broke apart and looked into each other’s eyes and then started laughing. Claire leaned her forehead against Millie’s and sighed before moving back on the couch.

Wiping at her lips, Claire met Millie’s eyes, her cheeks blushing. “So?”

“If you kiss like that with Frank, I don’t know how he ever let you get away from his bed,” Millie laughed, wiping at her own lips. “I — well I liked it.”

“I did too,” Claire nodded in agreement. “I feel a little bit reckless, don’t you?”

They both laughed again, feeling a pump of adrenaline for doing something they shouldn’t have. It’s not like Frank would care and it’s not like she was ever going to tell him for that matter. A few moment later, before both women could talk about the kiss in more detail, Bree and Jessica came running down the stairs in search of snacks.

“You can have an apple, but nothing more darling. Daddy will be home soon and I need to start dinner.”

Millie rose from the couch then, followed by Claire. “I guess we better get out of your hair then, leave you to your dinner.”

“You’re welcome to stay if you’d like!”

“That’s a kind offer, but I know Jerry’s expecting his roast beef tonight,” Millie smiled and Claire couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. It was 1955 and divorce while not unheard of, it was still not common for a woman to leave her husband. Claire only hoped her friend would be able to work things out between her and her husband.

“Another time then,” Claire smiled and hugged her friend goodbye. “Say ‘thank you’ to Jessica’s mum for letting her come over and play, Bree.”

“Thank you Mrs. Nelson,” Bree smiled politely, waving as Jessica and Millie left.

Frank came home twenty minutes later, oblivious to the way Claire jumped out of her skin at the slam of the front door. They ate dinner together as a family, and Claire was mostly silent, letting Bree tell Frank all about her day.

That night as she feel asleep to the soft snoring of her husband, she pressed her fingers against her lips, desperately trying to recall the feeling of Millie’s lips on hers. For the first time in years, Claire didn’t feel merely like a shell of a human being, but that she had hope that one day she might find love again that really made her heart beat in her chest.

The second time Claire felt a flutter in her heart didn’t happen until many years later. Frank had been seeing a woman named Sandy for years now — all in private of course. Claire found out about her on the day of her graduation from medical school. She knew Frank was discreet, but it was still odd to come face to face with her. But Claire couldn’t hold it over his head because she knew she gave no real effort to their marriage and they had agreed on this — to live together for the sake of Bree, but separately for the sake of their hearts.

His name was Robert Lewis — a fellow doctor that had been flirting with Claire on and off for years. He knew she was married, he saw the ring on her left hand — had even commented on her wearing two bands on either hand. She hadn’t told him about the silver band she wore on her right… that was just for her.

Robert was persistent and he had Claire figured out. At least he thought he did. It was obvious to anyone who looked even a little bit that Frank and Claire didn’t live the perfect marriage. Perhaps that’s why Robert kept pushing her to go out on a date with him. Bree was in her senior year of high school and in the summer she was going on a tour of colleges with Frank. Claire needed to stay behind and tend to her patients and besides, she knew Bree didn’t really want her to go with them.

Claire spent more time at the hospital than she did with Bree and while she often regretted it, she would never regret the lives that she had saved. Medicine was a part of her, something she had always known was in her blood. That was something she had in common with Robert and so one day when he asked her yet again to have a drink with him, she agreed. But she told him to wait a month, because Bree and Frank would be gone. Claire didn’t want to risk her daughter finding out about her mother going on a date with another man. She knew Brianna wasn’t oblivious to the shouting and fighting that went on between her and Frank, but that didn’t mean she needed to learn about the way her parents lived their lives. One day, but that day wasn’t now.

The next month passed quickly and Claire had worked herself up to a nervous wreck. It was her friend, Joe Abernathy that had convinced her to not cancel on Robert.

“Lady J, you have a date tonight with the hottest doctor in this whole damn hospital,” he laughed. “Screw Frank, well… don’t screw Frank, but you get what I mean.”

“Frank doesn’t give a rat’s arse what I do,” Claire sighed, crossing her arms. “It’s just one date anyways. I mostly just said yes so he would stop asking me.”

“Where are you going?”

“A bar downtown,” Claire said as she wrapped her scarf around her neck. She was heading out from work with Robert any minute now. “It’s not like anyone will recognize me, I never leave this place!”

“Have fun, LJ and relax. It’s just drinks and a nice night,” Joe smiled and gave her a pat on the back. “You’re a stunning woman and you might even get lucky tonight.”

“Joe!” Claire swatted at his arm, laughing as she turned to leave their shared office.

As it happened, the night with Robert had been rather successful. They talked about their patients and why they had wanted to study medicine. And as the night moved on, they opened up and he asked her why she had agreed to come on the date with him.

“You want me to be honest?”

“No, I want you to lie,” Robert laughed, taking a sip of his whisky. “Tell me the truth, if you want.”

“Well mostly I agreed because I wanted you to stop asking me,” Claire blushed. “But also I think you’re a nice man and you’ve always been kind to me.”

“I like you, Claire Randall,” Robert lifted his glass to hers. “It’s been my honor to share this evening with you.”

Drinks in a dimly lit bar wasn’t the only thing they shared that night. With no one at home, Claire had invited him inside. She felt reckless, tipsy and a bit aroused at the thought of having sex with him.

Why did doing bad things have to feel so damn good!?

They hadn’t made it far, only to the living room where Robert had unclasped her garters and pulled her dress up around her waist. He was handsy and only a little bit taller than her. But he tasted like whisky and his kisses burned along her neck and chest. As they stumbled to the ground and Robert reached into his pocket for a condom, Claire almost stopped it there. Once he slid it down on his cock, he leaned forward and Claire moaned, shutting her eyes tight at the sensation she hadn’t felt in more than a decade.

She wrapped one leg around his waist, angling her hips as he thrust deep into her. Something she’d locked up inside of her was let loose and she kissed his jaw, biting slightly, eliciting moans from him. Her hands wandered along his back, tugging on his shirt, pushing him into her.

He had been gentle, but also drunk. With four hard thrusts, Claire came with a cry and Robert followed soon after, holding his body weight above her on his arms. He offered to stay the night, and she considered it, but that was all she could handle for one night.

“Thank you, Robert,” Claire kissed his cheek at the door. “I had a good time.”

“It was my pleasure, Claire,” he kissed her hand and then they parted ways.

Nothing ever came out of that one date. A few months later, Robert had met a woman at a grocery store and by the time Christmas rolled around, they were engaged to be married. Claire was determined that love wasn’t in the cards for her. She had had one great love in her life. One man that she loved with all of her heart, all of her soul and she knew she would never find that again.

Claire had managed to keep the ghost of Jamie at bay most nights and days. But a couple years later, after another fight when Frank asked her if she would ever truly move on from Jamie, he had gotten in a car accident and died. She had wept, running to his lifeless body after Frank told her the news. She was already at the hospital and ended up sitting with him for nearly an hour before his body was taken down to the morgue.

“I did love you,” she had whispered and kissed him goodbye one last time.

The third time Claire’s heart started to beat on its own was when after months of searching and with the help of the Reverend’s adopted son and her daughter — they found out Jamie was alive.

At least, he was still alive back in the 18th century. He hadn’t died on Culloden Moor, he had made it out alive and was a printer in Edinburgh. Roger Wakefield had found an old clipping of a pamphlet printed by a man named Alexander Malcolm — two of Jamie’s middle names.

It hadn’t been an easy journey. Brianna was furious with her when she told her the truth that she had kept for twenty long years. Jamie Fraser was her father and not only did she belong to another man, but that man was an 18th century highlander. This revelation had nearly broken Claire and Bree apart, but when the three of them witnessed Gillian Edgars (Who Claire had known as Geillis Duncan) on top of Craig Na Dun disappear into thin air — that’s when Bree believed her.

It took seeing it with her own eyes, for Bree to really believe Claire had been telling the truth. After that, they had spent months looking for signs of Jamie and when they found that clipping, proving that Jamie was alive, Bree had told her mother that she had to go back and find him.

“Bree, have you thought this through? If I go, I may never be able to come back. It’s not like an elevator where you can just jump on and off.”

“You’ve done it before,” Bree squeezed her mother’s hand.

“But there are no guarantees. It’s… possible we may never see each other again, can you live with that?” Claire felt her heart tighten at the thought of leaving her daughter behind. “Cause I don’t know if I can. To not be there, to see you get married, walk you down the aisle. Or to watch you become a mother, hold my first grandchild…”

“I know,” Bree looked down at their joined hands. “It won’t be easy. But I have been trying to figure out if I was more Randall or Fraser and what I realized is that I’m more you than I am either of my father’s and if I can turn out to be half the woman you are, then I’ll be fine.”

Claire lifted her hand, brushing back her daughter’s red hair, “But I’m the one who knows you better than anyone,” Claire sighed, tears filling her eyes.

“You know who doesn’t know me?” Bree said, “Jamie. You owe it to him to go back and I want you go and tell him everything.”

Claire was quiet as she looked at her daughter and then briefly down.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“What if he’s forgotten me or what if he doesn’t love me anymore?” There was still a chance that it wasn’t Jamie that was this Alexander Malcolm or that he had in fact moved on with his life. It’d been nearly twenty years since that day on Craig Na Dun.

“You told me what you felt for Jamie was the most powerful thing you ever felt in your life, has that changed?”

“No,” Claire said quickly.

“Then you have to trust it’s the same for him. You gave Jamie up for me, now I have to give him back to you.” Claire hugged her daughter, holding her close and trying to memorize everything about her.

It was just a few days after Christmas that Claire left. She left her daughter behind with Roger Wakefield, hoping that she would be able to find her own happiness. She left her old life behind and focused on finding Jamie.

With every step she took towards the print shop on Carfax Close, her heart began to beat louder and louder until she could only hear the drumming of her pulse in her ears.

A bell chimed as she opened the door.

A few more steps.

A voice.

“Is that you Geordie? Took ye long enough.”

More steps. Louder heartbeat.

“Where’d ye go to get the ash? To Glasgow?”

A pause.

“It isn’t Geordie, it’s me… Claire.”

He turned around slowly, her highlander and when his eyes met hers for the first time in twenty years, Claire’s heart came back to life and she knew everything would be alright.

[tallangrycockatiel]

WoT B2C18: Nynaeve. Nynaeve. Calm down, Nynaeve.

Hoooooo my god, okay. The Amyrlin Seat comes to teach Egg and Nynaeve, while on the ship to Tar Valon. Nynaeve is seasick and angerey and Not In The Mood. There are insults, which escalate to the Amyrlin showing off by paralysing Nynaeve in air, which leads to Nynaeve magically bodyslamming the Amyrlin into the wall. Holy hell. Anyway, they make it to Tar Valon and meet the Mistress of Novices. Let the Hogwartsing begin!

Nynaeve for crying out loud. I really love her, but even my patience is wearing a bit thin here. She’s the Amyrlin Seat, you don’t want to maybe be a bit circumspect here? No? Of course not. I note that we’re over last book’s conflicted self-loathing over being able to channel. It’s now established that Nynaeve can only really manage it when she’s super angry, and she has no problem with making use of that Anyway. She’s suitably raked over the coals for, again, slamming the Amyrlin Seat against a wall while she had her magically pinned down, and the Amyrlin straight-up tells her “if you weren’t stupefyingly powerful, we wouldn’t bother teaching you, purely on the basis that you’re so damn annoying”.

Egg is in the corner dying of embarrassment the whole time.

Also: on the ship being driven by magically-summonned wind and waves, Nynaeve is the only one who gets seasick. All the Aes Sedai are completely unbothered, and Egg seems fine too. I’m wondering if this says something about her relationship to the elements, given that we’ve been told air and water are the ~~feminine~~ elements, and if there’s one thing I’d use to symbolise Nynaeve, it would be fire.

Two other points this chapter. First, Egg has been having more Rand-danger dreams, which suggest that she’s picking up on him channelling. She’s also definitely seeing the same man with fiery eyes as Rand does, but she hasn’t identified him yet.

Second, new character! Sheriam Sedai, Mistress of Novices. She is very old, with red hair and pale green eyes which Egg stares at. To me, she sounds like the descriptions we’ve had of the Aiel, and like Rand. So that’s very interesting. Also: she confirms that Nynaeve is going straight to Accepted level, which has apparently never happened before, but also explains that the first few weeks of that are even tougher than being a novice.

Both of them look utterly terrified.

[theunemployedrogue]

Smooth [Shance ficlet]

A late entry for day four of @shancefluffweek: First/Last

Modern AU. Lance’s first meeting with Shiro doesn’t go as planned -- it turns out so much better than he expected.

“Wait! Wait, I’ve got another one. ‘Hey baby, are you an astronaut? Because that bod is out of this world’.”

Lance flashed his friends a smug grin, waiting for them to declare him the utter genius that he was.

“That was the worst one yet,” said Pidge, not even looking up from her phone.

“Hmm,” Hunk said, thoughtfully tapping at his chin. “I dunno, man. There are plenty of astronauts on Earth. You can’t just assume people will know you’re talking about the ones up in space. I mean, wouldn’t ‘hey baby, are you an alien’ make more sense? Though actually...there might be aliens on Earth too, so...”

Lance groaned and rolled his eyes as Hunk continued to ramble to himself. His brilliant wit and irresistible charm were entirely wasted on his friends.

“Geez Hunk, maybe I should just be like, ‘Hi, I’m Lance. Are you single and interested in men? Because if so, I’d like to take you on a date some time’.”

“I’m game,” came an unfamiliar male voice from behind him.

Lance whipped around, prepared to tell whoever was mocking him to fuck right off, but he immediately abandoned that idea when he saw who’d spoken.

It was him. Takashi Shirogane -- or Shiro, as he liked to be called -- Keith’s stupidly hot best friend that Lance had been Facebook-stalking for like two years. Lance had never had a chance to actually meet him in person due to the fact he’d been deployed overseas for a while. He’d bugged Keith about introducing them once Shiro returned, but figured he’d have at least a couple more years to buff up and get cool before their destined first meeting.

But fate was a cruel mistress, apparently. Here he was face-to-face with Shiro way ahead of schedule, still scrawny, still lame, and wearing a t-shirt with a cat sitting on a slice of pizza in space. 

The absolute demon that had allowed this to happen was standing at Shiro’s side.

“What are you doing here?” Lance snapped at Keith.

“Uh, I work here?” Keith said. “My shift just ended.”

Oh, right. He was even still wearing his Hot Topic name badge. Lance’s brain wasn’t exactly working all that great at the moment.

“Anyways,” said Keith. “I wanted you guys to meet Shiro while he was back in town for a while.”

Shiro smiled and raised his hand in a little wave. The arm was a prosthetic, Lance noted, but it didn’t detract from Shiro’s handsomeness or the aura of strength surrounding him at all.

“You must be...Hunk?” Shiro said, pointing to Hunk. He snapped his fingers in triumph when Hunk gave a nod, then pointed to Pidge. “And you’re Katie, right?”

“Call me Pidge.”

“Pidge, gotcha. Then you must be Lance. Keith’s told me so much about you.”

Lance cut Keith a nasty glare, but snapped out of his vengeful mood just a few seconds later when Shiro barked out a laugh.

“Don’t worry, he had only good things to say.”

“Don’t lie,” Keith muttered, but he didn’t argue any further as he and Shiro took a seat at the table.

Shiro sat across from Lance. He smiled when he noticed Lance staring at him, and Lance quickly averted his gaze, his face flushing red at being caught.

“I like your shirt,” Shiro said.

“Oh, uh, thanks! It’s kinda stupid, I know…”

“No, Shiro honestly loves that kind of shit,” Keith grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Show Lance that dumbass shirt you bought earlier.”

Shiro pulled out a Hot Topic bag and retrieved a white shirt from within. On the front were several kittens and a puppy in cowboy hats with the text “Wot in awwwenation” written beneath them.

“Oh my god, that is amazing,” Lance declared.

“Ugh. I knew you two would get along,” Keith muttered.

Lance found himself chatting with Shiro like an old friend after that. It turned out that Shiro liked a lot of the same things he liked, like memes and action movies, and Lance got so excited about that he forgot to keep his more embarrassing interests to himself. He cringed the minute “mecha anime” left his mouth, thinking surely that would forever seal him as a huge nerd in Shiro’s eyes, but instead Shiro lit up and began gushing about Gundam Wing.

It was so easy to talk to Shiro. Every other word out of his mouth had Lance laughing like an idiot, and Shiro seemed just as amused by the things he said. Lance was so utterly engrossed with their conversation he didn’t even realize how much time they’d spent talking.

“Shiro! Hey, Shiro, we gotta get going!”

Lance looked over to Keith and scowled.

“Come on man, we’re still talking!”

“Lance, we need to leave too. The mall’s closing in ten minutes,” said Pidge.

“Huh?”

Lance took out his cell phone and looked at the time.

“Wha--no way, it was like seven o’clock five minutes ago!”

“You guys have been nerding out nonstop for two hours,” Keith said. He gave Shiro a disapproving grimace, but Shiro just grinned and shrugged in response.

Had it really been two hours?! Had Lance actually talked with such an amazing, gorgeous guy for two straight hours and not completely humiliated himself in the process?

Keith, Pidge, and Hunk gathered their things and started to head for the door. Lance was about to follow when Shiro reached out and gently grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Hey. It was great getting to meet you, Lance.”

“You...you too!” Lance said, blushing. He felt shy again now that he wasn’t totally distracted with talking his head off.

“You mind if I get your number?”

“I uh-- yeah, yeah! Here lemme text you real quick.”

Shiro gave him his number and patiently waited for Lance to text him. Lance’s fingers shook as he swiped out a brief message, and he missed the ‘send’ icon several times before he finally managed to hit it.

“Got it,” Shiro said, lifting his phone when it buzzed. He glanced at Lance’s message and smiled before tucking his phone back in his jacket. “Hey, so I know you were just joking around earlier, but are you actually looking for someone to date at the moment?”

Lance winced. He’d all but forgotten he’d been in the middle of saying the worst pick-up line ever conceived when Shiro first approached them earlier.

“Yeah, sorta…”

“So...are you single and interested in men? Because I’d like to take you on a date some time if you are.”

On one hand, Lance wanted to crawl under the table and die. Not only did Shiro remember the awful pick-up line, he’d just repeated it nearly word-for-word.

On the other hand, holy shit.

“I! I um! Yes, I...yeah, that’s -- yes.” Lance clamped his mouth shut, fearing what nonsense would come out if he kept talking.

“Great! I’ll give you a text tomorrow and we can figure something out.”

They were both sporting flushed faces and nervous smiles as they finally followed after their friends. Lance couldn’t believe Shiro was blushing -- not nearly as much as he was, but damn if it didn’t do things to him knowing he was the cause of that pretty pink color in his cheeks.

Keith had his arms crossed and a knowing look on his face when they came out together. Beside him Pidge was smirking like a devil, and Hunk wore the same soft expression he got whenever he looked at kittens.

“Bye guys. Hope to see you again soon,” Shiro said as he and Keith headed off. Lance raised his hand in farewell, not lowering it until the pair disappeared out of sight.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe it,” Pidge said as soon as they were gone. “Lance actually got a date.”

“I’m so happy for you, buddy!” Hunk exclaimed, tugging Lance into a bear hug and squeezing the life from him before he plopped him back down. “I guess your pick-up lines are pretty good after all!”

Lance decided it was best not to argue with him on that one.

Bonus:

Lance’s shirt  Shiro’s shirt

[voidcrow]

From Chaos Comes Order - Part 2

Hours passed.

In one of the more spacious rooms of the ruined Kaze-Jin palace, six very large and differing circular rune arrays, varying even in their size to some degree, were aligned in an otherwise-precise hexagonal fashion on the floor. A line led from each of these to the center of the arrangement, where there was etched a seventh, smaller circle. Above this, Archimonde’s Finger floated, silently giving off a faint green glow.

<> <> <>

On the small, flat piece of stone she held in her hand, the activation rune slightly lit up. The warlock pocketed the object before peeking around the corner of the ash-gray pillar.

She was looking across an outdoor pathway, ending about fifty yards away from her at the base of a circular portal structure. Along the road walked scores of what had been Vaadeus’ former underlings—battalions of felguard, swarms of imps, lesser eredar warlocks, and monsters of seemingly every shape and color. All were making their way toward and into the portal. Above it all, a jagged dark-green edifice floated in the starry sky. This dimensional ship was presently in its upright position, but given that the trail of demons could be seen nearly at its end in the other direction, it would not remain in this fortress-like configuration for long.

Laciel withdrew back into hiding behind the pillar and turned to regard Shaaghun (who was now missing his normally ever-present bell necklace) and Rupmat (who was carrying something in a burlap sack that seemed as big as he is). “We’ve got a few minutes at most to get on board,” she half-whispered to them before proceeding to build up a spell in her hands. Violet energy wrapped around her form, shrouding it and swirling into a smoky veil before dispersing to reveal the form of a demonic inquisitor, complete with two floating and disembodied eyes.

“You can hear me in that bag, right?” asked Laciel, her voice now low, raspy, and eerily distorted, “I’ll be seeing out one of these eyes, but the other…” she cupped her hand around one of the ocular orbs that floated near her, whispering an incantation. It briefly flashed. “Your vision’s bound to it now, Vaddy. When we hop aboard, you’ll have to guide me to wherever it is that I can control the Lance’s barrier. Use telepathy.”

Do not tarry, echoed the eredar’s voice in Laciel’s head. Through the boarding portal. Quickly.

With that, Laciel, Shaaghun and Rupmat emerged from hiding and blended in to the demonic crowd.

<> <> <>

“Laci, will you tell me something?”

“What?”

“The Legion comes closer than ever to their goal of wrecking your homeworld, and you just tell us to scout this little rock in the Nether and f*** off to Sargeras-knows-where for months. Tell me where the hell you’ve been.”

“…Doing a job for Mrs. Vee.”

“That sure tells me a lot.”

“And that job isn’t done yet, Shaggy; I’ll be headed back pretty soon.”

“Why even make this detour, then?”

“Because, frankly, Azeroth is a death trap. For the last thirteen or so years, it’s been like the whole planet could be destroyed any day now. Merciless gods beyond counting loom over it, minding the future of a nascent titan over that of us tiny mortals. An existential crisis without end; that’s what my daughter’s been born into. I won’t have her spend her whole life in constant terror like that.”

“All for your lil’ squirt, huh?”

“This’ll be Kagra’s first birthday gift from me: An army. One that’ll watch her from the shadows, and keep her safe from a cruel, changing, uncaring world. It’s the least I can do while I can’t be there for her.”

“Lady, you are batshit. You know that?”

<> <> <>

We are here.

Laciel had guessed as much before Vaadeus pointed it out. The group had made their way to the lowest part of the ship, which opened up at its sides to the outside world. Many a Legion commander used this place as an observation platform. In the center of this platform hovered a console made of green light. Some might have mistaken it for the mere astral projection of a console.

There was no one else present besides the warlock and her company, so she waved one hand, causing her inquisitor guise to evaporate off of her form. She motioned for Rupmat to allow Vaadeus out of his sack as well.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Shaaghun half-mumbled, keeping his axe in hand. “The place wasn’t guarded.”

Vaadeus also seemed to suspect something. “I handpicked my fel lord honor guard for their battle prowess over their leadership skill… but even so, Magmugen is no fool. He may have planted a trap here, Voidcrow. I advise against touching the shield controls just yet.”

“That’s alright; we’re not going to throw up the barrier yet.” Laciel turned away from the console and smiled at her servants. “That part comes later~.”

Rupmat started to look concerned. “Due respect, Mistress, but I tend ta get blown up in plans you don’t let me in on right away. Wot comes next?”

“Nothing.” Laciel put her hands behind her back, still smiling. “We wait right here.”

“What the fuck for?” asked an irritated Shaaghun.

As if in response to Shaaghun, another mo’arg warrior appeared on the platform in a flash of green energy. This one was just about an order of magnitude larger than Laciel’s bodyguard, and wore thick armor of stained, jagged metal over his deep-blue hide, decorated with hanging skulls, coiled chains and a fur-laden leather cape. He carried with him a bulky war hammer.

“For him,” Laciel finally answered, presuming this newcomer to be Magmugen.

“Laciel Voidcrow.” The fel lord’s voice was thunderous even in its calm, but oddly smooth for a demon’s. “The weasel who overreached my predecessor.” Magmugen then noticed the disembodied eredar head close by, and put on a bemused smile. “And my predecessor himself, as well!” He bowed sarcastically. “A pleasure, 'Lord' Vaadeus. I see you have developed a new penchant for hiding behind the skirt of your vanquisher.”

“What choice have I?” Vaadeus scowled at the fel lord. “The Burning Legion rewarded my twenty-five thousand years of faithful service by throwing me to the felstalkers.”

Magmugen huffed. “You deceive yourself.”

“The Burning Legion was built on deceit!” Vaadeus barked back. “The destiny that Sargeras promised us is but a lie. All demons will be laid low, and if Zilnakhan does not break away now, its host will share that fate.”

Laciel spoke up: “Either way, Magmugen, you’re going to die.”

“Am I?” The fel lord raised an eyebrow. “This hammer has crushed mortals by the millions. I have scars older than your civilization.”

“You’ll die, and then I'm going to take your minions and throw them at Argus—whatever it takes to buy my world another sunrise!”

At this, the fel lord wryly chuckled. “Ah... heroism. It is my favorite delusion. Your tone and posture both betray it, blood elf. You paint yourself a savior, but your halo is stained, and the truth bare; you are as much in the business of domination as is the Burning Legion. The only difference between my kind and yours is your irresistible tendency towards self-destruction. Race wars, political backstabbing, sacrifices to false gods. I have personally witnessed your kin's boundless desire to destroy each other since very near the beginning—never mind the tiny footnote that is your lifetime. Azeroth is the forsaken child of imperfect creators, a disease unto the cosmos…”

Magmugen took his hammer in both hands, readying himself for battle. “…and we will cure it!”