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one-boring-person · 3 years

Note

You forced this upon yourself😂 you forced this rambo simp.(and i dont mind)

Okay this may not be as good! But! Im giving you the liberty to take it where you want!(because i love your little details and how you express the feeling in your writing i- AH! Its great. I cant say it enough, it’s great. I mean it.)

How about Rambo finally getting enough courage to show The rancher around the tunnels, in a date sort of way!(they don’t know thats actually where he lives. Aka that photo i showed you before.) i really saw how the rancher was so happy to have him at their house, I’d love to see rambos side of scheduling a house tour and date type deal!! Maybe him even sitting and showing the rancher through all his old photos, and them just in awe because wow. He’s so much cooler than they even thought! He just so nervous and surprised seeing them so interested in him after all this time alone, and them just- in awe of him.

( i also really think it would be funny seeing rambo go through his friends house and seeing-“why the hell you have so many plants???” And just. Adorable assassin living with a wholesome and loving hardworking s/o)

Ah! Im sorry if that’s not as good!! But hey, you feel free to describe their antics and relationship as you will!!

I think I may have run a bit with this, but I hope you like it regardless!😊💛

I've Got Your Back, You've Got Mine.

John Rambo (Rambo IV/V) x reader

Warnings: mention of death, mention of war, mention of injury, mention of PTSD, mention of violence, (possible flash warning for gif?)

Masterlist

The heavy knock on the door surprises me where I'm sitting, the sharp sound snapping me from my thoughts. Looking over at it from my position at the table, I frown and set down my spoon, standing to go answer, unsure of who it is: I'm not expecting anyone today. Colt looks up from his place on the floor, the dog just as curious as I am as to whom it may be, though he doesn't bark, so it must be someone we know. He watches me as I cross the room, going straight to the door.

Opening it, I'm somewhat surprised to see my neighbour, John, standing there, a tentative smile on his face as he looks me over appreciatively, his gaze drawing a blush to my face.

"Mornin' (Y/n)." He greets, rough voice friendly as he waits for me to let him in.

"Morning John." I smile back, delighted to see him, "What can I do for you?"

I step back, waiting for him to enter, which he does so with a nod of thanks.

"Since when have I needed a reason to see you?" The veteran chuckles, the sound reverberating within me, my brain subconsciously storing the action away for later recall. Gently, John moves into my space, one hand coming to lightly rest on my hips as the other cups my face, drawing me in for a slow kiss.

Kissing back, I feel a glow of happiness flare up in me at this contact: he's never really one to initiate touch like this, so it's a whole lot more intimate when he does. Relaxed, I loosely wrap my arms around his neck, languidly caressing his dark hair as our lips move together.

Being the killjoy he often loves to be, Colt pushes in between us, nosing at John's leg, tail wagging enthusiastically as he recognises the familiar man, the dog as fond of his company as I am. Chuckling, John and I pull apart, looking down at the large canine between us, the dark eyes staring up at us imploring us to pay attention to him. Still smiling, John lowers a hand to scratch Colt's head, ruffling his floppy ears a little as the dog instantly allows his mouth to hang open, tongue lolling in content.

"Hey, Colt." The veteran greets, biting back a laugh as the dog pushes me out of the way, nudging at John's stomach.

"He never gets that excited to see me." I complain jokingly, standing back to watch the two interact, a smile playing at my lips.

"Sure he does." John replies, eyes fixing on mine with an expression of fondness, one that had me weak at the knees.

"He really doesn't, he just sits in the corner and whines at me until I feed him. Isn't that right?" I address the dog himself, giving him a light slap on the rear, his ridiculous height meaning I can quite easily reach it, "Anyhow, did you need something? Or did you just come here to kiss me? I can't say I'll complain if that's the case."

Cheekily, I wink at the veteran, leaning back against a nearby counter.

"As nice as that sounds, it's not the reason I came by." He chuckles, blushing lightly, "Though that does sound good."

Grinning, I nod my agreement, only now taking in his body language: he's nervous. His hands fidget, rubbing his fingers over scars and lines on his palms, and he shifts from foot to foot every now and then, small tells he's never quite managed to hide from me.

"Is something up?" I ask him, slightly more serious this time, unnerved by his discomfort.

"No, no, not at all. I, err, well, I just wanted to ask you something." He rubs the back of his neck, head tilted to the side as he regards me, dark eyes fixed on mine.

"Ok, go for it." I prompt him, curiosity sparking my interest.

"Well, do you wanna come to mine? I mean properly, like in the house." John cocks his head to the side, lowering his arm again.

Blinking, I feel shock flood my system, before it turns to unbelievable happiness that he's trusting me enough to come into his private space. Initially, I can't find the right words, somehow struggling to respond, until I find my tongue again.

"I would love to, John." I agree, features lighting up as my mood brightens, "There's nothing I've really got to do today except train up one of the younger horses, so I've got as long as you want after that."

"Great. Is four o'clock alright?" The veteran smiles broadly, though he still looks somewhat nervous.

"Yeah, should be. I'll be there." I promise him, taking up my Stetson from the table as I briefly turn away to put away the plate I was using, having lost my appetite in my sudden excitement.

"I'll get it tidy." He says, looking around the room again, "I'll never understand why you have so many plants in your house. It's like a damn jungle."

At his comment, I laugh loudly, glancing around at the variety of different houseplants I have placed on various shelves, the greenery practically covering every available surface.

"Because it's way too dry to grow anything like this outside all the time. Anyway, they look nice." I shrug, calling Colt to my side as I follow John from the house, grabbing my jacket from the hook as I pass.

"But why so many?"

Once again, I shrug, following him over to a nearby post, where he's hitched Bandit, the horse I gave him a few months ago. The buckskin stallion paws at the ground, his pale coat looking as clean as ever even as he noses at the dust, the dark colouring around his eyes (the reason for his name) and legs standing out much more in the bright sun. As we approach, he looks up, snorting in greeting.

"He's looking good." I acknowledge, admiring the strong stallion appreciatively - I had reared Bandit from a foal, before I had given him to the veteran as a gift four months ago, hoping it will help him to grow his own ranch. My plan had worked, and John now has four horses, including Bandit, as well as a couple of other animals, such as a cow, a pig and five chickens. I'd sold him a couple of goats as well, but we soon found out that John and goats just didn't get along. At all.

"Yeah, he's doing well, too. Takes the training very well, too." John runs a hand through the stallion's dark mane, untying the reins.

"That's good. Reckon he'll be ready for a competition soon?"

"Should be."

Snorting again, Bandit pulls at the reins, clearly eager to get going, especially as Colt moves up to sniff at the horse's back legs. I quickly whistle him over, knowing Bandit has always been shifty around the dog.

"I'll see you at four then." I finally say, unwilling to say goodbye, even if it is only for a few hours.

"Yeah, see you then." John smiles, leaning in to kiss me again, keeping it brief this time, leaving me wishing for more, as he always does.

"See ya." I grin, watching him climb into the saddle, still somehow fluid in doing so despite his age.

Gathering the reins in hand, John adjusts himself in the saddle, before he smiles down at me again as he gently urges Bandit into motion. Obediently, the stallion moves into a swift trot, which turns into a faster canter as the two move off down the driveway, heading towards the split in the fence separating our land. I watch as they go, still finding myself enraptured by the sight of the muscular man sat astride the horse, Colt eventually snapping me from my mind as he barks at me. Shaking my head, I follow him towards the stable.

Hours later, having showered and cleaned up, I feel a sense of relief go through me as I hoist myself into the saddle secured into place on Leo's back. It's relaxing, the stallion beneath me more relaxed than the youngster I've been trying to train all day: she never gave me a break. Seemingly sensing this, as he always does, Leo flicks his ears back and nickers softly, very lightly pawing the ground as I give him a pat on the neck, glad to have a more reliable horse taking me where I need to be.

Tilting back my Stetson, I take the reins in hand and ease the stallion into a trot, intending to let him pick up his own pace, my trust in this horse far greater than in the mare from before. Obediently, Leo moves into the correct gait, the two of us moving as if as one, years of riding together having made it easy for us to become in tune with each other. Together, we start off down the road towards John's ranch, the new path we've created beaten and well-used, allowing for relatively easy riding. Leo's hooves pound the dry ground rhythmically, my hips moving in time with his every stride, the relaxing movement helping to calm the nerves that have sprung up inside me.

A part of me is still unconvinced about going into John's home. Yes, I had helped him rebuild it and had seen very little of the inside rooms, but it still feels as if I'm intruding upon the veteran's safe space, his reprieve from the cruelty of the world he lives in. Something about that doesn't sit right with me, but I tell myself it's John's decision to make, not mine, so I should trust him, which I do, wholeheartedly.

I'm still torn by the time I reach the main house, where John is already sat waiting for me in his rocking chair, dark eyes fixed on me as I approach. Lifting a hand to him, I smile and slow Leo to a halt, praising the horse as I climb down, the gray stallion nosing affectionately at me. Swiftly, I tie him to a nearby post, only to stop when John calls out to me.

"Put him in the stable for the night." He instructs me, gesturing for me to follow him as I try to fight back the sudden onslaught of racing thoughts at his implications: he wants me to stay the night?

"Sure, thanks." I smile back at him, walking after him with Leo in tow.

"Don't worry about it. It's not fair on him if he has to stay out all night." John waves me off with a short grin, "How'd training go?"

I groan.

"Not great. That horse has it in for me, I swear." I complain, rubbing at my arm, remembering the moment I got the new bruise forming there.

"Oh yeah?" He muses, looking amused.

"Yeah. She threw me off eight times!"

"Eight times? Wow, must be a new record." The veteran jokes, something that stirs up the familiar fondness inside me at his more personable behaviour.

"I reckon so. Painful one to set, though, I'll tell you." I remark, smiling broadly as we enter the stable, where I quickly house Leo next to Bandit, removing his tack and other gear.

"Must be." John watches me work, leaning against the door to the large building, muscular arms crossed over an equally muscular chest. Turning back to him, I have to stop and admire the bulging of his biceps as his hands grip his forearms, the veins I've come to love laying out a pattern on the tanned limbs. Everytime I see them, I imagine his strong arms wrapped around me, holding me safe and secure against his solid body, wishing I could feel his hands splayed against me more often.

"Like what you see?" John interrupts my thoughts, voice teasing as he lifts an eyebrow at me, almost smirking at me.

Blushing furiously, I avert my gaze, lifting a hand to gently tap the brim of my Stetson out of my vision.

"You know I do." I laugh nervously, before I look back up at him, "Anyway, since when do you use pickup lines?"

"Since I figured out they get you all flustered." His playful tone is new to me, though it's gone almost as soon as I see it, his guarded expression falling back into place as he returns within himself, probably thinking he overstepped some invisible boundary.

I still can't help stammering for a response, his gruff tone awakening something within me.

"Heh, I guess you're right." I stutter, going over to him.

Nodding, he keeps his expression straight, leading me out back to the house, where he quickly welcomes me inside.

"I tried to tidy it as much as possible, but it's still a bit messy." The veteran apologises, observing the interior of his home critically, even as I do so in awe.

The rooms, from what I can see, are mostly filled with sparse furniture, a few chairs here and there, an old sofa, a couple of vanities and dressers, with a mantlepiece in most, if not all, of them. He hasn't used much colour, but what he has used is tasteful and works well with the overall appearance. The walls, however, are what really draw me into the place.

They are littered with photographs and memorabilia, frames and objects cleaned and polished so they shine brightly in the afternoon sun, many smiling faces visible in them. Curious, I go over to one wall, looking over the array of pictures, which I now recognise to be images of John and his friends from the years he spent here. Amongst them is a creased black and white photo of a young John sat astride a horse not unlike Bandit, a broad grin on the boy's face as he stares at the camera from under a mop of thick black hair. I can feel a small smile creep onto my face at the sight of the veteran looking so happy and carefree, something I've not seen very much of at all in my time around him.

"That was my first horse, Hector. I had him until I left for the army." John says from behind me, sounding somewhat quiet, eyes softened from nostalgia as he stares at the picture along with me, "I loved him a lot, but my father always said he wasn't good enough."

His words hang in the air as I stay speechless, listening intently to what he's saying to me: it's the first I'm hearing about his life before he came here again.

"What happened to him? Hector, I mean." I ask him quietly, tearing my eyes away to look up at John.

The veteran shrugs, appearing somewhat remorseful.

"I'll never know, but I reckon my father sold him as soon as I was gone."

"Oh." I frown, glancing back at the photograph.

"The horse was getting old by that time, though. He probably wasn't much use." John chuckles wryly, moving away towards the stairs nearby, "Do you want to see upstairs?"

"Yeah, sure." I nod, following him as he ascends to the second floor, which I now see consists of three different rooms.

He takes me to the farthest, opening the door to reveal an old study, which looks as if it hasn't been used in a good few years.

"This was my father's study, where he did all his business. I was never allowed in here as a kid." John sweeps his arm around the room, staying by the threshold, as if abiding by a rule that no longer exists, "Not that I go in here that much as an adult."

I look around, finding the neat area interesting: images of a young John hovering by the door, waiting for his father to finish business entering my head.

"It's nice, I like it." I remark, turning to find him smiling very slightly at me.

"It's the only room in the house that's exactly as it used to be. I haven't had time to do up the others properly." John says, leaving the study and going back down the hall, where he opens the other two doors to reveal a bathroom and an empty room.

A dull curiosity flares up within me as I realise one thing about the top floor, but I easily find a solution to it, following John back down the stairs. As we go, however, I realise that my assumption is wrong, as the only other rooms down here are missing the one thing I'd expect in any house.

"Where do you sleep? I haven't seen a bed or anything anywhere." I ask him, cocking my head to the side as he takes me to one final door.

"I'm gonna show you." He smiles at me, before he opens the door.

I blink as I see the dark steps descending into the ground, unease biting at my throat as I flash John a hesitant look. A cool draft wafts up from the black depth, but John only chuckles and moves down into the space below, gesturing for me to follow.

"It's perfectly safe, don't worry." He calls to me, a light flickering on as he reaches the bottom of the steps, illuminating the path to me.

Swallowing, I gingerly step down the stairs, emerging into a tunnel of sorts, my curiosity piqued as I take in the chiselled walls around me, the rock cast in an odd light from the naked bulbs positioned along the length of the cavern. Struts of wood hold the ceiling steady, wiring hanging off of them in places where he's had to hastily put it all together. John watches as I take in the passage, a thoughtful look in place on his face.

"What is this place?" I wonder aloud, still taken aback by the oddity of having a tunnel beneath the house that stretches off in both directions.

"This is my safe space." The veteran informs me, urging me along with him as we go further into the tunnel, walking together for a minute before we emerge out into a larger room of sorts, which is well lit.

My eyes widen as I realise exactly what he means.

The room acts as his bedroom and bathroom, and also has space to sit and relax, the whole area having a homely feel to it. What was missing in the rooms in the house can be found down here, including more photographs, though these ones seem different to the others. They adorn the walls, all except one, which is decorated with a variety of weapons, both guns and knives. Going over to it, I look over the rifles and shotguns hooked onto the wall, struck speechless as I then turn my attention to a machete, the blade honed but chipped from use, seemingly out of place as it hangs beside another, smaller hunting knife.

Moving on, I regard the photographs, only now realising that they're military pictures, many of them containing images of a youthful John in fatigues and uniform. A smile creeps back onto my lips as I feel my eyes land on a particular image of a group of men, where I can see John standing amongst them, a triumphant grin on his face, long locks of dark hair held back by a strip of fabric around his head. The others also smile, though there's something bittersweet about the inscription at the corner of the photo: Baker Team, Vietnam. As I look past the other pictures, I notice that the team slowly dwindles, beaming faces becoming drawn and solemn, eventually just leaving two people behind. Beneath this image is another inscription: Baker Team Survivors.

"That was my team in 'Nam." John says suddenly, voice husky as he remembers the friends he had, "None of them made it back. Not really."

Eyes wide, I look back at him, taking in the distant look in his own eyes, the barely concealed grief still raw in his expression as he stares at the photographs. Noticing my gaze, John gestures for me to come sit on the edge of his bed with him, the veteran pulling another photograph from it's place on his bedside table. Doing so, I make sure I'm not touching him, but am close enough to reassure him, waiting patiently for him to start talking of his own accord, knowing that this is a sensitive subject for him.

After a moment, he starts, his voice low as he pulls me into his stories, taking me through suffocating jungles and blistering heats, through recon and rescue missions, through bloody gunfights and hellfire, through hours spent in torturous situations. He puts me in his shoes as he loses every single member of his team to the gruesome fight he should never have fought, the harrowing grief and pain of letting go of a comrade, someone who's supposed to be by your side for as long as the two of you can stay alive, laid bare for me to see and experience. And even as he moves on, back to familiar territory in the States, the fight never leaves him.

Facing harassment in what should be his safety and security, I can feel every bit of betrayal, of anger and grief that he felt as he is let down by his own country time after time, used again and again by the authorities to do their dirty work, only to be cast aside when it doesn't go their way, the old catchphrase he once lived by, "I've got your back, you've got mine" completely meaningless in this hollow life. His disgust in humanity is plain to me as he outlines his most recent forays into warfare, where the rage he felt is once again transferred to me, and I experience the violent need to take out the parasites in the world that destroy anything good that he did. It's as if I'm there with him, through everything, his description and memories so vivid they chill me to the core, keeping me hooked on his every word.

After a long while, he eventually trails off, and I realise there's a tear rolling down his cheek, his body shaking a little as he holds himself back. My heart breaking, I have to fight the urge to reach out and pull him into an embrace, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. I place my hand on his shoulder instead, rubbing the tight muscles soothingly until he looks up at me with the most heart-rending gaze I've ever seen in my life. At that point, my resolve breaks.

Carefully, I lean in and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling the veteran towards me. He goes willingly, sobs wracking his body as he wraps his own hands around me, burying his face into my neck, tears flowing freely now as he lets himself go, each pained sound agonising to hear. Tightening my grip, I lay back onto the bed, allowing him to press his body around me, holding me against his muscular form as I rub his back, whispering soothing things to him as his breathing starts to calm a little. It takes time, but eventually he starts to relax, body going limp as he lays in my arms, his larger form awkwardly wrapped around mine as he depresses his face into the crook of my neck.

I barely hear his broken voice as he whispers to me.

"Thank you."

Breathing in his familiar scent, I just mould myself closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead as he does the same to my neck.

"I'm here for you, John. I'm here, and I'll never leave. Not as long as I live, I promise."

#rambo x reader #rambo imagine #rambo #rambo 5 #rambo last blood #rambo 4 #sylvester Stallone #John Rambo x reader #John Rambo imagine #John Rambo

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aclosetfan · 3 years

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And Np

(ask game)

haha dude you’re like my new best friend now lmao thanks so much for being interested enough to ask about my dumb ideas!

Eight is titled “Artistic Aspirations” which isn’t a creative title at all. It’s another multi-chapter, no powers au, blues fic!! Personally, I think it's too safe and boring to write. The story spans a few years; I’ve shortened the outline to make it readable, but it still ended up being too long, sorry.

Background on the girls at the start of the story:

Bubbles is 21 and a broke, struggling artist finishing/right out of undergrad. Lives in Cityville. she’s on the verge of having to crawl home to her family with her tail between her legs

BC is 23 and finishing her physical therapy program in Townsville. Still lives with the Professor, but she practically lives full time at her boyfriend's place. She’s semi-neurotic about her relationship, not because it’s unstable, but b/c she thinks it’s too good to be true. Butch, for what it’s worth, doesn’t blink an eye—just a chill dude in this one. VERY into BC.

Blossom is 25 and starting her law career. Lives on the East Coast, working for a successful firm. Would like to move back home at one point, but she hasn’t really had the “right” reason to.

Plot (under the cut!)

It opens with Bubbles at a diner waiting for her sisters at their regular booth. Life isn’t all rainbows and sunshine like she had hoped. At the diner, Buttercup announces that she and her long-term boyfriend are finally engaged! Bubbles has met Butch plenty of time as well as Brick, Butch’s older brother, but she has yet to meet his youngest brother. In fact, Bubbles doesn’t even know his name. Butch just affectionately refers to him as “my dumbass little brother,” which Brick (a defense lawyer here in Townsville) wholeheartedly agrees with. Butch has also said “he’s into all that artsy stuff like you. Draws and shit.”

Until they finally meet at the wedding

He wasn’t there for the wedding rehearsal because his flight was delayed—he was somewhere “fancy” according to Butch b/c of some “art thing, idk, he’ll be here.” “He better be!” Cries HIM, who is one of Butch’s dads, but Bubbles doesn’t really know how exactly b/c everyone is adamant that HIM and Mojo (their other eccentric father) have never once been in a relationship

So when Bubs finally meets the brother she’s walking down the aisle with, she—a person who has an undergrad degree in art (haven’t decided what kind yet lol)—is like WAIT BOOMER JOJO THE BOOMER JOJO?!?! He’s like, “lol sup” and she loses her mind because Butch’s dumbass little brother doesn’t just “draw and shit,” he’s actually an art world prodigy, who despite being very young and very alive, is considered very renowned in major art circles.

(Not Banksy per se, but he’s like one of those Bad Boy artists that would make other artists roll their eyes) (also a man of many projects but doesn’t have the follow-through for a lot of them—which if he wasn’t so good at the stuff he actually finishes, would bite him in the ass; he’s flaky, gets bored easily).

Bubbles is amazed she hasn’t made the connection between the brothers and Boomer just laughs.

There’s, quite predictably, an instant connection between the blues. Butch, who cares for his sister-in-law, is like “Bubs don’t date my brother. He’s not mature enough to be dating anyone.” And Bubbles doesn’t listen!! Because she’s desperate for love and this could also mean she’s finally getting her big break!! Their relationship is really intense and Boomer does end up getting her a nice cushy job at some indie gaming company that he’s dipping his toes in. But just a quick as the flame is lit, it goes out. Boomer gets bored, Bubbles’ art isn’t being taken seriously, and she ends up getting fired for creative differences. Fired and despondent, she gets her break-up text from Boomer the next day. The day after that, he’s dating a model.

Absolutely crushed, Bubbles packs up her bags, leaves his apartment, and moves back in with the Professor. Butch and Buttercup (and Brick—but he’s at work) are ready to kick ass. Bubbles though would rather forget about it and holes up in her childhood bedroom. Eventually, BC gets her out of the room, brings her to Butch and her’s home, and is like “listen I know you’re heartbroken, but ima need you to do something for me—“ and Bubbles is like omg srsly?? Right now?? And BC is like “I need a mural on that wall, something cutesy, ya kno a stork or something?” And Bubbles is about to snap but then, she's like WAIT A STORK!!! And a new baby on the way really brings Bubbles out of her stupor—it gets her painting again. (Bubbles is full of love and you can’t tell me she doesn’t love babies)

So the mural is a hit at the baby shower and Robin (longtime best friend, also pregnant), is like Bubbles please paint me one, and her partner Princess is like MONEY IS NO OBJECT IF ROBIN WANTS IT SHE GETS IT. And then, subsequently, Robin’s (and Princess’s) mural takes off in the rich, white lady community, and soon enough Bubbles is being commissioned for more than just Baby Murals. Princess goes around bragging that she was the one who “discovered her,” and becomes Bubbles' “business agent.”

Basically, Bubbles is on the rise. As opposed to Boomer, who is on the fall. He’s hit an art block. It’s really bad. His melancholy is really bad. Very much plays the “woe is me" card. Hasn’t been back to Townsville in a while, so when his nephew (who he’s met briefly over facetime lol) turns one, he decides to fly in for his birthday.

Plans to mope and bum off his brothers for a bit, but is shocked to see Bubbles, who he then realizes he shouldn’t be so shocked to see. Has a ream “this was a mistake, she’ll make scene” moment, but Bubbles greets him as if nothing between them had ever happened (LIKE A QUEEN). Boomer takes this personally. Then Boomer meets Princess, who gloats about Bubbles, and then, looks at the award-winning boy and goes, “so anyway, who are you again?”

This pisses Boomer off even more and then, over the course of the week he stays with the greens, this anger builds up. He eventually takes it out on Bubbles, like, “you wouldn’t be who you are without me.”

[cue that one blinking gif] Bubbles goes off. Boomer storms off. Romance is in the air.

[well I guess the reds are hitting it off, but that’s c-plot and who cares]

Princess isn’t privy to this growing resentment and only sees an Opportunity™. She reaches out to Boomer’s agent. Then, she reaches out to a museum, and is like “I’ve got the most BITCHING exhibit for you.” Then, she tells Bubbles about the gig she booked for her.

Bubbles and Boomer are like no way am I doing a collab with them. Boomer’s agent is like “chief ima be real with you, it’s this or nothing.” Princess looks at Bubbles and tells her to suck it up. So, they end up working together, which means Boomer is back in Townsville.

Cue lovers to enemies to friends back to lovers speedrun. Hello yes.

Because they’re forced to collaborate, because Bubbles is more confident, and because Boomer has been knocked down a peg or two, they actually (finally) get to know each other on a personal level. And being closer to family helps Boomer, in some ways, mature. It’s a whole connecting back to your roots “ive grown and im better now” character development for Boomer.

Ends ambiguous ;) but it's happy.

#ppg blues #ppg fic outline #my writing #outline ask game #this one is boring #but it is cute to think about #i guess the theme is growing up in your twenties #which is really hard ngl #read more under the cut #if you think it's not boring :) thank you

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years

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HEY I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT YOUR FICLET ABOUT GERALT BEING ILLITERATE IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. I had to put down my phone and whimper when he pulled out the card 🥺 can.. can i humbly request a pt. 2 in the future please? (also,, ive gone through the entirety of your blog too and its. so. good. while ive been chillin’ quarantinin’ reading your fics have been my very favourite thing to do!!) ♥️

Nonnie, you and @ohnomybreadsticks have both given me inspiration for more. It’s gone in a slightly different direction with the whole Wolf School in on the thing now. But, hopefully, you’ll enjoy this addition just as much. Best of luck with the quarantine! I’ll be posting stories fairly regularly for the foreseeable future which will hopefully keep you entertained and out of trouble!

The illiterate Geralt story can be found here.

Jaskier’s School of Self Care for Lost Wolves

It was a known fact that Jaskier loved too much and too freely. Sometimes, he even fell in love with those he hadn’t met but felt they needed love all the same. Which was how he ended up with emotions towards witchers he hadn’t met beyond Geralt occasionally letting a name slip. It wasn’t the same kind of love he held for Geralt, it wasn’t all consuming, he didn’t want to kiss the other witchers silly but it didn’t burn fiercely and involved a lot of throws and warm cuddles. Because, as Jaskier had helped Geralt work on his reading and writing, he realised something. None of the other witchers knew how to do that either. Which was how Jaskier ended up demanding he be allowed to go to Kaer Morhen with Geralt. He had a whole winter to remedy the mistakes their teachers had made. It wouldn’t magically make up for all the neglect but Jaskier would be damned if he didn’t try his best to slowly build scaffolding around and start the process of patching in the holes.

The journey back to the old keep was more hazardous than Jaskier had even dared imagine. It didn’t help that Geralt told him most witchers died on the path, either too naive and new on their way out or too tired or injured on the way back. That was utterly appalling and Jaskier was in half a mind to demand that a new path be devised to make sure all witchers could get home and get the care they needed. Even if Geralt insisted this was for the best, an injured witcher had no prospects after all. Rather than argue, Jaskier kept his mouth shut and began scheming.

There weren’t many witchers left, the school of the wolf was a dying breed but, along with Geralt, three other witchers returned and Jaskier was delighted. It seemed that the whole family was together again. Not that they acted like a family, more like a bunch of pissy cats trying to establish territories because they couldn’t figure out how to share and snuggle. That did disappoint Jaskier, he had a lot more work cut out for him than anticipated. Still, he could put the beginnings of his plan into play.

“What are you doing?” Lambert sounded so utterly offended when he came across Jaskier settled comfortably between Geralt’s legs, both of them stretched out on a fur in front of a fire. Jaskier was holding a book and Geralt was reading aloud in a low, rumbling voice.

“We’re enjoying a good story. Care to join us?”

Snarling, Lambert stalked out of the room and Jaskier shrugged. It was a start, even if it wasn’t an auspicious one. However, it set things into motion because not two days later, Eskel had approached Geralt in the kitchen, softly quizzing him on reading.

“I could teach you,” Jaskier volunteered as soon as he heard, deciding to ignore the wide eyed, almost sheepish look from Eskel.

That was how an hour was set aside each day where Jaskier sat with Eskel, leafing through well loved books that Geralt had used, sounding out words together. After the third time, they ended up with a secretive audience in the form of Lambert lurking just outside the door, listening in. In the end, Jaskier left a book in his usual hiding spot and waited for Lambert to come to him. It took longer than he had anticipated, Jaskier had been shooing Eskel out the room and hanging around to tidy up after their lessons for a good week before the book was thrown by his feet.

“Stop mocking me.” Lambert had his arms crossed defensively over his chest and was glaring in a way that would have sent bolts of fear through most people. Just as well that Jaskier wasn’t like most. He’d seen the posturing, the anger and lashing out in Geralt before, knew all too well what lay below it. With the greatest simplicity, he picked up the book and sat down, opening it and giving Lambert an expectant look. After a beat, the witcher sat down next to him.

That was three witchers on their way to literacy but something still bugged Jaskier. Thankfully, he didn’t have to say anything because Lambert took matters into his own hand. He had a book with him one breakfast, furiously trying to catch up with the other two and master ‘See Spot Run’ at record speed.

“Why did you never teach us to read?” he asked around a mouthful of eggs, greasy fingers leaving marks on the pages.

A silence descended on the table as eyes turned to Vesemir who, for the first time since they knew him, looked uncomfortable.

“It wasn’t needed,” he began. “A witcher can’t read a monster to death.”

Understanding dawned on Jaskier then and there. He put his fork aside and stood with an “oh you poor dear”. It was barely audible over Vesemir’s mumbled “I was just a fencing instructor.”

Walking around the table, he easily settled on Vesemir’s lap, ignoring all social conventions regarding touch. Looking up at the witcher, he smiled.

“It’s never too late to learn.”

Given the possessive nature of witchers, one would have expected Geralt to get jealous. However, he seemed content for Jaskier to do as he pleased, spending time with the other witchers. All too soon, all four of them were piled together on rugs and chairs around a fire and frowning over their respective books while Jaskier flitted between them, helping and encouraging where it was needed. It was obvious Lambert struggled the most, the letters dancing before his eyes and never quite settling which made him growl in frustration and his book often went flying across the room. Only once did it land in the fire.

“I’ve made a decision,” Jaskier announced during a quiet afternoon. “You’re all coming along wonderfully with reading and I have so much more to offer.”

Four witchers looked at him a little fearfully, wondering if they weren’t enough. They didn’t say anything as Jaskier walked out of the room but the sadness was palpable. Until Jaskier returned with his beloved lute.

“If anyone wants to learn any music, I’m happy to teach them.”

While reading was a chore for Lambert, he took to music like a duck to water when shown songs, able to replicate the chord sequences Jaskier showed him quite quickly. He had a special love of raunchy singing songs. The only sad thing was that there was only one lute or any kind of musical instrument in the whole of Kaer Morhen. Though Jaskier was more than happy to sing along to whatever tune Lambert was picking out. Soon, they had a whole repertoire of witcher drinking songs they would happily belt out while the others thumped the table in time with the beat.

By contrast, Eskel seemed content with the softer side of things. In fact, he had taken a real shine to sonnets and would often be found discussing them in depth with Jaskier. Occasionally, Geralt joined in but he didn’t find as much joy in dissecting whether the “sweet smell of faded summer” was in fact a statement about the passing of seasons or whether it was the soft lament of two lovers growing old.

“What are you doing?” Vesemir’s voice pulled Jaskier from his quiet introspection. It was early, the sun was barely poking out from behind the mountains but he was out in the courtyard with Geralt sat on a barrell and frowning into a book.

“Stretching,” Jaskier replied, sunnier than the weather. “I learned a series of movements to keep the body supple and the mind engaged. It helps me keep up with Geralt.”

The wink he sent Geralt’s way was enough to have him raising the book to hide his blush. While everybody knew what was going on between them, Geralt didn’t like to shamelessly advertise it. He was a private soul by nature.

“Come.” Jaskier beckoned Vesemir. “Let me show you.”

They worked through poses, Jaskier explaining a little about each of them. While they looked simple and easy, Vesemir was surprised to find that they gave the gentlest workout he had ever had. By the end, he was pleasantly tired but not in a way a training fight would have worn him out. It was, for want of a better word, rejuvenating. It had him as close to a smile as he usually got.

Over the course of the week, it went from Jaskier stretching in the courtyard while Geralt read to Jaskier and Vesemir. Until, silently, Eskel joined them one morning, standing next to Vesemir, a little nervous but a smile from Jaskier had him easing into the flow. The next morning, soft lute strums accompanied their exercises as Lambert sat opposite Geralt and his book, playing something gentle. The grateful look Jaskier shot him was enough to get him scowling, even if the music never stopped.

Spring was just around the corner. The witchers were all sat around the cleared dining room table with parchments in front of them, quills in hand. Eskel’s tongue was sticking out the corner of his mouth as he focused on his work.

“Just remember, this means you can keep in touch with each other. Enchanted crows can deliver your letters now.” Jaskier was playing soft music as the others perfected their penmanship. Well, all except Lambert who had taken to doodling, letters getting lost in the pictures. But that was okay, he could always draw his sentiments, the others would understand.

By the time it came to leaving Kaer Morhen, Jaskier was content and happy. He had four witchers who looked so much more self confident in their abilities. Because while he had kept their attention on the arts, it was inevitable that they all bonded. It wasn’t all that unusual to find at least two, if not three of them piling on top of each other with a book, getting lost in adventures they didn’t have to live through. Someone else’s struggles were so much more satisfying when the fear of death and failure didn’t hang above their heads.

Three witchers and a bard stood in the courtyard, horses loaded up as they prepared to leave on their respective paths. Only Vesemir stood in his usual attire and a soft smile creasing his face.

“Safe travels to you all,” he said, meeting the others’ eyes in turn.

“What will you do?” Eskel asked. “You usually accompany us at least some of the way.”

The smile turned into an excited grin and Vesemi gestured vaguely towards the keep. “My path for the year is one that is a tight circle. The library here needs some attention.”

Pride made Jaskier beam. He stepped forward and gave Vesemir a hug. “I expect many a wonderful tale from the library when we’re back next year.”

That sealed it. The next winter, they were all going to return with more stories. Eskel even kept a diary to share with Jaskier in case Geralt was stingy on his details for songs. And, when they all reconvened at the start of the next winter, Vesemir had tomes from the library ready to read stories from while Lambert turned up with his own lute on his back.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #lambert #vesemir #witcher wolf pack #illiterate geralt #tldr: jaskier teaches all the witchers how to read and appreciate the arts

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gaveherhearttotheliontattoo · 3 years

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Title: Wrong Winchester Turned Right (Part X)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Female)

Word Count: 2506

Warnings: None that I know of

Prompt: So not really a prompt, I was on Pinterest and I looked up fanfiction prompts and this popped up from a user who I can’t find the account of… Anyways reader jumps on the back of who she thought was her best friend in public but ends up quickly realizing her mistake.

Note: Shoutout to my beta reader for keeping me going

(Read Part I Here, Part II Here, Part III Here, Part IV Here, Part V Here, Part VI Here, Part VII Here, Part VIII Here, Part IX Here)

Taglist: @vicmc624

“70 years?” The shock you were feeling clearly shown across your face. “But then how is she here now?” You searched your brain, the depths of your memories to try to recall if there was anything you didn’t tell them. You’d spent so much time researching, you weren’t sure it was possible that you could have messed up on a detail as large as the resurfacing of this creature.

Dean watched you pace. He didn’t think you even recognized when you stood up to start walking. “It’s okay, (Y/L/N).”

You stopped walking, when did you start doing that, and stared at Dean. You had begun to associate his use of your last name with the intimate moments you’d shared. “I can’t explain this, how is that okay?”

“(Y/N/N), it is okay. You shared what you knew and we just have to do a little more digging.” Sam watched you, he’d seen the look in your eyes several times when you reached a stopping point in a case. “Maybe we should get some food.”

“You cannot make me calm down with food me with food Samuel Winchester.”

“Look, I know you. You’re hungry, hangry even. Let’s get some food and spend a little time just thinking about what could possibly explain the return. Any holidays, anniversaries, or similarities to another creature.”

You looked between the boys. “Fine, but we need to figure this out fast before she finds someone else to ensnare.”

------

After returning to the motel room you all secured a spot and opened up your laptops to do some research. You refused to give Sam the satisfaction that he had been right about food helping you, instead you continued to glare at your screen. It was like a scavenger hunt, picking through various clues to lead you to the reasoning she could possibly be awake 70 years earlier than she should.

You started by searching holidays that fell around that time that could have impacted this arrival. You’d hoped it would be as simple as All Hallow’s Eve but the timing didn’t make sense. You searched through the holidays but the only one that caught any attention was Litha, also known as the summer solstice. It was the longest day of the year but it was also the day that indicated the dark was taking back over. Considering the creature’s nature it wouldn’t be far off but there had to be something more. You switched to anniversaries.

You researched old cases that seemed similar. Disappearances of multiple girls, bodies never found, but a trail of men left in the wake of their disappearances. You spotted the trend of years between the appearances start to dwindle. What could have changed to cause this?

Dean spoke up, breaking your train of thought. “According to legend she is supposed to appear once a year, some Scottish folklore, but Sam found something saying she’s not supposed to appear for another 70 years.”

“The American folklore mentioned that she was far more efficient when she would come out so she didn’t need to come out as much.”

“Folklore is just that boys, we need to remember that just because it’s what someone believes, it doesn’t mean it’s completely factual. Once upon a time the cases that resembled her activity were sparse but over the last 500 years it seems they’ve gotten closer and closer.”

“How did you research that far back already?” Dean stared in amazement. He drained the last of his beer, a small drop trailing down his chin.

You watch the drop of beer and your brain thinks of how nice it would be to lick it off of him. Well, that is going to be distracting. “Been doing it for a long time and I already had some prior knowledge. Her pattern is becoming more predictable though. Perhaps her investments aren’t lasting as long or the blood isn’t as rich as it used to be. Hunters do like to drink.”

Dean shared a wry glance with his brother as he popped the cap off his next beer. “Cheers to that. So, anyways, how do we know when she’s going to disappear?”

“We don’t, the dates of disappearance are the only thing that were ever inconsistent throughout time. Which is why we need to act fast.” You knew it was coming, the food break could only stall the conversation of you being used to lure her out for so long. “I say we take two days to prep and plan, and then Friday evening is the night we go through with it.”

Dean reminded himself this was the right thing to do and bunched his hands into tight fists. “What do you believe is the best course of action?”

You’d chosen the bed as your place of study but wished you were closer to Dean in this moment. You shifted your laptop to the bed and moved to the edge of Sam’s bed, close enough to rest your hands on top of Dean’s white-knuckled fists. “We go on a date.”

“A date? How will that get her attention?”

“I’ll be all dressed up and so happy to be out with you but you’ll go on and break my heart. My appearance should attract her because she has a thing for shiny objects and a mean man who deserves to die would be the icing on the cake she needs.”

“Doesn’t sound like we have to wait until Friday.” Dean adjusted, his muscles loosening at the fact that he would be with you during this scheme.

“We should wait though. Friday night is date night for most people. We need to round out the image and appearances too. Plus we can’t stop our search, especially with the interaction I had today. She’ll know we’re onto her and if we were to just go for it the next day it would look suspicious. Waiting provides us time to make it look like we are struggling, giving up, weakening.”

Dean released the fists he held and gripped your hands with his. “Weak is one thing we are not.”

“We know that, she won’t, especially if we can pull the fight off.”

Sam, who’d been patiently biding his time finally spoke up. “You two should investigate together tomorrow. You haven’t quite appeared as a couple in public and it will seem odd if the two of you just go out Friday. I’m going to take a shower while you figure out what you think you can fight about.”

You waited until the water was running, unable to pull away from Dean. You’d agreed to start something, but now the thought of ending it, even faking ending it, seemed too real too soon. “Can we pull this off?”

“Oh, I think I can manage to get upset with you about something.” Dean chuckled when you snarled. “See, we’re already ready to argue.”

“What about Sam?” Dean just stared at you, waiting for further explanation. “We could fight about Sam. I’ve been hunting and investigating with him over you so it wouldn’t be far fetched to think that there was something going on there.”

Dean flinched. “I don’t want that imagery, again.” Dean pulled you onto his lap, linking his fingers behind your back. “Does this mean we have to go shopping?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly pack going out clothes for a hunting trip.”

Dean resigned himself to the idea of spending hours looking for clothes with you, but reminded himself it was just more time he got to spend with you, something he was enjoying probably far too much. “We’re doing it together. I think it’ll help with the appearance, plus I want as much time with you before this all goes down.” Dean planted a kiss to your neck.

“It hasn’t even been three weeks that I’ve known you, the real you, but it feels like so much longer.” You hooked one arm around Dean’s neck, leaning back so you could look into his eyes. This next part wasn’t going to make him happy. “Promise me one thing, if this turns south and she lures me in, you won’t let her keep me. Trap me up until you can figure out a way to get me back or end it.” You felt yourself hit the bed before you had time to process what was happening.

“End it?” Dean was stomping the length of the room, thrusting his fingers through his hair. “We just talked about how we aren’t weak. There is no way anything is going to happen to you.” Dean stopped and looked at you. “I’m going to walk around outside for a bit, I need some space to think over the fact you want me to just end it.”

You flinched as the door slammed behind Dean. Maybe it was callous to say end it but if it was necessary so be it. To hell with him. Who did he think he was getting upset when he said he would go with the plan. To. Hell. With. Him.

You stood, prepared to just change and go to bed, but found yourself seeking out the man who continued to push your buttons.

“This is my choice!” You yelled to his shadow. “I can ask Sam to do it if you don’t think you can but I refuse to live a life with this creature where I’m luring and killing men for sport. You’re either with me or you’re not.” Satisfied you got that off your chest you turned to reenter the motel room but found yourself scooped into Dean’s arms. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t you dare ask Sam.” Dean carried you to the hood of Baby and set you down, standing between your legs. “Of course I would do it but did you think the concept would be easy for me to think about? What if I told you to end it for me if she managed to get her claws in me and I was fighting to hold on? How would you respond?”

You bristled, the thought quite unpleasant. “I get it, and I’m sorry, but it is part of the job, the life.” You leaned forward and linked your hands behind his neck, drawing him closer. “This should get her attention.”

“I’m not doing this for her attention,” Dean mumbled, dropping a featherlight kiss to your lips. “I like you, and I don’t like people lightly. Giving me time to wrap my head around losing you before we go through with this plan is probably for the best and it will probably help my anger during our faux argument.”

“It’s not going to be easy for me either. I may have been indifferent to you at first but I like you too.”

“Indifferent?” Dean chuckled. “You couldn’t have cared less about me at the start if you tried.”

“You’re wrong,” You said, recalling the day you jumped on his back. “I would say I found you annoyingly attractive but we just started off on the wrong foot.”

“Does that mean we are on the right foot?”

You answered by sealing your lips to his. You crossed your ankles behind his legs, pulling yourself as tight against him as you could. You didn’t even recognize your own behavior anymore, but you were about to put your life on the line in a way that you never had before. Not just yourself though, someone who had quickly become an important piece in your life. It should have shook you how much you cared about Dean but instead you felt comfort in his arms.

“You’ve really gotta stop thinking while I’m kissing you,” Dean interrupted your train of thoughts.

Sighing you moved your hands to cup his face. “I was just thinking about how comfortable I am in your arms.”

“Oh,” Dean said, squeezing you tighter. “Well, in that case, could you think out loud?”

“Let’s go back in before we draw too much attention to ourselves.”

Dean scooped you off the hood of the car. “Don’t wanna scratch the hood.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, you didn’t scratch the hood, now put me down.”

Dean continued to carry you, dropping you on the bed, ignoring the look Sam was giving him. He turned to his duffle bag, deciding he needed to take a very long shower. He lifted the duffle bag onto his shoulder and winked at you before walking into the bathroom. He wanted you to join him but this case needed to be over before he could think about going any further with you.

He stripped out of his clothes and turned the water on, not as hot as he normally would but he needed to cool down, which would normally work if you hadn’t knocked on the door. “What?”

“I need to change.”

“Couldn’t you just ask Sammy to step outside?”

“Oh, don’t be a baby.”

Dean pictured you changing, easily done since you’d showered together just that morning. How had it only been since that morning when it felt like it had been days if not weeks since that had occurred. “(Y/L/N), you’re killing me.”

“When you first started using my last name I hated it but now I find it endearing, kind of a turn on.” You heard Dean groan, bringing a smile to your lips.

“Could you just change and go so I can get on with my shower.”

You slipped your night shirt over your head. “Right, I’m sure that’s all you need to get on with.” When Dean’s head whipped around the shower curtain to glare at you the laughter bubbled from deep within before you could stop it. “I’m going.” You walked out still laughing, catching a curious eye from a lounging Sam. “Just teasing your brother.”

You curled onto your side under the blanket, keeping room for Dean since you knew that was where he was going to sleep. You thought about how you woke up with him and the events that had transpired to his black eye, followed by the entire day you had. You were overwhelmed and the exhaustion soon took you under.

Dean attempted to get under the covers without waking you. Sam was out and the only light was from the moon shining through the curtains. He sucked in a deep breath when you rolled against him, nervous.

“What time is it?” You mumbled.

“Just close your eyes and go back to sleep.” Dean wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close so your head rested on his chest. As soon as Dean could feel your chest rising and falling at a slower rate he relaxed and felt himself begin to fall asleep. He knew the next two days were going to be long as the preparations to face the creature who inadvertently brought you together unfolded so he took the time to enjoy the feel of you in his arms. Running his fingers and up and down your arm he let the pattern lull himself to sleep.

#dean winchester #spn #supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #wrong winchester turned right #sam winchester

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letterstomilen · 3 years

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the death of rex lapis (hopefully)

Zhongli, Vampire Alternative Universe (warning: this is mainly expositional bc ive had fun playing around w the idea of how zhongli would be if he was a vampire so idk where this’ll go! there is some childe/zhongli but not much!! anyways happy birthday zhongli i love you :) Zhongli does not make a good vampire.

Immortality is meant to make you smart.

But what people forget is that you don’t live that long because of wits. Immortality does not mean you are capable; it means that you were foolish enough to get bitten and didn’t think much of it later.

He wasn’t clever when he was held by Guizhong, who smiled sweetly at him as she looked at him, her hair brushing against his skin and cold hands curling the ends of his hair. And certainly not sharp when he failed to notice that her heart wasn’t beating and she seemed to look more at his neck— ”You have a very fine neck,” she informed him when he asked, and he nodded, assuming that it was one of those things sculptors just happened to notice—than his eyes for the majority of the night.

Whether it was out of guilt or disinterest, he doesn’t know. Zhongli would like to think that it was out of guilt, because prior to the night, they were friends. And after she bit his neck, she held him in her arms, whispering story after story as he stuck by fever.

The pain was unimaginable. First—there was shock. And then minutes later, while he wondered why the room smelled more like sweat and blood than incense, he realized that he was still held down.

This must be what quarry feels like, he thought then. But now he knows otherwise; prey would never be held so gently and lay there limply if they could help it. He, while being drained every bit of life, was a willing, sitting duck.

That was before the pain, of course. When she finally let go of him to wash her face—he recalls this clearly: her wiping her face, then licking the blood off her hands with the relish of a child on her birthday, before leaving to the bathroom—he laid there paralyzed. It was, he’s discovered, a bit like being drunk.

Only that the alcohol left his insides in unimaginable pain for days on end. He stumbled when he tried to stand; babbled as he struggled to speak. Even now he only remembers brief flashes of it, when he tore the skin on his arm with his newly grown canines, or hours of rejecting food that he could not quite stomach.

In reality, he was a child—a baby, really, if you were being blunt about it. The weeks that followed were horrendous and perhaps it’s a blessing that he spent the majority of them inhibited, the metamorphosis shedding every part of him that he was comfortable with. But as the days went on, the pain gave way to numbness and numbness gave away to strength.

And when he finally regained enough consciousness to form a coherent sentence, he asked Guizhong why she did it. She, with the certainty of somebody that’s lived for longer than he had, answered, “Well, you’ve always been interested in how the world would change after you were gone. Isn’t this now your chance to witness it?”

Fanaticism with history and predictions could only get you so far. To witness it—wasn’t that just a dream? And because he assumed that rocks were eternal and could not erode back then, he nodded in agreement.

It was a mistake.

Six hundred years ago, Zhongli underestimated the length of his lifetime. One day he’d be talking to somebody about their newborn and it would only be a blink later where their newborn was six feet under, hailed for having a long and blessed life. (What made a blessed life? It couldn’t have been the years –he concluded that every year he was more cursed than before.) Relationships were scarce because he forgot that not everybody experienced time the same way he did.

Days, contrary to his belief, were not fleeting seconds but rather twenty-four hours long. They composed of both the night and day, waking and sleeping hours instead of mindless walks that ended with him apologizing profusely before his fangs were embedded deep into somebody’s throat.

Somebody suggested for him to just do it in an alley and leave them there to be found at morning. But that was too disrespectful—uncouth even. He preferred to invite them into his home, graciously taking their coat and ushering them inside to a table filled with food. Venti always commented on how polite he was to the very end, taking extra care to cook food that he knew they liked—“Last meal before execution, huh?” he’d comment. “Very romantic.”—and making them comfortable until the very end.

That’s not how it started of course.

He tried starving himself at first—much to Osial’s amusement. On a night out, where Zhongli was more attuned to the heat and beating hearts of the people around him than the delicacies laid out, Osial took it a step further by passing him a cup with a thick, maroon liquid that sloshed around in it.

It smelled finer than the silk flowers that littered the gardens, and when he took the cup, he felt one step closer to the damnation Guizhong always spoke of. The worst part was that it didn’t churn his stomach—instinctually, he felt more delighted than he ever felt, a smile cracking his worn face as he inspected the goblet. Only when did he take note of Osial’s smug expression, the glint in his eyes that reminded him of an elusive professor, and the way he watched him carefully the way a parent would watch a child take its first steps, did he hesitate.

It wasn’t benign; it was as if he expected him to trip and fall over after attempting to take his first steps, taking pleasure in both the failure and success. Because both would end with Zhongli crossing the line one way or another, wouldn’t it? And there was nothing more enjoyable than sadism to somebody that’s seen it all already.

Right now he is fighting a losing battle. But he would rather starve than lose it here, so he hands the cup back to him, feeling a little more of his willpower crack.

Animal blood, by all accounts, is disgusting. It’s oily and sometimes he’d get sick, ending the night more ravenous than ever as if his skin were tightening around itself. You couldn’t just drink it—especially if you didn’t know where the animal has been. First you had to kill it neatly—a quick breaking of the neck would suffice, as strangulations were often drawn out—and then you had to clean it.

There was something almost humane in the process. Countless butchers have done it before, so he felt comfortable doing it himself.

It was only when he sunk his teeth into the carcass that he felt more like a vulture than anything else. The blood only staved off his hunger for short periods, so it was more of a painkiller than a sufficient meal.

And Osial found the whole thing to be hilarious.

“How unfortunate. If only Guizhong didn’t choose somebody that insisted on drinking animal blood, then it’d be more enjoyable. You know—if you open your mouth a little wider, you’ll look a bit more like the starving beast you are.” Then he dipped a finger in the cup and licked it as if it were chocolate, sweet and rich.

“Yes… Perhaps I should move onto better things. Do you think vampire blood is like wine? Or would age spoil its taste? I imagine that to a starving beast, there would be no difference—no matter how rotten your blood is, it’s still blood after all.”

Osial laughed and spit the blood out. “Well, you’re not wrong. This animal blood may be disgusting, but to you, what’s the difference?”

He wore his cruelty like a well-fitting suit, the creases shaped like ill-natured grins. Zhongli wondered if that will be him hundreds of years from now, but maybe Osial was always this unpleasant. Guizhong spoke of him the way somebody would talk about their ill-tempered cousin—sure, he’s awful to be around but he’s been a part of the family for so long already.

At the very least, he can provide a good meal. The question will always be for who, and his appetite is insatiable concerning all matters. Some vampires preferred a more barbaric approach of finding somebody, killing them, and then throwing the body away. Others—like Osial—treated it more like a game, drawing it out.

Sometimes he’d target entire families and call it a “feast” inviting others to join him. They were gruesome affairs that ended with many drunk on blood for weeks at a time, and even though he never went to them, he always heard about them.

Directly from Osial of course. Who seems intent on highlighting every small detail, every bloody death or desperate guest that was less than willing in the end but, Osial would say with delight, weren’t they all? As a matter of fact—and here was when he’d bring Guizhong into it, dragging her out of her room with her blueprints and models—Zhongli was very willing, wasn’t he?

“Up until he realized that he had to drink blood,” he’d say, as if he finally reached the punchline for a joke—then Osial would throw his head back with laughter.

And it’s not as if he hadn’t before. Sometimes, if he hurt himself, he would’ve licked the blood. But that tasted metallic—it was nothing like the delicacies that other vampires would set out, naming the meals by age, defining trait (sexual activity, lifestyle, etc.), and gender.

It took him fifty years for his willpower to break down. And he did it in front of Barbatos, who simply watched as he drank, not speaking of the way Zhongli drunkenly rambled for hours on end nor the way blood trickled down his neck and stained his clothing.

The deaths after that were easier. It was almost disappointing how he managed to replicate what Guizhong did with such ease. When he set the serviette over their chest before sinking his teeth into their jugular, he felt just like her.

Only when did he clean them up before burying them did he truly feel at rest. At the time it felt like appropriate compensation—a substitute for the promise he failed to keep for himself. The whole ordeal of washing the blood out of their matted hair and drying it out as he laid them down alleviated the sense of unease.

Guizhong would often watch him while he did it, pointing out certain anatomical features as she did. Her hands would trace over their veins, pressing down on the blue as she spoke. Osial joined them once, but he was so perturbed by the attention Zhongli dedicated to the process that he left immediately.

That was centuries ago.

He, sometime down the line, traded in these rituals for slaughter and abandoned that for mimicking the human lifestyle.

Barbatos would say that it’s been badly done, of course.

“You make the worst human,” he once said, as he watched Zhongli struggle to stomach garlic bread that he offered him.

Which could be why he’s now cornered by a vampire hunter.

The Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is often frequented by vampires all around Teyvat—there are rumors of blood dealings with underground groups but the Milileth has never investigated it—and Zhongli, with no danger signals, happens to be one of them.

It doesn’t help that he works there too. The irony that all these years later he never quite rid himself of dealing with dead bodies isn’t lost on him.

And he did hear about the Fatui, because word about people hunting vampires travels fast in a country as busy as Liyue.

“Sir,” the vampire hunter informs him kindly, “you do know that this is a hub for vampires, right?”

The voice isn’t what shocks Zhongli. Neither is the maroon mask that’s hanging by the side of his head—one told to be notorious among only the most vicious of hunters—or the thin outlines of weapons in his clothes.

It’s his eyes. They’re a bright blue, usually associated with the sea on bright days, but they’re more akin to the vampires that Zhongli has seen before with the wild glint in his eyes. It’s jarring with the smile that he adopts as he asks, and he imagines opening his mouth to a pair of fangs.

He knows that he won’t find them though. If the rumors he hears are any indications, the Fatui are above recruiting any vampires that’ll threaten their operation.

“Ah. Yes. I do. I’m the consultant here, you see,” he explains politely.

And shouldn’t that be an indication that he’s a vampire? Hu Tao is notorious for her strange tastes. And he must know of the deals she makes with underground groups, the money and blood that’s traded between them.

“Oh!” the hunter’s expression brightens as he clasps his hands together. “I heard about you! I got to say—when they told me that the consultant was knowledgeable on all things Rex Lapis, I was expecting an old man.”

He doesn’t wait to explain who Rex Lapis is. This, of course, is a given seeing that Rex Lapis has become a household name, infamous for his butchery of both vampires and humans alike. But a hundred years later, Zhongli hoped, people would forget about him—or maybe get rid of the fanaticism in their voices when they spoke about him.

It’s quite discomforting, really.

“Well, I am old.”

He laughs, “Yeah, yeah. You hardly look older than me. Call me Childe—I was hoping that you could, ah, answer a few questions I have on Rex Lapis. The 77th Master said that you’d be available and more than willing. She.. actually, here you go!”

Zhongli takes the paper he offers him, which says If you ask him anything, he’d be more than willing to spend the rest of the day answering it! in her rough cursive that he’s grown to dislike. Of course—the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not beneath fraternizing with vampires or the Fatui.

But he prefers this much more than the vampires that stare at him as they struggle to place him in their ancient hierarchy. And this does work in his favor, he thinks. A vampire hunter wants to know more about him, Rex Lapis—wouldn’t this aid him in finally meeting his end?

So he politely smiles and gives him back the note, not missing how warm Childe’s skin is in comparison to his own. It’s been years since he’s touched a human without the intention of killing them, hasn’t it?

More than suitable then.

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

#this is completely self indulgent my bad #osial #guizhong #zhongli #genshin impact #vampire zhongli

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gdwessel · 3 years

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Wrestle Grand Slam in Tokyo Dome - 7/25/2021: Ibushi Out, Tanahashi In Main Event World Heavyweight Title Match

After being delayed two months, Wrestle Grand Slam in Tokyo Dome took place earlier today. You can see it now on NJPWWorld, or pay $30 to see it on FITE TV. This is the first Tokyo Dome event NJPW has run outside of the annual January 4th show, now known as Wrestle Kingdom, since Toukon Souzou New Chapter on 10/8/2005, where one of the worst matches in NJPW history main evented.

Originally due to take place on 5/29/2021, and with a completely different main event, it was postponed due to the state of emergency enacted at the time in Tokyo and elsewhere. This one took place under a state of emergency as well, but at this point, it was now or never. This did affect the attendance of the show, listed as 5,389 persons, probably the lowest drawing Dome show in recent times (maybe ever? Hard saying, considering there are also quite a lot of worked numbers in those Dome attendances through the years, both from Antonio Inoki, previous owners Yuke’s, as well as Bushiroad) but with restrictions in place for attendances, and the mystery surrounding whether the event would take place or not, there was not much that could be done there.

Kota Ibushi was announced prior to the event that he would not be making it, due to his aspiration pneumonia. Hiroshi Tanahashi, in his 11th Tokyo Dome main event, would take his place in the main event IWGP World Heavyweight Championship match v. Shingo Takagi, after making himself available at yesterday’s Summer Struggle in Nagoya. There are a lot of parallels to be drawn between this show and All Japan Pro Wrestling’s recent Champion Night 2021 megacard. Both had to be postponed due to a state of emergency, and both had their main event changed due to illness of one of the participants - Ibushi we just discussed above, whereas then-Triple Crown champion Suwama had to miss and vacate the title due to testing positive for COVID-19. Illnesses will occur, especially in a pandemic.

Results:

Wrestle Grand Slam in Tokyo Dome - 7/25/2021, Tokyo Dome (NJPWWorld / FITE)

KOPW2021 New Japan Ranbo With Handcuffs: Chase Owens [Bullet Club] d. Toru Yano [CHAOS] (c), Togi Makabe, Tomoaki Honma, Minoru Suzuki [SZKG], Yoshinobu Kanemaru [SZKG], YOH [CHAOS], SHO [CHAOS], Hiroyoshi Tenzan, Satoshi Kojima, BUSHI [Los Ingobernables], Tiger Mask IV, Master Wato, DOUKI [SZKG], Tomohiro Ishii [CHAOS], Dick Togo [Bullet Club], Hirooki Goto [CHAOS], Yuji Nagata, Great O-Khan [United Empire], KENTA [Bullet Club], YOSHI-HASHI [CHAOS], Yujiro Takahashi [Bullet Club] - Owens is the Provisional KOPW2021 Champion

IWGP Juniorheavyweight Tag Team Championship: Taiji Ishimori & El Phantasmo [Bullet Club] © d. Ryusuke Taguchi & Rocky Romero [CHAOS] (Phantasmo > Taguchi, CRII, 20:56) - Ishimori/ELP succeed their 1st defense

IWGP Juniorheavyweight Championship: Robbie Eagles [CHAOS] d. El Desperado [SZKG] © (Ron Miller Special, 19:56) - Despy fails his 3rd defense - Eagles is the 90th champion

Kazuchika Okada [CHAOS] d. Jeff Cobb [United Empire] (Pinfall, 19:23)

IWGP Heavyweight Tag Team Championship: Taichi & Zack Sabre Jr. [SZKG] d. Tetsuya Naito & SANADA [Los Ingobernables] © (Sabre > Naito, European Clutch, 37:58) - Naito/SANADA fail their 1st defense - Dangerous Tekkers are the 91st champions

IWGP World Heavyweight Championship: Shingo Takagi [Los Ingobernables] © d. Hiroshi Tanahashi (Last Of The Dragon, 37:26) - Shingo succeeds his 1st defense

Shingo gets his v1 defense in, and declares he will hold onto the title until Ibushi is ready to challenge for it again. With that, the lights go out, and EVIL attacks Shingo, demanding a shot at the belt. The Internet by and large was not amused, and honestly, I’m not sure what will make anyone happy at this point. The adage was right -- when you are hot, you can do no wrong, when you are in a down cycle (which NJPW is in, let’s not make any bones about it), you can do nothing right. The same folk who say the main event scene is stale have been given three brand new champions in 2021 and have complained every step of the way. Including me in places! Shingo v. EVIL is a new match, and there is a history there that never really got addressed! Just yesterday I was saying how EVIL needed the win over Ishii to build credibility back up, tho I said for G1 Climax; maybe THIS is the story, that he IS NOT ready to challenge but thinks he is?! I just don’t understand fans anymore. The complaints are always about stale things are, and then when something different IS actually offered it’s always “No not THAT way!” Maybe I just need to divorce myself from Twitter for a while.

Complaints are also coming in for the IWGP Heavyweight tag title change. Naito & SANADA want a rematch, but then Hirooki Goto & YOSHI-HASHI step in and plead their case for a shot as well. Hey, multiple teams vying for the belts, what a time to be alive. I can understand complaints about Robbie Eagles beating El Desperado for the title more than any other ones, especially since Hiromu Takahashi was on hand at the start of the show proper to challenge today’s winner. Hiromu v. Despy is a money match, tho one that’s been done a lot, even tho the champion v. challenger spots would be switched. Eagles v. Hiromu is a relatively new match, I will grant, but I am also not as high on Robbie Eagles as a lot of others are.

Chase Owens becomes the first person to hold the KOPW trophy besides Toru Yano since the trophy’s inception last summer. The match was ridiculous. It’s a Ranbo, and a KOPW match, it’s supposed to be ridiculous. Wrestling is ridiculous! It’s OK!

Essentially, the complaints here, the complaints online about last night’s GCW show with Nick Gage v. Matt Cardona... I just don’t know anymore.

What I do know is there is a show Tuesday from Korakuen Hall, starting a string of NINE shows in a row from Korakuen Hall, and no lineups for those are announced yet. They will probably announce them when I’m in bed. In the meantime I’m going to watch the GLEAT show from today and catch up on GCW from last night. And stay off Twitter. UGH.

#NJPW #new japan pro wrestling #wrestle grand slam #njwgs #Shingo Takagi #Hiroshi Tanahashi #kota ibushi #evil #IWGP World Heavyweight Championship #taichi #Zack Sabre Jr #Robbie Eagles #chase owens #toru yano #njpwworld #fite #fite tv

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scribbleseas · 4 years

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The Indignant Pawn, Chapter IV: The Sinners’ Subconscious

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You’re an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault, objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: implied rape/sexual assault, mentioned rape, cold water torture, sane asylum, non-consensual drugging by injection, a detailed panic attack, and a single mention of alcohol.

Author’s Note: If you have any questions or concerns about these warnings, please don’t hesitate to contact me! I’m sorry this chapter came out a little behind schedule,I hope you enjoy it! You may want to find somewhere comfy and grab a snack because this one has whooping word count of 10k!

-Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

. . .

JANUARY 23RD, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“Thank you,” you hugged yourself, wrapping your arms to keep the thick fleece robe secure around your bare figure as Mey-Rin hauled a heavy tin basin of steaming water with two hands. You sat on the edge of your bed, simply watching the maid struggle to carry the basin for the final few feet to the interior of the attached lavatory. She had apologized time and time again for the lack of running water since it was only installed in Lord Phantomhive’s personal quarters and the kitchen, rather than the assorted rooms of the main house. Apparently, they were planning to finish renovations when the Earl made his yearly move to his townhouse in the interior of London, but in lieu of your arrival, both happenings were canceled. However, whether the water was pushed by some innovative pipes, or dragged up the main stairs made no difference to you. After all, you were well adjusted to going through the tedious bathing process without a willing servant at your disposal.

“Ah- of course- Your- Highness-!” Mey-Rin managed through labored breaths, finally putting the basin next to the opulent clawfoot tub.

Nonchalantly, you stood up from your bed, your hand running over the top quilt to smooth the wrinkles that surfaced from your moving. You followed Mey-Rin into the lavatory and loitered beside the open door as you watched her work.

The tub’s feet were constructed with pure silver, holding up the white porcelain body of the appliance. “Are you sure I can’t be of more help to ya?” she asked before quickly pushing up her falling glasses with two fingers. Tucked in her apron was a dry washcloth that she put over the rim of the tub, paired with a bar of ivory soap and a crystal bowl of lavender essential oil. She poured small spoonfuls of the essential oil into the water, the scent of lavender momentarily calming the hyperactivity of your nerves.

“I am quite certain, yes,” you recalled how you had requested a change in scents when she originally offered a combination of rose and honey. The scent of roses never failed to bring you back to the lavatory of the woman you drowned. She decorated her entire estate with red and pink roses, down to bathing in the scent with perfumes and oils. That woman- Agatha Tolton- was the reason you could only bathe in tubs with a little more than an inch full of water inside and meticulously dip your washcloth in the remaining basin water to dab on your body.

“Right, Your Highness. I’ll be back with your tea,” Mey-Rin squealed, pulling a matching beige towel out of the linen closet by the bathroom’s door. She put it on the lid of the toilet (which surprisingly, had plumbing) and showed herself out, closing the door behind her.

Finally left to your lonesome, you picked up the tin basin with a grunt and slowly poured a good quarter of the water into the porcelain tub. You wondered how Mey-Rin was able to haul it up the main staircase and down the winding corridor every other night when all you needed to do was pick it up for a few seconds. Steam now rose from both the tub and the basin, which was hot to touch, leaving your palms red from merely moments of direct contact. After setting it down again, your arms too weak for your preference, you shouldered off your robe and quickly stepped into the tub, the hot water encompassing your feet and drawing goosebumps all over your scarred skin.

Sitting down, the water only came to your kneecaps which was too shallow for drowning. Agatha always liked her water up to her chin and not an inch less. She needed a team of three maids on her bathing service, one to wash her hair and two to lather her body as it submerged in rose water. You had waited two weeks exactly for her servant rotation to put you on the bathing team, and two days to put you in charge of her hair. The maiden charged with Lady Tolton’s hair always entered first and you were efficient- out the window and halfway out of Essex when the two other maids entered, meeting the corpse of their employer.

You squeezed out the washcloth after dipping it in the basin, methodically running it over your body and re-dipping it into the water when it began to lose its heat. The steam from the hot water caused your hair to curl, although you had yet to wash it out yet. You undid the precarious bun Mey-Rin twisted it in that morning, letting it fall on your shoulders in brushed out waves. The least enjoyable part of bathing was submerging, or nearly submerging your head and face. It was left at the very end of your bath for that reason.

The smooth surface of the soap was a sensation that you always focused on while bathing. You found that it kept most intrusive thoughts at bay while you lathered your skin that was long marred by unsoftened water, combat, and self-sufficiency.

With a sigh, you rubbed the bar of soap over each clavicle and back to the middle of your chest- your sternum. The lather left lines of white on your skin, the gentle scent combining well with the lavender oil in the water. Everything from your privacy, the warmth of the water, the dim lamps should have been enough to completely wash the tension out of both your body and your mind, but it made your looming stress even more intense. It was different from the stress that came from sitting through a play at the Globe Theater and proceeding to enter a dark carriage as the late Felix Keating had. Instead, this stress manifested itself as something that was going to happen because of the serenity of the scene you were in. This was everything that could happen, simply because there was a moment of peace.

Quickly, you finished washing and you poured the remaining water from the basin into the tub, dipping your hair by sitting back and keeping your face out of the water. You carded your fingers through your hair and sat up, squeezing all of the water out and standing, since the water level had raised considerably and frankly, flashbacks took too much emotional- and seldom physical- strain. If you could help to avoid the circumstances that led to them, you did everything in your power to. Unfortunately, bathing was, for the most part, unavoidable.

Water ran down your body as you stepped out of the tub, the cold hair causing a fresh wave of goosebumps to multiply across your skin. You wrapped the towel around yourself, trying to catch each water droplet that ran down your thighs and to your legs before it could reach the tile flooring. You then squeezed out your hair with the towel, letting the soft fabric absorb all of the water before dropping it to the floor carelessly. Mey-Rin would take care of it after bathing Lady Midford, delivering your tea, and finishing off the rest of your night routine.

Your robe was warm from the steamy air, which allowed you some comfort before opening the door of the lavatory where Mey-Rin was waiting, her smile toothy. Her eyes were hidden under the glare of her obnoxiously round glasses. Water stained her white apron, likely from having to wait on the blonde noble more than she had a princess. The irony of it was amusing to you, but in Lady Midford’s exhaustion, she would have fallen asleep in her own tub, which would have resulted in the Earl having to wed a prune. “Oh, you’re out so soon!” Mey-Rin commented, fumbling over her words in her haste to stand at attention.

“The brush?” You requested, extending your hand to her as you sat in front of the vanity mirror, the padded stool supporting your bottom.

“Right ‘ere!” she chirped, her tone too excitable for the late hour. Too happy for the solemn moon that hung in the sky. You could see it out the large windows beside your bed. Mey-Rin handed you your brush by the handle and you preferred to only let her touch your hair in the morning when it needed to be braided and twisted about. You watched yourself move in the mirror, your reflection showing your face and copying your every move, but you couldn’t help but feel detached from it. Disconnected from the flawless skin on your face; grime free and blemish-free, the lack of prominence in your collarbones from the food you had Mey-Rin bring you after cutting every major meal short. The female that stared back at you wasn’t the woman the conman had raised- but a product of status and society.

She was Princess Marie-Louise, not you- Y/n Y/l/n.

“Something wrong, Your Highness?” Mey-Rin asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. You hadn’t realized that you stopped brushing your hair and instead, regarded your own reflection.

“No,” you lied, handing the brush back to her so she could tuck it away in one of the dresser drawers. You dipped a cotton ball into the elderflower water that sat in a small bowl before you, which was prepared nightly by the maid. It ran down your face when it was supposed to only go under your eyes on behalf of Andrea’s instruction.

“Well you had quite a long day, yes you did,” Mey-Rin said, unfolding a light yellow nightgown from a drawer and holding it open for you to look. Long day. Please. “How about this one?” she asked, showing you the long ruffled sleeves of it, the satin rippling from her movement. The shade of yellow reminded you of the primrose petals that bloomed in Alfriston.

“Sure,” you stood once again, abandoning the cotton ball on the surface of the vanity. You exchanged your robe for the nightgown in Mey-Rin’s hands, allowing her to sink to her knees and pull the silk that rode upwards. “I suppose you’re right. Salome was a taxing piece,” you added as a truthful afterthought. Salome’s main topic was sexuality and the toxicity of addiction, a sin that you held close to your heart- behind each emotional barrier you erected around the proverbially vulnerable organ.

“Why, yes, Lady Elizabeth recounted all of it for me,” Mey-Rin agreed, efficiently undressing the bed by taking off each decorative pillow and pulling down the bulky quilt for you. Without hesitation, you took your place on the right side of the bed, sitting forward as she put another pillow behind you. “She told me all about the maiden...the gentlemen who loved her. And that ending! Nothing short of a tragedy- I’d have bawled if I was with you lot.” The side-table with your nightly cup Earl Grey tea sat waiting.

“Right,” you answered halfheartedly, like any investment you had in the conversation from moments ago swiftly disassembled to nothing. The citrus notes of your favorite tea were rejuvenating as per usual, which always helped you to put off sleep. Sleep was the most vulnerable point of everyone’s existence, a death-like state and you couldn’t count the number of lives you’ve taken by using this fact. There wasn’t a dagger under your pillow for the angst of it.

Mey-Rin hummed, “if you don’t mind, I will just finish up ‘round ‘ere and be out of your way!” she chirped, nearly tripping over the stool that you failed to push back under your vanity as she started towards the bathroom to clean up after you.

“Alright, thank you, Mey-Rin,” using someone’s name amid a conversation was a sign of attention, making them more prone to like you. The conman always reminded you to use names as often as you naturally could, since it further expressed respect and divided the subject’s attention. Convincing someone that they were more important than they truly were put them off guard and you were open to taking any advantage you could in this environment.

“M-My pleasure!” Mey-Rin exclaimed, scurrying into the bathroom after looking at you. The use of her name always caused her to startle, as if a sudden lightning bolt struck.

Your restless night had begun the moment Mey-Rin left your quarters. As you instructed her, she left every lamp and drape open, which kept the room properly alight, sufficiently keeping the darkness of night at bay. You were left nursing the Earl Grey tea she brought, the remaining contents of the teapot lukewarm as you poured the rest of it into the teacup.

On your lap, the book was open to the Emperor’s New Clothes chapter of the book. You skimmed halfheartedly over the tale, only for the dullness of the task to distract you from your reality and allow you to drift off into a light, dreamless sleep. You hadn’t known the phrase ‘sweet dreams’ since the conman died and you vouched for a violent change in career.

After finishing off the remaining mouthful of tea, you sat back, leaning against the two downy pillows that were upright against the bed’s headboard. The covers of the bed were pulled over your chest and folded at the top, shielding you from the draft from the window. Your own warmth was trapped under the sheets and the sensation along with a sated appetite and fatigued mindset, you succumbed to reluctant slumber.

. . .

????

Bethlem Royal Hospital; established in 1247- admitting and torturing the mentally unstable since 1407. It was financed and run by the same family for centuries after Bishop Goffredo de Prefetti. Now it ran under a descendant of his great-great-great-great-great-great grandson, Alessandro de Prefetti, who was particular in ignoring the terms of the 1853 Lunatic Asylums Act as it exemplified the rights of the mentally ill. Under his control, the Bethlem Royal Hospital was a prison for the poor and incurable- a way to dump them off-radar.

The system, at its Greek origin, worked purposely against women which inevitably led to a woman asking you to get her sister back after her husband had dumped her into admission for ‘imaginary female trouble’. Already, you received a hefty sum for organizing a lethal accident involving her sister’s husband, and next, you were off to finish Alessandro de Prefetti and as you promised, clear the falsely imprisoned.

It was raining, the sky a deep grey as the clouds wept. The wind whistled in your ears, blowing the loose strands of hair in your face as you climbed the side of the brick building, the tips of your boots fitting between the worn gaps of the cement. After studying the layout of the entire facility, you knew that entering through the window of the man’s study was your best option, as senteries and doctors roamed through the corridors unpredictably.

You shivered from both the exertion and the freezing wind and when you finally reached the window, your fingers were raw from climbing and you weren't sure you could properly feel them. As you predicted, the window was locked, which made it all the more gratifying to pull your screwdriver out of the soaking wet pocket bag between your petticoats. Your trembling fingers quickly wrapped around the handle as you balanced precariously on the side of the wall, your knees bent. The glass window cracked under the blunt tip of the screwdriver as you drove it into the glass repeatedly, as a miner would drive his pickaxe into the ore of a gem. The crack grew with each hit, splintering off before the entire pane shattered, some of the glass shards falling and hitting you. One particular piece fell into you, slicing a thin cut into your cheek, causing you to spit out a curse as you pulled yourself through the busted window, “Huhrensohn!” (Son of a whore!). You could hear the fabric of your gown tearing as it was caught on the few parts of glass that were still intact.

“Who’re you?” A gruff voice asked, giving you no time to catch your bearings. A man stood before you, years older and dressed finely. He was pointing a gun at you, which made sense, considering you had just pried open the window of Alessandro de Prefetti’s study. However, you weren’t about to risk a bullet in your head, driving you to act swiftly.

“Hmm,” You hummed, dropping your screwdriver back into your pocket bag as you slowly inched closer to the man holding the gun. The lamps illuminated his face, casting shadows over the features that likened him to the praising photographs in the paper. “Are you Alessandro de Prefetti?” you inquired, purposely emphasizing the questioning lilt in your voice. The muzzle of the gun was within range, a few inches from your forehead.

“I asked you a question, girl,” his eyes were fixated on the hilt of the dagger that stuck out of your pocket until both of your hands worked in tandem to disarm him. You turned away, hooking your right arm over the antecubital space of his right arm. Instinctively, he jolted forward, pushing the gun closer which allowed you to turn your body back in towards his, pinning his forearm against your chest with your right arm, your palm flat over your heart. Without hesitation, your left hand forced the gun out of his imprisoned hand, and for good measure, you pushed his face away with the palm of your right hand.

The conman had shown you multiple ways to trap a gun.

Prefetti stumbled back with a yell, bending over and cradling the red side of his face. The metal gun felt cold in your hands and while you considered chucking the firearm out the window and hacking the businessman to bits with your dagger, this mission called more efficiency- especially if you were to liberate as many as possible. You pulled the trigger of the handgun, staggering back from the force of the gun and immediately, the man before you crumpled to the ground, the bullet finding sanctuary in the midline of his stomach area...before he laughed.

“Enchanting,” Prefetti climbed to his feet, his eyes never leaving your figure. His thumb and index finger entered the entry wound, digging around until he found the bullet and dropped it to the floor. Your next panicked shot missed, flying past his head and running into the door behind him.

“H-How?” you stuttered, shooting again as Alessandro smiled at you, a sadistic glint lighting up his onyx hues. This bullet landed in his shoulder while he walked towards you, continuing to advance after picking out the bullet in the same manner.

“Come on, darling. We can help you,” he purred, “it’s unladylike to shoot at your savior.” Blood poured out of both his wounds, but he appeared completely unfazed as it ran down his clothing, staining the carpet under his boots. “We’ll take care of you.”

. . .

You were bound to a wooden chair, rope binding both of your arms and legs. The fibers of it poked at your skin, leaving red imprints from the tightly pulled loops. You were shivering once again, your head down as another bucket of ice-cold water was poured on you. Completely exposed, your entire body was peppered with goosebumps, your fingers fidgeting, your palms facing in front of you. There was a pounding in your head and you couldn’t keep your eyes open.

Another bucket of water was poured over you, each breath you took was laborious and shallow and your whole body tensed.

“I reckon that’ll teach her to not shoot at Master Prefetti,” a familiar voice chuckled, causing you to reluctantly open your eyes. Your vision was obstructed by wet hair that fell in your face, but vaguely you could see the outline of another man, paired with another set of laughter behind you. “That’s right, princess. I hope you didn’t intend to kill us with that shootin’ back there.” His hand pushed your hair out of your face before giving the strands a forceful tug. The pain caused you to yelp and immediately, another bucket of freezing water was violently spilled, causing you to choke on it. “Ha, good one there, James.”

Pete.

“Tell me, how is this one still beautiful after we’ve played with her?” James asked, a bucket in one hand as the other forced you to look at him, the back of your head hitting the top of the wooden chair. “Still so breathtakin’, ain’t she?”

“Quite,” Pete chuckled, accepting the bucket from James to pour right in your face. You squeezed your eyes closed before the water could sting.

“Did our little princess not enjoy that?” Pete cooed, the false sympathy in his voice palpable. “Brat needs her medicine to properly calm down,” he left the room after calling over his shoulder, “I’ll tell Prefetti!” The door was slammed behind him, the sudden noise causing you to flinch.

“Hear that? We’re going to calm you right down,” You were met with James’ smile once you opened your eyes again, blinking as much as you could to keep water out. “And while you’re out, we’ll relax ya even more,” he kneeled at your level, his cold eyes prying, his large hands on your thighs. His fingertips tickled your skin, which was frankly, a more comfortable substitute for biting ice water. “That sound good?”

“Don’t think you’re useless to us when you’re off in that dreamland of yours,” he added as Pete returned, immediately going to your side. Amusement danced in James’ eyes, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was meeting Pete’s gaze and in the same moment, there was a dull sting in your arm. The smell of rubbing alcohol vaguely permeated the air.

Your vision went dark as the hands on your thighs languidly traveled up your torso.

. . .

JANUARY 24TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

You couldn’t breathe.

The opulent bedroom around you seemed to be a mirage, as your hands pulled at the covers over you. Sweat gathered in your hairline, falling down your forehead and to the bridge of your nose. You sat upright, your heart beating uncontrollably as you panted.

Alessandro de Prefetti had died about two years ago, 1890. The spring rain had made scaling the side of the building challenging and there was a faint scar across your cheekbone from the broken glass of the window. Every element of that dream was accurate until you shot him. His handgun was instead, thrown out the broken window and you had wrestled the skinny man to the floor, pulling the blade of your dagger across his throat to sever his carotid artery. Everything else that you could vaguely recall from that nightmare- the cold water therapy, the rise of the first two men you had ever killed, never happened.

After killing Prefetti, you found the woman that you were set to free in the first place and she was treated that way. She was chained to her chair and the men that poured the freezing water over her head were torturing her for bearing an illegitimate child out of rape. Her husband had dumped her into the institution on the assumption that it was her fault. You should have killed him afterward since he took no time to replace her with another doe-eyed lady. Her belly was swollen with presumably, his child.

You pushed the covers off of your body, the heat that they provided was no longer any kind of comfort to you. A quick shake of the cold teapot told you that you finished the last of your evening fix of tea when you needed more or at least a glass of warm milk. The bell that sat on the wall beside your door was tempting, as it would wake the maid and bring her to your room, but you didn’t have the heart to wreck her night of sleep simply because your mind conjured horrid dream sequences.

The wooden planks felt cold under your bare feet as you sulked to the door of your room, opening it and immediately meeting the dark abyss of the corridor. Before crossing the threshold, you grabbed a lantern to take with you as it illuminated bits of the walls, floor, and ceiling around you. The light chased away the foreboding darkness with each reluctant step you took.

Frankly, you had no clue as to where the kitchen was located- if it was near the dining hall, by the servant quarters, or even at a completely different wing. Your only interest was a certain beverage to calm your racing heart, to still your trembling hands. The lump in your throat was hard to swallow down as pitiful tears threatened to fall.

Every door that you passed was closed and there was no sign of light anywhere, except the bit that the lantern emitted. The ruffled sleeve of your nightgown had to be stained with how frequently you wiped your forehead clear of anxiety-fueled perspiration. All you needed was a glass of warm milk and you’d go back to your bedroom, on the assumption you could find it after somehow reaching the kitchen.

The opening door to your side caused you to jump and the yelp that passed your lips was narrowly stifled, causing it to be a diminutive squeak. Your tense back was against the wall, the lantern in your hand brandished as if it was an effective weapon. In a way, you supposed it could be. The iron was heavy enough to cause some amount of damage if your hands hadn’t been shaking as much as they were.

“...Your Highness? Is that you?” Lord Phantomhive’s hoarse voice was octaves lower from sleep. The light of the fire dancing in your lantern showed his face, his black hair disheveled. Notably, there was no black eyepatch over his right eye and instead, his eye was only closed, his long eyelashes kissing the tops of his cheeks. “Did you need something?” His hand fell to his side, his fingers wrapped around the grip of a gun. The sight of it caused the lump in your throat to return with vengeance and while crying in front of your target was lamentable of you, the dam that kept your emotions at bay was only so sturdy.

“I-...” You started, staring at the equal confusion and surprise on his face as tears welled in your eyes, falling down your cheeks as you sniffled. Crying in front of others was an ultimate sign of vulnerability and the conman had you do it on command to play with the heartstrings of your victims when needed while this was different. This was the type of weeping that you couldn’t force down and as a result, you were gasping like a fish out of water before the Earl’s perplexed gaze. Your throat seized with words you couldn’t dare admit. “I-... need warm milk,” your damp sleeve did a poor job of absorbing your tears.

“We can send for Sebastian. Wait just a moment,” he quickly returned to his room, having exchanged his weapon for a white handkerchief, and his eyepatch fastened back around his head. “Silk is never good for anything more than a first-glance appeal,” he commented, handing the cotton to you. He was right; the material was much more absorbent than your sleeve.

Upon rubbing your nose with the handkerchief, the prominent scent vaguely reminded you of the Earl’s- bay leaf with a touch of lavender and ivory soap.

“Wait with me in my room,” you ordered as a ploy to cover your own passing fear of being alone. Walking back down the winding hall in the darkness was a poor idea and even if your temporary companion was the condescending Lord Phantomhive, he was better than no one. Having to actively speak to someone helped you remain present- far away from the pain that you associated with darkness.

“Certainly, Your Highness,” he said, walking with you, but a few short paces behind. You could hear each step he made, otherwise, the impenetrable silence that loitered between the two of you returned. It was a void that neither of you bothered to fill unless there was a need to. But as he escorted you back to your quarters, two hours after midnight, there was no need. He knew his place, and it was far from inquiring as to what had agitated you enough to send you out of bed, wailing silently. Although, the unfazed expression on his face; a neutral frown and unfurrowed brow, you suspected he knew. If Lord Phantomhive killed as much as Doña had claimed, then surely, the theater of his subconscious treated him just as poorly as yours did.

“Did I wake you?” You asked, nodding once to validate his attempt at chivalrously opening the door for you. It was already ajar, and you had been able to see the light pouring from it into the hall from ages away, but he didn’t dare leave you then. The cotton handkerchief was rolled into a crumpled ball in your fist, damp with your tears. Your tears had finally ceased as you grappled for control over your own train of thought.

“No,” Lord Phantomhive responded and you couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. His poker face rivaled yours as it was impassive as a brick wall unless you were deliberately poking fun at him. His grandiloquence needed to be rivaled and by passively vexing him, you took pleasure in offering a semblance of modesty to his countenance. “Unfortunately, the thresholds of sleep aren’t so welcoming to me either.”

“I reckon you could use a glass of warm milk as well.”

You could have killed him right there in your room. There were at least seven completely lethal places on the human body to stab with a blade; the spinal cord, the carotid artery, the axillary artery, heart and lungs, the liver, the femoral artery, and the popliteal artery. Your dagger was tucked right under the pillow you slept on and Lord Phantomhive was merely standing at the side of your bed while you sat down on the edge of it. He was off his guard, making it easy for you to pounce, stab, and make your escape through the window.

However, the mere thought of holding a weapon and covering this nightgown in more bodily fluids was mildly distressing. You knew yourself well enough to be sure that stabbing the Earl would only cause you to freeze up and stare at his corpse, rather than act swiftly and leave. Besides, your eyes were heavy and it felt as if loads of bricks were piled onto your shoulders. Killing him could wait until you returned to top form. Giving Doña such a short time frame was foolish of you, and there was no doubt that she would gloat when you returned after a few days more than a week. There were too many unprecedented factors; such as the able butler and lack of opportunity. The most time you spent with the Earl in a day couldn’t surpass more than an hour, or even less. From accompanying him and his betrothed to the theater to having to wait silently for a glass of milk together, this was the most time you spent with him since your arrival.

“It would be my second of the evening,” he responded, hesitating long enough for you to look at him, rather than the wall across from you. This was the first time you noticed that he was only clad in a long nightshirt, the neckline a deep v-shape with ruffles that matched those on your sleeves. The shirt hugged his thin shoulders, the rest of the garment completely loose around his frame. His arms were slender, the muscles there likely less developed than yours. Against you, any fight he attempted to put up would be pathetic.

The conman made sure of it, although he’d never be happy with this life you picked for yourself. After all, the violence he armed you with was supposed to be ‘last resort’. He would have wanted you to attempt to take his lessons and make yourself into someone legitimate. Naturally, the irony was that he was the most honest man you knew.

“To unwind, milk surely surpasses a two-row malt,” you said under your breath, which the Earl either ignored or didn’t hear. Clearing your throat, you spoke louder to articulate more of an appropriate response, “as many as it takes, Lord Phantomhive.” Alcohol wasn’t proper to discuss for a woman, much less a princess.

“Es ist ziemlich früh zum Aufstehen, Eure Hoheit,” (It’s quite early to rise, Your Highness). When Sebastian entered, he showed no sign of fatigue, unlike yourself or even his master. Out of the three of you, he was the only one clad in more than oversized nightwear. The butler tended to wear some form of a black ensemble, matching with the raven hair that fell in his eyes and cascaded down his neck. Within your time at the estate, you had never seen his bare hands, since they were always covered with pristine white gloves. Sebastian couldn’t have been much older than the Earl, his face was clear of any hints of aging.

“Ich würde den nächtlichen Terror nicht als 'früh aufstehen' bezeichnen,” (I would not call night terror ‘rising early’) your eyebrows knit at the cheeky statement as you took on of the two glasses of milk off of his serving tray. “Mein Bedarf an Ihrer Unterstützung sollte nicht zur Diskussion stehen,” (My need for your assistance should not be up for discussion), you continued, quite sternly. If you hadn’t noticed the Earl’s blank expression, then you would have forgotten that he couldn’t understand German as you scolded his butler. When he was agitated, Lord Phantomhive’s ability to filter his facial expressions was significantly reduced, which resulted in what you christened, the look.

Sebastian chuckled as if he was more amused by your sentiment than taken aback. He closed his eyes, briefly lowering his head as he stood before you. “Sie haben Recht. Ich bitte aufrichtig um Entschuldigung; wenn Sie noch etwas benötigen, zögern Sie bitte nicht, danach zu fragen,” (You're right. My sincerest apologies; if you need anything more, please do ask) he said, practically cooing with the smooth intonations of his voice. That patronizing articulation reminded you of the three men in your nightmare and the sickening reminder caused your blood to boil.

“Wenn ich sehe, dass Sie Ihren Zweck erfüllt haben, würde ich sagen, dass Sie sich rar machen dürfen,” (Seeing that you've served your purpose, I would say you're cleared to make yourself scarce). You took a sip of your milk, the warmth of it providing a new sensation to anchor your presence onto. The glass between your palms was also warm to touch.

“Natürlich. Gute Nacht, Eure Hoheit,” (Of course. Goodnight, Your Highness), Sebastian responded, tucking the serving tray under his arm. “A goodnight to you as well, my Lord. I presume you can show yourself to your bedroom when Her Highness requires privacy once again.”

The Earl was slow to respond, likely having allowed his mind to drift some with the foreign conversation that excluded him. “Evidently,” each syllable of the word was pronounced with malice from the haughtiness in Sebastian’s condescending countenance and the conversation that was completely lost to him. Once Sebastian closed the door behind him, he turned to you, his upper lip saturated in milk before he pursed his lips to get it off. “Of all the skills he’s mastered, Sebastian still hasn’t learned the art of holding his tongue. My apologies.”

“He answered for himself,” you stood with your glass in hand, and looking back at your disheveled bed, you had half the mind to ask the Earl to stay until you fell asleep. The conman would do that for you when your nightmares were far tamer; consisting of missing an important event, or simply falling from an unknown height. However, scratching a subconscious itch wasn’t worth shredding the carefully crafted exterior you had put on for this charade any more than you already had that night. “You should retire now. It’s late.”

“So long as you attempt to as well,” Lord Phantomhive said, giving you a long look, devoid of pity. Instead, there was a tentative awareness, an insight that was dangerously convincing. “Sleep well,” his parting timbre seemed octaves lower, causing you to pause and look at him.

“Sleep well,” you reiterated, quickly putting your glass on the side table with your empty teacup, sliding back under your warm covers. He shut the door, twisting the knob slow enough to leave a soft click, rather than the louder bang that sounded when the door was shut normally.

The next bout of uncertain sleep you fell into was light and fortunately, dreamless.

. . .

JANUARY 24TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“It was an honor to meet you, Your Highness!” Lady Midforf dawned a new dress for the fresh day. It was another baby pink shade that strategically brought out her big emerald optics. You had left breakfast early that morning, but as kindness towards her, provided her and the Earl your permission to continue to dine. You had retreated to your room with the hope of catching some final moments of rest, despite being completely dressed in a deep blue gown, your hair pulled into another intricate bun.

At your request, Mey-Rin brought a tray of Earl Gray tea and two little squares of butterkuchen, or butter cake, paired with assorted berries. You were in the process of nursing your tea and slowly picking at each cut of cake with your dainty dessert fork. They were easiest to maneuver in your small hands.

The moment the door opened, you stood and quickly brushed crumbs off of your lap with your hands. In order to eat your breakfast, you were sitting at the desk in front of the large window. Merely watching snow fall lazily was enough entertainment for you, since it gave your mind the proper space to wander.

“The same to you, Lady Midford,” you said. Her title came out awkwardly as you tensed in surprise when the tall blonde caught you in a tight embrace. She was a handsy girl, judging by the way she clung to her betrothed, but you had assumed that being royalty, she’d grant you mercy. However, her (surprisingly strong) arms squeezed your middle with the same insistence that your corset had that morning. You couldn’t imagine having to endure uncomfortable contact multiple times.

Reluctantly, you patted Lady Midford’s back twice, which she took as a gesture for her to release you. She didn’t know her own strength and you couldn’t help but wonder where it came from exactly. “I very much hope to see you again,” Lady Midford continued, her smile beaming at you. It reached her eyes and you had no doubt that it was genuine; your only question is- how is one so happy?

Although you sincerely doubted the likelihood of you crossing paths with the noble, you pretended to have a desire to. After all, if you did see her again, it would mean that Lord Phantomhive was still alive and you were still shouldering this heavy charade. You hoped to be out of the estate days ago and at this incredibly slow rate of progression, you were sure that you’d be stuck there for at least a few more days.

“Safe travels,” you said, watching as she stepped back towards the open door. She proceeded to retreat, until she stopped at the door, her face suddenly quite serious.

“Your Highness,” she said, her voice lower. “Ciel is very dedicated to Her Majesty. As long as you’re here, he won’t let a single thing happen to you,” she continued, her stare prying into your soul, it seemed. “He’s...a bit distant, but you can trust him if my word means anything to you.”

Your face softened and for a passing moment, you felt sad for the girl. You were going to kill her betrothed- her cousin that she seemed to care dearly for. She was merely collateral damage- considering Lord Phantomhive was responsible for the deaths of many innocents.

Your hand rested on the top of the chair that you were previously sitting in. “Thank you, Lady Midford. That is very reassuring to hear,” you lied, moving your hand over heart for a shallow curtsey. “My grandmother has done nothing but sung his praises. I trust him with my life,” you continued, properly standing to your feet. Lady Midford’s eyes were glassy as if she was about to cry from the sentiment. Hopefully, she’d get on with leaving before you had to deal with that.

Lady Midford nodded, her high pigtails moving as she returned the curtsy. Hers was deeper and much slower than yours had been. “The pleasure is completely mine. I must go now- before Paula comes up to fetch me herself,” Lady Midford made an effort to joke, her laugh was a little wanner than it normally was. She sniffled and quickly left your room, leaving the door open after.

. . .

“Your Highness...might I ask why are you are so invested in these...children’s tales?” Lord Phantomhive’s voice sounded behind you, causing you to nearly lose your footing and fall off the short stool that you were using to look for more Brothers Grimm pieces. The sound you made wasn’t as strong as you would have preferred it to be, your hands quickly flying to the shelf for stability. If you had been holding a book, it would have certainly fallen to the floor. “My apologies. It wasn’t my intention to startle you.”

Normally, you would have heard his footsteps, the sound of the door opening and closing, but you were too invested in finding the story that Hanna used to tell you from memory. Hanna was a maid that worked in the Glücksburg Castle for your family. She took you in the kitchen from time to time and you’d help her bake as well as a little girl could; until Governess Lydia fired her for teaching a princess a skill of a middle-class woman. Hanna had every tale from the Brothers Grimm memorized and she’d recite each story to you, particularly one that featured a mother, a murder, and a bird. You couldn’t remember the title for the life of you, but out of a lack of agenda (besides plotting an impending murder), you set out to locate it within the expansive collection of books.

You took a large inhale, closing your eyes for a moment. From having them open for an extended period of searching, you had forgotten to blink. You released the air in your lungs after it grew stale and stepped down from the short stool to properly face the Earl. The height difference between the two of you wasn’t severe with your heels, but it was enough to force you to look up at him.

It took you a moment to realize that the bulk of his words were completely lost on you. “I beg your pardon?” you asked, dutifully ignoring his reliable deadpan.

“You’re going to read...yet again,” Lord Phantomhive pointed out rather astutely. You were positive that his statement was much longer than that simple comment, but you didn’t push the matter.

“Unfortunately, the options in the estate are rather limited for me,” you responded truthfully. You meant this by way of interesting things to do as well as the opportunity to complete your assignment. Sebastian was always hovering around the Earl and in the rooms where he is alone, there are no clear routes to leave through. You weren’t in possession of any thallium which was last resort in the first place. “I can do almost anything at home, but here,” you mused, playing into your role, “...here, I’m essentially under a house arrest. It’s quite boring.”

Lord Phantomhive’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched you. The action always caused the bit of skin between them to wrinkle and paired with his parted lips, he resembled a gaping fish. This was the look of exasperation and disbelief you met multiple times per day- enough for you to start calling it the look.

“I’m looking for a particular story by the Brothers Grimm. Are you familiar with their work?”

“I was-” you cut off his budding sarcasm with a glare of your own.

“A stepmother kills her stepson and bakes him into a pudding,” you explained as you turned back to the shelf to skim over the titles on the spines of the books.

“The Juniper Tree,” the Earl named almost instantaneously. At your questioning stare he cleared his throat, “my late aunt would read that one to myself and Lizzie all the time...there’s no copy here.”

You frowned and turned to look at Lord Phantomhive again. How could he be so sure? There had to be a few hundred books in the library to keep track of altogether...how could he be sure of one particular tale? The tautness in his shoulders told you not to pry. “Very well. Did you need to speak to me?” you asked since the Earl only approached you outside of meals when he needed to inform you of something particular.

“Yes. I have a dinner meeting with the head of a trans-Atlantic shipping company this evening. For your safety, I’d like to request you remain on this level of the building while it proceeds,” Lord Phantomhive’s poker face was quite nonchalant as he more or less ordered you to keep hidden from the other businessman. You understood that given his own instructions from the Queen, he had a certain degree of authority over where you went, or who you saw. Besides, you could use the time on the second floor to your advantage.

“And what of my dinner?” You were quite open to the prospect of eating alone because it meant that you could eat more than a few measly forkfuls.

“My staff is fully prepared to serve you in the foyer- or wherever you’d like on this level,” the Earl said, shifting his weight to his other side in preparation to leave you alone once again. “If there’s anything you need-”

“I won’t hesitate to ask,” you finished, finding the spiel more patronizing by each second it carried on. “Thank you,” you added as a half-hearted afterthought, pairing it with a strained turn of your lips.

A few seconds of silence followed as Lord Phantomhive composed himself. Irritation flashed in his exposed eye and his hand clenched at his side since he wasn’t carrying anything with him. The subtle movement caught your gaze and when he noticed that you were looking, the same hand opened. The blue gem on one of his rings shined in the light, just as yours did. Was it a family ring as well? The band was silver instead of rose gold, but there was no doubt it had a hefty fortune behind it.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

. . .

While Lord Phantomhive focused on his meeting, you took the opportunity to get into his study. A nagging voice in the back of your mind demanded concrete evidence that the boy was truly a criminal, considering you failed to pry into Doña’s motivations. She was a shrewd woman and went as far as to unapologetically provide you with an alias. Doña translated to lady or madame, a tidbit that you learned through finding a Spanish to English dictionary tucked in a shelf of the Phantomhive library. You didn’t actually know her name, and for all you knew, her deceased family resided within a crime ring that your grandmother could have asked her guard dog to eradicate. Although the likelihood of finding evidence, either way, was slim, there was cause to try.

Your hand twisted the knob of the door, but before you could apply any pressure, Sebastian intervened. He stood behind you after his stealthy approach, silent, almost waiting for you to speak first. Sebastian’s steps were too quiet- the conman taught you how to make yours as indiscriminate as possible, but the old wooden floor always whined beneath your heels. You let go of the knob after trying to give it a twist. However, it didn’t budge.

“Kann ich Ihnen helfen, Sebastian?” (May I help you, Sebastian?) You turned around to face him properly, his face predictably smug, no matter how he tried to maintain his respectful smile. Although his poker face was far superior to his master’s, no facade was perfect; not even yours. Marie was much more genteel than you; following the customary guidelines to pretend to be nice, or pretend to enjoy having her whole middle shoved into a restricting torso. She shoved her feelings so far off, you doubted she had the complexity to frown- or think- by the second time you ran away. In that way, you were failing to personify her- the perfect princess she was.

Sebastian ignored the question, “Mein Meister ist derzeit in einer geschäftlichen Besprechung. Wenn Sie ihn gesucht haben, erlauben Sie mir bitte, eine Nachricht entgegenzunehmen,” (My master is currently in a business meeting. If you were looking for him, please allow me to take a message) you figured it would be best to pretend as if your conversation with Lord Phantomhive had simply slipped your mind (or didn’t take place at all), since Sebastian was notably absent.

“Ach ja, richtig. Dann werde ich mein Abendessen jetzt im Foyer einnehmen, vielen Dank,” (Oh, right. Then I will take my supper in the foyer, now, thank you). You hastily left Sebastian standing alone in the hall to show yourself to the exact foyer in the west wing of the estate. The fireplace reminded you of the exact brick pattern that the fireplace in your own home had, which was a vague comfort to you. Furthermore, eating alone was a relief because it allowed you to fully let down your usual restrictions and eat until you were completely satiated- to take bite after bite until your corset felt even tighter than it had that morning. Your empty stomach rumbled at the thought.

. . .

Finny brought firewood inside the foyer and started a warm blaze in the fireplace at your off-hand request. Once again, his strength took you aback when he effortlessly hauled in multiple thick logs, the dirt on them staining his yellow shirt.

Since Sebastian was too occupied in serving the Earl and his other guest, the other servants on the estate were left to tend to you. The table that you were sitting at was pulled in from the library, the white cloth that ran over it was pristine and pressed to size. Your utensils shined, likely polished recently. The atmosphere was much more comfortable, as opposed to the cold silence that you and Lord Phantomhive tended to sit in. Moreover, the other servants- Mey-Rin, Finny, and Baldroy were simply less...presumptuous and sly.

You particularly appreciated Baldroy- not for his work or lack thereof, but his scattered presence. The vague scent of cigars that followed him reminded you of the conman, just as his laid-back drawl and leadership tendency did. There was hardly any commonality between the respective appearances of the two men, but the way Baldory carried himself oddly...helped you to remember the conman’s voice. His phlegmy laugh and snide grin.

“We’d be doin’ a fine disservice to you in tryna pronounce the names of these dishes,” Baldroy said, emerging through the open doors of the foyer with several small plates of distinctively different German plates. They were small enough to be considered canapés, but the summation of five plates made up for their portion. You assumed it was a bid on Sebastian’s part to waste less food in attempting to please you.

At Baldory’s side was Mey-Rin as she held a small basket of bread rolls, with one little glass bowl tucked within them. It was one type of jam- likely the quince that you had been favoring over your last few meals. Even as a girl, it was one of your favorites, being almost exclusive to Germany.

Your smile turned one corner of your lips upwards- barely there, but completely genuine. “That’s fine. I do find Sebastian’s introductions quite tedious to sit through,” your shoulders jumped when you laughed shortly, unable to help your reaction to their surprised faces. Baldroy wasn’t accustomed to your dry humor and Mey-Rin’s shortcomings were rarely validated with a semblance of amusement.

“Oh- well, alright, then-” Baldroy started, placing the tray that carried all the dishes before you. It was clear that he wasn’t experienced with table service, (Mey-Rin none the wiser), but in a way, you found the informality strangely comforting.

“-This is spätzel,” you interrupted, gesturing to the first plate with egg noodles nearly twirled. It was usually quite heavy for your preference since the noodles could sometimes be considered ‘dumplings’. “Käse, cheese,” you couldn’t name the exact type of cheese that was cut on the next plate. Each slice was paired with a different cracked and knowing Sebastian, you felt safe in assuming that this was on purpose. “Katenspek...teewurst” you continued, mostly naming the food in front of you for your own memory’s sake. After spending the most recent nine years of your life in various cities in England, you were more accustomed to bangers and mash and heavy cottage pies.

Quickly looking up at the two servants, you cleared your throat. “Is this all?” you asked impassively. It seemed to be more than enough already.

“Yes!” Mey-Rin responded, “this is all. I’ll be right back with your tea, ‘scuse me,” she rushed out. Her basket of bread was still in her hands and with her short attention span, there was no way she’d realize it until she reached the kitchen. However, the scent of freshly warmed rolls continued to linger around your table, just as Baldroy’s scent of smoke did.

The combination reminded you of the desperate day you met the conman- after you swindled an upper-middle-class couple out of a great sum of their money. With that man’s wages...Baxter purchased a loaf of bread, under the logic of conserving what the two of you rightfully earned. He laughed in that alleyway, praising your acting skills until his face was shades darker than the cold air made it. No one in Germany praised you- not once and within a single week of relocating across the sea, you had garnered someone’s appreciation. As a girl, nothing (besides a full stomach) was quite as satisfying. That was when he offered to take you in, and evidently, the rest was history.

You hadn’t noticed Baldroy leave, but after looking up from the plates of food before you, space across from you was empty. Once again, you were left alone, the only prominent noise in the foyer was the soft crackling of the fireplace and the chime of your fork and knife against the bowl that the spätzel was piled in. There was a sprinkling of parsley on top, but you brushed it out and onto the plate under the small bowl. Amongst many moving parts, the food that was involved in this particular operation was both a vice and a virtue- sitting in front of delectable meals multiple times a day, but due to social codes, only being able to eat a few bites while with company. Your circumstances reminded you of the Greek myth of Tantalus, though you were much better off than the deceased king of Sipylus.

After reaching the bottom of the bowl, you moved on to demolishing the tasting of pre-cut Katenspek, which was smoked pork belly. It would have been salty for your liking, had there not been some kind of cranberry sauce pooled at the bottom of the stack of thin strips. You were about halfway through finishing them off when Baldroy returned. By the surprise in his eyes, it was safe to assume that he expected you to have returned to your quarters instead.

Baldory didn’t wait too long to speak as he raised an eyebrow at you. “Huh, I was beginning to doubt me cookin’,” he mused, sharing your bashful half-smile. You dabbed your lips with the edge of the folded napkin on your lap. The action stained the white cloth with the red cranberry sauce that loitered on your lips.

You sat back in your chair, finding the corset you wore much tighter than it felt before you sat down to properly eat. Relief bloomed in your stomach as you regarded the chef in front of you, the euphoria of finally having a full stomach causing you to smile again. “It was delightful, thank you,” the idea of someone of importance witnessing you so content sent shivers down your spine.

. . .

There was a knock at your door, the sound too strident to be Mey-Rin’s and unnecessary for it to be Sebastian’s. Mey-Rin had finished her nightly duties, this night’s routine much more simplified, since you had only just bathed last night, and rather than Sebastian, she brought up your Earl Grey tea with a hefty slice of Black Forest cake- the best dessert to grace the earth. The recipe was native to Germany, chocolate layers of cake with a cherry and cream filling. The cherries in the filling were soaked in cherry schnapps that originated in the Black Forest, a mountain range in Germany. There was still more than half of it on the plate as you pried small bites from it every couple of minutes.

“Hereinspaziert,” (Come in), you mumbled, hardly looking up from the page of the new book you picked up before retiring to sleep. This was a compilation of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Poems, each in native German, and translated on the next page over. Along with theater, poetry tended to enervate you enough to allow you to rest some for a night. This particular poem was called “Night Thoughts”. The title was ironic enough to catch your eye in the glossary at the beginning of the book.

‘Ihr, von denen der Seewurf die Matrosen angezündet hat…’ (Ye by whom the sea-toss'd sailor's lighted…)

The door opened to reveal the Earl at the threshold. He was still dressed in his posh number, his jacket, and trousers a matching forest green while his shirt was its predictable white. You pulled your covers up further, holding them up to your chest under your open book. The neckline of your nightgown was much lower than you were comfortable with exposing and keeping the bits of dignity you had was more than preferable.

“Yes?” you urged Lord Phantomhive to state his case for interrupting your reading- not that the poem made much sense to you anyhow. The male’s face was terse as if the meeting hadn’t played out the way he had wanted it to. Considering he had only shown himself in your, it was hard to believe that you coaxed out the look with a single syllable.

“You called this estate boring,” he stated nonchalantly, loitering in front of the open door. Behind him, the hallway was alight with the dim glow of lanterns, a gesture that you duly appreciated.

“I did,” you replied, matching his level of care in his articulation. Lord Phantomhive was nothing of a utilitarian in a sense of parlance. He used too many posh words most of the time and appeared to believe that studying Latin was a productive use of time. Yet, he seemed too peeved to care.

Furthermore, fun wasn’t something you were well acquainted with, but you could confidently say that sitting through a tragic play with your intended victim and his betrothed did not qualify. Vaguely, fun was supposed to be stimulating or engaging in some way. Lord Phantomhive was close to your age, but he acted several years older with a lack of interest in anything that resided off of some variant of paper.

“Let’s go horseback riding, then. I know a private trail,” he suggested. Learning how to ride a horse was about the only interesting lesson you had as a girl, although you were constantly scolded for refusing to sit side-saddle. It was considered a way to preserve a woman’s modesty. For a lady to spread her legs outside a marriage bed was a complete sacrilege and you made the most out of standing in the stirrups of your horse when you could.

You couldn’t remember the last time you held a pair of reins in your own hands since you had only learned in the instance of an emergency. In any other case, you had to sit behind a man while he directed the horse for you. Besides, the January cold had to be too much for the horses to bear for a winding trail in the countryside.

“Well?” Lord Phantomhive asked arching an eyebrow at you. If the trail was private, it made a good setting for killing him, hiding the body, and leaving with the horse. Especially if Sebastian was going to be the only accompaniment on the trip. Judging by his slender physique, you doubted that he’d be able to put up much of a fight against you if there was no way to be furtive.

“Fine,” you cut a slice out of your cake with the side of your fork, momentarily breaking eye contact with the noble as you let the hunk of chocolate cake and tart cherry marry on your tongue before meticulously chewing and swallowing. “You know, you are ambitious in your pursuits, my Lord.” You added offhandedly, considering this proposal came from a vague challenge from you.

Lord Phantomhive shrugged, the corner of his lips twitching to form his elusive smirk. “Hm,” he paused, the thought clearly facetious when it was supposed to be a simple observation from you. “We’re human beings, Your Highness. Always after our own self-interest.”

“Then it’s within your self-interest to both protect and entertain me?” The conversation was quickly evolving into a clever, existential turn of phrase, rather than an invasion of your time alone. You closed your book after putting a little piece of paper inside to save your page.

“Of course. The Phantomhive name is known for the standard of care we give our guests- particularly-”

“Particularly grandchildren of Her Majesty,” you finished smugly, although he would have used a less blunt way to state your title. The coy smirk on his regrettably prepossessing face dropped, quickly replaced by the look, once again. If the Earl couldn’t admonish you verbally, he was sure to show you his irritation with his face, whether he meant to or not. At least he was to be reasonably humbled before you ended him.

The Earl cleared his throat, “Tuesday is my only free day this week. I’ll have Sebastian make preparations for then.”

“And what am I to do in the meantime?” You questioned, playing up your impertinence to bother him further. Marie would do the exact same and more likely, she would have demanded more from the Earl. You were much more acquiescent and you merely kept to yourself, save for your attempt to get into his study to pry. Gaining access was crucial to your morality and since you intended on striking at the end of that trail, you’d need to enter before Tuesday morning.

“I trust that you are capable of entertaining yourself, for the time being, Your Highness.”

You took a long sip of your tea, the floral notes of the Earl Grey mingled nicely with the remnants of cherry on your tongue. The heat of the beverage caused you to cringe as it ran down your throat. The teacup remained in your hands as you regarded the noble, who had inched his way to the foot of your bed for ease of conversation. Naturally, he loitered at the respectful distance, keeping his gaze proper and away from the covers that fell from your chest. You didn’t have the hands to readjust them, or the peace of mind to notice.

“...Fine. Sleep well, Lord Phantomhive,” you dismissed, putting the teacup back on the nightstand with the remnants of your cake. You had a feeling that he wasn’t done with the conversation, but you weren’t shy in expressing that you were. The night was a complex time and while the presence of another in your room was somewhat soothing, it reminded you of the episode you had that morning. The bruise to your pride was somewhat fresh, making it uncomfortable to think about or dwell on. At least in that way, you understood Lord Phantomhive. His pride made for a sturdy defense around the vulnerable- terrified- subconscious as yours did. You each protected your weaknesses fiercely and that's what made this particular assignment so complicated.

“Sleep well, Your Highness. I’ll sort out the rest of the details and keep you up to date,” the sound of the door shutting behind him caused you to jump. You put your book on the nightstand, using it to push the tray of refreshments further away. This night would do well to be kinder to you.

. . .

Tags:

#ciel phantomhive #ciel x reader #black butler #black butler fanfic #strangers to lovers #anime fanfiction #sebastian michaelis #murder #angst #historical fiction #victorian era #the indignant pawn #a sinner's subconscious #ciel phantomhive x reader

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xiolaperry · 3 years

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Four Ways Gaston Could Have Died (And the One Way He Actually Did) - Chapter 5

Chapter Notes: Somehow, this chapter veered away from being simply a Gaston “death” and ended up turning into a Colonel Ives backstory. For those of you who have not seen the movie "Ravenous", I highly recommend it. It is a surprisingly funny dark comedy horror story, and Robert Carlyle is amazing in it (as always).

---

Francis Ives had not expected to discover he had a half brother when he attended his father's funeral.

He hadn't seen his father in years (and was better off for it) when a solicitor contacted him to inform him of his death. Malcolm had somehow gotten rich before he died, and the will stipulated attendance of the funeral for access to the funds.

Tempted though he was not to comply with the demand, the money would be welcome. He had recently been diagnosed with tuberculosis and wanted to visit America to see if the doctors there could help him. Therefore, he made plans to attend. His miserable excuse for a father owed him a chance to live.

The church was empty. Every movement was magnified and echoed through the cavernous space. The only ones in attendance were the solicitor, who had to be there, the minister, who doubtless had never laid eyes on Malcolm Gold in his life, and a pair of drunken old men. Ives wondered if they’d been bribed, too.

The minister waited a few minutes past the time to begin, hoping in vain for additional mourners to fill the empty seats. He'd just cleared his throat and begun to speak when a well-dressed man entered. A beautiful woman and a little girl followed him. They sat down and the man, a fierce scowl on this face, gestured with impatience to the minister to continue.

Ives watched them from the corners of his eyes, wondering who they could be. Forced into attendance like him, no doubt. Malcolm Gold was not the type to make friends.

Unnoticed, he studied the older man. His longish hair was silver at the temples, and he kept running his hand through it and looked annoyed. He walked with a cane, but there was no air of weakness about him.

Ives assumed the woman was his wife. She looked young enough to be his daughter, but the way she put her hand on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing with impatience was not at all daughterly. And even from a distance, he could see love and concern radiating from striking blue eyes that he'd not soon forget.

The little girl fidgeted and looked as though she'd rather be anywhere than here. Ives couldn't blame her, he felt the same way. She winked when she caught him looking, and he smiled.

After the service, he went straight to the family and introduced himself. “Francis Ives,” he said, extending his hand.

“Mr. Gold,“ the older man answered, returning the handshake.

Gold? Ives's mind reeled at the surname, and the resemblance he now noticed. He heard nothing else of the introductions, and he realized he must look odd, standing there frozen in shock with his hand still out.

“Please forgive me, I didn't catch the names of your wife and daughter; yours distracted me. Your name is Gold, as in a relation of Malcolm Gold?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, that bastard was my father.”

“Mine too!” he blurted out before he could think of a more delicate way to say it.

The family stared at Ives, speechless.

The little girl recovered first. “Does this mean you're my uncle? Papa, do you have any other brothers and sisters? My name is Tilly, can I call you Uncle Ives?”

When she paused to take a breath, her mother pulled her a short distance away to give the men a moment to process the revelation. Her hands fluttered about, making signs, and Tilly responded in kind. Mute, he thought.

Mr. Gold asked, “Malcolm was your father? But you said your name was Ives?”

“I took my mother's name. I wanted nothing that would connect me to that man.”

“Ah. I didn't have that luxury. Didn't even know my mother.”

The solicitor interrupted. “Good, I see you've met each other. If you'd be so kind as to follow me, the minister has allowed us to use his back office for the reading of the will. You can continue the family reunion there.”

“Whatever gets this over with the fastest.” Gold waved his hand for his family to follow him. Tilly, a bit more subdued but still grinning, skipped ahead. Gold's wife gave him a quick hug and then they continued on.

The reading was brief. Malcolm had made a few big gambling winnings shortly before his death, and his sudden demise prevented him from squandering it all. It was to be divided equally between his two known children, Francis and Labhrainn.

“Thank God there aren't more of us running around,” muttered Gold, who received an elbow to the ribs from his wife for the comment.

Finding the idea of a brother intriguing, Ives hoped to continue the conversation with Mr. Gold. But as soon as the information on the distribution of Malcolm's assets was finished, Mr. Gold stood up, said a curt goodbye, and headed for the door.

His wife stopped him. Her gloved hands flew as she signed, although one did not seem to move quite like the other. Ives watched Gold's face change from hard and impatient to soft and indulgent during her 'discourse.' Tilly chimed in with “Please, Papa?” and an imploring look. Gold sighed.

“Belle insists that you accompany us home for a meal so she can get to know you better.”

Belle poked her husband, and he amended, “We would both like you to come, you are my half-brother, after all.”

She beamed at Ives, and he wondered how his brother had gotten such a beauty. At his hesitation, Tilly said, “Please come. You can meet my cat. I brought her all the way from New Zealand.”

“How can I turn down such an invitation? I would be honored to meet your cat.”

Belle was a wonderful hostess, and Tilly's smile lit up the room. Her endless chatter at the dinner table made him laugh more that night than he had in months. Gold (who asked him to please not call him Labhrainn) was not as surly as he first appeared and warmed up to him over the course of the meal.

After they sent Tilly to bed, Ives and Gold spent a pleasant evening comparing stories of their upbringing and tales of their youth over glasses of whiskey. Ives told him of his plan to travel to America in hope of a cure for his tuberculosis.

Gold's tales of his time in New Zealand were fascinating, but his mood darkened when he spoke of Gaston Legume and the cause of his return to Scotland. When Belle removed her glove to show him the wooden finger Gold had crafted for her, Ives shook his head with disbelief. What kind of man would hurt a woman like that?

Sensing her husband's distress over the memories the conversation had brought up, she kissed him. The tender moment embarrassed Ives, and he looked away.

They talked until the early morning. After saying their goodbyes, and offering their best wishes for his health and recovery, Gold surprised him by asking him to keep in touch. “I'm learning to write,” he explained. “The letters will be good practice.”

The half-brothers struck up an enjoyable correspondence. Ives looked forward to Gold's letters, which included notes from Belle and Tilly. He would not have believed you could come to love someone through the mail, but he did. He loved his newfound family. They were the only bright spots in his life as he got sicker and weaker, and the illness turned him bitter and desperate.

The doctors in America were no better than the ones in Scotland. Depressed and discouraged, his thoughts turned dark. Every breath was a struggle, resulting in him coughing up a pint of blood. There was nothing left to be done. He decided to check himself into a sanatorium to convalesce, more than likely to die.

He took his time on the journey, telling himself he was traveling at such a slow pace because he was enjoying the scenery, not because he was too weak to press onward. Then one afternoon, he met an Indian scout.

The scout insisted on building a campfire for them both, and Ives shared his meal with him. The campfire danced, flickering patterns of light and dark across their faces.

He watched the robust, healthy man just sit there, taking his good health for granted. The Indian enjoyed smoking his pipe, drawing breath without pain, not coughing and choking on his own blood. He observed this with such jealousy that it made his soul ache. Ives wanted to live.

It wasn't fair that his disgusting reprobate of a father got to have a long life. It wasn't fair that he was here, dying, thousands of miles away from a family he had gotten to know so late in life. The night was clear, and he leaned back, looking at the cold stars that cared not for his suffering.

The scout told stories to pass the time, and one in particular caught his attention: The Wendigo. A man eats the flesh of another, absorbing his strength, his spirit. As the man spoke, Ives felt a cold darkness fill him. Could the tale be true? He had to try; it was his last chance. Perhaps it was a manifestation of Malcolm's selfishness, the trait showing up in his nature here at the end. He would do anything to keep from dying.

He killed the man as he slept and roasted him over the campfire he'd built. The smell was mouthwatering, and the taste, divine. The Indian scout was absolutely right. He grew stronger and had no regrets.

A stolen uniform completed his reinvention of himself. “Colonel Ives” sounded impressive and powerful, matching the strength he now felt inside. But what to do next? He was hungry. The meat he'd saved from the Indian did not last long, no matter how hard he'd tried to ration it.

An answer came in the form of a wagon train headed West. The small group welcomed having a Colonel join them as a guide. A few small manipulations of their circumstances allowed him to eat them that winter, and come spring he was a new man, happy and healthy. Tuberculosis? Vanished. As did the black thoughts.

His only regret was that the meat hadn't lasted longer. But the more he ate, the more he wanted. So he continued on.

Ives wanted to share his good fortune, build his own small family. Alas, Boyd and Colonel Hart were a disappointment. He left Fort Spencer, deciding it was better to keep moving and see the world.

He never wrote to Gold again. He missed the connection to his family, and he’d compose letters to them in his mind. But they remained unwritten. A voice inside told him he was not who he had been; that he never would be again. The voice sometimes begged him to reconsider his course. Whenever it spoke up, he squashed it down firmly. It was too late. The hunger was insatiable.

One day, he was talking to some sailors who mentioned their ship was bound for New Zealand. An idea formed in his mind, a way to thank Gold and his family for their encouragement and kindness during his difficult time. He booked passage on the spot.

And now here he was, in New Zealand, sitting in a tavern, watching Gaston Legume from across the room.

He must be cautious. Ives no longer cared about collateral damage as a general rule. Disposing of witnesses just meant more provisions for him. However, some of these people were Gold and Belle's friends. Punishing Gaston should not come at their expense.

Calqhoun is the name he gives in case Belle or Gold kept in touch with anyone. He slides into character with ease. People found the mild-mannered man of god forgettable, which is his intention.

As he enjoys David Nolan's company, he thinks that he'd like to find a place for himself. Sometimes it was lonely being a cannibal. Tough making friends.

So he sat, nondescript, and made conversation with David. The man was friendly and not overly bright, which was exactly the combination he was looking for. In the space of an evening, he learned all he needed to know about Gaston: where he lived, his habits, and his associates.

The next day Ives set up camp in a remote part of the jungle. Gaston's disappearance must not coincide with his passing through. His stores depleted, he hunts, and finds the locals to his taste. He bides his time.

He considered grabbing Gaston from his bed, but it seemed rather anticlimactic. This man had hurt his family, the only people he loved in this world. And for that, he deserved to suffer.

First, he moved things around to set Gaston off balance. His shoes while he slept. His tools. He left the barn doors open and stole his axe.

Gaston ranted to his aunt that someone was playing tricks on him. The scowl never left his face, and he accused everyone he met of being the culprit.

Ives escalated his campaign. He left sheet music in the barn, a book on the bedside table. He hung one of Tilly's drawings in the kitchen and left a woman's dress on the clothesline. A piano key was placed in his saddlebag. Now Gaston crossed from being angry to afraid.

The axe, covered in blood, was the perfect sight to greet him for his last morning on earth. It was lodged in the kitchen table and covered with gore. Ives watched from the shadows as Gaston staggered toward it, pale and shaken. He came up behind him and struck him in the head.

As Ives dragged Gaston through the jungle underbrush, he considered if he wanted to eat such a vile man. When they reached his camp, he told Gaston who he was. He describes exactly what he is going to do to him. Big, strong Gaston cries and begs. Ives starts by removing one finger and enjoying it as an appetizer.

He doesn't taste so bad after all.

“Calqhoun” drops by the little village before he leaves New Zealand. He talks to David Nolan again, who, with a bit of maneuvering, tells him all about the disappearance of Gaston. A bloody axe in the kitchen table was the only clue, and the entire village was stumped by the mystery. Cora is the only one who cares that he is missing.

His only regret is that he can't write to Gold and tell him all about the favor he has done for him. Papua New Guinea is the next stop. Perhaps he'll find some companions there.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #ravenous #ravenous au #the piano #four ways

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cha-melodius · 3 years

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The Definition of Madness Chapter 7 (Finale)

The Definition of Madness Chapter 6

Whumptober No. 29: Emergency Room

Fandom: The Man from UNCLE (2015)

Pairings: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo & Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller

Summary: They say the definition of madness is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

Or, Illya gets stuck in a very whumpy time loop.

Ao3 Link

And now, the thrilling conclusion! 😆

*****

Previous Chapter

This time, they trick their targets into believing that Napoleon is the one who is resetting the day, and they find themselves in a familiar standoff. Well, familiar to Illya, anyway, except now he’s the one holding the gun at the man in charge while Napoleon is forced to his knees. He hadn’t realized it during the previous loop, but the guards actually bring two doses of the antidote with them and pass one to the man in charge.

It explains why they didn’t just shoot Napoleon before, because clearly their adversary was suspicious enough to not trust that they had the right person until after the antidote had been administered. Once it has been, though, they’ll know they’ve been duped this loop, and there will be nothing stopping them from killing Napoleon.

The man in charge also gets handed another vial of liquid, this one an odd greenish color, with some kind of aerosolizer fitted to the end of it, like an inhaler. It must be the drug itself, the substance that somehow imparts the ability to reset the day, and Illya knows that under no circumstances can he allow it to be deployed.

The guard carrying the antidote approaches Napoleon, syringe at the ready, and the two partners share a meaningful glance. They talked through a few scenerios, but never one in which there were two antidotes in play. Illya isn’t even sure that Napoleon knows there is; after all, he’d missed that fact when he’d been the one forced to the ground.

Illya would really rather not do this day again—would really rather not have to explain this sequence of events to Napoleon again—so he has to make this count.

He waits until every eye in the room is focused on Napoleon, watching for whatever happens when the antidote is administered. Even the man in charge lets his guard down for a moment, a wide grin spreading over his face, and this is when Illya acts.

Lunging forward, he makes a grab for the drug and the antidote, both held in the man’s left hand, but unfortunately the man reacts faster than he expected, twisting away and leaving Illya holding only one of the vials. There is at least a little luck on their side, though, because when he opens his hand he sees the odd green liquid glinting there. The drug.

He doesn’t have much time to think about what to do with it. Napoleon yelps as the guard plunges the antidote syringe into his shoulder and injects, and somehow the man in charge knows immediately that they’ve been duped. He snarls, wheeling on Illya, and leaps at him in a desperate attempt to get the drug back. Two bullets to the chest somehow aren’t enough to bring him down—granted, neither of them were very accurate under the circumstances, even at close range—and he collides heavily with Illya, sending them both sprawling to the floor. The vial is clenched tightly in Illya’s fist, safe from the man’s prying fingers, but Illya loses track of the antidote until a needle jams right into his thigh.

Fire spreads rapidly through his veins and he can feel it leaving his body, knows without a doubt that if he dies this time it will be for good. The pain of it briefly overwhelms his senses, but it ebbs as rapidly as it came on and he’s left reeling and feeling oddly empty.

“Kill him! Kill him now!” the man is shouting desperately, and Illya doesn’t know if he means him, or Napoleon, or both of them.

Turns out, neither do the guards. The ones nearest to them stand there uncertainly, and it probably doesn’t help that the man is on top of Illya and thus blocking most of their shots. Illya can hear the sounds of fighting from somewhere in Napoleon’s direction, so he assumes his partner has taken advantage of the chaos to get free and turn on the guards around him, and this in turn draws the attention of the two guards nearest Illya. They raise their guns toward the other side of the room, and Illya knows he has to end this now.

Finally, he manages to wrench his gun free from where it is pinned under them, jams it against the man’s head, and fires. He pushes the limp form off of his body and scrambles off the ground, dropping both guards with the remaining bullets in his clip. There is still another, farther across the room, still focused on where Napoleon is struggling with the last two guards that had held him. Illya watches as the third guard takes aim when the fight swings around to offer a clear shot of Napoleon. There’s no way Illya will be able to take him down before he fires, and so he does the only thing he can do.

Launching himself across the remaining space, he smashes into Napoleon and the guard, sending them both sprawling to the floor, just as he hears the gun fire twice. The bullets slam into his left shoulder and chest, sending a too-familiar white hot pain lancing through his body, and it almost feels like just another loop except it’s not.

Dying has become old hat, for Illya, but living is an entirely new proposition.

He slumps toward the ground, distantly hearing the sounds of fighting and bullets firing around him again until finally those seem to fade away. The vial of the drug slips from his hand, clattering to the floor and rolling off under a table.

Pain stabs through him again as someone—Napoleon, it must be—presses on his wounds, but the world around him is rapidly fading.

“Fuck! No no no, Illya, you idiot—”

*****

Illya has flashes of something like lucidity.

The heat of an explosion. A spike of pain as he’s lowered to the ground. Bright lights and frantic voices. A warm, solid mass pressed against his side.

He’s not sure if they’re real, dreams, or something else entirely.

*****

He wakes, for the first time in over a month, in a different bed.

At first the world seems like it’s nothing but white light, and he thinks maybe he’s finally actually dead, but then the walls and ceiling materialize around him. The air is filled with the soft hums and steady beeps of medical equipment, and the scent of antiseptic and bleach. A hospital, he thinks distantly.

Illya tries to push himself up in the bed, but that quickly proves to be a terrible idea. He hisses as pain sears through the left side of his chest, and the abortive movement sets several of the machines to a far more rapid beeping. Hurried footsteps echo into the room, and for a few minutes he just sits there as skilled hands fuss over the IV lines and his bandages. One of the nurses must administer some morphine, because a moment later the pain begins to ebb.

When he finally opens his eyes again, there is a familiar face standing at the foot of his bed.

“You do know you’re not actually immortal, right?” Gaby scolds him, but the fond, relieved expression on her face takes all of the weight out of it.

“Was never immortal,” Illya mutters, crossing his arms in front of him defensively.

“Napoleon told me what happened, in the office. You could have died. Permanently.”

Napoleon. All at once Illya realizes that he’s not here, and why would he not be here unless—

Gaby must see his sudden distress, because she moves quickly around the bed and places a steadying hand on his arm. “He’s fine, Illya, he’s not hurt. He just stepped out to get some food. It’s been nearly impossible to get him to leave your side. The nurses want to throttle him, I think. He’s gonna be so pissed that he wasn’t here when you woke up.”

“What happened?” he manages as he takes deep, slightly painful breaths, still trying to get his panic under control.

“Well, after you tried to get yourself killed, Napoleon took out the remaining guards and carried you out of the building. I thought you were already dead when I saw you, Illya, but thank god you’re a stubborn bastard. We blew the chemical building into atoms and stole a car. I don’t know how you didn’t bleed out on the way to the hospital. The doctors said it was basically a miracle.”

Illya huffs out a humorless laugh at that, wincing again at the pain it elicits. He opens his mouth to ask how long he’s been out, but the words are cut off by the sound of someone practically sprinting down the hall. Moments later, Napoleon appears in the door, wide-eyed and disheveled. Clearly someone—almost certainly Gaby—had at some point made him go shower and change his clothes at least once because he’s not wearing his tactical gear anymore, but his clothes are still a rumpled mess. He’s also, quite obviously, deliriously happy to see Illya awake.

“Oh god, Peril, how long have you been awake?” he asks frantically as he rushes over to Illya’s side. “I’m sorry, I was here but then Gaby told me to go get something to eat even though I wasn’t hungry—”

“I just woke up, Cowboy,” Illya interrupts, uncrossing his arms so he can reach out to grab Napoleon’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

This little gesture puts a smile on Napoleon’s face that lights up the room and fills Illya’s chest with a fierce warmth. He gives a little tug of suggestion and Napoleon bends readily down to press a kiss to his lips. It’s brief, a brush of mouths that lingers just long enough to promise so much more, and Illya feels his heart ache with happiness.

Because until that moment, Illya wasn’t entirely sure how much of it had been real. Obviously the operation at the compound had happened, but he couldn’t be certain of even that morning, of holding Napoleon tight in his arms and kissing away his tears.

“It was all real,” he breathes in wonder as Napoleon sits down on the bed next to him. “You remember.”

“If you’re asking if I remember you walking into the kitchen of the safehouse the morning after we arrived and kissing me like your life depended on it, yes, I remember,” Napoleon says, a tiny smirk twisting his lips. “As for the rest, well, we pulled off an operation that never should have been possible, so…”

“We haven’t mentioned any of it in our debriefs,” Gaby tells him. “Not even Waverly knows.”

The reason why is obvious, of course. Such a claim would no doubt trigger a mandatory psych eval and some serious skepticism about Illya’s mental stability. He can’t blame them, but at the same time he knows what happened to him was real. At least, he knows now.

“Thank you,�� he says quietly. “For everything.”

Gaby smiles, soft and sincere. “You need to rest,” she tells him as she bends down to kiss him gently on the forehead. “Dying that many times has to take a lot out of you.”

“That is quite an understatement,” Illya grumbles.

She squeezes his arm fondly. “I need to go tell Waverly you’re awake, but I’ll try to keep him away until tomorrow at least.”

Illya knows she’s just making up an excuse to give them some time alone, but he very much appreciates it nonetheless. When she leaves, closing the door to the room behind her, he looks up at Napoleon again, and the sheer amount of affection in his partner’s eyes is breathtaking.

“Stay with me?” he asks, squeezing Napoleon’s hand where it’s still wrapped around his.

Without a moment of hesitation, Napoleon kicks off his shoes and climbs up onto the narrow hospital bed, which is really not large enough for the two of them, but he fits his body next to Illya’s like it was made to go there. He pulls one arm up under his head and gently pushes a lock of hair off Illya’s forehead, pressing a kiss to his temple as he curls his other arm over Illya’s stomach.

“Always, Peril,” he whispers. “Always.”

#whumptober2020 #no.29 #emergency room #the man from u.n.c.l.e.#fic #the man from uncle #tmfu #napollya #napoleon x illya #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin #gaby teller #my fic

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dwaynepride · 4 years

Text

the unfortunate case of nonchalance

PART V - BLOOD WAS OUR INHERITANCE

summary: jethro’s heart is pulling him two ways, and it’s hard to navigate the right direction.

words: 3,335

warnings: female reader

tags: @fairytale07 @jrenn10 @f4nboi @purplestarsr5 @ladyzombiielove @littlemiss3ma @minikate--24-05 @consultingdoctorwholock @dressed-up-just-like-z1ggy @ms-allenbrown @ikbenplant @dylpickles1267 @diaryofafan17 @specialagentlokitty @pageofultron @stanathanxoox @kittenlittle24

author’s note: part 5 of the cowboy!au series. this is a part of meg’s 11k challenge. the prompts are cowboy au and secret relationship trope.

part IV | part VI

March 7th, 1889

Once again, I am a wanted man.

The botched bank job was nearly five days ago, and I’ve felt every single second of it. Anthony’s wound is worse than I feared - Doctor Mallard is doing all he can, but I know that man. His hopes are not high. Anthony’s got a fever and he still bleeds from time to time.

That boy is strong, but even I’m starting to worry.

And we can’t leave while Anthony’s so weak. Everybody’s been packing up, ready to turn tail, but a journey may very well kill Anthony, if his infection doesn’t.

I know my thoughts should be on finding a way to leave, but they’re not. Not all of them. When it’s quiet, I find myself wondering if Y/N is safe. She was far from the shooting, I know that. But that doesn’t stop my concerns.

I need to make sure she’s alright; that’s the only way I’ll be able to concentrate on anything else. I’ll ride to her home at night and no one’s gotta know I was back in town.

Plus, I feel that maybe she’ll help get my head on straight.

The night is so silent, Jethro barely lets himself breathe.

Even taking the long route all the way around the outskirts of town, he was nervous. Every shadow, every noise had him instinctively reaching for his pistol. It was some sort of miracle that he hadn’t run into any law yet, but seeing the pure white paint of your home made Jethro’s stomach tight.

All the windows were dark, except for one. A candle flickers on the windowsill; its light is warm and inviting and it draws Jethro in to search for you. Though, with his luck, your bedroom would be on the second floor.

His footfalls are silent against the ground. He still keeps a hand on his pistol, but Jethro’s eyes are locked on the candle in the window. He reaches the house, leaning his back against the wood. And slowly, carefully, his head creeps forward to peer in through the window.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the light, but the image he finds when Jethro looks in makes his heart tight. There, on the bed, you’re laying with a book in hand. You haven’t noticed him, too focused on reading, but Jethro’s just pleased that he’s found you so easily. He’s already been in town for too long.

A hand comes up, and he gently knocks his knuckles against the glass. Instantly, you jump, eyes wide as they flicker up to look in his direction.

That look of recognition makes this whole journey worth it.

Jethro sees his name leave your lips, and he quickly motions for you to come outside. You’re reluctant, he can tell. And he can’t really blame you, neither. But again, he beckons you out. Eventually you nod, and he watches you scurry out of your room.

His hands curl into fists, and Jethro reminds himself to breathe. But try as he might, he can’t seem to calm himself. Five long days of wondering and worrying, only to find you home; safe and sound and reading a book in your bed. Now, he just wants to talk to you. Hear your voice and simply be in your presence.

After what feels like minutes, the back door of your home finally squeaks open. He hears it, and Jethro immediately moves toward the back of the house. And there, in the light of a half-moon, you’re standing there looking at him and Jethro suddenly can’t remember how to use his own words.

“Jethro,” you breathe out. It’s almost inaudible, but he catches it. And when you run up to him with open arms, he catches you, too. You smell of wildflowers and Jethro’s instantly taken back to that day by the river. When you kissed him softly and he felt your lips for days after

That feels like a lifetime ago.

“I’m okay. I’m right here,” he mumbles. And Jethro’s not afraid to squeeze you just a little too hard. God, as much as he says he’s been worried about you - he’s missed you a hell of a lot more. As crazy and scary as things have been the last few days, this is the first time Jethro feels a sense of normalcy. Like everything is suddenly right in the world.

He wants to stay in this hug forever, but you’re the one to pull away. And when Jethro looks in your eyes, he doesn’t find the happiness he expects to see. He isn’t barraged with questions of if he’s alright or what happened or if everyone was safe.

Instead, you step away from him. Still within arm’s reach, but no longer holding him. “The bank...all those lawmen....Jethro...?”

His eyes fall away. Perhaps Jethro was naive to think you wouldn’t have questions about the heist. Perhaps he was stupid in thinking your happiness to see him would somehow overshadow why he did what he did. But that explanation would take too long and Jethro simply wanted to be here with you.

Your face was taut. Unmovable. And he knows you deserve to know who he is.

His thumbs trail over your forearms, grip still tight in case you decide to pull yourself from his grasp. “I’m not exactly who you think I am, sweetheart,” he says lowly.

You look confused - as if not properly understanding what he means. “You’re Jethro Gibbs,” you tell him firmly. “You came into town with your friends-”

“My gang,” he cuts in. And as your eyes go wide, Jethro’s gaze falls once again. “We aren’t just moving into town, we came here to hide. We....we did some bad things out West. Things that I regret.” The words felt like poison on his tongue. It felt like every syllable was just pushing you farther and farther away from him. But Jethro finally looks back up, watching your shocked expression. “Things that got Shannon killed, and ain’t been ‘till now that I wanted to change. My gang’s not quite there yet - they’re still convinced we gotta rob folk. The bank wasn’t my idea.”

Finally, you wrench your arms out of his grasp. And your eyes had gotten harder. Almost angry; it’s the first time Jethro’s seen you like this. Not even at the saloon when the barkeep threatened to call the law on him. “I have a hard time believing you didn’t know anything about it, Jethro. They’re your friends,” you bite out. Jethro’s never felt quite so small. “My father works there. What if he’d been-”

“My people aren’t killers.”

“And how should I believe you? Seems like everything you’ve told me is a lie. Is your name actually Leroy Jethro Gibbs, or is it something you’ve made up?”

Jethro is silent for a moment. “You think I can make up a name quite so ridiculous?”

You huff and turn away from him to walk back into the house. Truthfully, that smartass comment was reflexive, and Jethro’s kicking himself for saying it. “Hey, hold on,” he says, reaching out and grabbing your hand. And you try once again to pull free, but Jethro’s much too strong. He comes around to face you, eyes intense and serious and you even stop struggling when you meet them. “Not everything’s a lie. I do care ‘bout you - a whole hell of a lot,” he says softly.

He can tell that makes you think. The way you watch him, reluctant to believe him, but also wanting to. And God, Jethro wants you to. His stomach’s painfully tight at the thought of his foolishness being what drives you away.

And his fears are realized.

This time, when you pull your hand back, he lets you go. “You’re an outlaw, Jethro. A criminal.” Your voice is so hard, so harsh against his ears, that Jethro can’t really believe that he heard it.

But he’s not stupid nor deaf.

“Well, you let this outlaw teach you how to shoot, sweetheart. And better yet, you kissed a criminal. Don’t act so high, like your hands are clean.” The words are sharp and terrible, he knows. He spits them out with the poison on his tongue and Jethro’s too angry to feel bad about it.

The light of the half-moon reflects off your tears in the split second he can see your face, because you’re walking away from him toward the back door. “Get out of here, Jethro GIbbs, or I swear I’ll start screaming and get the law down here!”

You don’t even look at him. Not one measly glance as you pull the door open to rush inside. For a few seconds, his feet are rooted to the dirt. And as mad as he is, Jethro doesn’t quite want to leave. That pull that drove him here is still in his gut, much to his annoyance. Buried under the heat of the argument. Plus, he made you cry - some of that anger is pointed to himself.

He turns away from your perfect white house, disappearing back into the darkness so the law can’t see him. And Jethro doesn’t look back, not once.

If he had, he knows he would’ve seen your sad face in the window.

Anthony’s infection was like a cough that just couldn’t be shaken.

None of Doctor Mallard’s tonics seem to be working. And as Anthony’s condition worsened, it seems like the gang’s morale faltered, too. Jethro felt that change; he is not immune to the mood that wily young Italian brings to the gang. And with the argument he had with you last night - well, he doesn’t want to admit how much he misses Anthony’s bad jokes.

His hand runs slowly up and down the muzzle of his horse as Jethero waits on Abigail. Their plan is foolish. Could likely get them locked up, or worse. But with Anthony on death’s doorstep, there’s little choice.

Abigail had not been involved in the bank heist. She’s the one who will walk into the general store and buy the things Mallard needs. Jethro’s going along to keep an eye on her, much to the gang’s distress. Because if they lose Anthony, could they really afford to lose Jethro, as well?

Perhaps not. But Jethro wasn’t going to let his foolishness get Abigail into trouble. And letting her go alone would be dangerous.

As they ride into town, he keeps his hat low. Doesn’t look anybody in the eye. It’s been some years since he’s had to ride through a town where he’s wanted, and he hasn’t missed the way it feels. The urge to run, or the sensation that everybody’s staring at him. Having to keep his ears pricked, waiting to hear a lawman shout his name, or the crack of a rifle.

“There’s the general store,” Abigail points out.

He nods without a word, and to his surprise, Abigail has kept a lid on her usual chatterbox self. He knows she’s no fool; this is too important, and her nervous talking may likely draw attention. Even her usual frilly black lace attire has been replaced with a much less noticeable dress. Truly a sacrifice.

But Anthony’s life is more important, right now.

They climb off their horses, and Abigail makes a beeline for the door. “I’ll stay out here. To keep watch,” Jethro mumbles out. His eyes flicker around the street, relieved that everything seems normal.

Abigail nods. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Her words bring little comfort. Jethro doesn’t like feeling so exposed.

Jethro tries not to watch people as they walk by. That would only make him look suspicious - on the other hand, he needs to keep an eye out. Be it paranoia or caution, Jethro watches the townspeople from under the wide brim of his hat. For him, it’s unusual how normal they all act when Anthony is back at camp dying.

And he’s not sure what powers are at play. Whether God or the Universe or just bad karma coming to bite him in the ass. But Jethro’s gaze wonders over across the street, a few buildings down. His heart stops dead, and limbs go cold. Not even the scariest lawman in the state could make Jethro quite so scared.

You haven’t noticed him, of course. Nobody has. But Jethro noticed you instantly. Like his heart was a compass.

He watches you, deep in conversation with the owner of the store you just walked out of. And it’s no wonder - your last name is on the top of that store. This must be some kind of business meeting.

And Jethro’s well aware he’s staring. He knows he outta be on the look out. Knows he really shouldn’t care whether or not you’re in town because of some bank business that your father likely roped you into. The argument was still fresh in his head - there was nary a time Jethro didn’t think back on that night with a hole in his heart. Or a fire in his belly.

Despite his mixed feelings, Jethro’s certain you’ll still be cross with him. Would tell him that you never want to see him again, and he’s not sure he can take hearing that, right now.

But God, how he misses you.

Losing the privilege of talking and spending afternoons with you felt like losing a limb. Jethro missed being able to escape his lowly life for a few hours and feel almost free. And you make him feel good, too. Like he can be a decent, respectable man with a decent, respectable life.

If he apologized, can Jethro even hope you’d forgive him?

Finally, you seem to conclude the conversation with the store owner and begin walking away. Jethro’s first instinct is to follow, and for once, he’s well-aware of how misguided his instincts have been, lately. His head swivels around to the door - Abigail would be fine for a few minutes, surely. He only needs to say a few words to you. And that’s still assuming you would stop and listen.

Jethro is careful about how fast he walks - slow enough to not attract attention, but fast enough to catch up. His stomach is tight, palms are clammy, and Jethro finds he can’t hardly breathe once he’s a mere foot away.

But he needs to concentrate. Needs to stay calm to get your attention.

Slowly, he walks up to your side. And before you could turn and look at him, Jethro leans his head over. “It’s me,” he mumbles out. You jump in surprise, give a gasp, and Jethro’s worried you might say his name and out him. Perhaps this was a mistake.

You don’t say a word. You just stare at him, mouth agape, and he knows this is the perfect time to pull you away from public eye.

With a hand on your arm, he discreetly pulls you into the space between two buildings. Just wide enough to fit the both of them, but provides the perfect privacy he needs. Away from the high society he loathes so much - the only attention he seeks is yours, and now he’s got it.

It comes with a price, though. Your face isn’t so bright and alive as it usually is, and Jethro knows he’s the cause of that. Your eyes watch him carefully, and he notices dark circles that were never there previously. Haven’t you been sleeping?

“What are you doing in town?” You ask him harshly. Jethro’s head backs away from the ferocity of your words. “If the law catches you, you’ll be hanged.”

He knows that. And he knows the stupid decision he made leaving the shop to chase after you. “My friend was shot. We’re here getting some medicine for him, but I think we might be too late,” Jethro says flatly.

And to your credit, you look sad. Sympathetic for his problems, and Jethro doesn’t miss the way your hand comes to grip his arm. As if comforting him, but too afraid to really commit to it. “I’m sorry, Jethro. I really am. I do hope he gets better. But we should not be talking, and you should not be here.”

You’re inching away from him, eyes downcast. And it isn’t until Jethro sticks his arm up to block your path do you stop. “So that’s it? After everything,” he asks. You don’t respond, and that only flares up his old anger from the previous fight. “I know I can never measure up to you and your family. I know I’m some lowlife, no-good cowboy-”

“Jethro, I didn’t mean what I said.”

Your words drain the anger from him. Maybe they shouldn’t; Jethro is never so easily swayed by words. But you look back up to him, meeting his eyes. “I was just....angry and confused and frightened. My father was going mad with everything that happened. You’re a good man, I know that. And I’m so sorry about what I said.”

The apology wasn’t expected. Jethro sooner prepared for a slap to the face than your honest regret. And a small flare of hope rises - that maybe this doesn’t have to end.

You’re still staring. Watching his expression soften, and eventually, your hand reaches out to grip his. A gentle squeeze that Jethro’s been craving. The soft touch that somehow manages to mend some of the cracks that these last few days have inflicted on him.

The seconds tick by, and Jethro knows he’s already been away for too long. It was a gamble to leave the store, and now he’s just being foolish for staying this long.

Regardless, Jethro leans in and presses his lips against yours with fervor. If the first kiss were as gentle and slow as a stream, than this kiss was a raging river. It knocks the wind out of him. Makes him feel like he’s drowning and you’re keeping him afloat. And you....you’re grabbing onto him. Clutching him tight by his coat, unwilling to let him leave this little bubble you’ve created.

Acting like this is the final kiss you’ll ever share.

Jethro promises himself that won’t be the case.

Your lips are soft and pliable against his. Jethro would happily stay in this crevice for the rest of his life, but he breaks the kiss. As he leans back, he sees small tears trickle down your cheeks. With a heavy heart, he wipes them away. “I need to go now. But I need you to do something,” he says, voice somehow sturdy after that kiss.

You look reluctant. “Jethro-”

“Tell your father about us. About everything,” Jethro states. And he ignores the way your eyes flicker away briefly before returning. “Once Anthony’s fit to travel, we’re leaving. And I want you to leave with us.”

It was a tall order, he knew. Leaving everything you knew. Everyone you love. But Jethro knows he wants you with him. Feels it in his bones that you’re meant to be with him, always. And the way you’re still gripping onto him, you must feel the same. That undeniable tug, like a rope around his neck.

His hand runs along your cheek one final time before he pulls away. Unfurls your hands from his coat and squeezes out of the crevice. On his way back to the store, Jethro doesn’t look back. And yet, he feels your eyes on him.

Just as he returns, Abigail is exiting the store. And she’s isn’t stupid; she knows he was gone. Instead of scolding him for such a stupid move, she just furrows her eyebrows at him. “Where did you go?” She asks.

Jethro keeps his hat down, unwilling to look her in the eye. His answer was too long. Too complex.

“Something important I had to take care of,” he answers simply. Not a great answer, but the only one he’ll provide. “C’mon, let’s get back to camp.”

#ncis reader insert #ncis x reader #leroy jethro gibbs x reader #leroy jethro gibbs imagine

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