#she has also given me permission to refer to her as rosie

[apollos-boyfriend]

me and my roommate restarted rpg horror night early :D we r playing the crooked man series!!!

#icarus speaks #icarus plays horror games #she has also given me permission to refer to her as rosie #or freak. #their words not mine

[otonymous]

(Otonymous’ Follower Milestone Celebration): From the Pages of Le Comte’s Diary (IkeVamp - NSFW)

Description: You happen to find le Comte de Saint-Germain’s diary by chance.  Do you dare to take a look inside? Warnings: NSFW/18+:  Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised. Trigger warnings: very mild hints of somnophilia & dubcon (without actual violation), mentions of death.  SPOILERS for something minor noted in Leonardo’s MS. Author’s Notes: Hey everyone!  This piece was heavily inspired by a personal headcanon I have of le Comte’s backstory and, for all intents and purposes, can be seen as a continuation to an earlier fic I wrote for him, Bitten.

(SPOILER ALERT!!) I also noticed while playing Leonardo’s route that he sometimes refers to le Comte with his name in quotation marks.  It happened so frequently that I was inclined to think that this was no mere typo.  This observation will figure in the following piece as well.

I’ve never played le Comte’s route before in the JP server and I try to stay away from spoilers, so the rest is just pure speculation on my part!  That being said, please note the potential trigger warnings listed above, and happy reading! 😊

Tagging the following lovelies: @ambrosiallkiss​, @all-my-cuffs-have-buttons​

All characters & Ikemen Vampire owned by Cybird.

17th of May, XXXX

She sleeps; soft skin taunting beneath the gossamer silk of her nightgown - satin ribbons and blush pink and almost coquettish in how it barely concealed anything of the wonders beneath:

Breasts exquisitely tipped, nipples hardening like jewels beneath the heat of my stirring breath.

Hourglass curves limned in silver moonlight spilling into her room (for even after lifetimes apart, she maintains the habit of retiring with the curtains open) — lending her the ethereal cast of the goddess Diana herself.

The shadows between her legs, darkness undulating every time she shifted upon the bed; thighs parting...then closing…then parting again as her lips dropped in a wisp of a moan that reverberated nonetheless like an orchestra in my ears.

For she had called to me.  

Writhing upon her bed in the throes of what seemed a particularly feverish dream, she had uttered my name — that which had never been revealed to her nor any of the mansion’s other residents aside from Leo.  And there is no other man I trust more with a secret.  Yet, there it was like a miracle…spilling unbidden from those perfect lips.

How long has it been since I was last addressed as such?  Not “le Comte de Saint-Germain” but by the name of my birth.  Not since she was in my arms last, hundreds of years in a past when I knew her by an entirely different name and face.

Different, yes, but beautiful no less.  And though she returned to me changed, I recognized her immediately by scent — fragrant blood ripe with the sweet spring of life, pulsing hot beneath delicate skin that flushed when I approached her that fateful day, palm outstretched like a hopeful supplicant to return what she had lost:

An earring of amethyst.

The same precious stone as the one in which I had carved the elegant profile of her face; the cameo the very first gift I had given her...and the very last piece of jewellery I adorned her body with the day they laid her to rest all those grey seasons ago.

But my lover has returned.  And though many say our kind walk in darkness, God has revealed itself to me by this very act of faith.  For she is the light: the spark in her eyes more brilliant than a thousand suns, the warmth of her soul the very fire of a hearth, forever burning.

Yes, she has returned.  And I am home once more.

Yet, I linger at the threshold, paralyzed by the thought of her dissipating like smoke before my very eyes.  Could this much happiness be allowed for one such as myself?  Would Cupid’s arrow be tipped with sympathy for a creature’s plight, striking twice like lightning bearing down upon the selfsame tree?

Alas, caution, caution.  To be exercised constantly.

I remind myself, always, to stay the haste that would urge me to reveal all, as fantastical as the story may seem to a woman both worldly and hailing from a time that, I’ve learned, has very little tolerance for things incapable of being stripped away by science.

Thus, I must find contentment in observation, watching the slow procession of my bride as she fumbles among the great men I’ve gathered.  Waiting…hoping for the day that she’ll discover her place by the side of one who has loved her and only her since time immemorial.  For I would never force her hand.  If she is to love, it would be completely of her own accord.  

Such is my situation: to look but never to touch.  Never seeking to interfere.  It is torture of the most acute degree.

In a stark reminder that I, too, was once a man possessed of love and passion, jealousy and lust, I almost succumbed tonight.  Her soft moans had drawn me to her bedchamber, and when she failed to respond to my inquiries as to her well-being, I entered her room without express permission, fearing the worst.

And there…a sight to rival Venus’ birth upon foamy shores:

Tresses of silk fanned out upon down pillows as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, ma chérie had thrown off her bedcovers and continued to writhe under the influence of a dream.  Her lashes fluttered long like butterflies in flight, and I was captivated by the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the perfect flesh of supple breasts visible beneath the gauzy layers of her nightgown.

I pressed a hand to her forehead, relieved to find it cool to the touch and tried to keep from being distracted by her tongue as it slipped out to wet pink lips from corner to corner, as if fighting to quench some unfathomable thirst.  I wondered from which well of desire she had drawn in the hazy web of sleep to excite her so.

I wasn’t left ignorant for long, for it was then that she moaned my name, beckoning like the goddess of love herself and impossible to ignore as the sound stirred something deep in my enraptured heart and loins.  And just when I gathered every last shred of willpower to pull away, she grasped me by the wrist, fingers curling tight and with surprising strength.

Selfishly, I yielded.  Allowed her to draw me in any direction she saw fit until I was positioned over her sleeping form on all fours, like the basest of beasts.  I told myself that I did not wish to disturb her slumber, but the heart knows its own darkness.  For I was hopelessly drawn to the flush of her cheeks, the way her hands sought purchase in my hair — pushing my head lower and lower, allowing my gaze to take in every glorious inch of her body as it moved towards the heat between her legs.

She stopped then, spread herself even wider and lifted slightly off the bed as if seeking the warmth of my breath.  It blew shaky upon bare skin, for she had worn no undergarments.  Her heady scent wafted towards me, a bouquet delectable and sweet, as if deliberately fashioned to please my palate, and I smiled to remember the times I’d feast upon her until the candles burned low.

She glistened — rosy flesh trembling as her arousal beaded to drip from her entrance, leaving a salacious trail that ended in a growing spot of moisture on the bed beneath her.  She called for me again, the wanton whine of her voice mixed with a desperation I only knew too well, and it would’ve been so easy to take up her invitation with the tip of my tongue, lapping at the nectar offered up by her beautiful flower in bloom.

It would have been easy, yes.  But I am not one unaccustomed to hardship.

And so, with the greatest care not to rouse her, I extricated myself from her grasp, pulling the covers over her sleeping form once more.

On this night, I allowed myself this: the gentlest press of my lips to her forehead.  The slightest touch of my nose to the tip of hers.  Then I bade ma chérie “bonne nuit” as I closed the door behind me.

She will come to me once more, awake and willing.  And when she does...

…she will know my name.

(End of Entry)

Thank you so much for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📓

#otonymous 2020 ms #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp le comte #ikemen vampire le comte #le comte de saint germain #ikevamp smut #ikevamp fanfic #ikevamp fic #fanfiction #smut #my writing #cybird

[retro-pure-jdonica]

Chapter 9

"Hello J.D., it's Veronica." I smile when I hear J.D. answer the phone.

"Hi, what's going on?" He asks. His voice sounds happy, so I assume he's doing okay.

"I just wanted to call you to confirm that you can come over tomorrow for dinner. I told my parents 5:00 so you should be here by 4:55." I explain to him, giving a small laugh about the times.

"Noted." He laughs.

"Also, what are you planning on wearing? I'm really sorry but, like I said, they're quite picky." I ask him. I've never seen him not in his leather jacket so I'm not sure what else he would wear.

"What would make them hate me the least?" He questions with a slight laugh laced into his voice.

"My parents are quite old fashioned, but a simple suit and a pair of nice shoes that would be excellent. Does that sound alright?" I suggest. This is a decently important dinner, and him dressing like how I described should be fine.

"That sounds doable." He replies. "So, not five o'clock but four fifty five, wear a casual suit and nice shoes. I think I got it. Goodnight, Ronnie." J.D. says on the other line.

"Goodnight, J.D.." I reply before placing my phone down. I finish up my homework and go downstairs to say goodnight to my parents before finally going to sleep.

***

"That must be Jason, I'll answer it." My father says as he stands up from the couch, fore the doorbell had just been rang. I look down at my wrist watch to check the time. 4:56, good job J.D.. My mother and I stand up from the couch as I hear J.D. and my dad conversing. I see J.D. step inside and he is dressed just as he said he would. I walk over to J.D. and my dad to join the conversation.

"Veronica, you look wonderful, as do you Mrs. Sawyer." J.D. smiles at me and my mother. We all walk into the dining room and sit down, my mother and father at either end of the table and me and J.D. facing one another, sitting in the middle of the longer sides of the table. We all semi-silently fill our plates and begin chatting once we start eating.

"So Jason, how long have you been living here in Sherwood?" Mother asks J.D.. He's doing quite well so far, he's sitting up straight and hasn't rested his elbows on the table.

"I just moved here from Kentucky this summer, this will be my first year at Westerburg High." He explains in a happy voice.

"Do you have a job?" My father asks with a small smile on his face.

"No sir, not at the moment." J.D. responds. I have already gathered that this dinner is just going to be my parents going back and forth asking J.D. questions, and it is quite obvious that J.D. isn't used to this type of formal discussion so I decide to try to help him out.

"You know, J.D.'s dad is an entrepreneur, he has his own construction business." I inform mother and father. I make eye contact with J.D. and he mouths 'thank you'.

"Would that construction company happen to be Big Bud Dean Construction?" Father questions.

"Yes sir, it is." J.D. says.

"Hm, they've been working on a new building just next door to my office." Father tells J.D.. Similar conversation carries on over the next hour- what profession J.D. wishes to obtain, if he plans on going to college and if so where, what classes he's taking in school- until it is time for J.D. to leave. I walk with him out to his motorcycle which was paled in the driveway.

"Well that was terrifying." J.D. laughs as he sits down on the bike seat.

"Oh you did great, I think they like you." I tell J.D. as he starts up the motorcycle engine.

"Well that's good because I would be very upset if I wasn't able to see you anymore. Bye, Ronnie." J.D. says, making my cheeks redden, before backing out of the driveway. I wave at him as he flies down the street. I walk back inside to ask mother and father what they thought of J.D..

"So, what do you think of J.D.?" I ask mother and father who both sat on the living room couch.

"Veronica, will you come into the bedroom with me?" My mother asks as she stand up from the couch, making me nervous. I say yes and follow her into the bedroom. "Well, Veronica, I know that you've never dated a boy before this so you're still composing a certain, if you will, taste in boys, but he's not exactly the type your father and I wish for you to be seeing."

"Well I think I like him, he's always very sweet when he talks to me and he makes sure I'm okay." I defend J.D.. I was very concerned that my parents may not like J.D. and those concerns are becoming a reality.

"But, since this is the first time you've brought a boy home to us, we thought we'd allow you to date him. You may quickly decide that you don't enjoy dating a boy like J.D., but you'll never know until you try."

"Okay then, well I'll be up in my room. I need to finish up some homework." I tell them before walking up to my room. I decide to wait about thirty minutes or so before calling J.D. and asking him to join me at the Sock Hop now that my parents have, slightly reluctantly, given me permission to be with him.

In those thirty minutes, I am able to finish a decent amount of the nights homework. I close my books and take a break to call J.D.. I dial his number and after a couple of rings he picks up.

"Hello?" I hear J.D. say on the other line before sniffling, when speaking his voice breaks as if he had been crying.

"Hey, it's Veronica, is everything alright?" I ask him as I twirl the phone cord around my fingers, a nervous habit of mine.

"Oh, yeah, don't worry about it." He replies, probably unknowingly telling me that something was wrong with him referring to something as 'it'.

"Well, I just wanted to call you and tell you that my parents are going to allow me to see you." I smile, hoping the good news may cheer him up. I decide to omit the more negative side of the story since he sounded slight upset.

"Wait, are you serious?" He questions, suddenly sounding very excited.

"Yes, and on a similar note I was wondering if you would be open to the idea of attending a Sock Hop with me this Saturday at Rosie's Place, the dinner?" I ask J.D.. I understand that me asking him to a dance is a complete overstep as a lady, but I don't want to attend the dance alone. Also he sounded very happy just now when I told him that my parents approve of him, so he may also be happy about the possibility of us going to a dance together.

"I would be incredibly open to that idea, and I would love to go to the Sock Hop with you." J.D. replies. "We can work out the times tomorrow, does that sound alright?"

"That sounds wonderful, goodnight J.D.." I respond. I wait for him to say goodnight before hanging up my phone and he does. I get up from my bed to take off my makeup and change into pajamas before finishing my homework and going to sleep

#retro heathers #heather mcnamara #heather duke #heather chandler #heathers #heathers the musical #heathers au #jd #veronica sawyer #retro jdonica #pure jdonica #retro jdronica #pure jdronica

[pollaidh]

In-line meta 221B just before the hug

221B Scene. Discussion between John and Sherlock. End of TLD.

SHERLOCK: “Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind.” (Like closet doors, last time he took drugs, in TAB.) … “Intrigued.”

JOHN: Makes dismissive/semi-humorous comment showing Sherlock John’s care for him is merely duty, a duty he is sharing with others.

SHERLOCK: “I thought we were just hanging out.” The softening of Sherlock’s gaze at the end shows this is the truth. He wishes they were just hanging out, but he thinks John’s there out of duty, not because he wants to be. Reinforces this with: “I do think I can last 20 minutes without supervision.” (Duty again. The tiny self-deprecating smile at the end. He’s hoping John will joke back as usual, continue their old camaraderie. He’s setting up for a private joke, but John doesn’t respond.) Just says -

JOHN: “If you’re sure.” Doesn’t meet Sherlock’s eye, his gaze is straight ahead until the last second.

JOHN: Makes comment about going to Rosie.

SHERLOCK: (Voice soft). “I should come and see her.” (Beseeching look.) Unusually subdued. Ah yes, Rosie is the most important to him now. And instead of throwing out some joking, petulant statement, he calmly accepts he no longer can come first to John. The subtext: Do you still want me to be part of your life? Sherlock looks at John as John talks with head-Mary. John unsure how to take this - does Sherlock seriously want to spend time with Rosie?

  JOHN: Gives an unwelcoming yes. He’s not engaging.

SHERLOCK: Looks away. How to make him stay, how to get this back on the old footing? He taps his hand on side of mug - frustration, indecision. Pleased he has found something to say, he looks up. The case. Yes. John’s always interested in the case. That’s why he’s interested in Sherlock, for the excitement, the two of them fighting crime together. 

SHERLOCK: Starts in his light professional voice to discuss case. John isn’t thawing. Sherlock trails off with a little laugh. He’s nervous. 

JOHN: “That’s good.” (Low intonation at end, shutting down this conversation. Might as well have said ‘that’s nice.’)

(This part of the scene, the stops and starts, and averted looks, talking about anything but the real story, reminds me of the Mr Darcy meets Lizzie Bennet scene in the Colin Firth version: A couple who are in love but don’t know they are in love, have argued, and see each other again in difficult circumstances, don’t know what to say to each other, or how the other feels.)

JOHN: Clenches hand (sign of John’s stress that Sherlock must have picked up on over the years).

SHERLOCK: Looks to his tea. This isn’t going well. John is upset. John is leaving. He’s going to have to go deep.

SHERLOCK: “Are you okay?”

(Such a loaded question. This isn’t ‘how are you?’ as a greeting or a post-bomb check. His voice is raw, all pretence gone. He cares. It’s hard for men to get onto this plane of conversation. He REALLY cares.)

JOHN: Laughs, but returns.

SHERLOCK: Watches John’s reaction, accepts the anger he feels is his due. He knows he’s broken them so no smart arse comments, he doesn’t argue, he just accepts….

SHERLOCK: “In saving my life she conferred a value on it, a currency I do not know how to spend.” (Without you I don’t know why my life is. He earlier said he couldn’t commit suicide because of the value of his life to John, but he doesn’t know how to live if John doesn’t even want to be friends. He can’t live or die without John.)

JOHN: Still not forthcoming, but his choice of words “It is what it is” have deeper meaning for the audience. Could be interpreted by Sherlock as ‘tough, this is what we’ve got’.

SHERLOCK: Swallows. That’s all he’s getting. He’s glad to get that forgiveness (he thought he’d broken any feelings romantic/platonic John had for him. He can’t say anything here because John’s talking about Mary (on the surface), he’s still in love with her. Sherlock’s culpability (which he feels even if forgiven) means he can’t talk about her. He has no right.

JOHN: Back to his duty - he’s on the 6-10 watch. The meaningful moment is over.

SHERLOCK: Tears in his eyes. Bravado: “Looking forward to it.” It’s all he’s got left.

JOHN: “Yeah.” A blank little ‘yeah’ and an eye-roll. He’s not.

IRENE?: Text alert!!!

JOHN: Jealous.

SHERLOCK: Plays innocent. (Could he have set that up?) Starts analysing whilst John stalks back over. Why does Irene’s ringtone make him come back. John was always jealous of Irene. …

SHERLOCK: “Oh. Okay. That’s good.” (For John’s deduction. He has no idea what this will be, He’s wrapping a protective coat around himself. Complete change of tone - a subdued version of his own mocking tone. This tone last used when John asks him to be best man, and he really doesn’t understand what’s being asked. Eyes flicker, he’s analysing, possibly responding mentally. Sips tea at the end there too. (And why does he keep his birthday secret?) All very polite and formal between them.

JOHN: “Seriously, are we not going to talk about this?”

SHERLOCK: (This being him and John, or something else?) “What? (Doesn’t dare say anything leading.)

Clarify 2 X more. Normally Sherlock predicts what John will say but here he really doesn’t know.

JOHN: “Woman..”

SHERLOCK: Screws eyes shut. Seriously? FFS John, how dense can you be?

JOHN: Lots of subtext about losing chances, with a very hetero “mate” as last seen in TSoT.

SHERLOCK: WTF? How can John still think he’s in love with Irene Adler? He made this clear. He’s confused. Something he’s missing. Right. Revert to standard line. “Romantic entanglements, while fulfilling for other people…” (Is this because he thinks if John really thinks Sherlock’s in love with Irene, than all his assumptions about what is between them must be flawed.)

JOHN: Talks about chance. “Chances don’t last forever… gone before you know it.” 

(Surface - about Mary, which means Sherlock can’t really respond. Also foreshadowing Last Problem. Subtext - he’s talking about chances between him and Sherlock, and telling unwittingly telling Sherlock to go for it.)

SHERLOCK: Eyes fall. This hits hard, He knows he’s lost his chance with John, back before he realised he loved him. This is an incredibly raw moment. Sherlock has a raw, earnest expression. 

JOHN: Talks about needing someone who completes you and makes you a better person.

SHERLOCK: “Forgive me…... I can safely say..” You complete me, you taught me to be a better man. That’s what love is. You are the better man, and you taught me. Except he doesn’t get to finish what is basically a confession of love, unlike Culverton Smith, whose confession couldn’t be stopped.

JOHN: “I cheated.”

SHERLOCK: Utter shock. Did he really not know? Then he realises Mary’s in the room, in John’s head. How can he replace a dead person. It’s heart breaking watching John talk to his dead wife. Sherlock analysing - so he still sees her and talks to her, but he cheated. Sherlock calculating WTF is going on here?

JOHN: Confesses all to Mary, himself, and Sherlock. Subtext, despite Mary being the mother of his child, he still cheated. He was only with her for the baby, but even that couldn’t stop him wanting more.

JOHN: “But I wanted more.”

SHERLOCK: Analysing. More with Faith? Or more than he got from his relationship with Mary. More with Sherlock? This is the moment Sherlock starts to wonder if there’s still a chance. He raises a wondering gaze, dawning hope in his eyes. John wasn’t committed to Mary like he’d assumed. What does that mean? (Sherlock is probably never going to be great at understanding emotions, though he’s improving.

JOHN: “I still do.”

SHERLOCK: (With who?)

JOHN: “Not the guy you thought…” 

(Surface level to Mary and Sherlock - I’m not a good guy. Subtext - I’m not the (straight) guy you thought I was. John’s equating good and straight because of internalised homophobia.) “I never could be.” (He’s always been this way - hmm that sounds familiar.)

JOHN: “But that’s the point…” You love warts and all. 

SHERLOCK: Subtext: Sherlock can be loveable even though he’s not perfect. John could love Sherlock. 

JOHN: “Who you thought I was is the man I want to be.” (2 levels - good man/straight man. Equating these is a sign of his internalised homophobia. And he’s telling the audience and Sherlock, that they have made false assumptions (that’s he’s straight).

MARY-in-John’s-head: “Well, John Watson, get the hell with it.” 

(Emphasis on hell. John has seen Mary tell Sherlock to go to hell, so links hell with Sherlock. He’s telling himself to get the hell on and tell Sherlock before it’s too late.” What else could this refer to - the recovery at surface level (John, get the baby, come back to life), but it’s much much deeper. As John stares, Mary smiles and disappears. John’s two sides (the conflict between Mary/John in his head, AND his good and bad side, and his side where he loves women and side where he loves men). John is integrated again. He accepts himself, warts and all, good man and bad, and all parts of his sexuality.

JOHN: Sobs, overwhelmed. He has given himself permission to be the man he was always supposed to be, to love himself entirely.

SHERLOCK: Absolutely serious, raw, none of the usual jokes and mania or glee, just entirely genuine and natural, puts down his tea and slowly, quietly, goes to John to comfort him. (He presumably hasn’t heard Mary’s contribution in John’s head, only John’s side. So he only sees John admit to Mary that he cheated, that he’s not the guy they thought. He doesn’t know John has just told himself to go for it. He seems John overwhelmed with guilt, as he sees it, not relief.) THEY HUG.

Compared to the wedding hug, which was so awkward, like John teaching Sherlock to hug, this is so natural. Mr Homes knows exactly what to do. Sherlock still cautious. Not sure how he’ll be received, this is not the moment for any declarations. But the hand on John’s neck is possessive and intimate, and John lays his head against Sherlock’s chest.

SHERLOCK: Glances up at the sky (thank god? Is this right? Am I doing it right?) All he cares about is that John is hurting.

Like the scene at the end of TSoT when Sherlock deduces the pregnancy, leaving him to realise there’s no chance with John now, this is such a raw, open, tender scene. They are being honest with each other and within themselves. There are still some miscommunications to clear up, but they are born of love and waiting for the right moment.

#tjlc #sherlock #johnlock #john watson #tld #the lying detective #meta #tld hug

[princessjaqulinechess1031]

Clary -- Short Historical Fiction Story

Word Count: 4160

Summary: Imagine, if you will, a time before America as we know it. Where Loyalists and Patriots wage a war for independence and loyalty. One can never be sure of another’s true allegiance, all one can be sure of is that one universal truth remains: love will always be there for those who manage to find it. Clarissa Turner is daughter of a British military officer but finds her heart belongs to someone from the Patriots. (Late 1700s American Colonies). 

This was originally a project for a class, so please go easy on it, I guess? It probably has a bunch of historical inaccuracies and typos, but I’m proud of it and I wanted some more people besides my teacher, best friend, and mom to read it. 

February 1777, Pennsylvania.

Clarissa’s shoes clicked against the pavement as she walked silently down the street of her Pennsylvanian town. She averted the gaze of fellow passersby, keeping her eyes focused solely on the ground beneath her. This kept her face hidden and allowed her to lower her chances of being spotted and identified by a British Officer on the off chance they accused her of being a Patriot.

She came upon her destination, a small pub located squarely in the middle of the main street, and entered the lively establishment once she assured herself she was not being watched. The small pub was nothing special; small and smelling vaguely of human sweat and stale ale. The raven haired woman continued to keep her line of sight directed at the ground as she made her way to the back of the room where an empty table awaited her; her nose crinkling in slight disgust at the smell.

She took a seat in the wooden chair, positioning herself so that her face could not be seen from the door or front window. Curious glances were thrown at her by some of the patrons, her pressed and expensive red frock and straight laced posture setting her apart from the normal customers, who tended to be members of the lower class. Apart from that, no one really paid her any mind and quickly returned to their loud conversations and drinks.

A young waitress appeared with a wary smile.

“Can I get you something, miss?” she asked. Clarissa shook her head no and jutted her head in the direction of the wooden door just behind the bar.

“I’d prefer to wait for my companion,” Clarissa said clearly, making sure to enunciate each word properly so that none could be misconstrued. The waitress nodded her head in understanding, her smile being replaced by a somber expression. She turned on her heel and made her way to the door, disappearing behind it quickly and without another word.

Clarissa sat in silence for a few moments, fighting the urge to run a hand through her hair in an attempt to make it appear more presentable. This was a business meeting after all; she need not act like a lovestruck little girl.

The door opened again, but the waitress did not walk through but instead a tall curly haired man with green eyes and a grim look chiseled into his features. Clarissa caught his eye and fought a losing battle to hold back a smile. He too dropped the grim look and smiled broadly, quickly coming to sit across from her at the small wooden table.

“Miss Turner,” he greeted kindly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your wonderful company?” There was a flirtatious inflection to his voice, one that she attempted to ignore. She was unsuccessful, however, because a light rosy blush reddened her pale cheeks. His words always had a way of making her feel nervous and fluttery, but she knew that she could not let that get in the way of why she was here. Clarissa was here on very important business that could not be delayed for a few childish feelings.

“Unfortunately, the war, Mr. Egerton,” Clarissa said somberly. Mr. Egerton’s smile dropped and that solemn look returned to him. He nodded once and Clarissa reached into the secret pocket she had sewed into the bodice of her scarlet dress and retrieved a small piece of parchment, and slid it across the table to him. He took it, Clarissa hopelessly ignoring the soft pressure of his fingers on hers when they touched briefly.

“I swiped this from my father’s study last night,” Clarissa explained in a whisper, Mr. Egerton examining the paper with a critical eye. “It details the expected arrival of a British ship carrying ammunition and supplies. I don’t know useful how this will be, but --”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Egerton cut her off, stuffing the paper into his coat pocket. “Every piece of information is useful against these red coats Clarissa.” Clarissa blinked once in surprise at the use of her first name. Only family and courtiers were expected to use someone’s first name, it was highly improper. Not that Clarissa didn’t like that the sound of him using her first name, but she knew the kind of reputation girls referred to by their first names received. To use a name like that….it simply wasn’t done, especially not in the upper class.

“Well, thank you Mr. Egerton,” Clariss said, making sure to use the proper name for him. Mr.Egerton rolled his eyes and reached across the table to grip her hand in his. Clarissa didn’t pull back from the touch -- inwardly relishing it -- and looked into his freckled face with confusion. He too looked back at her, his eyes alit with an unreadable emotion.

“How many times must I insist that you call me Philip?” he asked half-teasingly, a mischievous twinkle in his smile.

“It seems at least one more time, Mr. Egerton,” Clarissa returned in a cheeky tone. He gave a second eye roll at her answer and let out a resigned sigh. Clarissa stood then to take her leave; it was time she return home. If she stayed out too long one of the servants might begin to suspect her absence. “I must take my leave now, if you will excuse me.”

Phillip -- Mr. Egerton -- stood with her, retaking her hand in his own and bringing it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. A shock passed through her from that moment of contact and Clarissa did not bother to feel upset over it. Clarissa blinked once softly, smiling gently as a dull ache blossomed in her chest at the thought of departing.

“Until we meet again, Clarissa,” Phillip said, pointedly using her first name. That boy. He would never learn, would he?

“Hopefully by then the war will have to come to an end,” Clarissa said. Philip gave a small laugh at her words and took one step back, but had yet to let go of her.

“One can only hope, my dear,” he said, returning to the flirtatious tone he had used before. He raised his eyebrow and gave an over-dramatic bow as a goodbye, and let go of her hand to return to the room behind the bar. For a single second, she just watched him go but shook her head to clear her head once she realized what she was doing. Clarissa took her leave, turning on her heel promptly and keeping her head held high, refusing to turn back to see him and almost ignoring the hyper awareness she had of the place he had kissed her hand. But only almost.

“Miss Turner?”

Clarissa looked up from the book she was reading on her bed a few nights later, watching as her petite maid entered the room. The sun had descended into the sky a little less than a hour ago; Clarissa had been reading by the light of a lit lamp sitting near her bed. It was nearing time for rest. In fact, before the interruption she had been planning on going to sleep.

“Yes?” Clarissa asked, putting the book beside her on the bed.

“Your father wishes to see you, miss,” she informed in her quiet voice, barely above a whisper. Clarissa nodded once, a simultaneous sign the she understood and dismissal for the maid. The maid took her leave just as quietly as she had entered, curtseying to her mistress before moving lithely across the wooden floor and into the hall without another word. Clarissa followed soon after her, quickly slipping a green dressing robe over her nightdress to maintain decency. Even if it was only her father, it was the proper thing to do.

Clarissa was wary as she made her way to her father’s study. Upon his arrival this afternoon after his past week away, he had been none too pleased. He had been all out of sorts, ignoring Clarissa and barely leaving his study, even having been absent from dinner. Clarissa ached to comfort him in some way, she was the only family he had left since her mother had died of illness when she was young. She hated to see him so upset, but also knew that as a British Officer that often came with the price of the Patriot’s scoring a victory large or small. This forced Clarissa into a constant loop of unbridled emotions, hoping that the Patriots won for independence but also that the British won so as to calm her father’s rage.

When she came to the study, she found him turned towards the window and the brown door swung open. He was standing squarely behind his large oak desk, staring at the bookshelf lining the wall behind it. Her father wasn’t much for reading -- the bookshelf was more for appearance.

“You wished to see me father?” Clarissa tested, standing at the door and waiting for permission to enter. Her father never liked for someone to enter unless they were given expression via himself.

He turned to her with a frown, clutching a piece of parchment in his left hand. His expression was almost unreadable, a strange mix of anger and disappointment. Clarissa began to feel more ill at ease here -- something was wrong here, very wrong.

“Yes, Clarissa,” he answered, motioning with his empty hand to come closer. “Come in.”

Clarissa stepped into the room, feeling a bout of intense nausea rise in her throat. She brought a hand to the base of her collar bone hoping in vain that it would calm her nerves.

“A supply ship carrying ammunition for the King’s Army arrived today,” he continued. Clarissa’s breath caught in her throat. “It was intercepted by a band of Patriot scum.”

Clarissa tried to keep her breaths as even as possible, but her mind was racing a thousand scenarios. Did he know that she had leaked the information? Was he going to arrest her? Is that why he had called her here?

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Clarissa said in a quiet voice. “I hope that one day those Patriots know all these trivial things will not stop the King.” The lie practically burned her throat like alcohol as it rose out of her mouth, but she knew it was necessary evil and hoped that it would not be counted against her as a sin. She had told it so many times by now that she could almost stand the burn the lie left her with. Almost. But if she were to continue with her mission, she had to tell them. Her role was a small, quiet, and dangerous one, but an important one nonetheless.

“The perpetrators in question were caught and detained,” he explained. “Led by a one Mr. Philip Egerton, a member of the Continental Army.”

Clarissa was sure that her father said something else. Most likely something else about who else was caught, but Clarissa couldn’t comprehend the meaning the words were attached too. All that mattered was Philip, that Philip had been caught. Her heart dropped all the way to her stomach and her fists clenched into tight balls, her nails digging into her pale palms being the one thing still tying her to this room and this conversation. She returned her focus after a few moments and she managed to catch the tail end of her father’s statement.

“...Mr. Egerton was found with this piece of parchment detailing the arrival of said ship this morning,” her father said, taking no notice of her adverse reaction and raising the sheet so she could see. “One that previously was only privileged to me.”

Clarissa’s mind suddenly forgot how to breath. Philip was driven away from the forefront of her mind for a moment, as she fought to maintain any semblance of calm. Was this it? Was this the moment where her web of lies was blown?

“How is that possible?” Clarissa asked innocently once her voice returned.

“Since I was the only one privileged to it, I have reason the believe that someone within our house turned traitor and stole the information to give to Mr. Egerton,” he said. Clarissa’s world was crashing down around her. Her father had no idea how right we was, how close that person was to him. That that person was in this room.

“And I need your help to find who it was.”

“W-what?” she asked. The words came out before she could stop them, a blossoming sense of relief flooding her. Did he not suspect her? He raised an eyebrow and took the seat behind his desk, pulling the chair closer to his desk.

“I believe that a maid or servant stole the information,” he informed. “And since you know them more, er, intimately then I do thanks to my long absences, perhaps you could lead me in the right direction.”

Clarissa visibly relaxed, breath becoming more even and her nails releasing from the bloody grooves that the dug into her palm. He didn’t suspect her of the crimes she had committed. It relieved some of the weight her father’s revelations had put on her. Soon, however, the pressure was replaced by a new one. Would she have to condemn an innocent person for the acts she had done? Could she do that? If she had to, would she? Was she really capable of something like that?

“W-what is it that you wish for me to do?” she asked in a shaky voice, her hand trembling at her side. Once she caught sight of it, she quickly hid it behind her back, knowing that she would never be able to stop it.

“Well, the real investigation will begin tomorrow once two more officers arrive, but I was hoping that if you see any behavior out of the ordinary to please report it me immediately.”

Clarissa plastered on a fake smile onto her face, in order to present an aura of complcainticy.

“Of course,” she said sweetly. Her father nodded once and looked down at papers littered across the table.

“Father?” she asked. He looked up at her again. “It’s rather late. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to retire for the night.”

Luck happened to be on her side, because her father gave his approval. He nodded once and motioned to the door with a paternal smile, oblivious to his daughter’s turmoil.

“Of course,” he granted easily. “It is late, you probably all ready were in bed before I called you.Good night.” Clarissa gave him a respectful nod and turned on her heel, rushing to the door as quickly as she could do so as without arousing suspicion.

No one caught her as she walked down the hall to her room, but if they had they would have noticed an intense fire burning in her brown eyes. The source of the fire?

Her mission to find Philip.

In the dead of night was when Clarissa made her way to find Philip. It was remarkably easy to sneak out, so much so that she wondered why she had never thought to do so before. She made her break through her window, making sure the she was covered by moonlit darkness as she rushed to town, her feet clacking loudly on the streets as she ran to the center of her town.

With no where else she could think to go, she went to the pub where she always met Philip at. It was risky, but she was unable to think straight at the present time and no other idea came to her.

Even though most of the town was blanketed by the gentle spell of sleep, the pub was still lit with soft yellow light. It was a bit quieter than during the day -- which was when she usually came -- but she was no stranger to rendezvousing here at night. It seemed like a quite safe haven to her, a piece of calm, a glimpse of the sky amongst the hurricane around her. One or two patrons crowded the dingy room, talking in low tones that were a strong comparison to the usual din that exploded from this establishment. She entered quickly, this time not taking the time to notice if no one saw her enter, being far too concerned with other matters at hand. She scanned the room, and let out a relieved sigh upon seeing a tall man sitting in the back of the room, in the same seat where  she usually met Philip.  

“Mr. Anderson!” she called sternly, walking towards him briskly. He looked up from his drink in confusion, surprise littering his features at her sudden arrival. Still, she knew that she could trust him -- he was the one that had first approached her about working with the Patriots after all. If anyone knew where Philip was, it would be he. He kept a handle on all Patriots working covertly within the town. Besides, save the missing Philip, he was the only one she could trust right now.

“Miss Turner?” he asked, rising to stand. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night! Oh my -- what are you wearing?”

Clarissa -- in her haste -- hadn’t changed out of her night dress and green patterned dressing robe. Any sense of propriety had been temporarily abandoned, and as such she had found herself in a position that was unable to care about her state of dress. She did, however, cross her arms over her chest to maintain some semblance of modesty. He was, of course, not family

“I heard that Phil--Mr. Egerton has been captured by British soldiers,” Clary said, ignoring his questions and continuing on to the reason she had come. Mr. Anderson’s face fell and he looked away from her, staring down at the table. So he had heard, that meant he meant he knew where Philip was.

“Please, Miss Turner, sit,” he instructed kindly, retaking his seat in a daze and motioning for her to follow. She sat down in a slow daze, dimly recalling that last time she sat in this very seat Philip was meeting with her, not Mr. Anderson.

“I assume you heard this from your father, correct?” he asked. She nodded once. He sighed and took a swig of the drink he had been nursing before her arrival.

“I need to find him,” she insisted. Mr. Anderson shook his head no and took another swig of his drink silently. He placed the cup back onto the wooden table gently, the glass sitting firmly into his calloused hands. Before working for the Revolution, he had been a carpenter and as such had worked much with his hands.

“I’m afraid that is impossible, Miss Turner,” Mr. Anderson informed her. Anger boiled in Clarissa, and she blew air through her nose in order to channel her rage. She had come her for answers not to be turned away from her task.

“And why is that?” she demanded. Mr. Anderson sighed.

“The penalty for treason is now death, according to our fine state’s laws” Mr. Anderson explained bitterly. “If you were to visit him in the jail -- which is where he sits now -- you could be accused of treason as well and be hanged beside him. And, dear, we can not allow that to happen. Spies are some of our greatest assets, and we can not afford to lose you in addition to Mr. Egerton and his fellows.”

Logically, what he said made sense. She should go back home and attempt to direct attention away from herself. But the part of her brain that cared for Philip, that refused to admit that she was truly in love with him but also cared for him beyond almost all, was also refusing to allow her to understand the meaning of Mr. Anderson’s words. Philip was more important to her than any cause or Revolution.

“But, I --”

“You love him?” Mr. Anderson suggested. Clarissa looked at him, dumbfounded at the conclusion he had made. She had barely been able to make the conclusion herself, how had he?

“I know the two of you very well, Miss  Turner,” he explained with a knowing smile upon catching sight of her look. “And I know the look of young love when I see it. Over the past year, you have slowly begun to fall in love with him, and from what I can tell, he too feels the same way.”

Clarissa looked down at the wooden table, where her hands sat folded. She looked at them, as if they knew something that the rest of her did not know. She shut her eyes and hoped that that would hold her tears at bay, but failed, one salty symbol of sorrow slipping through her lashes onto her clasped hands.

“If you truly love him,” Mr. Anderson said after a moment, “you will continue this. Keep fighting for the movement he believed in so soundly.” He reached across the table and took her hand comfortingly, sending her a look meant to show all the compassion he could ever muster in his life. “I know this is hard, but revolution is never easy, my dear.”

Clarissa let out a shaky sigh, unable to stop the tears. Clarissa knew she had to let Philip go to keep fighting, that it was the right thing to do, but that didn’t make the path any easier to take. She felt like her heart was being ripped from her chest, that she could and would never feel another emotion again.

“Do you have a piece of paper?” Clarissa asked suddenly, looking up at him hopefully. Mr. Anderson looked confused but answered anyway.

“I’m sure that we could find some here…” he said. Twenty minutes later -- after having scrounged up from the bartender the necessary materials to write a letter -- Clarissa was hurriedly scratching across the paper, pouring out words quickly as she could. Once she was done, she read over the simple contents.

It read:

Dear Philip,

I have called you Philip this time, because I knew that their will not be another opportunity to call you as such.

I am hopeful that Mr. Anderson can in some way deliver this to you, but I know it is unlikely that this will occur.  Still I write anyway.

I’m sorry you have gotten caught and wish that God has mercy on your soul when you pass into the next life. I hope to see you there, and hopefully when I pass on, I will finally be able to tell you of my truest feelings --- that I love you -- in person. He knows that I never gained the courage to tell you in this life.

And if you wish to call me Clarissa, I will continue to object. Even though very few call me this, I prefer Clary anyway. None has called me this since my mother passed on as a little girl, but if you wish to call me as such, this will be the one name I will not object to.

Love,

Clary

It was simple and not much to read, but she felt that if she wrote anymore that the words would never stop. If a long -winded letter were to make it to him, someone would take notice of it. This was best for all parties involved. She folded the letter and handed it to Mr. Anderson hopefully, who took it with a nervous eye.

“If you can, can you please find a way to deliver this to him?” she asked. Mr. Anderson nodded once and placed the note in the inside pocket of his coat, giving her a sympathetic smile.

“If there's a way, I will find it,” he promised her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Two days later, when Philip was hanged in the square for his crimes against country, Clarissa had no way of knowing that the letter was in the pocket of his jacket, directly on his heart.

Until, that is, many years later, when she succumbed to illness many years after the war had passed, and one of the first faces she saw was a curly haired man with green eyes.

Philip.

“Well, Clary,” he said, reaching out a hand to her. “It seems that once again I have made the pleasure of your wonderful company, after all these years of waiting.”

And just like that, everything was all right again. Her heart was replaced in her chest, and Clarissa -- no, Clary -- smiled at him and took his hand, ready for eternity at his side.

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