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pleasancies · 3 years

Text

Justifying The Aftermath

wordcount : 2.1k+

warning : mention of animal abuse, emeto

content : lashing out, electrocution, vomiting, whumper!caretaker, lady whump, lab whump, whumper pov, manhandling

This is it! The last day of Summer of Whump. It's been fun, writing and reading more whump from this event. Can't wait for next year! Tagging : @summer-of-whump

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Previous Chapter

"Breathe deeply, Fenrir."

Her stare was full of contempt. There was still a sharp edge on her two fangs. Blue veins jutting out under her arms and legs. She was much older than John, late in her twenties. Prior affiliation indicated if she wasn't a murderer or an arsonist then she's an accomplice to one. He didn't dare to take a step further. Even when her left arm was tucked in a sling, the other connected to an IV, the general scrapes and bruises on her face, or the fact that she couldn't sit up so the infirmary nurse had to raise her bed to prevent her lungs collapsing in on itself.

Fenrir spat, and it hit him in the chest despite the distance.

John took out his napkin, "I mean it for your well-being. Your rib fracture wasn't severe, but your recovery will be greatly stalled if you manage to get yourself pneumonia."

"And then what? Brainwashing? I had to be Empire's hunting dog? I'd rather die."

"You're contributing to the public good. We're not lying."

"You think turning people into living weapons is for the greater good?" Fenrir grinned, covering the upper half of her face with her palm. "Rich kids are easy to brainwash."

"We were forced. If terrorist groups like those Heretics you love so much doesn't terrorize the managers then we wouldn't have to spend so much time on defense!"

John watched the rise of Fenrir's chest as she spoke. Her breath was fast and shallow.

"Heretics are a new thing. The humans living in the Orients and the Border Islands have existed long before the Ship fell into our grounds. The Empire wasn't reacting to them when they sent out the first Seed and they sure as hell does not need a living monster to weed out a bunch of poors with a handmade grenade. What the Empire doing is never defense, child. They're hungry for control."

Child. It filled him contempt. He might have been younger than her but look who had their life sorted out? An internship with the smartest minds of the earth, a girl waiting back home, and a few years worth of savings. John is more mature, educated in things other than the vulgarity of drink and merrymaking.

Forgetting his fear, John leaned on the side of Fenrir's bed. He loomed above her. "Your problem is that you're uneducated. You had a brilliant mind, but you didn't go to school or truly learn how to think the big picture. The facts you learned was baseless. The Radicals got to you first and I'm sorry for that."

The glare she gave sharpened, and for a second John believed she's going to lunge at him. Luckily she was only taking a deep breath.

"Uneducated? I've written essays, planned raids, and build gardens! I might not be an engineer, but I know more about the world than you."

"This is a waste of time. You're insulting instead of discussing."

"Explain how calling me uneducated isn't an insult."

John run his fingers through his hair, "I'm here only to look at your progress. Look, I think Heretics are too caught up in their pain. They experienced bad things and blame the Empire. But it's just the world. You need to struggle and work and-"

"Mind if I cut in?" Fenrir doesn't wait for John. "Since you want an argument, I want to acknowledge we both had a different view of reality. It's just our sources. But you need to think about what they taught you. I assume you're referring to the workhouses."

"Yes. That, and the jails. I know most of you are former convicts."

She ramped up in intensity. Fenrir raised her voice. "They might told you it's just a struggle, but have you even been there? Eat the rat-pissed grain and get yelled off for sitting? Have you ever questioned if the papers telling their story reflects reality? Managers owned the workhouses. They owned the papers. Of course they only said good things about it. They got away with untold evil because you trust them!"

The long histrionic rant left Fenrir with a coughing fit. John's answer were simple.

"Who's to say you didn't lie to me to sympathize with them?"

"Ask ten men working in the poor house. If anecdotes don't phase you then read some statistics my group works on."

"I'll do it." If John had the time, which was virtually nonexistent. If he had the guts because none of his friends including him know a guy like that, and approaching workhouse residents can get you robbed "Later. Wartimes are a bitch."

Fenrir chuckled, her mood has lightened up. "Aren't we all united under a single flag? Why is there still a war?"

A rhetorical question and a trap. Why is Fenrir likes to anger herself so much? Either way, he's not taking the bait. What a sad life, suspecting every thing you hear might be misinformation. The Empire could never lie about something so grave. They had principles. John had seen firsthand how his life have been easy because his family knows the rules and how go around the proceedings. It's imperfect, but it's definitely better than whatever the Heretics are going for.

For a week, John and Lisette have been adjusting. Visiting Fenrir separately, taking notes of trigger buttons and quirks. This Fenrir was different, and the way she was exposed to the substance made a different sort of Dog, besides the mutations. They need to re-do experiments, test new things, even change up their approach. Fenrir was always angry, and there's this restless energy around her. Avoiding certain topics and sneaking up sweets for her seem to calm her down a little, but that restless edge was still there.

Not a concern. Not since Fenrir's ribs and shoulder had mostly healed. Not after they've think up strategies to temper her prickly disposition and contain the emotional outburst after her first testing. Not when they drug her when she's already asleep before transporting her to the forest.

They were expecting a tantrum. The soldiers prepared stun guns, flash bangs, anything that could assault her heightened senses. Professor Clayton personally stitched the taser cuffs on her ankle. Something John had spent a great deal of time debating against. He was overruled. Lisette took their superior's side. In the end, the shock collar was necessary.

"I think she's getting through to you," Lisette teased.

"Oh shut up. I was trying to meet her halfway." The image in their cameras are somehow better. Some were blank, filled with static courtesy of Fenrir's rampage. But the few that left thrived, vivid contrasts and colours detailing her figure among the half-eaten animal. Alien techs are on another level. "She was taught to expect cruelty from us. We can't reform her if we proved her right."

"I think that's unfair. She'd done bad things, just because she was radicalized to do so doesn't mean she's exempt from punishment."

John leaned on his chair, "But we're not judges. We're scientists. We should refrain from any cruelty unless it's sanctioned by the State."

"Yeah, right." The speakers blared with a distorted buzz of a helicopter. They were silent as it lands at the edge of the forest. Lisette went on, "so you've already told the King you'll stitch Fenrir's wound without anesthetic?"

"You're missing the point."

"What is it then? Don't get me wrong, I think she deserves it. She was a terrorist. But I won't delude myself that they'll bring her to court. No, the way this goes is she'll work for us and be given an honorary medal when all of our testing eventually gives her brain damage."

Lisette leaned closer to the screen. Her expression unreadable. Professor and his soldiers had found Fenrir. She haven't moved from her position. Still kneeling, dirty blonde hair matted with blood. They practically jumped at her. Seizing the shoulders, heaving her up, and kicking her in the legs to disturb her balance. Two men at the side, another sticking a gun on the back of her head. Professor Clayton kept his distance, the switch for the taser cuffs firmly in his pocket.

She glanced at John. The silence of the room grows opressive. He leaned to his microphone, eyes still intently looking at the screen. Fenrir let her feet dragged against the ground. Her head hung low, eyes half-lidded. Not looking at anything at particular. Quiet.

That period of trepidation passes. Fenrir doesn't fight, doesn't even squirm as they put the earmuffs and blindfold on her. She arrives, her knees buckling and fall on the floor. The strength had gone out of her.

First test passed with flying colors. The trigger serum worked. They didn't have to kept her half-dead to maintain her beast form. But the devil is in the details, how much does she have to lose? It was John's assignment to figure it out.

On first glance, Fenrir seemed to have crossed that line. John could smell death from her. Her entire body is covered in dried blood, yet she didn't seem bothered. She stared at the desk, gripping the towel they gave and picking at the threads.

"Fenrir."

"My name is Avis."

John kneeled in front of her, taking the towel. She was shivering, and her fingers were shaking in a way that suggest it was more than the cold. He wrapped the bloodied cloth around her shoulders.

"You're supposed to cover yourself like this," John brings the ends of the towel to her two hands. He hold her clasped arms, gently pulling it so the fabric would cover more of her body.

"I know that," Fenrir absently murmured.

Looking closer, it was a grisly sight. Blood runs from her gums. Pieces of the camera were stuck under her long nails. Dust and dirt were sticking under the coat of dried blood. The shock bracelet was still there.

"I was going to give you a few test before we took you to the infirmary again but maybe you need medical help and a shower first. How's that?"

She looked at him. The hateful stare was still there. "Do you think this is justified?"

"We needed to test your power. Your blood could save millions, only if we know what to do with it."

Fenrir burst into a laugh, "Making me ate two dogs alive could save people?!"

"Fenrir—"

"Don't call me that!" She stood, still taller from the transformation. Her eyes were burning from tears she's desperately holding back. Her stomach hurts. The smell of her body made her sick. Even more disgusting when it reminds her of what she'd done. "I'm not fucking stupid. I'm going to be a warbeast and the only thing I'll save is the Empire's stolen property!"

"Sit down. Please. Let's get you a bath and we'll talk this out, alright?"

Fenrir took a step back. John wished they bother to bring in her handcuffs, if only for his piece of mind. "How could you see me out there and think this is okay?"

"You're right. It's not okay."

It's justified. But John was at lost for words. He nodded, "I know you're in distress. I hear you. Let me help."

"Then leave!" Fenrir yelled. "Acknowledge for once that this entire operation is senseless violence!"

John throw his testing papers on to the desk. His voice grew cold, "You're a hypocrite. You burned houses, destroyed machines, terrorize my friend's families. How could you do all of that and think this is bad?"

"You didn't know, no, you refuse to see the destruction and terror they've caused. And when it became too big for you to ignore, you're going to pretend they've hid it from you all this time or you've got no choice but to follow their orders."

Fenrir reached for the papers, and for the next thing they both now was that her screamed reverbrate through the room. She was on the floor. Seizing. Her limbs jerked, hitting the nearby table. Blood runs from her ankles, and John looked at the door to find his mentor leaning against the frame with the remote.

"Get her a bath, John."

He nodded. She was too weak to fight him off. Little aftershocks plagued her body even as he helped her sit.

"Come on, we should go."

"No, wait." Fenrir hold the leg of the desk in a vice grip. She kept her mouth tightly shut, and there's a bit a green around the outlines of her face. She felt her cheeks burning. Saliva pooling in her mouth. John shook her shoulders. The movement was a straw that broke the camel's back.

She gagged, heaving out a gush of acid and pre-digested flesh. The chunks of meat triggered another bout of vomiting. Each wave of nausea more stronger than the last.

"It's alright," John said, rubbing her back, "Let it out. You'll feel better."

Soon enough, her stomach was empty. She was nodding off, her eyes glassy with tears. John the only thing keeping her from slumping down on her own sick.

"You're a monster," Fenrir muttered.

Next Chapter

#summerofwhump30 #summer of whump #lady whump #lashing out #lab whump #electrocution #emeto cw #animal abuse mention #whumper as caretaker #futuristic whump #manhandling

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bookspined · 3 years

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❝ that’s all history is after all: scar tissue. ❞

{ cis-man, he/him } huh, who’s FROY GUTIERREZ? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually SCORPIUS MALFOY. he is a TWENTY-TWO year old PUREBLOOD wizard who is A HEALING APPRENTICE. he is known for being CAPTIOUS, RETICENT, FACETIOUS, DISMISSIVE, and DRAMATIC but also RESOURCEFUL, CONSCIENTIOUS, FERVENT, INNOVATIVE, and OBSERVANT, so that must be why he always reminds me of the song IN DREAMS BY BEN HOWARD. i hear he is aligned with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, so be sure to keep an eye on him. { merry, 24, gmt, she/they }

CHARACTER PARALLELS: Amy Santiago (B99), Claire Temple (Daredevil), Chidi Anagonye (The Good Place), Giles (Buffy TVS), Michelle Jones (MCU), Simon Tam (Firefly), Elizabeth Swan (PoTC), Spock (Star Trek), Clarke Griffin (The 100), Harley Keener (MCU), Gregory House (House) suggested honorable mention Gizmo (Gremlins)

pinterest [blood, medical imagery tw]

wanted connection ideas

Full Name: Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy Gender/Pronouns: Cis man | he/him Age: Twenty-three Birthdate: January 20th Parents: Draco Lucius Malfoy & Astoria Céline Malfoy (née Greengrass) [Not biologically Astoria’s due to her health, if you ever point this out he’ll flay your eyeballs] Siblings: N/A. Birth place: St. Mungo’s Hospital, England Height: 5’11” Weight: 56 kg Sexual/Romantic Orientation: Demiromantic Bisexual Nationality: British Body Alterations/Marks: A ragged diamond shape scar at the base of his throat.

Blood Status: Pureblood Hogwarts House: Slytherin Wand Arm: Right Pet: His pet toad, Jarvis, recently passed away. Patronus: Arctic Fox Wand: 11 2/3 inches, Willow, Supple, Dragon Heartstring.

Willow is an uncommon wand wood with healing power, I have noted that the ideal owner for a willow wand often has some (usually unwarranted) insecurity, however well they may try and hide it. While many confident customers insist on trying a willow wand (attracted by their handsome appearance and well-founded reputation for enabling advanced, non-verbal magic) my willow wands have consistently selected those of greatest potential, rather than those who feel they have little to learn. It has always been a proverb in my family that he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow.

Personality Traits: Brilliance, innovative, empathetic, individuality, openness, social consciousness, inventive, logical, practical skills and self assertion; lack of attachment to people outside his circle and the “real world,” over-intellectualizing of the emotions, dismissive, anxious, crotchety tempered, facetious, rigid, prone to self-isolation, intellectual arrogance, and stubborn. Zodiac Sign: Aquarius/Capricorn Cusp Moral Alignment: Neutral Good Core values: Loyalty, Knowledge, Hope Four temperaments: Melancholic

HOGWARTS HOUSE ANALYSIS

Slytherin Primary and a Burned Ravenclaw Secondary.

Slytherin Primaries prioritize their own selves and loved ones first. Slytherins don’t feel guilty or selfish about this– they feel righteous and moral. The most important thing is to look after your own. Abandoning or hurting one of your own is the worst thing you can do.

A Burned Ravenclaw Secondary might want to be skilled, curious, and prepared, but they feel like they are (or like people think they are) limited, clumsy, or inconstant. Gathering knowledge, hobbies, skills, or tools is the right way to achieve their goals, but Burned Ravenclaws know that’s not going to work within their capabilities. So they take other paths and use other tools– maybe a Gryffindor’s bluntness, a Slytherin’s flexibility, or a Hufflepuff’s slow and steady dedication.

You may have a Hufflepuff Secondary Model.

Hufflepuff is the House of grit, reliability, and determination, and Hufflepuffs use those values to help live, act, and succeed. If you model Hufflepuff Secondary, you also value these things and like to live by them. You like to be hardworking, dedicated, and consistent– but you wouldn’t feel guilty for abandoning those values in the service of other, higher priorities. If there’s another, easier way to get what you want– you’d take it. You think hard work provides valuable rewards– and those rewards are why you work. The work doesn’t have persuasive value in itself.

Despite his very best resistance he’s always been pretty empathetic in nature, he tries to rule his emotions as well as he can but fails more often than not. He was always one of those toddlers that if another kid started crying he’d be right along with them, not because he wanted attention but because he just couldn’t not. A bit of a crybaby, has researched how to magically seal up his tear ducts. Obviously managed to keep the family’s flair for the dramatic there as well. After a few years he leant into the sarcastic vague-snobbishness to hide the core of overwhelming anxiety.

Just managed to scrape through his schooling with nearly all top grades, this isn’t really due to him being a model student. He has always accrued information with a voracious appetite. Any knowledge he could find, even if most people would consider it entirely useless. His mind clicks into that place? You can’t keep him away. However, when there is not an immediate stir of interest on his approach to a topic he has to fight with himself tooth and nail to carry on.

Predictably found exam season highly stressful, was never open about it but was quietly competitive and silently smug over his good grades. Could comprehend well above his reading level from an early age and would often look into experimental research and complicated magic but found himself lost in OWL level History of Magic when chapter upon chapter lay ahead of him about something that didn’t catch his interest. Some people he beat just to spite cause he hates them. It worked, whatever.

Tends toward introversion and finds himself tired sometimes quite easily by a large amount of social interaction. Witty and big-mouthed when he feels comfortable or is in the presence of those that embolden him and very likely to get flustered and snap at people when things are becoming a bit too much. Especially if he feels however unjustly that someone is blocking his escape. Has matured slightly in this since leaving school but it happens still, he’s just anxious. Quite fickle and can at the drop of a hat decide that he’s done with you for the day once his Give Me Attention Meter is maxed. Could be an absolute bloody brat when he felt like it but feels he has grown out of it, which he mostly has.

Always been very, very aware of many people’s distrust of him and his family, he used to sneer and play it up if anyone tried to bring up his dad and go on the offensive but was genuinely affected quite deeply by it all. In his early school years, despite his weakness to the cold, he constantly had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow so that his blank forearm was bared as a statement to just about everyone. I am not marked, I never will be. Now he’s older he has more of a handle on things and can be diplomatic in situations where people are clearly discomforted by his presence and his family history.

Even though the war culminated far earlier in this verse I imagine Scor would have had to have been relatively sheltered as a child if not for how emotionally sensitive and prone to periods of ill-health he was, it was definitely for his own safety. He is still the grandson of a known high-ranking Death Eater and that made him a media target and put one on his back for anyone else that might happen to be watching.

Never produced much of a talent for offensive magic and wouldn’t resort to those methods unless he had literally no other choice, not a front line fighter by any means. His talents with strategy, potion-making, healing and his perseverance with defensive magic are what define him to the Order. While everyone kind of knows who he hung out with at school and who his friends are he is deliberately very mischievous with releasing rumours and misleading people. He deliberately keeps his cards very close to his chest so most people don’t know that he is aligned with anyone, he usually uses glamours or a scarf to conceal his identity if he has to.

While he is knowledgeable about healing and anatomy, he is the WORST at taking care of himself. The literal embodiment of Healers make the worst patients, tends to forgo sleep and basic bodily needs if he’s locked into what he’s focusing on. Sometimes needs reminders to sleep and eat, like a child.

Healing is the most satisfying part of his life and he would never give it up, he likes to experiment as he has a fascination with magic and muggle science and where they might intersect. A fucking nerd honestly. While he thinks he’s being fairly subtle about it a large part of his academic life has been doused in research into blood maledictions, for obvious reasons. He does his best not to flutter too obviously around his Mum. She is capable and ten times stronger than he is.

Lives in a small studio flat in Diagon Alley that is mostly stacks of books and makeshift shelves.

the stillness of the world the moment you take the first step into fresh snow, cashmere and fine wool, the pearlescence of dreamless sleep draught, the scratch of a quill on parchment, faintly tremoring fingers, a shiver up your spine in a warm room, the exhilaration of a problem solved, a thunderous grey overcast sky, the bite of a stitching charm, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, petrichor, the burn in your eyes before a well of tears.

Always had somewhat fragile health tending toward sickly. Hands are never warm, his existence is an endless heat seeking mission.

Went to one Slug Club meeting and used his time to verbally berate and or challenge most of the contacts in attendance, he was not asked to return.

Potions Club, Charms Club, used to sometimes be willing to be dragged to Dueling Club but didn’t enjoy himself.

Plays quite a bit of chess.

Bruises like a fucking peach and scars so easily.

Views quidditch as a good fly spoiled.

Is a very skilled pianist almost entirely due to his Grandmother’s tutelage.

Surprisingly great with children/toddlers/babies, no one including himself expected this, he mostly feared them beforehand.

Bit of a mummy’s boy in that he practically GLOWS when people talk of Astoria’s achievements.

When he has time off from healing he will have chipped black nail varnish on.

Highly intelligent but rarely manages to match a pair of socks, chews his quills but no one else’s.

While very eloquent and well spoken, he is markedly less posh than when he first arrived at Hogwarts.

When he isn’t prone to bouts of insomnia he can take a nap pretty much anywhere. He was once found in a tree after several frantic hours search.

[ CREDIT : CHARACTER PSD template by @karmahelper (defunct url) I tried to find a current social this week by messaging around but couldn’t find anything unfortunately. Forgot to copy this over from the google doc! ]

#potterintro #finally #sorry if this is missing anything

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victimeyez · 4 years

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An Exercise in Trust

A short fanfic of Somewhere In the Woods by @knivestothroats , I just recently discovered the series and immediately became obsessed. Will definitely be playing with these two more in the future.

Here’s the link to the original work!

https://knivestothroats.tumblr.com/post/620647367171096576/in-the-woods-somewhere-masterlist

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“Do you have a pair of scissors I can use?”

Fletcher looked up from their book with a raised eyebrow. Buck felt small under their gaze, transported for a moment back to being a child asking for permission to go out and play.

“Why, so you can stab me to death?”

“What? No, I want to cut my hair.”

“Oh. Well let me do it, so you don’t fuck it up.”

Buck bit his lip, shifting on his feet.

“Uh...I can do it, I just need to borrow some scissors.”

Fletcher looked unimpressed and met him with a level stare.

“No, I can’t trust you with scissors, you tried to shoot me, remember?”

Buck grimaced, rubbing his wrists instinctively against the memory of hanging from them for countless hours.

“You could...supervise?...” Buck suggested lamely, but Fletcher held fast.

“No scissors, and no fucking up your hair. Kitchen, now.”

Buck hovered by the small kitchen table as Fletcher unlocked one of the secure drawers they had installed sometime after Buck moved in.

When they turned around, holding up long silver scissors and snipping the air with a devious smile, Buck’s stomach gave a little lurch - but Fletcher’s hands found his shoulders and firmly pressed him down into a chair.

“You can relax, you know I’m good with sharp things.”

Buck chuckled weakly, but Fletcher seemed genuinely in good humor. Their hands carded through his hair with surprising tenderness, catching a few snarls and combing them out with their fingers. He could feel nails in his scalp, but instead of hurting him, they teased along the crown of his head pleasantly.

“So, what’ll it be - the usual?”

“Could you cut it short?”

Fletcher hummed behind him.

“How short?”

“Uh…,” Buck reached up, taking a handful of it and tugging lightly, straightening out the hair to a few inches from the scalp.

“...this short?”

Fletcher’s fingers caught his, pinching the hair where Buck wanted it cut.

“Why the drastic change?”

“Just...for comfort, you know.”

Fletcher hummed again, placing a hand back on his shoulder.

“That’s a shame. I like the long look on you.”

Buck swallowed, surprised by the compliment. Sort of...compliment.

“And besides…” Buck could hear Fletcher lean in, until their lips were right beside his ear.

“If I can’t take you by the hair, I’ll just have to take you by the throat.”

Buck shivered at the idea, instinctively ducking his head as if to protect his neck, and Fletcher laughed.

“Maybe just - maybe a few inches off the ends, then.”

Fingers carded through his hair again, pulling the strands back away from his face, and he felt a section lifted.

Snip.

The soft snipping of the scissors fell into a fairly even pattern, and Buck closed his eyes. He used to like getting his hair cut, even if it was just to trim the dead ends. Back before, in his old life, when he could make his own decisions without having to beg. There was something very intimate but soothing about having your hair touched and toyed with and trimmed.

It felt strange to have that done by the same person whose hands had inflicted so much pain.

A sudden, forceful snip beside his ear startled him out of his reverie, and a hand cupped the other side of his head, holding him still.

“Does it make you nervous?”

A finger hooks the hair beside his face, tugging it a little harsher than necessary before tucking it behind his ear. Then something cold presses to the upper shell of his ear and pinches, a pinpoint of pain, and holds him there.

“If I cut off your ears, do you think you would listen better, or worse?”

Buck’s mouth goes dry, and he swallows with a strained click before his tongue nervously darts out to wet his lips. The scissors closed slightly more, and he couldn’t tell if it was cutting into his skin yet or not, but he couldn’t help the whimper that came unbidden at the pain.

“P-please, please don’t, I - I’m trying to-”

A low chuckle cuts him off.

The pressure eases and his hair is tugged free from behind his ear. The sharp sound of each snip doesn’t sound so relaxing anymore. Buck doesn’t close his eyes again, but instead focuses them on tracing the grain in the finished wooden walls of the lodge.

“You could use a shave.” Fletcher murmured, seemingly to themselves.

Buck reached up, touching his face self-consciously. He could feel some shadow growing out, but hardly enough to bother removing before at least tomorrow morning.

“Wait here. Don’t move.”

Fletcher’s presence behind him vanished, and he watched their long shadow depart across the floor.

When they returned, they were holding a towel, a can of shaving cream, and a small black case, and they set it on the table beside Buck. With quick hands they unzipped the case and flipped it open, revealing an old fashioned personal grooming kit. Buck’s eyes were immediately drawn to the shine off of a folded metal knife.

“Head back.”

Fletcher’s hand covered his mouth, pulling his head back by it to expose his throat to them. Buck shivered at the cold drizzle of the shaving cream over his trachea, smoothed and spread a moment later with a soft, bristled brush.

Fletcher seemed intent on focusing on his throat first, and they dropped the brush to the side, the newly freed hand reemerging into Buck’s sight brandishing a gleaming silver straight razor.

Buck immediately moaned in fear at the sight, his body tensing up and hands instinctively reaching for Fletcher’s unyielding grip on him.

Fletcher pressed closer, and Buck could feel the warmth of their body pressed against his back through the slats of the chair. Their arm ensnared his head like a snake, restraining him in a headlock as if preparing to slit his throat. Buck tugged weakly at them and they did not budge.

“Consider this a little exercise in trust. Hands down.”

Buck whimpered, tears welling in his eyes as his blood rushed in his ears. With a flex of their arm, Fletcher pressed on his windpipe, restricting his air and blood flow. He spasmed in his seat as the blade drew lazy circles in the air before drawing out of view, close to his throat.

“F-Fletch-”

“Hands down, Buck, or I’ll tie them down.”

Buck could feel the tip of the razor press right below his chin, playing there. He stiffened, swallowing down a frustrated sob before he dropped his hands, squeezing the sides of the chair seat anxiously instead.

“Good, very good.”

The blade skimmed his skin, carving away the shaving cream with lazy, practiced strokes. Over the cigarette burn that had started to scar over on the side of his throat, more cuts Buck couldn’t even remember sustaining. His skin was pulled taut by his head forced over the back of the chair, throat offered up to them, and he felt unbearably vulnerable under Fletcher’s ministrations. Agonizingly slow, the razor blade was scraped along his trachea, too many times to pretend to still be just a shave. As the knife trailed down, just under his Adam’s apple, it turned, slicing shallowly into his skin. He choked in fear, digging his nails into the bottom of the chair’s seat until his fingertips throbbed urgently.

“Oops.” Fletcher purred, and Buck could hear the indulgent smile in their voice.

The new wound stung fiercely, and he could feel the warm blood ooze out onto his soapy skin. Fletcher caught it with the towel before it dripped below his collar, and the coarse fabric felt like sandpaper against his freshly shaven skin.

“Closest shave of your life, huh Buck?”

Buck made a vague sound of acknowledgment, but it sounded like a whimper even to his ears.

He didn’t feel the razor’s bite again when they shaved his face, but any nerve he might have worked up had been long lost, and he was trembling beneath Fletcher by the time they pulled the blade away, wiping it off on the towel with finesse before returning it to it’s case.

Once he was cleaned up, Fletcher patted his cheek with a warm hand, startling him.

“Good boy, Buck. Go take a look in the mirror.”

He stood from his chair a little shakily but made over to the bathroom, flicking on the light to see himself in the mirror. His hands strayed to his hair, pulling it in front of his shoulders to take a look. The length seemed uniform, with no stray uncut strands hanging below the rest, and his hair looked shinier and healthier with the dry ends clipped away.

He leaned forwards, studying his face. He could barely recognize himself, when was the last time he really looked in a mirror? The scar curling to his cheek was an angry dark red, still painful, and he could see the faint dots of the stitches’ punctures lining both sides. His nose was still healing from it’s split at the bridge, but the swelling had started to go down, and Fletcher had dutifully set it every time they broke it. Yellow bruises still ringed his eyes, fading slowly into his pallid skin. Between the lack of sunlight he got while largely trapped in the lodge and the injuries he sustained, he looked pale and sickly. It seemed trivial after everything to be judging his looks, but he still struggled to swallow the shame that welled inside of him.

To Fletcher’s credit, his face was smoother than it had been since he was a boy, seemingly without a single stray hair left by accident. Clean, methodical, and well executed - Fletcher’s signature, among the other more painful ones that littered his face and body.

When he reemerged, Fletcher had cleared everything away, and was standing with a broom they handed off to Buck when he approached. Without needing the command, he started sweeping up the last hairs Fletcher had cut up from off of the kitchen floor.

“What do you think?”

Buck didn’t look up at them.

“It’s fine.”

He didn’t hear them move, but Fletcher’s boot came down on the broom, halting his sweeping. Buck looked up and met their eyes then. Fletcher didn’t look angry, but was studying them with an expectant look.

Buck’s shoulders sagged. “It looks very nice, thank you.”

Fletcher gave a curt nod, an appeased look on their face, and they walked away, presumably to return to their book.

Buck touched his face absentmindedly, his cheek unexpectedly smooth, and wondered what kind of life Fletcher must have led to become the enigma that held him captive today.

#Somewhere In The Woods #knivestothroats #Somewhere In The Woods fanfic #captive whumpee #threat of restraint #scissors #knives #shaving kink #unhealthy relationships #unbalanced power dynamics #manipulation #sadistic whumper #descriptions of injuries #blood

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years

Note

lime green, blood red & caribbean turquoise for the ask game!! ✨

Lime Green: Your favourite kind of scene to write

I love quiet, descriptive scenes that implement clever dialogue but aren’t motivated by it. Any time I get to play with atmosphere and get really introspective while also taking account of details of the world around a character is so fun for me! I thrive off a pretty description lol so scenes motivated by atmosphere are my absolute faves.

Blood Red: Favourite piece of dialogue from your wip

A masterclass in my favourite dialogue from Feeding Habits:

1. “This doesn’t look like eight hours.” - Eliza (ch. 1 - Bad Vegetarian)

Eliza suspects Lonan isn’t sleeping (she’s right) and pulls out this one-liner that I’ll probs use on myself in the future:

“What happened here?” She smooths the dip of his under eyes, her fingertips cold. He smells her perfume, different today, always different, a smell like cloves and lavender. “Are you sleeping?” She presses onto her toes, examines the other side, and her frown deepens. “This doesn’t look like eight hours.”

2. “It’s probably from the back of our medicine cabinet.” - Lonan (ch. 2 - Wicked Child)

Anya, Lonan and Eliza’s neighbour from a few floors up, appears at the duo’s apartment to pick Lonan up as he’s been voluntold to paint her kitchen, interrupting Lonan’s breakfast of stale sourdough. Anya, a hobbyist baker is hyped to see the sourdough, to which Lonan suggests it's most likely from the back of the medicine cabinet. Anya thinks he’s joking but he def isn’t lol.

“Breakfast?” She points to the crumb stuck to the corner of his mouth.

Lonan swallows the remainder of the sourdough quickly, combing off the crumb with a shallow smile. “Sourdough.”

“Did you make it yourself?”

“It’s probably from the back of our medicine cabinet.”

The woman laughs at this, though he’s not fully meant for it to be a joke.

3. “I could’ve jumped over the moon.” - Anya (ch. 2 - Wicked Child)

Anya serving with probably my favourite lines of dialogue I’ve ever written:

“When Eliza told me you’d paint the wall, I could’ve—what is that saying? I could’ve jumped over the moon. I would’ve. The entire thing. All its phases.”

4. “I’m so bad at hallways.” - Anya (ch. 2 - Wicked Child)

(Proof I love every line of dialogue Anya has ever uttered:)

Eliza hasn’t returned any of Lonan’s phone calls since he tried dialling somewhere between the first and last half of the wall. It’s obvious Anya knows he wasn’t aware of the plan, which is why every few minutes, she states new reasons for her forgetfulness with the time. “Eliza ran into me in the hallway, and I’m so bad at hallways,” she said, while rolling the dough between her knuckles. “So many turns.” Brushing her benchtop with more flour: “Time as a mother is such a commodity. It’s like, what’s the down payment for five minutes alone? But Joey’s worth it. Joey’s always worth it. He’s just magnificent. Can’t stay away from magnificence.”

5. “Are you going to clone me?” - Lonan (ch. 2 - Wicked Child)

Anya seemingly collects hair and Lonan verbalizes his concern that she’s prepping to clone him (he seems down for it tbh):

Anya squints, and there the gold goes, focusing on him until she leans forward and plucks a strand of hair from his jaw. It sags with green paint, and before he blinks, she’s clipped it with a pair of kitchen shears.

“You got some paint on you.”

“Oregon,” he says. “Boston. New York.”

“What?”

“You asked where I’m from.”

Anya pockets his hair. He’s sure it’s a subconscious tick—she hasn’t even realized—but still, he wonders what she’ll do with it. If she’ll send it somewhere to get scanned, bagged, tested. How much you can find out about someone with just a nib of hair.

“That’s a lot of places,” she says. “You’re basically transcontinental.”

From her pocket, Anya’s hand twitches. He wonders what she’s doing, if she’s touching the hair, or flaking off its paint, or simply flattening out her pocket.

“Are you going to clone me?” He gestures to her pocket.

Anya doesn’t look.

“I could.”

“Why?”

“You paint walls fast. You’ve got nice hair.”

“Do you collect hair?”

“Just from the people I like.”

6. “You need hobbies.” - Eliza (ch. 2 - Wicked Child)

Always here for the soft Lonan roasts:

“You don’t need a car to do things, Lonan.” She stirs her bowl of congee, the plastic spoon scraping against the Styrofoam. “You need hobbies. Like cross stitch. Pickling. Painting neighbours’ walls.”

7. “I’m the grass.” - Lonan (ch. 4 - Coup de Grace)

Shared this yesterday and idk why but I find this response to this question so hilarious even knowing the context from Isaiah 40:6-8 “All people are like grass, and all their faithfulness is like the flowers of the field.The grass withers and the flowers fall, because the breath of the Lord blows on them. Surely the people are grass.The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever.”

“Do you feel you’re the God of these women, Lonan? Are you their saviour?”

Lonan shakes his head. “I’m the grass.”

8. “Wish I believed in this shit as much as I believe nutmeg is my new holy saviour.” - Suz (ch. 6 - Blood Sister)

As we move into Harrison’s POV, we also get a lot more humour because his mother Suzanna just says the most iconic things:

The apartment smells overwhelmingly of cloves and apple peel, and he is unsurprised when his mother rushes over to him, flushed from the kitchen heat, her #1 Dad apron bunching at her hips, and pushes a highball glass into his palm in exchange for his findings.

“It’s a secret recipe,” she says, twiddling through his errands. Suzanna lifts the bottle of holy water to eye level, unscrews its cap, and daps two soaked fingers to her lips just as he dips his fingers into the glass, around its rim, and then into his mouth. The hot mull of liquid bursts against his taste buds, citrusy. “Wish I believed in this shit as much as I believe nutmeg is my new holy saviour.”

9. “The Lord?” - Suz (ch. 6 - Blood Sister)

Suz being the comedian she is:

“Is that the secret?” He runs his pinky along the base of the glass so the last drops of liquid climb up his fingernail.

“The Lord?”

Harrison laughs and accepts the holy water she hands him, rescrews its cap in place. “Nutmeg.”

10. “It sounded illicit.” - Suz (ch. 6 - Blood Sister)

I! love! this! woman!

Like the kittens, its nose twitches back and forth, its eyes small enough to be the ovular black beads on Suzanna’s rosary which hangs, decorative, above the front entrance. “It’s a cleanse for the spirit,” Suz said when he questioned her reasoning for bringing religious memorabilia into a house of two atheists. “Dianne from church told me.” Dianne is a beer-bellied schoolteacher, proud pothead and mother of four who frequently volunteers at the church’s weekend functions with his mother. “She’s into that kind of thing. Seances. Jesus Christ. I think she mentioned they had something spicy going on in college.”

“Something spicy?”

“Spicy. Like hot wings. Habaneros. One-night stands. I don’t know Harry, it sounded illicit.”

Caribbean Turquoise: Which character has the most traumatic past?

I think they all experience or have experienced traumas in their own ways like most of us so it’s difficult to “rank” but if we’re looking at it in this way, Lonan for sure had a very difficult childhood + young adulthood that has leaked into his twenties as he’s finally begun addressing/remembering this trauma. He has very little memory of his childhood so it gets very overwhelming as these memories are triggered back, but slowly, as the series has progressed, we’ve gotten an idea for what he’s gone through. He’s working on it!

#writing #amwriting #writeblr #writerblr #asks #fostered #mothwork #feedinghabits

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dahliawolfe · 4 years

Text

Wylie

No exactly cannon, but some elements of the Wynonna Earp timeline are present

“Dammit, Wylie! I told you to stay put,” Doc rages, scooping the youngest Earp up into his arms. Blood is flowing freely from her arm, and tears are welling up in her big chocolate eyes. “Now, now. Don’t start that cryin’” he begged, nuzzling the top of her head.

Wylie was always getting into trouble. At 19, she had been in more scrapes than most twice her age. And Doc figured he wouldn’t be changing anytime soon.

…

“You could’ve been killed!” Wynonna rages.

“But I wasn’t!” Wylie argues, wincing as Nicole dabs her wound with alcohol. “Oww, Nic!” she exclaims, recoiling from the redhead.

“Sorry, Kiddo, but you’re pretty torn up. I’ve gotta patch you up.” Wylie pouts, looking to Doc, who usually folded upon seeing her sad face.

“Oh, no, Missy. You earned every bit of this,” he says, wagging his finger at her.

“Wave!” Wylie begs, desperate for someone to be on her side. Waverly takes one look at her little sister and sighs.

“Oh, Wynonna, she was just trying to help. Give her some whiskey to dull the pain a little will ya.”

Wylie grins at her big sister. She knew someone would help her out.

“I absolutely will not give my baby sister whiskey!” Wynonna yells, crossing her arms over her chest.

“But…But…Nonna, it hurts so bad. Please.”

“No. End of discussion. I’m going to call Dolls and see what he’s found out.” Wylie hangs her head, knowing she’s been defeated.

…

Wylie studies her phone, waiting on the text to let her know what’s going on. Wynonna had promised her. And she would text. Right?

“Kiddo, I’m sure they’re fine,” Nicole assures, taking a seat on the worn velvet couch by Wylie.

“She promised me. I can help. I’m not a baby,” Wylie says dejectedly.

“I know you’re not, Sweetheart. And so do they, they just love you a lot and want to protect you. That’s all.”

“I can take care of myself!” She’s beginning to get angry. No one takes her seriously, and it is starting to annoy her.

“Calm down, Wy, everything will be ok,” Nicole soothes, coming to place her arm around Wylie.

“I’m going out. Don’t wait up.” Wylie stands angrily and storms out of the house, leaving Nicole sitting, mouth agape, wondering how she was going to tell Wynonna that she’d just let her baby sister go off alone.

…

The summer night is warm, but the grass under her bare shoulders in cool. And it’s peaceful. For once. No one is dying. No one is fighting. And she’s not being treated like a child. Tonight, the open plains are her sanctuary. Wylie lies on the grass, looking up at the huge expanse of stars. She knows that they’re probably looking for her, but she doesn’t care. Because it’s just her, the bottle of whiskey she stole from Wynonna’s truck, and the open air.

Whiskey burns a lot going down for the first few swallows, but then you become numb, and warm, and fuzzy. And that’s where Wylie is at. She could almost fall asleep here. And maybe she will. Just for a few minutes.

Wylie comes back to reality slowly. Something in the air feels wrong. She’s still tipsy, but the haze of the whiskey has faded. And she’s becoming acutely aware that she’s not alone in her little slice of paradise. But she lays still. Trying to come up with a game plan. She doesn’t have a gun. Not even a knife. And her phone is at least 100 yards away in her car. What the fuck is she supposed to do? She could make a run for it, but she doubts she’ll get far. But what choice does she have? So, steeling herself, she bolts from the ground, running as fast as she can toward her little black mustang.

Her hair is pulled sharply, sending fire through her scalp. She’s yanked off of her feet. But not for long as she’s grabbed around the throat and lifted into the air. She kicks violently. But it doesn’t do much good. Her captor has turned her around and she can see his glowing red eyes. “Well, fuck,” she hisses. He smiles evilly up at her.

“Well, well, if it isn’t baby Earp herself. Pleasure to meet you, Little One.” Wylie is slowly losing the fight with consciousness, when she sees it. Her chance at salvation. She notices that he’s lowered her just a few inches to taunt her directly to her face. And her foot is lined up perfectly with his crown jewels. She gives a wry grin before rearing back and kicking him as hard as she can. He makes a sound like a gutted pig and throws her away from his body. She lands hard, hitting her head on the ground with a solid, “thwap”.

The world spins drunkenly for a few seconds before she makes her way unsteadily to her feet. She hears his boots approaching behind her, so she grabs the only thing she can reach, her whiskey bottle, and spins, putting the whole of her weight into the swing, catching him in the skull. He crumples, but unfortunately, so does she. The bottle has broken in her hand and her grip is slick with blood, but she holds the broken bottle like her life depends on it. Because it just might.

The familiar sound of boots approaches from behind her, and she smiles. Wynonna and Doc are here. Just in time. Because, she’s not sure she can stay awake much longer. She falls back into Doc’s arms just as Wynonna levels Peacemaker at the revenant’s head and pulls the trigger. Then she goes limp.

…

Doc holds her hair back as she empties her stomach into the basin in front of her. Again.

“Alright. It’s alright, Darlin’. I’m right here with ya,” he soothes, pulling her back into his chest once she’s spent. She sobs, turning her face into him and clutching his shirt in her fist. The combination of the alcohol, head injury, and near-death experience have wrecked her.

Wynonna comes back into the room and kneels to place and ice pack on Wylie’s temple. “It’s ok, Babydoll. You’re safe now,” the eldest sister assures. She strokes her sister’s arm and hums quietly. Wynonna had spent many nights taking care of Wylie like this. Wylie was Ward’s youngest, but the girls didn’t share a mother. Ward met Wylie’s mother, Rachael six months after Michelle was sent to prison. She was a drifter and after having Wylie, she ran off again. Wynonna had been the only mom Wylie had known. Hell, she’d been her father too for that matter. When Wynonna went to Greece, she wanted to take Wylie with her, but she knew that a life on the road wasn’t right for a kid. So, she’d done the next best thing; left her with Waverly.

Doc makes his way to his feet, Wylie still in his arms, and she stirs, immediately clutching at him again. “Perhaps she should sleep with us tonight,” he tells Wynonna, looking down at the youngest Earp. He’d immediately taken a shine to Wylie. She was smart. Sassy. Brave. And would just as soon give you a verbal lashing as to look at ya. And Doc admired that. She seemingly became partial to him rather quickly too. The two were nearly inseparable now.

“Yeah, I suppose she should,” Wynonna replies, flicking the bathroom light off behind them as they made their way upstairs. Waverly, Nicole, and Dolls were all at the station trying to piece together who attacked Wylie in that field. And Wynonna wasn’t much for research, but she would damn well kill anybody who tried to hurt her kid.

…

The smoke billowing from his cigarillo clouds out the stars as he sits on the porch. Dolls had called nearly an hour ago identifying Wylie’s would be killer as Johnathan Witham. A pedophile that Wyatt had hung over a hundred years before. Doc remembers Wyatt telling him about the man. And the sick feeling of primal hatred he felt then is still present today. What would he have done with their little Wylie? Doc shudders to think. But Doc assumes that just as in life, Witham, in death served another master. And that scares Doc more than anything. Because that means the threat to his little girl isn’t over.

The bandages wrapped around her bicep and hand, the stitches to her head, and the nasty bruises around her neck make Wylie look like she’s seen better days. And she has. Way better days. She’s tired, cranky, sore, and nauseous, but Wynonna insisted she come to the station with her today. Wylie hates being babysat. She’s a grown woman. She doesn’t need her sister to wipe her ass 24/7.

“Nonna, let me go home and sleep, please. I promise I won’t leave the homestead.”

“No. You’re under 24-hour surveillance until we find out who sent Witham to kill you.”

“How do you even know someone sent him? Maybe he came of his own free will.”

“Unlikely. Witham isn’t patient enough to watch you for that long without striking. Unless someone was there to hold him back,” Doc states, leaning against the desk in front of her.

“But why would anyone want to kill me?! I’m nobody! You’re the heir!”

“You’re not nobody, Sweetie. You’re very important to all of us here,” Waverly says, coming over to stroke her sister’s hair out of her eyes.

“I’m just saying, wouldn’t it make more sense to go after Wynonna? She’s their public enemy number one.” “They know that she would kill for you,” Dolls states, taking a sip from his X mug.

“Ok, but X Man, there’s a problem with that. Why would they want her to kill them?” Wylie asks.

“They don’t. Maybe they wanted to use you as bait and Witham got a little too riley,” Nicole suggests.

“So, they’re setting a trap for Nonna?”

“Could be,” Dolls agrees. “Doc, who did Witham hang around with back in the day?”

“Well, I did not know the man personally. But Wyatt told me that he found Witham west of Pike’s Gulch. That used to be the stomping grounds of the Warren Brothers.”

“The Warren Brothers?”

“Outlaws. Wyatt eventually hung them too. They robbed banks from here to El Paso. They had a gang of bastards out there in those woods.”

“Interesting. Let’s find out more about these Warren Brothers, Haught.”

“On it.”

…

Wylie had fallen asleep on her, and she can’t breathe. But she knows the kid needs the rest, so Wynonna stays still. Or, well, she stays still until her phone rings. She knows it’s Dolls. It’s his ringtone. And she also knows she needs to answer it. Maybe if she can just reach…

“Mama, no,” Wylie whines in her sleep. Wynonna stills again, humming to ease the kid back into dreamland. It’s not the first time Wylie’s called her mama. And for whatever reason, it warms her heart a little. Every time. It makes her feel like she’d finally done something right.

“Wynonna, why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?” Dolls demands, slamming through the front door.

“Shh!” Wynonna hisses, gesturing to the sleeping girl in her lap.

“We’ve got a beat on the Warren Brothers,” Dolls states, lowering his voice. He pulls a chair close to the Earp sisters and sits down. “Wyatt did hang the younger brother, Hank, but it was years before he caught the older one, William. Supposedly, William swore to take revenge on Wyatt. He believed that Wyatt had forgotten about him after he had been gone from Purgatory for nearly five years. So he snuck onto the homestead in the middle of the night, expecting to take Wyatt by surprise. But Wyatt shot him right between the eyes with Peacemaker and let a calvary into the Gulch the next day, taking out the rest of his gang.”

“So, what, Willy boy is still seeking his revenge on us? That’s a hell of a grudge.”

“Makes sense. Well, as much sense as any other revenant’s story.”

“You’ve got me there.”

…

“This is a bad idea, guys. Something bad is going to happen,” Wylie insists. She was expected to walk into the Gulch, pretending to sacrifice herself for Wynonna. And the others would come in and take out the Warren boys.

“Nothing bad is going to happen, Wy. We’ve got you. I promise,” Wynonna assures.

“Ok. Cool. But, maybe…”

“I could do it,” Waverly offers. “She’s my sister too. You both are. It makes sense that I would want to sacrifice myself, too.”

“No! I’ll…I’ll do it. I can do it,” Wylie concedes. She doesn’t want Waverly getting hurt because of her. Dolls nods.

“Then let’s get to getting,” he says, cocking his gun.

The air is beginning to take on the chill of autumn, and Wylie rubs warmth into her skin as she makes her way through the woods.

“I know who you are! And I know what you want!” she calls, looking all around her. “And I’m here to make a deal! I’ll take her place!” Someone jumps from a tree, landing in front of her, nearly making her piss herself.

“Are you now?” the man hisses, the smell of death seeping through his yellowed teeth. Wylie steels herself.

“Yes. Now, take me to the Warren Brothers.”

“We’re right here, Darlin’,” comes a voice, as two men emerge from the trees.

“Well, you heard my terms. Me for her. Do you accept?” Wylie feels like she might spring apart, but she’s trying to keep it together and remain outwardly calm.

“Well, Sugar,” the younger of the two brothers begins, smirk lining his face as he stalks around her in circles. “I think we could work something out.” Wylie swallows through a dry throat.

“So, I have your word?”

“You can have something else, Earp whore,” he growls, dragging her to his body and thrusting his crotch into her hips.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

“Get your filthy hands off of her!” Waverly exclaims, emerging from the trees, the rest of the family flanking her. She marches up to Hank Warren, punching him right in the face as Dolls, Doc, and Wynonna set about eliminating the rest of the Warren gang. Nicole leads Wylie and Waverly away from the action. She’s turned to check on the youngest when a revenant pops out from behind a tree.

“Nic!” Wylie yelps, already grabbing her knife from her boot. She throws it just like Doc showed her, and it finds its home in the revenant’s heart. He slumps to the ground, just in time for Wynonna to arrive and aim Peacemaker at his head, pulling the trigger, and sending the bullet between his eyes.

…

After taking stock and patching up wounds, the Earp family sits around Shorty’s just breathing in the calm of the moment.

“The hero of the night gets a shot, on me!” Nicole declares, slinging a whiskey glass down the bar to Wylie, who immediately shoots it back.

“Hey! This is cider!”

#wynonna earp #wynonna x doc #earp #waverly earp #fandom #fanfic #wynonna earp fanfiction

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kylo-ren-writes · 5 years

Text

Scare

Pairing: Kylo Ren x Reader

Request: Anon requested:

“Ooooh pregnancy scare with Kylo and while they wait for the results they try to see the negatives and positives of having a child. Thanks love ❤️”

Warnings: Pregnancy scare, mentions of menstruation, contraception, sex. Little bit of fluff if you squint.

A/N: Not as fluffy as I was intending to write it, but I hope that’s alright! Thanks for the request, anon! Also, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, so, I hope this doesn’t suck...

The waiting has to be the scariest part of this whole thing.

You’re sitting, on a hard bench in a waiting room in the medbay of the Finalizer, wringing your hands together as you wait for the results.

The results.

Maker, you never thought you would ever be in this situation. It was almost nauseating, really. You had always been so careful in your past relationships, using the right kind of protection and taking the necessary precautions. You can even hear your mothers voice in your head, giving you the “talk” when you were younger and on the brink of adolescence.

None of it had seemed real then, or at least none of it had been of interest to you. Sex was “icky” and something you had promised never to do. Then, of course, when you had gotten older, you quickly understood why it in fact was not “icky,” but rather enjoyable. Or it could be enjoyable, it wasn’t necessarily spectacular every single time. But, your mothers talk had been in your head throughout and even still, and you were careful. Were careful.

You cursed yourself for not being more careful now.

It was easy to mess around when you were a kid and get into trouble with only minor consequences that ultimately wouldn’t ruin your life. For the most part.

You couldn’t quite get away with that in adulthood, and you were quickly learning that now.

The room you were seated in was small and dim, meant to stitch up a stormtrooper or examine a healing injury, with the patient quickly being sent on their way. The room was private. Privacy is what you needed now, especially with who your partner was.

Oh how you wished you were here for only a small scrape or gash. How much easier it would be to only need a small wound treated. Much easier than this.

Kylo paced the length of the room, back and forth, his long legs taking long strides that swallowed up the space within seconds, at each step.

He was distracting, dressed in his black attire: boots, pants, tunic, gloves, but missing the cape. He didn’t need that here. The large, gloved hands at his sides were balled up into tight fists, the odd features of his face drawn into a signature scowl. Kylo looked distant, stressed, and anxious. But so did you.

Nearly two weeks ago you had realized that you had missed one of your normally regular periods. It wouldn’t have been so alarming to you, after all, it was normal to have late cycles and to even miss one once in a while.

It had been easy to shrug it off and hope that it would come. You had been late in the past before and your period always came. However, after another week with no movement below, you grew worried. Paranoid, even.

You and Kylo were always usually careful... Usually. Sometimes you were careless and only relied on other methods of contraception that didn’t involve condoms. The time that lead up to the present now being one of them.

Watching Kylo pace back and forth was slowly driving you crazy. It was making you feel more anxious, and even claustrophobic with how much he was taking over the small room. You needed to ease his anxiety so you could ease your own.

“Kylo,” you muttered, quietly.

Kylo wasn’t listening, or he was too lost in his head and the motion of pacing that he wasn’t registering your voice.

“Kylo,” you tried again, louder this time and more confident. Commanding, like you used when ordering around your officers.

With a falter in his step, Kylo’s head turned, snapping over in your direction, down. His pacing stopped and he raised a quizzical eyebrow. You didn’t miss the nervous energy he exuded and the clench and unclench of his large fists.

You swallowed, offering him a tight lipped smile. “Why don’t you sit down?” You suggested, patting the empty spot on the bench beside you.

Kylo glanced at it and furrowed his dark eyebrows, scowling. “Why?”

He had a lot of energy when he was anxious, upset, angry, that he needed to work off. You understood that, but you were about to lose your fucking mind on him if he didn’t sit his ass down right away.

“Comfort?” You suggested, adding “for me,” afterwards so he would give in without a fuss. And Kylo did, give in that is.

Expelling a dramatic sigh, because he was always such a dramatic man, Kylo stepped towards you, sitting down.

The affect was instantaneous. Your anxiety eased at having him beside you, rather than pacing relentlessly in front of you. You leaned the side of your head onto his arm, nuzzling into it as you let out a sigh of content. The fabric of his sleeves was rough on your skin, but you didn’t mind. It was him.

Kylo sat stiffly, back straight and fists still tightly clenched. Tense.

You looped an arm around his bicep, squeezing it as you ran your other down his forearm, over his gloved fist. You massaged it gently, trying to ease it out of the fist. His hand felt hard at first, the muscles and tendons flexed and strained, but it slowly, very slowly, grew soft, easing out of the fist.

Smiling a little, you held his hand, stroking your thumb over the smooth leather. His hands dwarfed your own, making you feel even more relaxed at the protection they promised.

Kylo was quiet the whole time, but you could feel him relax. The muscles in his body relaxed first, followed by his posture. He leaned his back against the wall, squeezing your hand in his. For a moment it was quiet, a nervous, but still comfortable silence between the two of you.

The two of you could be having a baby. The thought wasn’t so shocking now. It gave you a warm feeling in your chest at the thought of having children with Kylo. You had talked to him about it before, of course. But it had always been a conversation talked about for the far future, not for now or any time soon. Yet...

“Kylo?” You asked suddenly, bending your neck a bit to glance up at him. You were slouched beside him still, resting against his large frame.

Kylo glanced down at you, not uttering a thing. His gaze and silence was enough of an invitation to keep going.

“What if...” You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, suddenly nervous about uttering a word. “What if we did... have a... baby?”

Kylo’s face was expressionless at first, absorbing your words before he furrowed his eyebrows, working his jaw. But there was no anger. He looked like he was genuinely thinking about it as his gaze went past you, lost inside the minefield of his head.

You knew how Kylo felt about the idea of fatherhood and the anxiety it gave him. He didn’t have the greatest example of one growing up nor did he think he could be a good one himself. He hadn’t exactly been the greatest son either.

He thought about it for a short while until finally, “I think it would be... bad timing.” He frowned, slipping back into his head as he unconsciously chewed on the inside of his cheek.

You thought about it, too, gaze pointed at a durasteel wall past him. “Well, not planned, obviously, but...” You paused. “Not entirely... unexpected.” You glanced up at him again, looking for any form of reaction.

Kylo was thinking again, you could see the far away look on his face.

“Perhaps,” he finally said after careful contemplation. “But... with the war...” he trailed off, finally glancing down at you.

Nodding, you pressed your mouth into a line. “Yes, you’re right. The war.” Having a baby during the ensuing war was not ideal, but not impossible either. “But, I know it could—we could—make it work.”

It was true, you very well could make it work, with the positions you both had. With Kylo as the Supreme Leader, he could provide as much protection as your child could need as well as all the exceptional resources. And you were a very high ranking officer that had the respect of your subordinates. It could relatively work.

Kylo blinked at you and nodded slowly, frowning. “There are so many reasons why having a child would not be ideal right now,” he deadpanned. He was always so negative

Despite Kylo’s negativity, he was right. The war was one thing, his own personal issues were another, and there had to be a long list of others, like, maybe you weren’t ready to have a baby yet.

Yet still, it made you feel... warm to think about it. Even if it wasn’t realistic.

“You would be the cutest father,” you said out loud, grinning, trying to lighten the mood a bit with happy thoughts.

Kylo huffed, unbelieving. “Hardly.”

You squeezed his hand. “It’s true, you would be!” You insisted. “Such an anxious and adorable father.” You pictured Kylo, all anxious and protective over his baby in your head, and giggled. He would always be worried for the baby’s safety and your own. You could see it. The thought of Kylo as a parent was a sweet one.

“I wouldn’t get an ounce of sleep,” Kylo huffed.

Smiling, you laughed. “You don’t sleep anyway,” you teased him. Being the Supreme Leader of the First Order required a lot of his time and often left him sleep deprived.

Kylo raised a brow. “Exactly. With a baby, I really would get no sleep.”

You understood how he felt of course. Your position left you exhausted at the end of the day. No matter how much sleep you tried to get, it always felt like it was never enough. You woke up early, but you were not a morning person.

Nuzzling into his arm, you smiled softly. “It would be worth it though... if it meant having a baby with you.”

Kylo stiffened beside you for a minute, then relaxed. You glanced up at him, seeing the corner of his mouth turned up the slightest in a smile—or a smirk.

But before Kylo could reply, a med droid rolled into the room with your results.

Kylo instantly tensed, all the anxiety and nervous energy returning back to him and you.

“The results of the pregnancy test are negative,” it informed, not wasting any time in relaying the results.

The droid rolled back out, leaving you both alone.

A wave of relief ran through you, followed by an unexpected wave of disappointment for what could have been.

You chewed on your bottom lip, silence filling the space around you and between you. Kylo was silent, too.

Leaning away from Kylo, you looked at him, squeezing his hand. “Well that’s a relief.”

Kylo nodded, quiet for a moment longer. “We will,” he muttered.

You furrowed your eyebrows, confused. “Will, what?”

Kylo turned his head, looking at you with the faintest smile. “Have a child.” He squeezed your hand, angling his body towards yours. “Not now, but--”

Cutting him off, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I know, Kylo, I know...” You were smiling, hugging him tightly to you.

Kylo wrapped his strong arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He did want to have a baby with you, but he wanted it to be at the right time, or at a decent time, when there wasn’t so much threat looming around. He wanted it.

“I love you, Kylo,” you breathed, relieved about the results, but hopeful for the future.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo x you #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo fanfic #kylo fanfiction #kylo ren imagine #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars fic #kylo fic #kylo ren star wars #star wars kylo ren #Kylo ren fluff #Kylo fluff

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aliceslantern · 4 years

Text

Retribution, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 1

Newly a person again, Ienzo is weighed down by guilt and his humanity. He's prepared to do whatever it takes to atone... only to find unexpected solace in a familiar face. With more insight into the bonds between people than ever before, Ienzo reaches for a dangerous element from the past to help Kairi and Riku in their search for Sora. What is his life if it means saving another, brighter light?

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Kairi woke up slowly. “Anything?” she asked, before her eyes had even focused.

Ienzo sighed. “I’m afraid not.” He began detaching her from the monitors.

Her own sigh was heavy, derelict. She sat up, rolling her shoulders, stretching. They woke her every five days--to be unconscious for so long was inhumane, good neither for her body or mind. Not good for them either, to work so constantly, but Ienzo cared less about this.

“It isn’t easy, to trace a heart,” he added. “We’re all working as hard as we can--but it’s beyond nebulous, beyond, even, theory.”

“I know,” she said. She smoothed her short hair. “I just… I thought I would feel him. I… don’t.” She forced a smile.

“I sincerely wish I had better news,” he said. More than a little harrowing, to see her moroseness.

“I know you’re doing your best,” she said. She stood, a bit shakily. She nodded once. “I’m going to go clean up. Take care of yourself, okay?”

Ienzo watched her leave, feeling a bit dazed. He set down his tablet, smoothed the chair where she slept. His eyes ached.

“...You woke her on your own?” Even asked. He’d gone out for some books. “I’d hoped to check her vitals.”

“She’s stable. Like she always is. I was trained in first aid, you know.”

Even rolled his eyes. “Did she ask again?”

“She always does.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure how much longer we can reasonably pursue this. There--continues to be nothing. ” A thin, needy pain bloomed between his eyes; he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“...You look like you should be the one sleeping.”

“You’re likely right. There were some things I’d hoped to check on. I’d best do so before--”

Even frowned. “Her break in sleep functions as a break for us, too. You need rest to do good work.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” he remarked. “When was the last time you slept, Even?”

He scowled. “Go on, then, boy.”

Ienzo did feel more than a little shaky. Human physicality was so brutal, so constantly needy, all the time; his body felt very nearly alien. He made his way back towards his own bedroom. The ache in his head wasn’t getting any better.

“Freed you at last, huh, Zo?”

He almost groaned. It was much harder to squirrel himself away now, that was for sure. “...I see your day is done early as well.” This was certainly a variable he had not planned for, living here once more.

Demyx shrugged. “No more deliveries. I could just sit there, but why?”

After Xehanort’s death, the other boy had nowhere to go and nothing to do; evidently he’d found some satisfaction out of bringing Ienzo the vessels, as he now worked for Scrooge McDuck as a courier. It kept him mostly out of Ienzo’s hair, which was good. Convincing him to become human again had been… exhausting, but at least now there was assuredly no more bits of Xehanort. “...I see.” Small talk had never been his forte, and given his tiredness was the last thing he wanted to subject himself to.

Demyx stared at him. “All good over there?”

His interest in Ienzo’s work was disorienting. “The usual, I suppose.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That sucks.”

Ienzo shrugged. He was right, which was the irritating thing.

“I guess she’s up and about, then? I should say hey.”

“If you like. She might like some company.”

Demyx didn’t notice the sarcasm; or else didn’t comment on it. “Awesome. See you around, Zo.”

Ienzo just shook his head. “Zo” was a vast improvement over “Zexy”, but he still did not care for Demyx’s nicknames. It had taken the boy long enough to stop calling him Zexion.

(If he were being honest, he still made the same mistake, especially writing his own reports--his fingers would hover over that Z key for longer than they should.)

He went into his bedroom. It wasn’t a large space, not helped by the clutter--books, more for research than for enjoyment, were piled around his desk. He should at the very least take the ones he no longer needed back to the library, but the library was still such a disaster. Relics of his childhood were here and there; the tapestry of constellations, storybooks gathering dust on the overpacked cherry bookshelf, a few moldering stuffed animals sitting in a box. He had no idea what to do with these things. All he knew was that looking at them made him feel vaguely ill. He shed his labcoat, loosened the ascot at his throat. He perched on the mattress and ran his fingers over the stitching of the old quilt, trying to orient himself, to prepare himself for the labor of sleep. Ienzo could feel how badly he needed it, much more acutely than he ever did as Zexion. But his mind was spinning--with disappointment, with the sickness of looking at his old things, with memories that wanted to come, with these heavy feelings.

Perhaps a bath might help? A bath and a trashy novel?

It was still… odd, to see himself in mirrors. Generally he tried to avoid it, but it was not always possible. He shuddered a little as his fingers brushed the scar around his throat. Most unbecoming. Religious application of scar cream didn’t improve things, but at least the color was no longer such a vivid violet.

He settled into the warm water. On a physiological level it was soothing, but the second he started to relax the thoughts invaded--wasn’t this so self-indulgent? He should be downstairs, right now, analyzing the data they’d gathered from this week of Kairi’s sleep. At the very least logging things, drafting a report. Reconnecting with Ansem and the others, to see what they’d found.

His breath, in the tiled space, seemed loud.

Dealing with them should not be difficult. But all he could think when he saw them was they told me you’d gone mad. He grimaced. This wasn’t helping. Maybe some chamomile?

(A stiff drink? Or a sedative?)

He bathed, because he was already here. His skin was weirdly raw, oddly sensitive to everything. It had been when he was a child, but he figured he’d have outgrown such issues. It felt like everything was scraping along his nerves. He put on a soft sweater, slacks (his body would not physically allow him to wear denim. It was extremely irritating). Tried to fix his hair, which continued to grow directly into his eyes despite best efforts. He’d considered cutting it, letting it all go, but likely that would be a shock to himself as well.

Would eating help? He was feeling dizzy. Blood sugar, maybe? Hard to tell. Just tell me what you want , he thought, towards his body. Enough of this vague aching.

He heated some soup Aeleus had made, forced it all down. Nope, that didn’t help. Was he legitimately ill? He could ask Even, who was indeed a medical doctor as well as a researcher, but frankly he’d rather just deal with it on his own.

“Hello, Ienzo.”

He jumped a little, despite himself. “Oh… hello, Master.”

“I noticed Kairi was awake.”

“...We were rapidly getting nowhere. I figured no reason to keep her asleep if we were getting nothing done. She had expressed interest in doing some visiting. She should. It’s summer, and she’s sixteen. Might as well enjoy it.” He was rambling.

“Why shouldn’t you?”

Ienzo scoffed. “More pressing things on my plate than socializing. ” He could hardly stand talking to Demyx, much less anyone else.

“These breaks are for us, too.”

“...Even said the same thing.”

Ienzo did get some pleasure from the spark of anger that entered his eyes at the name. “You should at the very least get some sunlight. When was the last time you left this castle?”

He thought about it. “We did need groceries a few days ago.”

“Other than that.”

Ienzo was drawing a blank. He bristled a little. “What of you?”

Ansem chuckled. “...Quite. I believe we’ve all been… engrossed.”

“I wish I felt like I were getting somewhere. Seeing the disappointment in her eyes every time she wakes up… is taxing.” He shook his head. “I’m trying to help, to be of use, but we…” Ienzo trailed off uselessly.

“Might I sit with you?”

“...If you like.”

Ansem joined him at the small oak table. It was still so odd, to talk to him after such a long period of separation. That Ansem forgave him was staggering. “How are you faring?”

“...A loaded question.”

He smiled. “I do hope you don’t forget you’re also a young person.”

“Oh, I never was.” He shrugged. “Old soul. So I’ve been told.”

“...You deserve to enjoy your life too.”

Ienzo snorted.

“Why is it you react this way?”

“After all the suffering I’ve wrought?” He raised an eyebrow. “The least I can do is try to help Sora, and the committee.”

“No need for you to also suffer.”

He laughed a little. “I’m not suffering.”

Ansem gave him a look that suggested he was full of it. “You struggle, Ienzo. I can just tell.”

He pursed his lips. “You needn’t concern yourself with me. I’m sure you have other things to worry about.”

“I’m not allowed to worry about you?”

“Well you needn’t waste your energy.”

Ansem blinked. “I’m aware we’ve… lost time we’ll never get back,” he said slowly. “But I do wish to repair our relationship, such as it is.”

More baffling yet. “Why?”

“Why?” He repeated. “Ienzo, you’re my son.”

“I was .”

“...A bond that only ended through no machinations of your own.” He reached over to take Ienzo’s hand; he flinched, the touch unexpected and unanticipated.

“How can you even bear to look at me?”

“You asked for none of this.”

Ienzo could feel something rising within him, heat building behind his already aching eyes. He regretted eating; it felt as though it may come up. “Didn’t I? I asked to do those experiments--”

“--Because Xehanort manipulated you into thinking it was your idea.” Ansem’s rust-colored eyes bore into his. “Because you were a child and wanted to please those around you.”

“What about everything that happened after?” The blood was hot in his face, the toxic slurry of emotion making him nauseous. “When I was older? When I should have known better?”

“You grew up with no heart. No conscience, no bonds with others. How were you to--”

“My actions killed people.” He stood up. “I am no innocent victim, Master. Who do you think was the Organization’s tactician?”

Ansem seemed to not know what to say.

“All those puzzles you taught me to love. Do you think I wouldn’t use that? People were pieces to me. Pawns. How am I any better than Xehanort?” He took a breath; the air was hot. “I need to take my leave.”

“Ienzo--”

He was already moving. He felt it coming at him like a wave, sticky, itchy and impossible to reckon with. Guilt like rivers, like oceans, making his heart race and his palms sweat. He couldn’t be of use if he fell apart. He couldn’t fall apart. Couldn’t. Get it together. He repeated it, almost like a mantra. Get it together.

“...Zo?”

Ienzo almost swore out loud. The last person he wanted to see. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“You look--”

Ienzo narrowed his eyes, daring him to say something.

“...Tired,” Demyx settled on.

“Yes, I am very tired,” he said. “I should like to get some rest. If it’s all the same.”

“I mean, sure, but…” He bit his lip. “Is there… anything I can do? For you?”

His eyebrows shot up.

“You just seem kinda overwhelmed and I--”

“Thank you, Demyx, but I do not need your help.” He scowled.

“Oh… okay.” Demyx bit his lip. “Well… get some sleep.” He tried to inject some cheer into his voice, but it fell flat.

"...I shall certainly try." His headache was only worsening. He limped back towards his bedroom and lay down, pulling the covers around himself. He tried to breathe, slowly, evenly, to lower his heart rate. It wasn't quite dark, but he needed to at the very least try to sleep, despite guilt, despite everything.

Ienzo counted his breath. He told himself stories, recalling novels from memory. Finally, finally… he drifted into an uncertain sleep.

There was a reason Ienzo avoided rest.

The memories, even in unconsciousness, constantly invaded. Tonight's choice? His very own death, the sensation of the replica's glove closing around his windpipe, darkness holding Zexion firm, unable to slink away or fight. Sharpness cutting into his throat, feeling draining out of his body--

Ienzo jolted up, breathing hard. The panic was familiar at this point, but no less painful. He tried to push through it, counting all the items in the room, but his hand had snapped up to his scar.

It's no less than what I deserve.

He was feeling nauseous now. He sat up slowly, checked the alarm clock at his bedside--he'd only managed a few hours, but now it was dark out. There was heat in his eyes.

Cry if you must, and get it over with.

Ienzo rocked slowly, in an attempt to self-soothe. He felt the dampness on his face, humiliation breaking over him in a wave. It was like purging; emptying the tears from his body. At least, he tried to think of it that way.

Eyes raw, he lay back down, hoping that was enough, but it wasn't. It was clear he would get no peace tonight. He exhaled heavily, got up, put his lab coat back on, and headed back downstairs.

At least, if it were this late, he wouldn’t have to deal with anyone other than himself. He sat in front of that computer screen for a long time, trying to put the pieces together.

#retribution #ienzo #demyx #ansem the wise #zemyx #even (kingdom hearts)#kairi #remind spoilers

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shadowluverworks · 5 years

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Remissionem - Chapter 5

If you’ve been keeping up with the show, Della has returned to Earth. In this story however, Della is still gone, and her whereabouts are unknown, she is presumed dead.

This story has some gore in it, considering it’s about a family overcoming an accident and fighting mortality. Reader discretion advised as I work at a veterinary clinic, so wounds and the treatment of them may be described rather realistically. If you have a squeamish stomach, I suggest not reading these sections. For those of my readers who like this sort of stuff, I hope you are satisfied you creepy little nerds! Thanks for reading guys!

Chapter 5: Is Stronger

The sudden quiet is a bit unsettling. Louie stands from his chair to peek over the balcony again at his family below. His great uncle is covered by a thick white blanket from feet all the way to his shoulders, eyes closed and head resting back on the pillow behind him. His uncle sits a yard or two away to the rich duck’s right, leaning against the plane’s side, head hanging, and hands folded over his middle, obviously asleep from the snores emanating from him. Huey’s on the opposite side, sleeping on his left with back to the plane’s wall. Dewey and Webby lay in the middle of the plane, a couple yards away from Scrooge. The middle child sleeps on his back, arms and legs sprawled out and away from his body in a starfish like position. Webby rests on her front, head turned to her right and away from the others resting on one hand.

It seems safe to go back down. The youngest triplet can feel his own tired body longing for a rest, he’d like to join the others in their slumber. But there’s something else that pulls him towards them, something he’s been trying to avoid.

He turns to Launchpad, hands in his pocket, “I’m gonna go down there, you ok up here by yourself?”

The pilot nods, “All good here. We still have a little less than 5 hours to go yet.”

Louie nods his head in return and turns to go down the ladder. He’s not concerned leaving the other alone, the main reason he had come up here was to be away from the bloody scene below. Launchpad is more than capable of keeping them on the right path, as he’s proven many times before. Landing of course is a different story, but one they wouldn’t have to worry about for several hours.

As he reaches the ground floor and turns back to where his family sleeps, he almost jumps at seeing the dark turquoise eyes watching his every move. He must have wakened the old duck; he had thought he was being quiet though. Placing his hands back in his hoodie pocket, he silently walks over to his great uncle, pausing at his covered feet.

He speaks quietly to not wake the others, “Hey, you’re awake? How ya doin’?”

Scrooge doesn’t move, his voice low but soft, “Bin better.”

Louie’s green eyes show concern, though his face tries to mask it in his usual neutral stare. His gaze sweeps around the rich duck, but with the blanket covering, he can’t see any of the injuries, except the large gash on the left forehead that’s quickly forming a black eye. It’s the first time he can really look at his great uncle again without his stomach churning at the sight of blood, though he avoids looking straight in the eyes. There are still some red-brown smears over the other’s face and head in places, but not nearly as severe as it had been, “Looks like they patched ya up.”

Scrooge’s beak dips slightly, “They did well, teh lot o’ them.”

The youngest triplet’s gaze falls to the ground and away, as if contemplating something. This isn’t the first time he’s been avoiding looking directly at the rich duck. Anytime his eyes fall on the one before him, it’s brief and uncomfortable, as if it pains him to look at the other.

His great uncle can read him despite his efforts to hide; it’s the same expression a young Donald used to wear when he felt guilty. The wealthy loner isn’t the best talking about feelings, and speaking in general isn’t the easiest thing right now, but it seems the boy needs to get something off his chest, “Is there somethin’ ye want tae talk aboot?”

Louie is taken aback by the question, but sighs in defeat and pads over to the Scottish duck’s right side, sliding down the plane’s wall and taking a seat beside him, knees drawn up to his chest. For a while neither of them says anything.

Scrooge straightens his posture a bit, wincing. The blanket loosens around him and he lowers it to his lap, laying his good arm overtop it. His head turns towards the duckling beside him, “What’s on yer mind, laddie?”

Louie’s eyes glance at him in his peripheral vision. With the blanket moved, the boy can see several bruises and scrapes littering his great uncle’s torso, as well as the long row of stitches on his upper right arm and left still in its sling. He purposefully sat on this side to avoid the gory, stitched and bruised ribcage, but his hesitance to face his great uncle is no longer just because of the injuries that have now stopped leaking the red liquid.

“I...” His voice faulters as he searches for the words he wants, “I feel...bad...”

“Yer nae well?”

Bangs shake with their owner’s head, “No, I mean...I feel bad for you...”

Scrooge blinks, “Fer me? Ye donnae have tae pity me fer what happened.”

Louie shakes his head slightly again, “It’s not that. I mean, yea I feel bad about you getting hurt but,” he pauses again, eyes glancing around on floor in front of him, “I feel bad because, the first thing that came to my head was, ‘at least it wasn’t Uncle Donald.’”

The old duck is silent next to him, and the boy’s legs draw closer to his frame as he cradles them, resting his chin on his knees. He feels as if the man next to him must be offended by the statement, but still nothing is said. He can’t bear to even peek at Scrooge now, not wanting to see the pained expression that was surely on the elder’s face.

Louie needs to explain, he can’t just leave things there as much as he wants to stop already, eyes starting to well up, “If Uncle Donald was the one that got hit...if he had...” He cuts himself off with a sniff, but Scrooge knows what he meant. If he had died.

Donald is certainly younger than himself, but also is not on good terms with Lady Fortuna. Would the sailor had survived the same ordeal he went through? It was a miracle he survived. Donald was the only parent the boys had ever known, and without him, what would become of them?

Louie lifts his head a little, “He raised us, if something happened to him...I don’t wanna think about life without him in it...But I’m so,” he grabs the feathers on the sides of his head tightly, squeezing his eyes shut, “disgusted with myself for even having a thought like that! Being relieved that it was you and not him!”

Hot tears are flowing down his cheeks now, and he wraps his arms tightly around his knees once again, “I never wanted anything to happen to you, Uncle Scrooge.” His eyes stare off ahead of him, a haunted look in them, “And then seeing you all...bloody and hurt!” He looks at his crimson stained sleeves and hands as one reaches his face, “That picture’s stuck in my head! I feel so guilty! How could I ever think something that terrible?!”

The green eyes shimmer up at him as the boy finally looks at his great uncle, wounds and all, expecting to see disappointment. Instead, the boy sees a small smile.

Scrooge’s eyelids lower slightly, “The same thought ran through my head.”

Louie’s eyes widen, “W-What?”

The rich duck takes a breath, “The last thing ah want is one ‘a ye gitten hurt. Ah’d do anythin’ in me power tae keep that from happenin’, even if it means puttin’ meself at risk.” The elder can’t be upset with the boy for being thankful his guardian was spared; he was never mad at the duckling to begin with.

Louie blinks a few times, tears still actively running down his flushed cheeks as he wipes at his nose with his sleeve with a sniff. He looks away again, still not completely convinced he shouldn’t be ashamed of himself, and that the other isn’t angry at him.

His great uncle continues, “Louie, we cannae help what runs through our heads sometimes, but ye have nothin’ tae be sorry fer. Ah knoo ye didnae mean any harm.”

The young duckling looks back up at him, seeing the same warm smile that was there before. The old duck really isn’t upset? Not hurt or offended by what he had said? What the other had said runs through his own head; Scrooge would gladly trade his own life if it meant keeping his family safe. He has no regrets.

Louie sniffs again, and scoots closer to the bigger avian’s side, before leaning his head against the right wing, avoiding the large gash. His tiny arms wrap around the rich duck’s, clinging to the other.

Scrooge blinks in surprise at the outward affection, he’s not the best at this either. But his smile returns, and he pats the boy’s knee next to him, “There, there, laddie. ‘s alright.”

They stay like that for a long time, neither saying anything more. Soon the sniffles at his side stop, and the boy’s breathing becomes deep and regular. Scrooge glances down, seeing the duckling’s eyes are closed, fast asleep. He smiles again, laying his head back with a sigh. Eyes close to try and rest once more, unaware that the sailor’s snoring had ceased a while ago.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s running through the jungle, jumping over dead trees and avoiding the large green leaves that hang in his path. Small branches grab at his face and leave scratches, but he can’t worry about that now.

His webbed feet carry him as fast as they can until they reach their destination: a small clearing in the usually dense forest. Here he pauses, taking in what lies in wait for him, what he’s been searching for. A bloodied and broken body that he never thought could look so...mortal. He runs to the body, quickly looking for any signs of life. There is none.

He pants in exertion and disbelief. Dead. He’s dead. Impossible! Scrooge McDuck had already lived well past his life expectancy. The death-defying stunts he pulls on a day to day basis only keep him more alive! He shouldn’t be dead, can’t be dead! But there’s no breathing beneath his fingers, and his white feathers are actively soaking up the crimson stains. There’s no heart beating in the chest. He’s kneeling in a pool of his great uncle’s life source.

As if they were ghosts, his family manifests beside him, all expressing the same horror as he is. His younger brother his sobbing in between his vomiting episodes in the bushes at the gore of the scene. His older brother is paging through his beloved book in his shaking hands, as if trying to believe there still might be some glimmer of hope. Though there’s tears running down his face as he refuses to acknowledge what’s before him. Webby’s hot tears drip onto their elder’s face as she cradles his head, trying desperately to hold back her sobs.

Suddenly he’s pushed away, falling on his posterior as he retreats backward a ways. His uncle kneels to the ground, facing away from him, body leaning over the motionless one. His shoulders tremble in between sobs, he’s never seen his uncle cry so hard before.

As if sensing his thoughts, Donald’s face whips around to glare at him. Salty tears run down his beak as his face turns from sorrowful to enraged. His voice shouts, “YOU!”

Dewey flinches.

The sailor’s voice has never been so accusing. His uncle stands and walks to him, “You just had to make us all keep going, even after that trap was sprung!”

The middle child’s face pales.

His younger brother lifts his head from where he’d buried it in his hands, flushed and bright red, “I knew it was too dangerous! But you never listen to me!”

His older brother lowers the book, eyes glaring holes into his own, “There were so many things that could have gone wrong. Anyone could have seen that! Why didn’t you think before you made us all follow you!”

Dewey shakes his head, “No...I-I didn’t know this would happen! No one could have known there was another boulder!”

“Dewey...” Webby sniffs, stroking the head feathers on Scrooge’s head. Her glance moves to his own, “You should have been more careful. You know how old he was! Look what you did!” Her voice is trembling, and he can feel his heart break as he follows her gaze to his great uncle’s body.

His body is shaking as he takes a step back, tears welling up in his bright blue eyes, “No...I didn’t...it was such a simple trap! We’ve been through so many worse ones!”

Donald stomps closer, making him move back quickly before falling over a branch and onto his backside once again. His uncle towers over him, “Why do you think he even went on adventures anymore at his age?! It’s because of you!”

Eyes widen in disbelief as the sailor continues, “You always want to go on all these dangerous missions, and he just wanted to impress you! He didn’t want you to think he was boring or too old! Now look what happened!”

Tears are starting to run down his face, “Uncle Donald-”

“Don’t call me that!”

He flinches, cowering away from the other.

The older duck’s eyes narrow in disgust, “This is your fault!”

Dewey’s head shakes, “No!”

“He’s dead because of you!”

“NO!”

“His blood is on your hands!”

Dewey’s eyes peer down to his trembling hands, seeing the red substance staining them, “NO!”

A gasp is heard as the middle child sits up in a cold sweat, lungs heaving to try and get much needed air back into them. A hand grips his chest as he leans over slightly, staring at the red metal floor of the Sunchaser. The nightmare shook him to his core, he hasn’t dreamt like that in a long while.

His face feels wet and he rubs the back of a hand over it. Tears are actively running down his face, but the sight of the dried blood on his fingers, now brightened by the sudden moisture, makes his breath pick up again. He gasps for air as he urgently tries to wipe away the crimson stains covering his person. His hands move up and down his sleeves and over each other trying to rid themselves of the offensive color in vain. More tears come to his eyes as the substance clings to his body, and he covers his head, eyes squeezing shut to block out the image.

“Dewey?”

His head pops up at his name, eyes wide. He follows the source of the sound to find his great uncle staring back at him, face full of surprise and concern.

That’s right, Scrooge didn’t die. He wasn’t still laying in a jungle somewhere waiting to rot or be ravaged by animals, and his family hadn’t blamed Dewey for the accident.

The rich duck still sits where the middle child had left him in the land of the conscious, on the blankets and leaning against a pillow on the plane’s side. A thick quilt covers him from the waist down, leaving his upper body bare. Louie sits next to him, knees pulled up to his chest and leaning against Scrooge’s right wing with his arms tightly wrapped around it, fast asleep.

Dewey tries to calm himself as his mind starts to come back, taking deeper breaths. His hand wipes away his tears, hoping his great uncle hadn’t seen them, “Uncle Scrooge?” The wetness leaves red stains across his face, only leaving more evidence behind.

Scrooge’s eyebrows furrow together even more. He had seen the lad crying, in fact he’d seen everything. The duckling, sleeping peacefully for quite some time, had started becoming restless. His body would twist back and forth, his deep breaths now a pant, face screwed into something resembling pain. The old duck could have sworn he heard the child mutter his own name at least once, and then the tears had started. He was about to try and wake the boy up himself from what was surely a bad dream before the blue eyes suddenly popped open and the small body sat up.

He had thought that would be the end of it, but then witnessed Dewey trying desperately to remove the blood from his hands and clothes. Afraid the boy was going to hurt himself in his panic, he called out to him.

Scrooge could sympathize with the blue triplet, he himself struggled with night terrors. Making many enemies along the years has made his mind expect tragedy to befall himself or worse, his family. Many a time has he dreamt his kin were in danger and woke swinging at nothingness in his bedroom.

However, even familial problems can make his dreams turn against him. When they had lost Della, his nightmares were so severe he had become an insomniac just to escape from them. Eventually he managed to sleep again, once the exhaustion had caught up, but those dreams still haunt him to this day, and return every now and then.

He doesn’t like thinking about the times when his cursing, screaming, and even crying had attracted Mrs. Beakley and Duckworth to his room, thinking he was being attacked. If he was not already awake, they would have to physically shake him to save his poor trapped mind. Even though they saw him at his weakest, trying desperately to cease his tears and rubbing his forehead to calm his psyche, they never held anything against him. They would offer their assistance, knowing they would be turned down, and act as if nothing happened the next day to preserve their employer’s pride.

The rich duck tries to soothe his great nephew, “Seems ye had a nasty one.”

Dewey’s panting is starting to return to normal, but his sniffles are still very much active, “...yeah...” His arms rest on his knees, glancing over at the other with sad expression.

Scrooge pats the spot next to him, in front of Louie, beckoning him over. The middle triplet hesitates for just a moment before accepting the invitation, crawling the short distance onto the padded spot and laying down next to his great uncle. His back lay to the plane’s side and away from the older duck’s prying eyes. His younger brother’s feet tuck underneath his back. His head rests on Scrooge’s lap, facing away from him.

They sit for a bit, the older duck shifting just slightly to accompany more weight onto his broken frame, holding back a grunt but allowing the wince to show as his great nephew couldn’t see it at this angle. Finally settling again, his arm rests out of the way to give the two triplets room.

Dewey holds still, lifting his head slightly when the body adjusts underneath him, and trying to convince himself he wasn’t harming it. When it stills, he lays back again, tears still dripping onto the blanket beneath him, but starting to dry up.

His mind starts to wander, why is Scrooge still awake? He’d have expected him to be passed out or at least resting peacefully by now. Everyone else is sleeping around them, thankfully not hearing his outburst. His voice is quiet, so much so it can barely be heard, “Did I wake you up?”

His great uncle’s straining ears manage to pick it up over the Sunchaser’s engine, “Nae. Haven’t slept a wink.”

Dewey’s head turns to look at him, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Scrooge give a small smile, almost a sad one. He doesn’t want to tell the child how his body aches. How the pain is so intense he can’t find solace in sleep, even though every fiber of his being yearns for it. He can’t tell the hurting duckling that having the two of them lean against him is causing even more pain to wrack his battered body. No, he keeps that to himself. There are more important things to worry about.

Dewey reaches with a hand to feel what lays under the blanket, trying to determine where exactly his head rests. He’s on the broken leg, but above the splint, in the corner of his eye, he can see his great uncle’s face twitching at his touch. He removes his hand, “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

The smile widens a bit, “Nae, donnae worry aboot me.”

It seems convincing; Dewey turns his head back and sighs.

His dream’s memory returns, the body before him, his family in tears, the blood on his hands. He lifts one to look at the red stains.

Scrooge watches him, “Ye wanna talk aboot it? Yer dream?”

Dewey tucks his hand to his chest and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to relive that.

The rich duck accepts it and doesn’t enquire anymore, leaning his head back to rest, he almost misses the soft, trembling, voice.

“...I’m sorry.”

Lifting his head again, he tries to look at the duckling’s face, who’s turned it closer to the blankets, “Eh? ‘Sorry’? Fer what?”

The tears have started anew, wetting the quilt atop his legs. The boy trembles, “For what happened; it’s my fault. I-I insisted that we keep going even after that trap w-was sprung...we could have found another way around; we could have been safer...but I m-made us all keep going...and then Uncle Donald...and-and you...”

He doesn’t want to hear anymore, “Dewey. Donnae ye even dare blame yerself fer this. ‘s nae yer fault. It was jus’ an accident.”

The middle triplet buries his face into the blanket further, tiny hand gripping it tightly as he sobs, “...but...but I-”

“Ah donnae wanna hear it! With all teh adventures we’ve bin on, that death trap was a walk in teh park. We’ve been through much worse! Teh fact no one’s gotten hurt yet is a bit miraculous.”

Dewey sniffs and turns to look at him. Again, those glistening blue eyes stare up at his face, “You’re not mad? You don’t blame me?”

Scrooge lets out a small chuckle, making his ribs scream at him, but he ignores their cry, “Of course not! If it was anyone’s fault, it was me own fer not gittin outta teh way in time!” He sighs, “These old bones arennae as quick as they used ta be.”

To his relief, the middle child smiles just a bit, turning his head back again, “Thanks, Uncle Scrooge.”

He smiles in return, lifting his good hand and placing it on the boy’s head, ruffling the head feathers, “Don’ ever blame yerself fer what happened. You’ll only make yerself miserable.” Ah should knoo. He blamed himself for their mother’s absence for years, and still struggles with it.

The triplet beneath his caressing hand relaxes, “I won’t.”

It’s as if he can feel the guilt leaving the duckling’s body, a soft sigh escaping. Soon the child is motionless beneath him, hopefully back to a more peaceful slumber.

Right as he’s about to try and rest again himself, a sniffle reaches his ears. Following the sound, the old duck’s head turns to his left where he’s met with the tearful sight of the oldest triplet. “Huey?”

The boy’s amber eyes flick to his, meekly meeting his eye contact. The red garbed duckling must have awoken at some point during his and Dewey’s conversation, or perhaps even before that. He’s sitting up in the same location where he had previously been sleeping.

Huey’s eyes travel between his siblings and his great uncle, before the rich duck invites him over with a small gesture of his head. The oldest boy is quick to accept and moves to join his family. He’s careful to avoid the wounded arm, and instead mirrors Dewey, laying on his right side on the padded spot. His head rests on the Scrooge’s left leg, back facing the old duck, but snuggles a bit closer than his brother.

The injured avian adjusts to having even more weight on his battered body, trying not to wake the other two sleeping children. His smile still present, he addresses the oldest triplet, “What’s teh matter?”

Huey is a bit more outspoken of his own feelings than his two brothers and Scrooge isn’t surprised when his question is immediately answered, “I just wish I could help more. Seeing you hurt like this makes me want to fix the problem, but I don’t like accepting that I can’t fix everything. I couldn’t set your dislocated arm even though I knew what I was doing, I can’t sew up wounds like Webby and Uncle Donald, and I can’t fix the pain that you’re still in. We don’t have any painkillers!”

Scrooge shakes his head just slightly in disbelief with the ever-present smile still sitting on his face, “Huey, ye knoo ye cannae fix everythin’. Sometimes ye have tae accept that.”

Even though he can only see the back of the boy’s head, he can tell it’s disappointed. He continues, “But ye’ve already helped me so much. Ye helped Dewey fix me arm, and ye were smart enough tae find supplies tae make a splint fer me leg! Without ye ah’d be in a great deal more pain. Might nae ‘ave made it home.”

Huey contemplates that. He was the one who directed his younger brother how to fix the dislocated arm. If they hadn’t fixed that, then it’s entirely possible getting Scrooge back to the Sunchaser would have been more difficult. Being in constant overwhelming pain, and having to ride on your nephew’s back, would not be an ideal way to travel. Plus had he not have suspected a break in the entrepreneur’s leg, Scrooge could have insisted he walk out of the jungle, and only do more damage to it and the rest of his body. Lastly, he assisted Dewey in stabilizing the broken leg until they reach home. Huey hadn’t fixed everything, but he did make a difference.

A tiny smile pulls on the boy’s small beak, “Thanks, I...guess I did help.”

As the revelation hits the oldest triplet, a hand is placed over his own on the rich duck’s leg, Dewey having reached out to his older brother.

Scrooge’s eyebrows raise, he thought the boy was asleep, but had apparently been listening to their conversation.

Huey’s first finger moves on top of his brother’s hand in appreciation, wordless consoling passing between the siblings. His eyes close, “We’re really glad you’re ok, Uncle Scrooge. We were scared you were...” He cuts himself off just a moment, swallowing, and nuzzling closer to his great uncle, “We just met you. We don’t wanna lose you.”

The Scottish duck’s beak parts slightly and he blinks in surprise. At the eldest duckling’s confession, Dewey replicates his brother’s actions and snuggles closer, turning his head towards the blanket beneath him to be closer yet. Scrooge’s bewilderment is only heightened as he feels the youngest triplet, dormant for nearly an hour and half, tighten the hold on his trapped right arm and tuck the small beak closer still.

Suddenly he’s blinking rapidly. Tears are stinging at his eyes, and he has to put a stop to them before it’s too late. There’s an ache in his chest, a welcomed one. Scrooge hasn’t felt this...loved in a long time. He has to control his body’s trembling before the boy’s catch on. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he calms his emotions, “Ye won’t, lads. Ah promise.”

Dewey smiles. The hand on his head continues to caress his head feathers, providing calming sensations. He won’t bring attention to the shakes he feels in the stroking fingers.

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broken-clover · 5 years

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Goretober day 4- Stitches

Yikes!! Cutting it a bit early here, guess I just got sidetracked. Well! I’m already half asleep so let’s get this going quick so I can do a sleep. Another repeat today! While I do love Litchi, I’m not sure if lat year’s prompt for this was especially good. Guess I can say the same about this one, but at least it’s different.

Today I’m using Hazama and Bang! This should be...not fun.

Hazama rubbed his temples as he entered the lower levels of the research lab.

“Clover, I understand the importance of your experiments, but must you do this when I’m trying to sleep?”

“Hmm?” Relius was hunched over his work table, welding something together. His hands were perfectly steady, not reacting at all to the sounds of muffled screaming that seeped through the wall.

“Can’t you shut him up? I swear he’s been yelling his head off for hours now. I can’t get any rest in these conditions!”

“I’m busy, Hazama, must you bother me when I’m working?”

The vessel huffed, crossing his arms. “Well, if you can’t silence him, can you at least give me something to do? I’m so very, very bored…”

“I’m right in the middle of this, can’t you handle it yourself?”

“Ugh, you are absolutely impossible!” Hazama had half a mind to say that Relius wasn’t even listening. He stormed off to the other side of the room and exited into the hallway, making a special effort to slam the door behind him as he went.

”Looks like we’ll just have to find a way to make our own fun.” Terumi’s voice hissed in the back of his thoughts.

“Too true. Any suggestions?”

”I find that pain is a good way to teach a lesson.” Hazama could all but feel the ghost smiling in his thoughts. ”So why don’t we teach our guest a thing or two?”

“Ohhh, very clever, very clever.” He turned back towards the door next to Relius’ lab, padlocked shut with a thick shackle that he knew only Relius had the key to. Ouroboros bit through the metal with embarrassingly little effort, and Hazama let himself inside.

The seemingly-endless stream of curses, death threats, and simple outright screaming only grew louder and more shrill as he entered. The ninja had been quite restless at first, but after breaking his legs and tying him down with numerous chains, he’d finally gone still- aside from his mouth, of course.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it, Shishigami?”

Bang looked even shaggier than usual. His hair was disgusting and disheveled, his clothing was torn, and scrapes and bruises marked a good chunk of his exposed skin. Despite his poor state, a fire still burned in his eyes, and he was all too happy to direct it at the man who had taken him captive.

“Why are you here?!”

“You see, in civilized societies, usually you’d greet people with ‘hello.’ Not sure what sort of things you were taught. Not like I could ask them what they were thinking, anyway, that whole shithole city is nothing but ashes now.”

They both delighted in the infuriated screech that was given in response. While Bang tossed out every possible curse word he knew (and a few that he probably made up, as well) Hazama busied himself by looking around the small, well-lit room. There wasn’t much of note, but he caught sight of something metal and shiny on the countertop. A tray of surgical tools was still laid out all neat and tidy, almost as though Relius had left it as a present for him.

”Well, wasn’t that nice?”

Hazama could agree more. He gleefully looked over the arrangement like a child at Christmas, quickly locating and picking up a curved needle. He was no medical expert, but a needle was a needle, and he had a pretty good idea on the sorts of things that it could be used for.

“Hey! Hey! Don’t you dare ignore me!” Bang snapped from his place on the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“I don’t owe you that.” He replied, making no attempt at hiding anything as he found and cut a length of string from the spool.

“Don’t think I’ll give in so easily! You fiends know nothing about the true power of- !”

“Love, friendship, blah, blah, blah, do you ever stop talking?”

Hazama would have asked it himself, even if Terumi hadn’t hijacked him to say it first. Deft fingers threaded the needle and tied a tight knot at the end. Nodding him himself, he brought it over and knelt down in front of his guest.

“You’re thick in the head, but I assume you at least know what this is?”

Bang offered no reply, but the way his eyes widened was enough of a tell. “Good. Now, you’ve been annoying me halfway to insanity, and I’d really like to be able to get a good night’s sleep. I’m a busy man, after all, I need to be well-rested if I want to get anything done.

So,” in a quick, sharp movement, he grabbed the ninja by the jaw with a force that threatened to break bone. “I’m going to shut you up for a bit. Try not to wiggle too much, okay, pumpkin?”

There wasn’t much of a point in asking. Despite his lithe frame, Hazama’s grip was obscenely powerful. Bang couldn’t even squirm if he tried. And he did, straining and struggling with forced-stiff muscles that weren’t allowed an inch of moving space.

”HAHAHAHA! Do it, Hazama! This is going to be so fun!!”

Even while rendered motionless, Bang still did his best to be restless and difficult. In the end, though, Hazama’s skillful fingers dug the sharp tip into the soft flesh of the man’s upper lip, right in the corner.

“I’m actually quite the talented seamster, did you know that?” Asked Hazama, calmly pinching the lower lip out so he could pierce through it. “Not especially good with skin, though. I’m not sure if this is a Lembert or a Cushing stitch. It’s all the same to me. But I’d be more than happy to try and manage a nice blanket stitch for you~”

Bang could still scream even with how he was held. The sound was muffled as his jaw refused to move. A bead of blood dribbled out from the first puncture mark, and his mouth was filled with the taste of iron.

“Oh, perhaps that’s too much detail for someone like you. You don’t seem the fancy type, perhaps a simpler stitch would suit you better?”

“Mmm-mphh!!!"

“Haha! C’mon, why the looooong face?” A wicked smile split Hazama’s face as he pulled the string taut. “Cheer up! Litchi’s definitely gonna like you better like this!”

The strain stained red as it was pulled in and out. For the life of him, Hazama couldn’t seem to figure out which stitch looked best. He undid and redid the lines, not being at all gentle as he yanked and tied and twisted. Even without being able to scream properly, Bang’s expressions were positively hilarious to witness as he flinched and whimpered pathetically.

“Heehee! So many already! If you’re a good boy, you’ll get a lollipop when you’re done!”

It was intriguing how there seemed to be so much blood and yet so little at the same time. Each prick drew blood, and yet Hazama found that his hands were barely stained.

”How dull...why don’t we rip his guts open?”

“Now, now, just think of what Relius would say if his precious little research project got irreparably mauled. Perhaps he won’t object to a few missing fingers, though…”

Ah, but that was for another day. Stained thread trailed in neat zigzags, curving up until Hazama finally pulled the needle back out of the man’s cheek and tied it off.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Bang had a haunted look in his eyes. Thin trails of tears flowed and mixed with the blood as it ran down his throat. The stitches held his mouth shut firmly and cleanly, and combined with the various chains wrapped around his body, the eyes were the only part of him that could still move at all.

Hazama had been right. He did look much better this way.

#blood tw #torture #stitches #writing #goretober #goretober 2019 #blazblue #hazama #bang shishigami #off to sleeb I go

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deborahwilsonbooks-blog · 5 years

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Regency Romance: The Lady’s Masquerade - Part 1

Hey there, my name is Deborah Wilson, an author of regency romance. I have a short novella to share with you guys. ☺

If you’re looking for gentle, yet a undemanding sort of romance in the charming depiction of the Regency and Victorian period era, this novella could very well fit the bill nicely.

Synopsis:

Lady Delia Scarborough will not let her sister’s murderer go free. Every clue points to Kieran Dearborne, the Duke of Cowanfield. But their mutual attraction throws her plans into chaos.

Can Kieran’s love save Delia from danger, or is her fate already sealed?

Check it out below ...

P R O L O G U E

May 1805

The storm had been threatening for days. Later, they would say that it was one of the worst storms of the last decade. The road would have been inky black, with nothing to mark the perilous turns. Were the driver and team reliable? Was Lissa afraid?

Probably not, Delia decided. Her little sister might have been dreamy, and perhaps she was inclined to leap before she looked, but no one would ever have called her a coward.

The storm would have broken quickly in the night, rolling down on the carriage like an ancient and terrible wrath. The horses ran along the road, eager for shelter, but then a thunder clap deafened them. One reared, taking its mate with it, and the carriage tilted on two wheels. For a moment, just a moment, there was a chance it would right itself. But no.

The horses, the slick road, the darkness… It was all too much. The carriage rolled, the wooden shell cracking like an egg, the timbers as sharp as teeth and—

"And as she was loved, so she will be loved, and as she wept, so now she brings tears..."

Delia realized that she must have made some kind of sound. All around her, bonneted heads turned toward her subtly, some in concern, some for gossip's sake, and all unwelcome.

Behind her black veil, Delia lowered her eyes, mutinous until she felt her father's hand fumble for hers. There was a palsy to his grip that had gotten worse when the news came to them of Lissa's death, and she squeezed his hand hard, wishing she could give him some of her strength.

She was Delia Scarborough, the daughter of the Marquess of Winsbury, who had fought at Marseilles and even farther afield. She was the descendant of eight generations of noblemen who had all served their country, loved their families, and died doing what they knew was right. She would not disgrace herself at her sister's graveside, no matter how hot her eyes felt or how thick the lump in her throat.

She almost made it. It was only when they began to lower her sister's casket into the ground that a small voice piped up in the back of her mind, a dusty memory.

Delia, it's so very dark, can I sleep with you?

Suddenly, it was as if the very air had been knocked from her lungs. Delia wavered, and for a moment, she was certain she would simply faint from the weight of the grief that dropped upon her.

She had a sudden mad impulse to insist that they stop. Lissa hated the dark; she hated the crawling things that burrowed through the earth. They could not do this.

The only thing that kept her back was the sight of her father, positioned in his elegant wheeled chair at the head of the grave. The marquess's sorrow ravaged him, left him a frame of a man rather than the full one he should have been, and Delia took a deep breath.

I will survive this. This is as hard as it ever gets. I will walk through this, and on the other side, I will have vengeance for Lissa.

That night, after the mourners had been seen off, the curate paid, and her father seen to his bed, Delia retired to her room earlier than usual. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to crawl off to her familiar bed, placing her round spectacles in their accustomed place, and hope she dreamed of Lissa in some happy land.

Instead, she carefully laid her black crepe gown over the top of her chair for her maid, and she went to her closet where she removed a gown of drab serviceable gray linen. It was one of four, the other three already packed in her small worn bag. They were identical to one another, and only the excellent fit saved her from looking like a servant who worked below stairs.

Dressed in the gray gown, Delia pulled her brown hair down from its fashionable braids and pulled the fine strands straight back from her face, scraping it all into a large bun at the nape of her neck.

When she examined herself in the mirror, she found no trace of a marquess's daughter, not even the eldest bookish girl who had few marriage prospects and little interest in looking for one.

I look like a governess. The thought satisfied her, and again, she glanced at the white handkerchief that she had seldom let out of her sight since she had received it from the wreckage.

It was clutched in Miss Scarborough's hand, Miss Delia. She hung on to it so tight, we could barely pry it out.

Her baby sister had held on to it as she lay dying on a lonely road heading north. Their driver was killed in the same accident, but of the man in the carriage with her, the one who had booked it, who had held her sister's arm as if they were already married, there was no trace.

The inn where they had spent the previous night had thought they were husband and wife, and if they had made it to Gretna Green, they would have been.

Delia's thoughts were ice-cold.

Imagine. In another world, I would be scolding Lissa for her insane recklessness and meeting my new brother-in-law. I would have no idea that he was the kind of blaggard who would seduce a girl and leave her to die in a wrecked carriage.

She wondered if Lissa would have called for him in her last moments, if she would have brought the handkerchief to her lips in prayer, listening for his return.

It didn't matter now. Her sister was dead, and the man who had caused her death was still alive. He was missing a handkerchief, however, and that was careless of him, especially as the initials on the corner and the meticulously stitched crest identified him as swiftly as an actor's spotlight on Drury Lane.

Delia slipped out of the home she had lived in all her life, avoiding the creaky floorboards and the reluctant doors. There was a note for her father left folded on his bedside, and there was a man in the village who was willing to take her to Hove, where she could find her way onto the Royal Mail coach.

Folded tightly into a tiny package at the bottom of her bag was the damning handkerchief, and as she made her way into the night, Delia's thoughts were grim.

You are going to pay for what you did to my sister, my lord Duke of Cowanfield.

C H A P T E R 0 1

"All right, that one was worse than the first. Cross her off the list."

"Before I do, exactly what reason can you give for your dislike? She had excellent references, and she wasn't so hard on the eyes either.”

Kieran Dearborn, twelfth Duke of Cowanfield, glared at his best friend, who was seated at the secretary with his quill held imperiously over a list with a diminishing number of unrejected names. Hiring a governess was woman's work, but where he could find a woman to do this for him, he had no idea.

"I didn't like the look of her. She looked shifty, as if she might give Alice laudanum on days where she was feeling too tired to deal."

Neil Marsh, the Earl of Cottering, raised an eyebrow. "Really? You've been reading too many of those lurid broadsides. They do that in the slums, not in the finer houses."

"Oh, yes, and I'm sure that all London gentlemen are the pictures of restraint when it comes to the gambling table and all London ladies are as faithful to their husbands as old dogs are to their masters."

Neil laughed. "Well, I suppose that you know something about that, don't you, Cowanfield?"

"Shut your mouth about that. We don't talk about that in front of her."

They both glanced at the divan set alongside the window, where Alice Dearborn slept as deeply as it seemed only a three-year-old could. She had pale blond hair, as unlike Kieran's own dark hair as possible, but the moment he had seen her green eyes, twin to the ones he saw in the mirror every morning, there was no doubt in his mind that she was his.

Along with that realization had come a sudden rush of desperate and protective love unlike anything he had ever felt in his dissipated thirty-two years. She was his; he had to protect her, nurture her, and see her grown... and he had no idea at all how to do it.

The governess had been something that finally occurred to him after Alice had cried herself out on her first night at Brixby Hall, the ancestral home of all Dearborns. The little girl had fallen asleep in a pile of tears and wails, and still, Kieran couldn't leave her alone. He sat in the darkness of the nursery, holding her tiny soft hand, and tried to figure out what to do next.

Neil, when next he spoke, was more sympathetic, but his voice was firm. "She is a child, not some rare and delicate bird from the southern lands that will die if she is splashed with cold water. She needs to be cared for, and unless you are hiding depths of which I have been heretofore unaware, you need to find someone to do it. I suggest that the next woman who comes in, as long as she does not have an obvious affiliation with a London street gang, should do the trick."

Kieran started to snap something that Neil probably did not deserve at all, but they were saved by the butler coming in and announcing the next woman on the list.

Well, she's definitely not affiliated with any London street gangs.

As a matter of fact, she embodied the very spirit of a governess, perfectly erect in carriage, her brown hair scraped back into an unworldly bun and a pinched look to her face as if she never smiled.

The spectacles gave her an owlish look, and Kieran might have laughed out loud at how perfectly a governess she looked before he met her eyes. They were a pale gray that flashed with a kind of silvery light he had never seen before. For some reason, looking into her gaze soothed something in him he had never before known was jagged.

Well, hello, beautiful, something in him whispered, and then, almost against his will, he noticed her lush figure under the painstakingly fitted but plain gown she wore. It was hard to imagine a pin out of place on her, and briefly, Kieran wondered what it would take to make her look unsettled or even in the least rumpled.

At Neil's polite cough, Kieran looked up to see that the object of his attention was giving him a rather stern look. If she had felt that brief electric shock between them, she gave no sign, and he hastily sat up straighter.

"This is Miss Delia Jones, late of Hove, aged twenty-two years. She has served as a governess in a single home since the age of eighteen, the residence of Lord and Lady Heatherford, overseeing the needs of their three daughters."

Neil looked up briefly from the sheet he read from, fixing Kieran with a sharp eye. "Her reference looks beyond reproach to me, Cowanfield."

Kieran glared at his friend, and then turned back to the young lady in gray. Delia seemed too fanciful a name for such a stern creature, or at least it did if you discounted her extraordinary eyes.

"Well, Miss Jones, what have you to say for yourself?"

"I say that I hope very much I will be suited to the post you offer, your grace. I know that every situation is different, but given the nature of your advertisement, I have some hope that we may suit."

Her voice was pitched lower than he had expected. The slightly husky timbre gave her an air that was at once grave and oddly sensual, and he shook that thought off in a hurry. It had apparently been too long since he had gone carousing in London if he was entertaining a fascination with a governess.

"And why do you think that you might suit?"

"You were looking for someone who would broaden your child's horizons in the ladylike arts. As you can see from my character, I have instructed the Wembly sisters in history, deportment, dance, penmanship, French, and art. They are well-launched into Society, and the only reason I left was because their youngest was a son, and therefore had his own tutor."

"And it has nothing to do with the 200 pounds a year that I am offering."

It was a ludicrous sum to offer a governess, who might ordinarily make a tenth of it, but Kieran had thought it would bring out the best. Instead, it had brought out a mix of real candidates and fortune-hunters, and he was beginning to be jaded about the whole thing.

Instead of being flustered or offended, Miss Jones only inclined her head slight.

"Of course, it does. I can see that you are willing to pay into the idea of giving your daughter the best foundation on which to base her life. I am confident that you will be satisfied with my work and that you will not have cause to regret that sum."

She was so self-possessed that she made Kieran feel oddly ashamed of himself. It was hardly a feeling he enjoyed, and so he shrugged it off.

"You're very assured for one so young."

"If I were not, I would not be here applying for this position."

Neil laughed, a bright sound in the quiet tension of the room. "Well, she is certainly fit to instruct you, Cowanfield. That's obviously clear."

Kieran glared at his friend, but he could hardly argue with him. He searched for some reason to deny her, something that he didn't like, something that would make him toss out her application just as he had all the women who had come before her.

There was nothing there, and that in its own way was shocking. He nodded, almost reluctantly.

"All right. I'm willing to see how you do with Alice."

Miss Jones nodded, looking at him expectantly. "I would like to meet her and to ensure that we are a good fit, my lord."

He nodded toward Alice, who was still sleeping in a sprawl of limbs and silk on the divan. He supposed she was easy to miss, given the fact that she looked like nothing so much as a frilled pink cushion.

"There she is."

For the first time, Miss Jones looked surprised. Her gaze traveled from the toddler to Kieran and back again.

"My lord, how old is Alice?"

"I suppose I should have said in the paper, but she is three. Is there some problem?"

Miss Jones pursed her lips, as if she were fighting with herself on some inward matter. "She is terribly young for a governess. At her age, children are still inclined to be with their nurses."

Kieran scowled, already not relishing the idea of interviewing yet more women.

"What is the difference?"

Miss Jones shot him a particularly scathing look. "Your grace, my repertoire includes French and dance. Miss Alice very much seems as if she needs to be taught how to handle stairs and how to play with a kitten."

Kieran tilted his head at her. "Are you trying to talk yourself out of the job?"

For the first time, Miss Jones looked disturbed. She seemed so diligent that he wondered if there was a chance she would give up the job simply because she was not the best person for it. Somehow, it made him want to hire her all the more.

"I am not, but—"

The topic of all the talk had apparently had enough sleep. All three adults in the room turned when she uttered a small cry, and then, to Kieran's shock, she tumbled straight off the side of the divan. Alice hit the ground with a surprisingly loud thump. For a moment, she simply sat in her own surprise, and then her round pink face screwed up for a scream.

Kieran was ready to rush over and to scoop her up to make sure she was not injured, but Miss Jones got there first. Kneeling down by the weeping child, she assessed her with a cool eye.

"All right, Alice, let's look you over and see if you are hurt. Stand still please."

The woman's cool and firm tone stopped Alice's tears dead in their tracks, and she looked up at her new governess with surprise.

In return, Miss Jones gave her a sunny smile and though Kieran knew he should be more worried about his daughter, he found himself drawn to the sheer sweetness of that smile, the way it made the stern young governess look positively pretty.

She's not such a long way off from beauty, truly...

Alice stood still, hiccupping a little as Miss Jones checked her for any bumps or injuries.

"Well, there we go, my girl. You're just fine, nothing but a bit of surprise to worry about."

Alice looked uncertain, but Miss Jones reached out and tapped her nose gently.

"Wouldn't you rather play than worry about crying?"

That elicited an immediate grin from Alice. "Can we go outside?"

Her voice was soft and babyish but clear, and Kieran felt a tug at his heart.

Miss Jones rose from the floor, turning toward Kieran with a slightly hesitant look on her face.

"She wants to go out. Is that something you—"

"You can do it. You're her governess now."

Miss Jones looked at him, that same slightly flushed expression on her face. "Your grace—"

"It's decided. She may be too young to have a governess, but call yourself whatever you want. You will be taking care of her."

C H A P T E R 0 2

Later that afternoon, Delia unpacked her meager belongings into the governess's bedroom and wondered what in the world had happened.

I thought I would be working with an older girl, one closer to thirteen or fourteen. I had not expected such a little child.

The advertisement, she now realized, was placed not by a woman who would know such things but by a man who had no clue how a nursery was run.

It was mere chance how she had found the advertisement in the first place. She read the paper every day, but it was the address that had leaped out to her. She had spent every day since discovering the handkerchief from her sister's death researching the Duke of Cowanfield. His country address at Brixby Hall had lunged out at her like a tiger from the page.

From there, the references were forged, rather expertly if she said so herself, and then she had made her way to Hove to travel out to Brixby Hall.

Now that she was assured the job, she had to wonder at her reluctance to take it. She had put a great deal of time and effort into coming to Brixby Hall specifically for this reason, but now that she was here, her feet were getting increasingly cold.

Alice is simply so little. Where in the world is her mother?

Her gaze darkened as she thought of the man she had met that afternoon seducing Lissa while he had this little girl at home. Had Lissa known about this child or who her mother might have been? Surely, the mother was dead, or was she simply gone?

Delia shook her head, willing to put her questions aside for now. The important thing was that she was where she needed to be, and soon enough, she would be free to do the investigative work that she needed to do.

She was still lost in thought, however, when a humble little knock came at the door that connected her small suite to Alice's far larger bedroom. She looked up, and then crossed over to open the door.

Alice looked up at her hopefully, her small hands clasped in front of her. "Do you want to draw?"

Despite her resolution to stay detached and to only use her position to investigate, Delia could feel herself melt a little looking at Alice. There was something at once so hopeful and so very lonely about her that it broke Delia's heart.

"Of course, poppet. Why don't you show me where your pencils are kept?"

Alice guided her to a drawer full of scrap paper and lead pencils. Delia would have been pleased enough to watch her, but the little girl pressed paper and pencil on her as well.

Well, I suppose if I keep her entertained and cared for, I will not ruin her.

Alice was concentrating so hard on her drawings that the tip of her tongue protruded from her mouth, and when Delia looked down at her paper, she could see the little girl was drawing distinctly human shapes.

"Can you tell me about your drawing, Alice?"

Alice smiled at her shyly and pointed at one figure, blond and floating close to the top of the page.

"That's Mama. Mama lives in heaven now. We used to live in Shefford, but then Mama got sick and left."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

Alice nodded, and even if there was a troubled look in her eyes, she moved her finger to another figure, this one wrapped in a bubble of some sort with what looked like stick ponies in front of it.

"After Mama went to Heaven, Grandmother and Grandfather talked about sending me to a workhouse or to an orph'nage."

"I see..."

"And then Papa came and took me away in a carriage. He yelled at Grandmother and Grandfather for a long time, and then we came here."

Her finger traced a rectangular structure Delia assumed was Brixby Hall, and she went on to make little lumpy shrubs all the way around it.

Workhouse? Orphanage? What kind of grandparents would think of such a thing when a child was so young and her mother so newly dead? Delia had heard some people were simply so poor that there was no other recourse than to farm the children out, but somehow, she did not think that Alice's parents were in that number.

"I'm glad your Papa came to get you, Alice."

"I am, too! We went into his carriage, and sometimes, he let me pet the horses."

Her obvious awe for the carriage horses made Delia smile. She wondered, just a little wistful, if there had ever been a time in her past when everything could be fixed by petting a carriage horse.

"Well, thank you for telling me that, Alice."

"S'okay."

"I did not yell a lot at your grandparents, Alice."

Delia jumped a little, looking up in alarm. The duke leaned against the door jamb, casual in shirtsleeves and trousers. He watched them both with a considering look in his eyes.

"You did, Papa. You yelled a lot."

"Hm. Perhaps I did, darling, but that was only because I was so concerned for you."

Again, Delia felt that uncomfortable surge of attraction for this man, the one who had ruined her family. It had first struck her in their strange interview, but now she felt it again.

In another time, another place, she might have passed him the street without thinking anything except how handsome he was. He was as dark as his daughter was fair, but his eyes gleamed green like those of some large stalking cat. He was tall and lean with a natural athleticism and grace, and obviously, he could walk as quietly as a cat when he wished to do so.

Belatedly, Delia realized that she was a servant in the presence of her lord, and she rose up before dipping in a curtsy. "Your grace."

The duke waved her off, coming into the room to stand behind them at the table. "Don't bother with that sort of thing while you're in the house. No one has the time for that nonsense."

Delia frowned. "It is hardly appropriate for Alice to allow servants to become so very familiar with her and her family."

The duke gave her a slow lazy smile that made her stomach do a slow roll, and alarm bells went off in her head. Was this how it had been for Lissa?

"And I say it is fine. You're her governess or her nurse or something like that. You'll be taking care of her. The only way it would be a problem is if you intended to abuse her trust. You don't intend to do that, do you?"

"Certainly not, your grace!"

Alice looked up at the pair of them, a tiny wrinkle between her fair brows.

Kieran looked down at her fondly.

"What's the matter, Alice?"

"Why's... why's Miss Jones calling you that? Does that mean she doesn't like you? Grandmother and Grandfather called you that."

Kieran grinned. "And they certainly didn't like me. I don't know, Alice, maybe it does mean that Miss Jones doesn't like me."

He turned to her with a surprisingly innocent look on his face. "Is that what you are saying, Miss Jones?"

Delia felt her face flush with heat. She knew she was being teased, but it didn't seem to matter.

"I'm not saying that I don't like you at all, your—"

"Well, if you like me, then certainly we must find you something else to call me. You ought not use the same terms of address as someone who dislikes me. Alice, don't you agree?"

"Yes, Papa! Miss Jones should call you something else!"

"I see that I am outnumbered, even if this is not at all appropriate!"

For some reason, both father and child seemed to find her comment ridiculously funny. She might have been angrier, but Alice leaned against her sweetly, and she felt her pique run out.

"You could call him Papa."

"Certainly not, Alice. That is a title for the two of you. He is not my papa. I have one of my own far away from here."

"Try Kieran."

She blinked at the mention of the duke's Christian name. Suddenly, what had started off as a ridiculous joke at the governess's expense turned into something else. It was simply not done for a governess to call a duke by his first name. It would not even have been allowed to her as a marquess's daughter, not without a great deal of scandal.

"Yes, call him that! Not your grace!"

Alice seemed so enthusiastic that Delia didn't want to refuse. She turned to the man who was supposed to be her most hated enemy.

"All right. But only in the house and not in front of guests. Someone must teach Alice how to behave in company."

"Whatever you like, of course."

"Well, good. Now that that's settled—"

"I'd like to hear you say it."

"What?"

"My name. I would like to hear you say it."

There was something strangely vulnerable in those green eyes, and again, she felt that strange tug at her heart. How long had it been since he had heard someone say his first name?

"All right. Kieran."

Instead of coming out as brisk and businesslike as she intended, it came out wistfully, almost like a sigh. Even as Delia blushed, Kieran broke out into a smile, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Well, there, that's fine."

"Papa and Miss Jones are friends!" Alice seemed enormously pleased by that fact, dropping her pencil to clap loudly in delight. Delia wished that her own feelings were that clear.

"I... I suppose we are."

"Well, we will be living with one another for some time, so I should hope we are. We dine at seven in this household. Make sure that Alice is presentable then, and that you are as well."

"Kieran?" How did that name already slip past her lips? Why was she so comfortable using it already?

"I have a hankering to dine in the family style tonight, and of course you will join us... Delia."

It was one thing to be asked to use the duke's first name. She told herself it probably had more to do with Alice's comfort than anything else. It felt like quite another to hear her own name on the man's lips. She wondered if he had said Lissa's name like that, and a chill ran down her spine.

"I did not give you permission to use my name."

Instead of coming out stiff and icy as she intended it to, it came out slightly cross and humorous instead. She almost couldn't blame him if he smiled at her.

"Then it is a very good thing that I am simply going to take the liberty on myself instead. See you at seven."

He was out the door, and Alice was babbling about all the lovely things she had gotten to eat since she came to Brixby Hall, from cakes to toast to cucumbers. Delia listened with half an ear, and she realized that in just a few hours, she would be dining with the man who had abandoned her sister to die on a dark road.

I cannot let him sway me with sweet words. I cannot. I will not.

C H A P T E R 0 3

There was a time when Kieran had eaten nearly every meal out. Brixby Hall kept an excellent cook, but most of the time, the only people she cooked for were the servants. Kieran's lifestyle kept him out on the town at all hours, and he patronized many fine restaurants.

Ever since Alice had come to live with him, however, he never went to restaurants anymore, and he had even come to enjoy the comforts of eating in his own house.

Tonight, he was, strangely enough, looking forward to dining with his daughter and her very odd governess.

She really was a bit of a conundrum, Kieran decided. On one hand, she looked stern enough to keep a battalion of Roman soldiers in line. On the other, there was the look he had seen on her face when she was drawing with Alice. He had listened with a stone in his heart as Alice had described her grandparents. Some part of him had hoped that she was too young to remember the things they had said about her and how she needed to be farmed out.

To hear her talking about it so matter-of-factually was terrible, but then he had heard her speak of him, and well, also of the carriage horses, but he felt ten feet tall.

He had wondered, before entering the room, what Delia had made of all of that. He had been ready to throw her out on her ear if she said anything that made Delia feel the least little bit unhappy, but the soft look on her face convinced him that he had made the right choice in governesses.

A footman announced Miss Jones, and Kieran stood, expecting to see Alice and belatedly mindful of Delia's admonitions about propriety. To his surprise, however, Delia was alone.

"Alice?"

"I'm afraid she rather wore herself out. After you left, we went for a walk in the garden, and she was thrilled dash about seeing and experiencing everything. Just a few minutes ago, she fell into a deep sleep, and I thought it best not to wake her."

Kieran raised his eyebrows. "That's good. She has been up at all hours and sleeping during the day."

Delia gave him a rather severe look, but he supposed that having a toddler up with him at four in the morning was hardly a good impression.

"She should be sleeping at night and awake during the day, your grace. She is a child, not a bat."

"And I asked you to call me Kieran. Maybe you are no better at listening than she is."

To Kieran's delight, instead of looking cowed or apologetic, Delia only tilted her chin up stubbornly. "Alice is incredibly biddable. You only need to ask her to do a thing and she does it. I think the problem must be laid at your door."

"Ah. Well, I will certainly take that into consideration."

She gave him a look that told him precisely what she thought of that, but she nodded.

"I wanted to tell you that, and to bid you a good night."

"Delia. Stay."

She turned to look at him with surprise and a touch of wariness. He realized belatedly that it was certainly a strange situation, a governess being asked to dine with a lord without his child present.

He frowned.

"I'm not going to do anything untoward, I promise you. If you do not like the thought of dining with me, you may leave, but I had thought to talk about Alice."

The moment he mentioned his child's name, her brow smoothed out, and she allowed him to pull out a chair for her. Kieran felt a twinge of guilt, because the offer initially had more to do with enjoying her company,y than it had to do with Alice.

Ah well. I suppose I'm not so virtuous as all that, but it is true; we do need to speak about Alice.

Dinner was a simple meal of roast and boiled vegetables, and after the servants had set the plates on the table, they were alone in the family dining room, a more intimate affair than the grand dining room.

Kieran noticed Delia watching him as she cut into her meat, something wary in her gaze. Still, she had decided to stay when he had given her the option to leave, so he supposed that counted for something.

"I heard Alice telling you about the fight I had with her grandparents."

"She said you yelled a rather lot."

"As a matter of fact, I did. Believe me, I started out reasonably enough. I did lose my temper when they brought up the idea of payment."

Delia frowned. "What?"

"They'd been ready to give Alice to a poorhouse or an orphanage, but when I arrived after discovering that her mother had died, they wanted me to pay for her, as if she were a leg of lamb."

Delia drew her breath in hard, and her silver eyes went ice cold. At that moment, if Alice's grandparents had seen her look, Kieran thought there was a chance they might have just handed Alice over immediately.

"How dare they, that little girl is their own flesh and blood."

"And mine, which I tried to remind them of. In the end, I gave them six hundred pounds and told them never, ever to contact me again or to try to seek out Alice."

"And they agreed?"

"Readily."

Delia shook her head, and she still looked as if she would like to go find those people and wring their necks. "How terrible of them. I am so glad you were able to rescue Alice from those vultures."

"I'm not telling you this to pat myself on the back. I need you to understand how things stand with Alice, and where she came from."

Delia stiffened. Something in her changed, and Kieran could not tell what.

"Your grace—"

"Kieran."

"Kieran, then. I do not need to know about... about your family situation. I am not at all sure that it is appropriate to—"

Kieran's dark look made her stutter to a stop. "I'm afraid you do. Alice is very special to me, and I would not have her harmed for all the world. However, she is a little girl with something of a difficult past, and it would be altogether too easy for someone who did not know to say something hurtful to her. Do you understand?"

Delia nodded, and even if she looked a little nervous still, she seemed to genuinely see why he was telling her all of this information.

"All right. I want what is best for Alice as well. Tell me what you wish."

It flashed to Kieran's mind how very different Delia was from the women he tended to meet. Whether they were debutantes in the ballroom or women in the brothels, they could never ask him enough about himself. They were looking for leverage, for intimacy, for information they could use to better themselves and draw closer to him. Delia was nothing like that, and he had never known that it would be such a relief to be with someone like that.

"I met Alice's mother some years ago when I was out in the country on some business. She worked at the inn in Denby that I was staying at. I was hoping to acquire some property in the area, though I suppose that is hardly relevant."

Kieran paused, thinking that the next part was surprisingly difficult to say. One did not speak of such things with women. He had barely done more than outline the situation to Neil.

"I came back to my rooms one night and found her waiting in my bed."

He glanced up at Delia to gauge her reaction, and he was startled to see not censure nor contempt but instead confusion.

Well, she's been in service for the last five years. She might actually be that innocent.

"She was, er, there to offer me her favors. Do... do you know what that means?"

Delia gave him a narrow look. "Please, Kieran, I am not a child. I have at least a rough idea of why she was in your bed. I have read books."

The image flashed through Kieran's mind of Delia tucked into bed on a winter night, her nose not more than four inches from the page and a becoming blush on her cheeks. He imagined her lips slightly parted, and then he pulled his mind away. He had truly become a lecher sometime in the past few days; that was the only explanation for it.

"Ah, yes. Well. We kept up our assignation for the four weeks I stayed at the inn, and then we left things with a kiss and smile."

Delia's eyebrow raised. "And... she was content with that? That was all she desired from you?"

Kieran shrugged. "We did not speak so very much. She came to my room willingly. I gave her gifts that she did not ask for or turn away. What more needs to be said?"

"A great deal, I would think, but please, continue."

Now he could see a faint blush on Delia's cheeks, but as truly charming as it was, he was not telling this story to titillate a pretty young woman.

"Well, I went back to London and thought no more about it for almost four years. Then I got a letter in the mail from that same girl, telling me that she was dying and I must come and take our daughter."

"You mean she never told you about the fact that she was pregnant?"

"Believe me, if I had known, I would certainly not have left it that long before I met my child. The girl herself was clever and wild, and I could not guess her motives. Perhaps she thought I would not believe her, or perhaps given that her parents owned the inn and had money, she felt secure despite the scandal. I have no idea.

"In any case, I flew back to Denby just as they were putting her into the ground, and there I found Alice."

For a moment, something flickered across Delia's face, anger or grief or something similar. She trembled, and without thinking of what he was doing at all, Kieran reached out to take her hand. She flinched, and then she squeezed it hard before pulling away, the image of a proper governess.

"Please, go on."

"There was no doubt in my mind that Alice was my child after I saw those eyes. They run in my family, and she looks very much like the children of some of my more distant cousins. Even with that, I might have left her to stay with her grandparents, if they were loving caregivers, but—"

"But they certainly were not. Yes."

Kieran sighed. "So, I bought my daughter from her own blood, because I could not do otherwise, and here I am. And I told you all of this because I do not care how competent you are or how good your references, if you make my daughter regret her birth or the circumstances of her coming to live with me for one moment, I will shout you into the street."

He had no idea how Delia was going to react to all of this. It was a strange story, and the potential for scandal was intense. She might have been disgusted with all of it or contemptuous or cowed by his threat, but instead, she only laughed.

The laugh sounded almost reluctant, and it was a lighter sound than Kieran might have expected from her speaking voice.

She looked shocked at her own laughter, raising her hand to cover her mouth, and then she shook her head.

"Rightly so. I would think that any good father would want to protect his daughter the way that you are looking to do."

Kieran tilted his head to look at Delia a little more closely. "You do not have the reaction I thought you might have."

"I did not expect you to be so involved a parent, so I suppose we are even."

Kieran wondered if he should take offense to that but given the parenting he had seen in the ton, where children were left to servants to raise and parents saw their well-behaved and utterly silent children only at mealtimes, he supposed that she had a point.

When Delia spoke next, it was not about parentage or bastardy. Instead, she spoke of getting reading primers from a special firm in London, to see if Alice might be persuaded to read more quickly. Kieran was certainly pleased to discover that she took her position seriously, but still, he was slightly disappointed not to hear more about the reading that she had apparently done...

C H A P T E R 0 4

A week later, Delia collapsed into her bed exhausted, staring up at the ceiling blankly

My goodness, how in the world did my own nurse get on when there were two of us and not just one?

Alice was a lively little girl, and once she had become comfortable with Delia, she never stopped wanting to play with her, to show her things and to simply be with her. Delia guessed that the little girl had been starved for love and attention ever since her mother died, and though Kieran wanted the best for her, he was fairly hapless as to how to handle that.

A real nurse, Delia decided, would have pointedly told Kieran that fathers were an unusual presence in the nursery, perhaps even a disruptive one, but Delia had not had the heart to do so.

After all, I am here to learn all his secrets and to make sure that nothing about his situation escapes my notice. This is a good way to do that.

That was her excuse, but deep in her heart, she knew that it likely had far more to do how Kieran could sit and watch Alice babble for hours and how he took such a serious interest in teaching her to recognize her letters. It was still a work in progress, but Alice's mind was as limber as soft clay, holding all the impressions that Kieran and Delia left on it.

Outside her window, a distant storm rumbled. There was meant to be a soaking rain in the morning, but until then, the air was still and hot.

Today had been especially trying, with Kieran called away for shipping concerns in London and Alice fretful and nervous about the unusual summer weather. More than once, Delia had had to ask her to sit still on a stool, away from her toys and drawing pens, and simply breathe to calm down.

Poor little mite. I want to crawl out of my skin a little bit as well.

Delia made a face, thinking of how little progress she had made. She had come to find information linking the Duke of Cowanfield to her sister, but so far, she had only managed to do an excellent imitation of a nurse.

Well, no time like the present to get to work, is there?

It occurred to her suddenly that on a night like this, most of the servants would have taken to their beds to try to sleep out the heat, leaving the upper portion of Brixby Hall completely empty. Kieran himself—really, when had she started thinking of him as Kieran, even in her thoughts?—was not due back from London until tomorrow afternoon. That meant that this was the perfect time for her to start her investigation.

She rose from her bed, but the idea of reaching for her heavy gown and putting it on again made her despair. It would be fine to go in her light sleeping shift. She could always claim that she wanted a drink of water and was only going to bed, after all.

Delia was careful to avoid the creaking floorboards in her room that might wake Alice up and tell her it was time to play again. They had only recently convinced her that sleeping at night was far superior to sleeping during the day, and Delia was loath to disturb that.

I am not a nurse, I am the daughter of the Marquess of Winsbury. I am here to find my vengeance.

The stern reminder did not prevent her from peeking into Alice's adjoining room to make sure that the little girl was still sleeping, however. Shaking her head at herself, Delia padded to Kieran's study.

Like most of Brixby Hall, the study itself was large, elegant, and to Delia's eye, relentlessly masculine. Dark shelves filled with serious tomes lined the walls, and save for a little ornamentation in the molding and above the door, it was plain, almost stark.

She knew that Kieran kept a journal of sorts on his desk. He noted the events of the day, partially for business, partially as a memory aid, and he had mentioned that he had kept it for years. That meant that there was a chance Lissa was in it somewhere, and it would be a good place to start.

The journal was a handsome thing with an embossed leather cover and crisp thick white pages, and it rested neatly squared up at the corner of Kieran's desk. She noted how it was positioned, and opened it to the bookmark, paging back.

With a strange and almost guilty pleasure, she saw that she and Alice were the primary topics of the past week, and against her will, she smiled at the entry from two days ago.

July 11

-Meals with A & D

-Played at war with A, and D served as my military council

-A shows a talent for strategy and D for treason

Well, perhaps it hadn't been fair to gang up on Kieran with Alice, but in the end, she and Alice had ended up triumphant and claimed a basket of strawberries as their prize. Alice had even proved gracious upon victory and insisted on sharing the strawberries with her father.

What in the world is wrong with me? I'm not looking for pleasant memories with the man.

Determinedly, she flipped further back in the journals. Though she was determined to find evidence of Kieran anywhere near where she and Lissa had lived with their father, she couldn't stop herself from briefly looking over the time he had spent in Denby, convincing Alice's grandparents to give her up. The entries were terse to the point of confusion. Kieran mentioned travel and the address of the inn. Underlined in one entry, without any explanation, was a notation for the sum of six hundred pounds.

That's how much Alice's grandparents demanded. Delia shivered as she touched the page and could almost feel Kieran's fury bleeding through the ink and paper.

She went further back and hesitated briefly on June 18th, the day of her sister's funeral. There was nothing there, only some household notes about servants and requests for time away, and she felt a brief stab of the old anger coming up again.

She went back to May, when Lissa would have started the affair, and for a moment, she only sat and stared. The pages carefully pre-numbered for the last two weeks of May were empty, completely empty. Their blank smoothness woke in in her an urge to mar them, to tear them with a pen knife and her own nails until she calmed herself.

Did you not want any memory of her? Did you want to make sure that someday, someone like me wouldn't discover what you had done?

Delia's rage had been blunted over the last few days of watching Kieran act the doting father with Alice and with Alice's own sweetness. For a short while, she had been able to forget her grief and her rage and simply take care of Alice. Now she could see what a fool she had been and how she had been fooled.

What was I expecting? He had an affair with an inn girl and never saw her again. He only knew about his own daughter because he was told in a dying woman's letter.

She paged back to the beginning of the empty entries, and what she saw took her breath away.

13 May

-asked coachman to prepare team for long journey

-sent ahead to secure lodgings in Anniston

-preparations for extended stay

Anniston was the town closest to her father's property. Lissa had gone there frequently for sewing supplies, ribbons, and sweets. Sometimes, she dragged Delia along, and Delia felt a deep pain in her heart, thinking of how impatient she had always been when Lissa insisted on her presence.

Couldn't I have been a little more patient with her? Even a little? All she wanted was to spend time with me.

She stared at the ceiling until her breath came easier. There was no time for grieving now.

She heard the step in the hallway just as she was putting the journal back where she found it, squared up and in the corner. She was just thinking that she should find some dark corner to hide in when the door opened, and in the doorway stood Kieran.

Delia froze, in her shift, a candle in her hand, as guilty as a thief with her hand in the till.

C H A P T E R 0 5

As it turned out, Kieran hadn't had to go all the way to London. The ship's captain had shown up at the halfway point, as he had family in the town, and there they had been able to conduct the pertinent business. Kieran might have been more irritated if it hadn't meant that he would be back home in half the time.

On the carriage ride back to Brixby Hall, Kieran had to laugh at himself a little. There was a time when he wouldn’t have been so eager to return to his ancestral estate in the country. Now, the pleasures of London seemed to pale to bleached white when compared to spending the day with Alice and Delia.

I'm sure that at some point, the newness will wear off, and then I will find myself bored with life in the country and doting on my daughter... but damned if I can tell when that would be.

The only problem was that he was hoping to pick up a decent set of paints for Alice in London, and now he would have to send away for them.

If he were honest, Alice wasn't the only person for whom he had considered purchasing gifts. If there was one thing he was familiar with, it was presents that would delight a pretty girl, but as the carriage had rumbled ever toward London, he’d realized that that expertise was entirely wrong.

Delia had no need for beautiful jewelry or expensive scents from Paris or Milan. She wouldn't thrill to a new hat trimmed with ostrich feathers, and he could see the look she would shoot him over the top of her spectacles at the idea of receiving a pair of leather dancing slippers.

Books then, or perhaps a modiste to come and make her some new gowns. Hers are so very gray.

He was bone tired in the carriage, but when he finally gained the house, Kieran realized that he didn't quite want to sleep yet.

I can read for a little while, perhaps...

He had not expected to see a candle burning in his library, and he certainly had not expected to see Delia, clad in nothing but her shift, standing there holding it, a guilty look on her face.

"And what in the world are you doing here?"

His mind flashed from simple theft to Delia letting in thieves from her London gang to arson and to how grieved Alice would be to lose her, and then sense asserted itself. This was Delia.

"I was on my way back from the kitchen for a drink, and, well, I thought I would get something to read."

"That explains the shift, I suppose."

"You know, a gentleman might not mention it and might allow me to make my way back to my room without any odd or pointed questions."

"Is that what a gentleman would do?"

"I am sure of it!" She spoke with such indignant conviction that Kieran laughed, stripping his own light linen jacket from his shoulders.

She jumped a little when he stepped closer, but after he draped the black jacket around her, she pulled it close with all the dignity of a queen offered her regalia.

Kieran thought abruptly about the time she had mentioned reading before, when they had been discussing what went on between a man and a woman in bed, and he couldn't stop himself from grinning.

"So, you were looking for something to read?"

Something about his tone must have irritated her, because she stood up very straight and glared at him.

"I was, and now I will be returning to my rooms."

"But you have not yet found anything to read. Shall I help you?"

Delia hesitated, looking momentarily unsure, and Kieran closed the study door behind him, setting his own candle in a small depression in the wall. It was cunningly outfitted with mirrors, and the dancing candle flame set a reflection of light throughout the room

"Perhaps I can help you. It is, after all, my study."

"You needn't trouble yourself..."

"I would like to take the trouble. What do you like to read?"

Delia seemed to come to a decision, and she offered him a smile that was small but seemed genuine.

"Truthfully? I like just about everything. I like romances, of course, but I also like adventure novels, of the kind that they write for young boys. I like history and science, and I even like reading about mathematics if the writer is good at what they do."

Kieran laughed with delight at her answer. "Quite the little scholar, aren't you? Have you read all your life?"

To his delight, Delia drifted closer to him, perhaps to hear his quiet voice more clearly, perhaps simply because she wanted to. He abruptly became more aware than ever that she was only in her shift and his jacket; a thin and nearly transparent layer of cotton lawn and another layer of fine linen were all that stood between her soft skin and his hands... or his mouth...

"I have. I'm afraid I wasted many days when I should have been out playing or interacting with others in my rooms with my nose buried in a book. My mother was quite in despair."

The slight hint of melancholy in her tone wiped away Kieran's thoughts about seducing her over one of the books that were kept on the very top shelf, behind a completely innocuous copy of the works of Marcus Aurelius. He coughed slightly, wondering when he had become such a lecher.

"Well, let's see, I have plenty of adventure, not much romance, I am afraid, and plenty of history as well..."

She came closer just as he turned toward the shelves, and somehow, somehow, they ended up standing with less than four inches of space between them, Delia's back to the shelves and Kieran looming over her. He noticed that her hair, usually scraped back in a bun, was in a plait now, and soft wisps escaped to frame her face.

Without thinking, he reached up to tuck one errant lock behind her ear, and then almost as if hypnotized, he cupped her face in his hand. Her skin was terribly soft under his palm, and when she looked up at him, her spectacles slid down her nose, revealing her wide gray eyes.

"Your eyes look darker in this light, like a storm instead of a pool of quicksilver."

"Kieran..."

He wasn't sure whether she meant to urge him on or to push him back. Her voice trailed off, and underneath it, he heard a breath of longing, something with its own gravity, and heedless, he was falling.

The moment his lips touched hers, something in him was set on fire, like a burning beacon. She felt like passion, like life, like a flower blooming alone in an empty desert. He knew, somehow in his mind, that she felt the same thing, that she needed this as much as he did. When he felt her small hand reach blindly up for a handful of his shirt, grabbing the fabric and hanging on, he thought that there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for her.

Kieran wasn't sure which of them deepened the kiss, but then he was tasting her mouth more completely, her head tilted back so he could sweep his tongue between her soft lips. She was perfect... and then she pulled away.

He almost reached for her again, but then, in the candlelight, he could see her spectacles were askew and her eyes behind them were wild.

"We cannot do this! I cannot… Oh. Oh, goodnight, Kieran, I can't..."

He started to ask her what was wrong, but she snatched up her candle and pelted from the room, taking his jacket with him.

Kieran stared after her, every bone in his body telling him to run after her. Then he thought of what it would look like, the lord of the manor racing after the governess in the middle of the night, and he cursed.

C H A P T E R 0 6

Delia came awake to the feeling of little fingers prying at her lips. She sputtered, sitting up, and with confusion, she saw that it was Alice, sitting beside her and looking at her with concern.

"Why, Alice, what are you doing in my room? Did you have a bad dream?

"I'm not in your bedroom. Why are you wearing Papa's jacket?"

Delia awakened all the way, and her memory came back with a rush. Her face reddened when she thought of what had almost happened in the study, what actually had happened. She felt as if she was being torn in a dozen different directions. One part of her was still brutally and terrible enraged by the evidence she had found in Kieran's journal. It wasn't anything a court would accept, and it would prove nothing at all, but it was more proof than she’d had before. It told her she was on the right track and that she had to keep digging.

The fact that she had kissed Kieran, or allowed him to kiss her, was something else.

The other part of her, the part that she couldn't ignore no matter how hard she tried, wanted more of that. The moment Kieran's hands had ended up on her body, all she could think was how right it had felt. He felt warm and sweet and perfect, and it was as if everything in her life had been leading up to this.

She had no idea what would have become of them if she hadn't pulled away, if the realization that she was in the dark with a man she had only met a week ago hadn't struck her like a ton of bricks.

"Er, well, I am wearing your Papa's jacket because I was cold last night. We were talking in the study."

Alice frowned at her. "But it was so warm last night..."

"Temperatures drop in the dark, and I was out of bed, wanting a drink of water. I was being very silly. Not like you, sweet girl, who stayed in bed all night."

Oh, I certainly hope this won't convince her that it is all right to go roaming after dark...

"And it is time for us to get dressed anyway, so I shall put Papa's coat over this chair for him. I shall get dressed, and I shall help you get dressed. How does that sound?"

It sounded just fine to Alice, and by the time Delia was once more securely dressed in drab gray, and she had helped Alice into a sturdy blue dress that she could wear outside to play, Delia was feeling much better. She sent to the kitchen for some breakfast for the two of them, and they were just finishing when there was a knock, and then the door opened.

Kieran looked, Delia thought with some dismay, more handsome than he had any right to after being up as late as he had been. He wore black trousers that clung to his long legs, and the dark gray waistcoat over a gleaming white shirt only served to make his hair look even darker.

"Papa!"

Alice left her breakfast and pelted over to be picked up, and Delia didn't have the heart to tell her that that was far from proper table manners.

"Oof, there's my sweet girl." Kieran hefted her up into the air before bringing her in for a close hug. "I missed you yesterday.'

"I missed you, too, Papa, but Delia let me draw, and we drew you pictures..."

As Alice chattered on about the pictures they had drawn, Delia met Kieran's gaze over Alice's shoulder. If she had guessed what she might have expected after the previous night, she might have predicted glee or triumph, or worse, some kind of terrible secret lust. Instead, Kieran looked as cautious as she felt. Somehow that made her feel a little better.

I am only relieved because he does not expect anything. It is only because I need him to believe that I am nothing more than what I pretend to be.

Eventually, Kieran brought Alice back down to the floor, where she scampered for the drawings that she had made for him.

"I was thinking perhaps we could go for a picnic today."

"A picnic, your grace?"

His title popped out automatically, an attempt, perhaps to put some kind of distance between them, something to remind them both of who they were.

Kieran frowned. "No."

"No?"

"No. You are not going to retreat back to calling me by my title whenever we are uncomfortable with each other."

"Are we uncomfortable with each other?"

"I don't know what to call it. I was hoping a picnic today might clear some things up."

"All right. But please do not bring anything disturbing or inappropriate up in front of Alice."

Instead of being angry at the reprimand, Kieran smiled crookedly.

"Wouldn't dream of it. After all of this, it is still nice to know that you are on the job."

* * *

By mid-morning, the barouche was waiting in front of Brixby Hall, and Alice was eager to go out into the summer day. It had rained hard early that morning, and everything was left gleaming and green. Even Delia, who had felt a certain amount of apprehension about going out with Kieran, felt something in her ease and loosen for being out in nature.

Instead of having a groom drive them, Kieran had stepped up to the driver's seat himself. As Alice chattered about plants and animals, Delia glanced at Kieran's broad back in front of her, wondering what he was thinking.

The picnic was delicious, and Alice was allowed to run and play in the meadow close to the blanket they had spread out if she did not go very far.

"My family came here to picnic when I was a boy. It was something we did quite often in the summer before my mother died."

"I did not know your mother was dead."

"My father as well. I was just barely of age when my father died, and I was given the entire duchy to take care of."

Other men might have been self-pitying when they said those words, but Kieran was matter-of-fact.

"I was ready for the duties, but I do not think I was ready for... for well, the loneliness."

"A loneliness that never dissipates no matter how many people are around you."

She could sympathize. She had felt much the same ever since Lissa had died. Lissa could fill a room with her bright chattering, but whenever someone was in pain, she turned into a stone-silent listener, listening so hard it was almost as if she trembled.

"Are you quite well?"

"Hm?"

Kieran frowned, sliding a little closer to her. She almost pulled back, aware of how powerful their connection could be, but when he laid his hand on her brow, his touch was as kind as hers was for Alice.

"You look slightly unwell."

Delia laughed a little. He had no idea. She shrugged.

"Perhaps I am a little unwell."

"Did my talk of family bring back some bad memories?"

"I—"

It was on the tip of her tongue to simply say of course not, that it was only the heat of the day and the sun that had made her a little distracted. That was the sensible thing to say, after all.

"I... Not bad memories, perhaps, but sad ones."

Kieran hesitated. She thought that he would simply nod and change the subject. Men, even ones as beloved as her father, were not so very sanguine when it came to women's emotions. Instead, Kieran turned to her, and the look in his green eyes was kind.

"Would you like to tell me? Sometimes unburdening yourself can help you heal. I certainly know that Neil had to listen to enough drunken rants from me after my mother died when I was sixteen."

Delia frowned, distracted. "Sixteen is too young to go on drinking binges."

Kieran shrugged. "it is the way of the quality, I am afraid. I do not do so any longer, if that is any consolation, and I certainly will not teach Alice to follow in my footsteps. But you may keep your counsel if you like. I only wished to tell you that if you did not wish to do so, you did not have to."

Again, the smart thing would have been to brush him off or to fabricate some story that he would believe. She knew painfully well that she was in a precarious position, hidden in his household like a spy. However, when she opened her mouth, it was mostly the truth that came out.

"Well, I have... had... a sister. She was only a few years younger than I am, but we could not have been more different. She was brilliant, lively as a cricket, and very beautiful and desired. I was... well, you know me."

Kieran snorted. "The sun and the moon are different, but still no less beautiful than the other. And I think I do know you. Did you get along well?"

"Less well than might be hoped for. I know I was impatient with her from time to time, and I know she was exasperated with my lonely ways. Then, the summer before I went into service, she fell in love."

"I take it from your tone that this was not a happy thing."

"It was for her. For weeks, she was walking on air, happy about everything and smiling as if she had some great secret. Our father was ill often, you understand, and he was not really present to keep her in check. I thought she was going all moon-eyed over some village romance or other, harmless enough because she was a good girl."

"But that wasn't it."

"No. She fell in love with a lord. I did not discover this until much later."

"A lord?"

Delia raised her eyes to look right at Kieran, wondering if she could see the ghost of the night her sister had died in his eyes. Instead, she only saw concern, a slow anger, and a kind of compassion that made her blink.

"Yes. He made her a passel of promises and whisked her away from us. She... she turned up dead, accident and not foul play, but... but she is gone."

Delia had meant to tell her story as coolly and as calmly as possible. However, now she found that where her sister was concerned, there was nothing cool or calm about her. To her horror, the tears came, and after a moment, when they looked like they would not stop, Kieran drew her under his arm.

It was obscene, being comforted by the man who had caused her sister's death, but she couldn't resist giving in to the tears she thought she had so cleverly locked away.

"Is Delia hurt?"

Alice's voice from behind her was frightened, and she felt a wave of guilt come over her for scaring the little girl. Before she could turn around to explain, however, Kieran spoke up.

"Delia's fine, poppet, only a little sad. You can keep playing if you like."

"I don't like it when Delia's sad."

Instead of going back to play, Alice sat on Delia's other side, one chubby hand patting her thigh as comfortingly as the three-year-old knew how to do.

"There, there," she declared, obviously repeating something she had heard someone say once upon a time.

"Thank you, that helps."

Somehow, it did.

To be continued . . . FIND OUT MORE ON THE NEXT POST -

The Lady’s Masquerade - Part 2

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