#a scottish brogue will get me EVERY TIME
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I CANNOT TELL YOU WHY BUT EVERY TIME I GET A SPAM CALL I JUST IGNORE IT AND IT STARTS PLAYING SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT BY THE KILLERS?????
#EVERY TIME. EVERY DAMN TIME#ITS KILLING ME I NEED TO LAUGH BUT IM IN PUBLIC#AND ITS LIKE THE QUALITY OF WHEN YOU GET PUT ON HOLD AND THERE MUSIC AS WELL#..the devil talks in scottish brogue..
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Convergence
Captain John 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem Reader x Sgt Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish
Another one for @glitterypirateduck SoapItUp Challenge
This was inspired by @shotmrmiller Alternate Ghost AU. Don't know how, but it did. And I thank you dearly for it.
Synopsis: The last place you expect to be thrusted into a time warp is at the grocery store.
WC 783
--
Just imagine going about your daily routine at the grocery store.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Casually making small talk with the attendants as you scrutinize the flesh of a large green pepper.
-
"You doing the stuffed peppers again?" You smiled at his familiar voice, placing the chosen produce into the plastic bag.
"Yeah. Tried and true. Going easy this weekend," you remark with a friendly glint in your eye.
"Gonna add some jalapeños to the mix. Feeling a bit spicy these last few days."
"Nice touch. Just watch those seeds," he added. Leaning over the enclosure, lining up the peppers in color coded order. "They'll sting like hell if you wipe your eyes after cutting them."
"First hand experience?"
"Many."
Your chest jumped slightly with a huff at his honest admission. Extending your hand to grab a a few similarly sized packed greens.
You noticed the slight shift in air as you placed the bag into your cart. A silent hum in the back of your ear. The sudden sensation of a presence beside you, causing you to jolt and spin your head on a swivel.
"S'cuse me, love," the man says. Voice smooth, low. Wrapped like twine in a thick Scottish brogue. "Tryin' ta get tha pepper."
"Oh. I'm so sorry." You step back, hands on your chest with a furthering apology on your lips. Yet all movement and speech seem to halt as you meet the icy blue of his gaze.
"No need for apologies," he affirms with a casual smile. "Peppers are n'popular demand, yeah?"
You nod. Barely.
A whispered 'yeah' escaping your lips. The world turning into a blur as you lose yourself in the pull of his eyes.
You felt like a spring fawn. Every nerve tingling, every sense in overdrive. The hum in the back of your ears growing more strident. Pulsing. Flowing to meet a cadence that synchronized with the fluttering beat of your heart.
"Y'alright, love?" He asked. Low timbre vibrating within the shell of your ears. "Ya seem a bit shaken. Dinnae mean ta make ya nervous."
"No no no," you gasped, words rolling off your tongue like rolling rocks. "Just caught off guard. Surprised, y'know?"
"Aye. Ya sure? Ya tremblin a bit."
"I'm fine. Thank you. Enjoy your pepper."
Spinning on your heels, you jolt your cart forward. Leaving the enigmatic man with his chosen peppers to free your mind from within his trance like grip.
-
'What the fuck?' You mouth, inspecting a carton of milk like a scientist with a microscope. "Enjoy your pepper. What kind of dumbass says that?" You mutter under your breath, scolding yourself for your lack of composure while making your way to the snack aisle.
You hadn't planned on getting anything too unhealthy, but that sudden interaction changed your cravings to something more savory. Needing a bite to rid the taste of stupidity from your tongue.
You stood like an overwhelmed peasant in the aisle. Eyes scanning over the vast array of brightly colored bags and designs. Trying to focus on one that caught your attention, yet none seemed to pull at you. Ensnare you.
Nothing like the pull of his gaze.
A sudden perk of interest to a bag at eye level brought you back. And just as your fingers wrapped around the crinkling bag, that distant hum returned. Reverberating in the base of your earsdrums and slowly trickled down to the base of your spine.
"Nice, lass. Thems always a good choice," the voice called, forcing you to spin in shock from being pulled out of yet another daze.
"Jesus Christ!"
"Uh, not quite," he replied. A confident snark in his voice, dripping with an accent that was all too familiar yet more distinctive to a younger man.
The hum began to bellow deeply within your ears. What was once a distant buzz now echoed in the crevices, defeaning all sounds of the aisle, the store. Encapsulating you within its vibrations as your eyes moved ever so slowly to meet his.
You froze. Again. Second time in less than twenty minutes.
Bright cerulean orbs staring with a vigor and lust for life unlike any you had ever seen.
Similar to the icy blues earlier, yet wholly different. Lacking the poise and wisdom of a lifetime of trial and error. Yet, still held a strong grip of determination and control within the fibers of his irises.
"Y'alright, lass?" He asked. The silent rumble in his throat shifted the air, letting it heave down onto your soul until you were unable to move. Unable to think.
All you could was feel.
And you felt like a lamb at dawn on the eve of the spring slaughter.
Yeah. So, this happened....🤷♀️
Captain MacTavish Masterlist
#convergence#soap squad™️#convergence au#the brainrot of Captain MacTavish#johnny soap mactavish#john soap mactavish#soap mactavish#john mactavish#cod au#call of duty au#cod fanfic#call of duty#cod
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Choices
Werewolf!Soap is here! Apologies for how long it took, I couldn't figure out how to end it.
2K words, tw: werewolves, cheesy romance books, chasing, kinda kidnapping, scaring, if there's any you think I've missed let me know
Look, I'm Scottish and I hate writing Scots and the accent, so you're just gonna have tae deal wi' it awright? 😅
There might eventually be a part 2, depends on if y'all like this part
You couldn’t believe your luck when you found the rental listing. A two bedroom, guest house on 4 acres of land in the middle of the countryside. Your only neighbour being your landlord who lives in the main house but was away on deployment most of the year. It was like a dream come true for you. Plenty of privacy and space for you to write, beautiful views of the loch and there was even enough space for you to finally have an office space. The best part about it all though was your landlord, Johnny. When you first saw him you were scared, this massive hulking guy in the middle of nowhere and you. He made you feel small, and he had this aura around him, something you couldn’t quite understand but it made the hairs on your arms stand up. When you learned he was military, you figured that was it but the feeling never quite went away completely. He showed you around the place and the more you talked, the more he cracked jokes, the more you got to know him, the more charmed you were by him. Before the tour was even over you were asking him when you could move in. It was a dream come true for you and it was even better when Johnny was home.
The house always seemed to wait for him to come back to break but that was alright with you, it meant you got to see him under your cupboards and up ladders fixing whatever went wrong. It certainly gave you plenty of material to write about. In the eight months you’d lived with Johnny you hadn’t stopped writing. Your publisher was ecstatic because you were churning out best seller after best seller all with Johnny as your muse. Seeing as you were using a pseudonym you were careful with the details you used to describe Johnny as well, knowing that he could be followed back to you but this time you just couldn’t help yourself. Your bestselling books were dark romances and taboo themes but your new one was your first about supernatural creatures.
‘Loosely inspired by every vampire romance out there; Stain the head vampire of his coven seeks a mate. One day he comes across a young female who’s just perfect for him. But she’s not charmed by his rugged mohawk or his deep Scottish brogue. Just how will Stain win over his bonnie lass?’
The dark erotic scenes and the cliff-hanger ending almost guaranteed that it would be another best seller for S.P. Wraith. But what really sold the book was the concept art for Stain, you’d commissioned an artist and you had them draw a likeness as close to Johnny as you dared. Within weeks of publishing you had a contract for a series of books and art of Stain was everywhere.
___
“Hey sergeant! You got a modelling gig we don’t know about?”
“Soap! Show us yer fangs!”
“Let’s see you sparkle Sergeant!”
Soap was confused and starting to get a little annoyed at all the comments the recruits had been shouting at him. He was used to banter and camaraderie between everyone but this felt almost mocking. As he walked into the 141’s meeting he noticed Gaz was waving a book around and reading from it aloud,
“’You don’t like my mohawk?’ Stain said, shocked at the admission from his little pet. ‘Why I thought it complimented my roguishness and charming smile’ he went on to sa.. Soap!” Noticing Soap’s entry Gaz struggled to hold in a laugh as Price looked at him in disappointment,
“You know son, if we’re not paying you enough I’m sure there’s other options before whatever this was,” Price says waving a hand towards the book but Soap knows he really wants to say ‘What the fuck Soap?’
“I didnae do it! I don’t even know what ye’s are talkin’ ‘bout!” Soap tries to defend himself while grabbing the book and reading the cover: ‘The Life of Stain, Volume 1; A Beating Heart by S.P Wraith’ and staring back at him was a drawing of his face, right down to the scars from his first transformation. Before Soap can respond Price takes pity on him and starts their meeting, the bear shifter easily grabbing the attention of the other team members.
Soap finished the book in record time, in fact it takes him longer to work out who had written it and once he does he kicks himself a little because it should have been obvious. His sweet little tenant who can’t keep their eyes off his arse whenever he’s over fixing up the guest house for you. For the rest of his deployment he can’t stop thinking about you. What he’d do to you, how you’d look wrapped up, naked in his sheets, covered in his marks, completely his. So he fantasises, he reads as much of your writing as he can get his hands on because it’s obvious to him that you’re writing out your own fantasies, waiting for someone, him, to come along and make them real. By the time he’s heading home he has a plan for how to make you his.
___
You’re cleaning your kitchen when you see his car drive up the long path between both your houses. Freezing behind your window, as if that would stop him noticing you, you watch as he hauls his bags out the boot and ambles his way through his front door. You don’t move until even his shadow is gone from your sight and once it is the only thing on your mind is dinner.
It’s tradition now, the first night Johnny’s back from deployment you make dinner for both of you and carry it over to his house. It started after you realised he never had any food in the nights he comes back because he’s never sure if or when he’ll get back so you made it your mission to welcome him home with a good meal and if it let you be in his company for a while, well that was just a bonus. Tonight you made a spaghetti bolognaise, quick but tasty and headed over. Like every other night, you ate together, chatted long into the early hours and watched as he slowly relaxed his posture and got used to being home again. When it came time for you to head to bed he watches you go and says goodbye with a
“I’ll be over in the morn’ to check that gutterin’ o’ yours,”
It’s the hammering that wakes you the next morning, taking two cups of coffee out to the front you find him just finishing up,
‘Early start Johnny?” you ask, handing him the cup and giving him a once over.
“Aye, can’t sleep in even if I tried,” he gives you a nod in thanks for the coffee and continues, “Well, that’s yer gutterin’ fixed at least, Wraith” You watch the smirk on his face grow at the same rate your confusion does,
“Wraith? Is that some new nick…” Your face drops in horror and you pale, “you know?” His smirk turns into a full on belly laugh at the expression on your face,
“Did ye really ‘hink I’d never find oot?” He takes the cup out your hand and crowds you into the wall, “Ya know, lass, if you wanted some monster inspiration all ye had tae do was ask. I only bite sometimes.” With your back against the wall and his hand sliding up your neck, holding you in place, you’re transfixed as you watch his canines lengthen before his face changes shape and ears sprout from his head,
“Ye git thirty seconds tae run lass,” a voice growls out, it could only be him but it doesn’t sound like the charming Scottish accent you’ve come to love.
His hands drop and he steps away so you can see everything. The tail, his clothes being ripped, the giant paws for hands, “30, 29, 28… run!” the screeching is what gets you moving as you bolt towards the forest in your back garden. You can still hear him counting as you dart between the trees and jump over logs, not daring to look back because you know that’s how you’ll fall. Catching glimpses of a shadow in your peripheral vision you decide your best action is to climb, aiming for the first tree you can feasible climb quickly you do so. Hauling yourself up into the branches and trying to remain as quiet as possible with a hand over your mouth to quiet your heavy, panicked breathing.
The panicked breathing turns into full on sobs when you hear a loud howl, there are no wolves in this part of the country, no normal wolves that is. Hearing the sound of branches being snapped, you freeze in your hiding spot praying that he can’t see you but Johnny’s a werewolf, he’s never needed to see to know where you are. All you can do is sit there and watch as a giant, black wolf stalks around the base of the tree sniffing at the ground. The wolf circles the tree a few times before settling down at the base of it and looks directly up at you. It’s eyes, you notice, are oddly human. They’re still Johnny’s eyes.
For hours the two of you exist in this silent standoff. It’s not until the sun begins to set and the cold begins to make itself known that a move is made,
“Come oan lass, give it up. I dinnae want to drag you out the tree” Jolting awake at his voice your fear returns, “Lass, get down now.” There’s a bite to his words now, a command that you’re sure he uses on recruits, and it would have worked on you had your limbs not been frozen with fear.
‘Fine, dinnae say ye weren’t warned,” is the last thing he says to you before he walks away.
You’re shocked at this turn but you take the opportunity. Once you can’t hear him anymore you scramble out the tree and make a dash for your home. If you can just get to your car. Get to the car. Car. It’s all that’s on your mind, your car is synonymous with safety now. But you barely make it three feet from the tree when the wolf returns. With a single pounce, you’re face down in the dirt, the wolf is on your back and the growling in your ear causes you to pass out in fear.
___
It's the heat that wakes you up eventually, smothering like a weighted electric blanket. Completely unaware of where you are you go to try and take your pyjamas off only to find a furry weight pinning you down. It’s the fur that brings your memories back, Johnny knows about your writing, Johnny who turned into a wolf in front of you, Johnny who chased you through the woods. It startles you into alertness and you open your eyes to find a sleeping wolf on top of you.
Moving slower than a snail and as smoothly as you could manage with the full body shakes you’re battling, you manage to slide out from under him. Finding the door you get to it on shaky legs and are, reaching for the handle when a growl makes you freeze. You can hear his claws as they scrape across the ground, feel his teeth as he snags your shirt in them and his arms around your waist as he pulls your back against his chest,
“Yer no goin’ anywhere sweetheart. I’m no lettin’ ye” Johnny buries his face in your neck as he talks, muffling his last words.
“Johnny, I’m sorry. Okay, I’ll give you the money from the book, whatever you want,” you can’t decide whether to pull at his hands or push at his face, “I’ll find somewhere else to rent,” it’s something you’d hate to do but right now your life is more important.
“Leave? Lass, I ‘hink you’ve got the wrang end o’ the stick. Ah dinnae want ye tae leave, in fact imma gie ye a choice,” he pulls away from you, pushing you back against the door and caging you in between his arms, “I’ll even gie ye some time to ‘hink aboot it, awright. Ye can be my wife, and live happily with ev’ryhing ye ever want… or ye can be my pet, and this room will be the only thing ye ever see again.” The kiss that comes is surprising and gentle. He leaves you in a state of shock for a few seconds before grabbing a handful of your hair and dragging you across the room, “Just a little preview o’ yer options. Have a ‘hink, I’ll be back later sweetheart.” You’re too shocked to hear the door but what you do hear are the locks, three of them that signal no way out for you. All that’s left for you to do is sit in the dark and make your choice.
___
What will your choice be?
___
#bluespoonswriting#call of duty fanfic#johnny soap mctavish x reader#soap x reader#johnny soap mactavish#soap mactavish#soap mactavish x reader#soap mactavish x you#johnny mactavish#werewolf fiction
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Book rec: How To Train Your Dragon
Yes, like the movies but also NO, not like the movies.
The movies are awesome, but I need you to understand first that the books are very different, equally awesome things. Hiccup is scrawny and a ginger. Toothless is tiny and green and talks. Gobber is built like a linebacker. Snotface Snotlout is a budding sociopath with a BFF named Dogsbreath the Duhbrain.
And they are such good books.
First and foremost, the writing is superlative. It's silly and wacky and sometimes gross and so visceral and engaging with alliteratives and tactile language. The plots are NOT formulaic and do NOT go where you expect, and there's a true element of danger with unexpected deaths and consequences. I am a grown person with a mature understanding of how plots and series work, and I knew there were thirteen books in the series and STILL in book four I was terrified that the heroes wouldn't be able to pull it all off after all and the series would somehow end right there.
Second, they're marvelously short. Yes, there are thirteen in the entire series, but they just fly by. (Ha. Dragon pun.)
Third, the audiobooks are narrated by David Tennant. I repeat, all thirteen books are narrated by David Tennant in a thick, natural Scottish brogue, and he sounds like he's having the time of his life. The voices are great starting in Book 1 (I love the bits where he sings) but for me the joy really kicks off in Book 3. The section with the song of the nanodragon leaves me in stitches every time.
And because these book recs are all meant to be specific to my sliver of the Batman community, the dad vibes are peak. PEAK, I say. Stoic the Vast fills the specific flavor of kids book dad where he doesn't listen and is a little silly and often wrong which causes friction with his son who is very different from him and therefore difficult for him to understand but mannnnnnnn, he loves that kid so much. He really does. What a good dadman who is trying to best. (Oh, another difference? Hiccup's mom is alive and part of the tribe from the start. Her name is Valhallarama. But this is still very much a Dad-And-Son series.)
I strongly strongly strongly recommend getting the audiobooks from your local library. Such a treat.
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The Scottish Princess, Finan x Reader, Part 5
Warning: Mature. Minors DNI.
“You believe a disgraced Prince is worthy of her love?”
Finan woke you at dawn with sweet caresses, his rough hands searching your body and memorizing every curve as he kissed your neck from behind, tickling beneath your ear with his beard. You turned to face him and brought your lips to his in a searing kiss, running your hands through his hair. You took note of his eyes, hints of amber in deep, dark pools of brown as the morning sun graced them through the windows. He gazed at you with a sweet smile, almost as if he could read your mind before you giggled and spoke.
“Finan, I am so thrilled!”
He grinned at you, a deep but soft laugh rumbling from his chest. “To journey to Coccham? Are ya sure? You’ve never even seen the place!”
You hesitated to speak, then nuzzled his nose with yours as you whispered.
“I’ve never in my life had joy such as this.”
Finan’s smile faded, replaced by a strong look of longing in his eyes. He was starting to fall in love with you, if he hadn’t already, and it was getting more intense by the second. He was uncertain that a life with him would be what you desired once you saw the village of Coccham and compared it to the life you were accustomed to - and what about your Father’s Kingdom? Did you not have a duty to maintain the kingdom, to marry, to attend to your subjects? Finan shuddered at the thought, remembering how it felt when he was your age and had already been forced by his Father to marry for alliances, to eventually assume a role he never wanted… how it all turned out in the end. He sympathized with your deep desire to find something more… to find happiness. But would it put your life at risk?
With that thought, Finan pulled away from you to jump up from the furs, speaking softly in his deep brogue.
“Stay in bed, I’ll make ya something to eat and then we’ll head out with Uhtred and the others.”
You smiled in reply to him, and as he looked back at you, Finan thought you had to be the most precious thing he had ever seen, lying stretched out before him in comfort and bliss under the furs, the most calm he had ever seen from you.
You hummed in displeasure. “Oh, can’t you stay for a moment, handsome Irishman?”
Finan watched as you uncovered yourself from the furs, exposing your naked body to his gaze and making his breath catch in his throat. He hesitantly looked away as he spoke.
“We must get goin’, lady.”
You smirked, standing from the bed and coming over to him. You took his hands and placed them on your naked body, one at your breast and one at your waist before you cupped his face with your hands and kissed him deeply with your tongue. Finan groaned and palmed at your body firmly as you kissed passionately back and forth, until he pulled you closer and grabbed you up into his arms to straddle his waist. He brought you over to the table, setting you down but not breaking your kiss as his cock grew hard.
“Is this what ya wanted?” He whispered as he began to stroke his hard cock at your entrance, teasing at your clit. You nodded with a desperate moan, shuddering as Finan pushed his cock deep inside you slowly, giving you time to adjust before setting a firmer pace and bringing his hips down to meet yours.
You tilted your head back with a ‘Yes’ as he fucked you on the table, holding onto your hips firmly and watching intently with his dark eyes as you started to shudder in pleasure.
Finan groaned and grabbed you at the jaw, sucking and biting your lower lip before he spoke.
“You’re so wet for me, darling.”
You wanted to tell him that he was the sole cause of that, but instead his hard cock brushing against the deep, special spot in your core only coaxed loud pleasured moans from you as you looked into Finan’s eyes with furrowed brows. He smirked at you, panting breathlessly and increasing his pace.
“Finan…please, I am so close.” You moaned helplessly, head tilting back and giving his shoulders a death grip with your nails, anything to ground you in this moment.
Finan hummed, bringing his thumb to circle lightly at your clit, the last bit of stimulation you needed to completely come apart on him. Then, he pulled his thumb away, and slowed his thrusts.
“Mmm, are you mine sweetheart? Tell me you’re mine, and I’ll make you come.”
The delay in your orgasm built deep pressure in your core, and you pleaded with him to continue.
“Yes, Finan, I’m yours! Please...”
Finan brought his thumb back to your clit, circling it slowly and increasing the pace with his cock only slightly as he groaned.
“I can’t hear ya,” he growled, digging his hand into your thigh. You bit your lip, your mind unable to form words. You moaned in pleasure as the delay in gratification was now sensitizing every nerve ending within your body, the deep spot in your core being stroked continuously and feeling directly connected to the sensations of Finan’s thumb lightly circling your clit. The pressure felt as if you might wet yourself, but it was similar to some of the other orgasms Finan had coaxed from your body, so you relaxed into the building pressure, until it was so much that you couldn’t help but scream.
“Ah! Finan, oh my god…”
He groaned and grabbed your throat, now increasing the pace of his cock and fucking you relentlessly as he chased his own peak not far behind. “Mine,” he growled.
Your orgasm crashed around you with deep intensity, soaking Finan’s cock with enough wetness to begin dripping to the table beneath you and to the floor. Finan let out a deep moan as your core clenched him hard enough to halt his thrusts, holding him taut. He spilled inside you uncontrollably, his hips stuttering as he bit his lip with a whimper in unyielding pleasure.
“Yours,” you whispered as you gripped his hair and his shoulder, still trying to hold onto reality as you both came down from the heavens. When he regained his wits about him, Finan carried you over to bed, kissing you passionately as you came back down to earth.
Uhtred, Sihtric, and Osferth had not yet woke from their slumber that morning and remained in their rooms at the Inn. Finan had left your room while you dozed off again, seeking some food for you both to nourish yourselves and prepare for the journey ahead. Finan was always the first to wake amongst all the men, which gave him peaceful time to gather his things as well as his thoughts. He suddenly remembered the conversation he had with Alfred in the moments before he was freed from shackles by Steapa and embraced by you, Alfred’s words haunting him still.
“You believe a disgraced Prince is worthy of her love?”
Finan was unaware until that moment that Alfred knew of his past, and the words coming out of his mouth stung like poison and nearly scared him to death. He thought he was free, and in this country, he was - but having Alfred as an enemy sought to destroy all freedom he had acquired and even life itself. It was a harsh reminder of the past he had tried so desperately to forget. Regardless of the fear and the present reminder of self-loathing, Finan spat back at him without faltering.
“And ya believe you are more worthy than me, Lord King? You are barely a man. You’d yield to me this very moment if you even had the balls to fight me.”
They hadn’t had the chance to speak more to each other before you came barging into the hall, but their eyes glaring at one another spoke more than words could ever manage. He prayed that Alfred would put his ego aside, simply let you go and allow you to retain control over your life again. The last thing Finan wanted was to be on the run for a second time in his life, and he would never drag you down with him. He would rather lose you than see harm come to you, no matter how much pain it caused him. He realized then how strongly he felt for you and just how dangerous that could be now.
When Finan returned to your room, you were dressed and preparing yourself for the journey ahead. Uhtred desired to ride day and night to reach Coccham, as he was eager to return to his beloved wife and children. You turned to face Finan as he entered, smiling at him as he came closer and grabbed your hands in his to gain your attention.
“Are ya sure this is what ya want?”
You let go of his hands to wrap your arms around his body, then brought a hand up to cradle the back of his neck as he ghosted his lips over yours. You nodded back to him and the only answer Finan needed was the passionate kiss you gave him.
The journey to Coccham was long and Finan held you tightly against him on his horse as you rode past the area that you two had made camp on your first unsuccessful journey, both of you silently thinking of the sweet memory of your first night together.
It was in the early hours of the morning when you arrived in the sleepy village of Coccham, not a single soul awake besides a few chickens rummaging around here and there. The men guided the horses straight to the hall, and although the sun had yet to come up Uhtred’s wife, Gisela, came running out to greet her husband being the light sleeper that she was and urgently awaiting his return. Finan brought you over to introduce you to Gisela, who gave him a smirk and lifted a brow as she guided you into the hall, welcoming you warmly.
After some light food and drink and a short respite from the long journey, everyone retired to their homes and your mind peaked with curiosity as Finan led you to his modest house down the road.
“It’s not much, but I hope you’ll find it comfortable, lady.”
He lead you to the door, holding your hand as he guided you into his home and you were immediately struck with the sweet scent of pine and leather as you entered and you gazed at the surroundings; a hearth, a warm kitchen, and a tantalizing bed of furs that you couldn’t wait to warm yourself in. Finan watched as you gazed around in wonderment and it puzzled him. He thought perhaps you would look down upon his way of living, or rather his lack of wealth. Instead, you helped yourself to examine many of Finan’s belongings, picking up daggers and looking at silver rings on his night table as he chuckled. You came over to a small shelf, picking up a book and giving him a small smile with a question evident in your eyes.
“You can read?”
Finan spoke softly, taking off his sword belt. “Uh...yes. I can.”
You looked at him curiously, a thought coming to your mind - in most cases, only nobles knew how to read and write. You hummed and set the book down, still tracing the room with your eyes as Finan started a fire in the hearth. You realized then that even though you had grown to know his heart, you hadn’t truly learned much of the man who stood before you. Perhaps he didn’t trust you with tales of his past before Uhtred. Perhaps he could begin to trust you, if only you could admit your feelings of love to him.
Your father King Constantin had received the vague and disturbing correspondence from Alfred, folding the letter and sliding it across from him to your cousin, his nephew, Domnal. Domnal picked up the letter and read it quickly, looking to your father with furrowed brows. Domnal broke the silence.
“Lord King, what are your thoughts?”
Constantin shrugged, looking ahead of him contemplatively. “She’s a headstrong woman. I always knew she would find a man she liked on her own accord and jump at him. But an Irish outlaw? That intrigues me.”
Domnal nodded. “Are you not worried for her, Uncle?”
Constantin sighed. “I am. Gather the men, we must head South immediately. To Wessex.”
Domnal nodded to him and got up from his seat. As he walked away, he thought of Alfred. He had intuition that Alfred had been manipulating you, but he had chosen to never pry into your personal matters. He wondered if Alfred’s message was part of the plot.
Constantin sat at the table for a while longer, long enough for two more mugs of ale. He rubbed his temples before getting up from the table, silently cursing his strong willed daughter as he relayed messages of his impending travel to his nobles.
As you laid in bed with Finan underneath the furs that night, you begged his attention with a hand to his cheek. You looked into his deep brown eyes as he gave you a sweet smile. You loved him, you knew you did. But you needed to know him, truly know him, before you would give your heart away.
You gave him a suspicious look and he caught the change in your eyes, looking at you with furrowed brows as you started to speak.
“Tell me how you learned to read.”
Finan hesitated. You searched between his eyes and grabbed his hand, squeezing it firmly.
“Finan, tell me. Please?”
Finan sighed and got up from the bed, muttering just under his breath. “My father.”
You got up from the furs to join him, grabbing his hand again. “Tell me more?”
Finan groaned, his voice slightly raising to you as he spoke. “I do not wish to speak of this.”
“And why not?”
Finan looked at you with a serious gaze, and you could see frustration and even anger in his eyes. He had already sensed that you would have an inclination to ask about the past he kept hidden from you once you reached Coccham. Perhaps he was the son of a nobleman. Perhaps his family had died and left him penniless. Whatever it was, you didn’t know, but it was something that he very obviously struggled with. Tears came to your eyes, for what reason you weren’t exactly sure. Finan sighed and came closer to you.
“Lady, I… I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” you said as you wiped tears from your eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”
Finan’s eyes widened and he grabbed your hands firmly. “No… no, I want you here. Please.”
It was your turn to raise your voice in frustration.
“I have revealed everything, my whole soul to you. Why is it that you can’t do the same?”
Finan groaned and moved to sit at the table by the hearth, holding his head with one of his hands. “Sit down.” He commanded.
“No…I need to take in some air.” You said as you hurriedly walked out the front door. Although you expected Finan to follow you, he didn’t, which only made your heart ache. You walked from his home to the nearby river, taking in the fresh, humid air and feeling relieved that there was running water so close to his home. You took a seat at the foot of the river, watching the glare of the moon dance upon the trickling stream.
You were there for quite a while sitting with your knees tucked to your chest before you heard rustling behind you, and you looked to the side to see Finan approaching. He silently took a seat next to you, looking at your face and seeing small tears on your cheeks. He brought his palms up to your face to brush away the tears, caressing you and looking at you attentively as the moonlight glimmered in his deep brown eyes.
“Oh, my sweet girl… the last thing I ever wanted was to hurt ya.”
You took his hand away from your cheek, meeting his gaze and speaking softly. “I need to know you. I can’t do this any longer if I don’t know you.”
Finan nodded and pinched his lips together before taking in a deep breath. It was there in the middle of the night by the river that Finan began to tell you his story. The Kingdom of Ulaid, his parents, his brother, his first wife and children, his first love… and the terror that followed when he couldn’t find it within him to conform. He persisted to tell you of his 3 years on the slave ship, meeting Uhtred along the way. Tears fell from your eyes and a few from his as he told you his darkest secrets. It was the saddest story you had ever heard, and in it you found resemblance to your own feelings about your life as a royal. You felt a sense of guilt and deep sadness for the man you loved, but it somehow made you feel stronger for him. You two held a comfortable silence for a moment until Finan spoke again.
“I understand if ya feel differently now. Anyone would.”
You grabbed his hand firmly. “No. Never.”
Thoughts raced in your head that you couldn’t bring to your lips. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I would never think of you differently, I admire your strength. I love you. I can’t live without you…
Finan didn’t respond, he only looked to the ground and then out to the river. You needed to tell him how you felt; you could hardly contain yourself as your heart ached for him.
“I would never think differently of you... I love you.”
He turned his head sharply to look at you. “What?”
You paused, and Finan jumped over to you swiftly, moving his body on top of yours as he moved you to the ground.
“You what?” He whispered again, his nose almost touching yours as he held himself above you.
You giggled as you cupped his face and spoke again. “I’m in love with you.”
He brought his lips to yours fiercely, his hands gripping you now as you began kissing back and forth passionately. He pulled away to gaze deep into your eyes.
“Oh god, I… I love you too.” he said with a deep grin before bringing his lips to yours again, now bringing his hands to pull at the straps of your dress. You knew that you two were vulnerable out in the open, but you didn’t care. You wanted him to claim you. All you could think about was the words that came from this sweet man’s lips after your confession.
Finan pulled your dress off your body, leaving your light shift underneath as he began to undress, your fingers tugging at the laces of his trousers as he pulled off the armor at his torso. He released you from your shift quickly, bringing his warm body on top of you as he brought his lips to yours again. You could feel his hard cock pressing against your belly, and your core throbbed with anticipation as you rolled your hips up into him. He pulled one of your legs up to his hip, and then slowly guided his cock inside you, feeling your core tense around him as the breath caught in your throat with a gasp. Finan groaned as you rolled your hips up to deepen his thrust, his cock sinking deeper into your wet core. He held your legs as he began to move, and the angle of your hips provided the perfect stroke to the deep spot inside you. He held you tightly as he made love to you, his warm body covering you from the slight chill of the humid air.
>>> Part 6
Taglist: @gemini-mama @persephones-journey @justanother-sihtricgirlie @bhxrdy @ficnation
@bcon24 @alexagirlie @whitedarkmoonflower @itbmojojoejo
#the last kingdom#finan the agile#finan tlk#tlk fandom#finan tlk fanfic#tlk fanfic#the last kingdom finan#finan x reader
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rose tyler's favorite things about every new who doctor
based off of physical attributes. she wants that ass in every regeneration
nine: his gorgeous low voice and those blue eyes. he has such a strong body but it's all wrapped up and hidden under that jacket. when she hugs him he's warm and solid and safe pressed up against her. he's so masculine and smells like spice and leather. he's the dangerous, mysterious man who took her away from the monotony of her old life, and she thinks she might be attracted to adventure, and he is the physical culmination of adventure itself.
ten: well, everything. this body was crafted and molded out of love for her, engineered to absolutely drive her crazy, and the tight tight clothes make her think he might be trying to distract her with every movement. the elegant line of his thin body and the gentle curve of his muscles. the hair she could spend hours running her hands through. the way he tugs at his own hair and makes her want to replace his hands with her own. every time he bends over to fix something under the console those ridiculous pants stretch over his absolutely perfect ass. she thinks she might die. she pokes fun at his dramatic speeches and daring, theatrical rescues but secretly swoons watching her very own romantic action hero swoop in and save the day.
eleven: she'll be honest, she mourned the loss of her hot-fresh-made-just-for-you doctor for a while longer than she would like to admit, and the doctor made it his mission to make himself equally as attractive to her. she begins to give in to the way his hair flops over his eyes in a way that makes him seem shy and sexy all at once. the intensity of his green eyes makes her shiver. and though she mourns the slim lines of his body in his pinstriped suit, she finds her fantasies turning to broad shoulders, strong biceps, and long, muscular legs. she never realized legs were that attractive until this doctor. and that jawline, those cheekbones, the way he whispers in her ear. her friends tease her about how her boyfriends get younger and younger, but rose secretly likes that the millennium old lord of time is also her sexy young grad student-looking arm candy. his boyish charm wins her over body and soul. and this one seems to be determined to distract her with pants that might be even tighter than pinstripes.
twelve: she's prepared for it this time. he's warned her that he might not always be her pretty young thing, but she gets over it very quickly when she hears the sexiest scottish brogue, and she might forget about young, pretty boys once and for all when the most elegant, alluring fingers attached to incredibly large hands come to cup her face and kiss her deeply. those hands. those hands, those hands, those hands. she wants them everywhere. he leans back in the tardis, playing his guitar, looking deep into her soul with those intense eyes. she's just looking at the way his fingers wrap around the neck of the guitar. she wishes she were a guitar.
thirteen: (eek I have not paid enough attention to jodie's body and looks to accurately do this one but rose definitely has so let me try my best) she is just as thrilled as the doctor when he regenerates from gray curls to blonde. the doctor's initial excitement fades for a moment as she turns to the love of her life but she is quickly assured as rose doesn't even hesitate to stride right over, cup her face in her hands and give her a passionate, romantic kiss to rival every kiss between them so far. she pulls back and touches her forehead with her own. that night she runs her hands along soft curves and says "I understand a little better why you liked this so much!"
fourteen: the initial shock lasts at least ten minutes. she thinks she might be dreaming. she loves the doctor in all of their forms but she would be lying if she told you brown eyes didn't haunt her dreams. she spends the first night reacquainting herself with every inch of the body she missed so much. "thanks for giving me another go at this one." she thinks it couldn't possibly get better than this.
her first thought when she sees two doctors standing in front of her is fear. how will this work? the second thought is her brain supplying five to ten very helpful ideas of how this could work. she watches them play a game of chess and thinks of seven more. "sharing is caring, babes" fifteen says as they lean back against the railings in the tardis that night, processing the day they had been through. "I wouldn't take her away from you. ever. Plus," he adds, "It's pretty stupid how whenever there's two of us we act like we aren't the same person. The three of us are still a couple by definition." fourteen isn't totally sure about all of this, but fifteen seems to be cool as a cucumber. "Don't be shy, honey. I was you last week. I know everything you're working with. No secrets here."
Rose thinks her birthday might have come early and every day. as does she.
fifteen: she hasn't stopped staring. her jaw dropped twenty minutes ago and hasn't picked back up. fourteen tells him to go put some trousers on and rose shouts "NO!" as if he had said he was going to throw the tardis into a black hole. this new doctor is a model. those gorgeous dark eyes and his glowing skin. she hasn't stopped kissing his neck in days. she runs her hands up his muscular, perfect thighs, back, arms, and chest. he's been toned before but never this sculpted. he's maybe even more of an action hero than her second doctor. he's just effortlessly cool and an effortless flirt.
okay thank you for reading in conclusion all the doctors are hot and rose agrees with me.
#doctorrose#dw fanfic#dw fic#doctor who fanfiction#rose tyler#idk if tumblr still does the whole only first five tags show up in tags ten yrs later but if so there we go#beth's writing#dw writing#writing
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JoJo's big Adventure chapter 5
Doctor M'Benga studied her for a moment before his expression softened. "Alright," he agreed, empathy warming his eyes. "Tell you what, why don't you come and stay up with me while I finish some paperwork? That way, you won't be lonely."
Gratitude washed over Joanna as M'Benga gently carried her to his desk and set her down next to his work. The hum of the starship and the soft glow of the desk lamp created a cozy atmosphere.
****
"Here, let me give you a hand," McCoy offered, extending his giant palm for Joanna to climb onto. His blue eyes were filled with concern, a testament to the love and care he felt for his daughter. Despite his gruff exterior, McCoy was a devoted father, always putting others' well-being above his own.
"Ready?" McCoy asked, as Joanna settled into the center of his palm, legs crossed beneath her.
"Ready," she confirmed.
With a gentle lift, McCoy raised his hand to eye level, his fingers forming a protective barrier around Joanna. Mccoy was still amazed that his daughter now could fit in the palm of his hand. She looked so tiny sitting in the middle of his hand.
As Doctor McCoy tenderly placed his three-inch tall daughter into the front pocket of his uniform, Joanna found herself enveloped in darkness. The fabric pressed against her from all sides, she was jostled with every step her father took. The scent of antiseptic, sweat, and her father’s cologne filled her nostrils.
"Joanna, I'll need you to be patient while I go find Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock," Doctor McCoy's voice rumbled above her like distant thunder. “I sent a brief report on what happened, so they know the basics.”
"Okay, Dad," Joanna whispered, her fear permeating every syllable. She curled up into a tight ball, praying that her father would be able to help her return to her normal size.
Doctor McCoy could feel the tiny weight of his daughter shifting in his pocket, the sensation strange.
As they approached the captain's quarters, Mccoy took a deep breath, and plucked Joanna out of his pocket, holding her in the palm of his hand.
"Here we go," he murmured softly, before pressing the door chime.
"Come in," Kirk called out. The doors slid open with a crisp whoosh, and Mccoy stepped inside, holding Joanna protectively in his palm.
"Captain, Spock," Mccoy began, trying to keep his voice steady. "I need your help. This is my daughter, Joanna." He opened his hand to reveal the three-inch girl huddled in the center of his palm, her eyes wide with terror as they scanned the faces of the two giants looming above her.
Spock's eyebrow shot up, his stoic facade betraying a hint of surprise. "Fascinating," he murmured.
"Damn it, this is no time for your emotionless observations, Spock!" McCoy snapped, his protectiveness flaring. "My daughter has been reduced to the size of a doll, and I need your help to fix this!"
"Doctor," Spock said, raising an eyebrow. "This is...most illogical. How did this happen?"
"Joanna claims she was attacked by an alien with some sort of shrinking weapon," Mccoy explained, his voice strained. He couldn't help but feel responsible for his daughter's current plight. "We need to find a way to reverse this... and fast."
"Of course, Bones," Kirk said firmly, concern etched across his face. "Spock and I will do everything we can to help Joanna." He turned to the tiny girl, trying his best to project an air of confidence. "Don't worry, Joanna. We'll figure this out."
***
Back in Mccoy’s room, Joanna sits on her father’s desk watching him work, filling out reports on his data pad. They are waiting for Scotty to come by. Mccoy gets up at the sound of his door chime. Scotty walked in carrying a large box. "I've got somethin' here that might make the wee lass a bit more comfortable," he said in his Scottish brogue.
He set the box down and lifted out an intricate dollhouse, complete with cozy furniture, running water, plumping, and electricity.
"It's no' much, but it's got all the comforts of home for now."
Joanna's eyes lit up. "Oh, thank you!"
McCoy smiled affectionately at his daughter. "See, everything's going to be alright. We'll get you back to normal in no time."
Joanna's smile faded. "But what if you can't? What if I have to go back to Mom like this?"
McCoy's face darkened. "Over my dead body. I'd never let that happen."
He sat down beside the dollhouse and Joanna climbed onto his hand. Holding her close to his face he said, "I promise you, no matter what happens, I will never abandon you."
Tears glistened in Joanna's eyes. She hugged her father's thumb tight.
"I love you, Daddy."
"I love you too, sweetheart. Always."
McCoy carefully set Joanna down inside her new dollhouse home. Though still anxious about her predicament, she had to admit Scotty had done an amazing job making it feel warm and cozy.
McCoy stood up. "I need to get back Work, I’ll be back to take you to lunch.”
Joanna nodded, looking a bit sad.
McCoy gave her a reassuring smile.
“I can stay with the wee lass for a bit.” Scotty piped up.
“Are you sure?” Mccoy asked his friend.
“It’s no problem, besides I can show her how everything works in her new house.”
Mccoy left feeling much better now that he didn’t have to leave his miniature daughter alone.
"Would you like to learn about my work?" Scotty offered, sensing Joanna's desire for engagement.
"Sure!" She eagerly agreed, taking a step closer to the giant engineer.
******
Joanna sat in her dollhouse, Scotty had left some time ago, getting back to his work. The tiny teen was beyond grateful for the shelter he built for her. But she still felt lonely, she was very aware that she was basically trapped in her father’s quarters. She knew her father only wanted to keep her safe, but she couldn't help feeling trapped. She perked up as she heard the door open.
"Joanna," Dr. McCoy called gently, his booming voice filling the room despite his efforts to keep quiet. "It's time for lunch. Let me help you out."
His massive hand appeared through the open front of the dollhouse, blocking the dim light that filtered into her tiny space. As she climbed aboard, Joanna marveled at the warmth and strength of her father's hand.
"Ready?" Dr. McCoy asked softly, his eyes filled with concern and affection. Joanna nodded, gripping onto his thumb for support as he slowly raised her up to eye level.
"Thanks, Dad," she said, trying to sound cheerful despite her feelings of confinement. "I appreciate your help."
"Of course, Jo. I know this isn't easy for you." His gruff voice was tinged with both sympathy and guilt.
Dr. McCoy stepped out of his quarters; his daughter cradled safely in his hand. As he moved through Enterprise’s hallways, he couldn't help but notice the strange glances he received from passing crew members. Their eyes flicked between his face and the tiny figure he held, clearly believing the three-inch girl to be a mere doll.
"Nothing to see here," he muttered under his breath, lifting his other hand to shield Joanna from curious stares. He could feel her trembling against his palm, and concern mixed with irritation bubbled up inside him.
The cacophony of voices and laughter in the mess hall was overwhelming for Joanna's tiny ears. Even simple conversations between crew members felt like thunder crashing around her. She winced, trying to get used to the volume but finding it difficult.
"Sorry, Jo," McCoy whispered softly, noticing her discomfort. "I know it's loud in here. I'll do my best to make sure you're okay."
"Thanks, Dad," she replied, appreciative of his understanding.
"Hey Bones, how's it going?" Kirk's voice boomed down at her, making her jump.
"Captain, maybe keep it down a notch?" McCoy suggested, shooting him a pointed look. "My daughter's having a hard enough time adjusting as it is."
"Sorry, Joanna," Kirk said, his voice softer now. "We'll do our best to make you comfortable."
"Thanks, Captain," she whispered, trying to smile despite the fear knotting her insides.
“So how’s our little guest doing?” Kirk ask
"Fine, Jim, just fine," McCoy replied as he carefully balanced a tray of food with one hand, never forgetting the precious cargo perched on his other hand.
“Hmm maybe I can give her a tour later, would you like that Joanna?” Captain Kirk asked, giving the tiny girl a bright smile.
“That sounds like fun.” Joanna said feeling more at ease around the giant captain.
"Alright, let's find a seat," McCoy said as he scanned the room, zeroing in on a secluded corner where they could eat without too much disturbance. Joanna held on tight.
As McCoy carefully began to cut up their shared meal, he chatted with Captain Kirk about the recent mission and ship updates. Joanna tried to follow their conversation but quickly found herself lost in the technical jargon and acronyms that were meaningless to her.
Her attention drifted away from their banter, focusing instead on the tantalizing smell of the food before her. As Joanna leaned in slightly to inspect what they would be eating. She flinched as her father’s hand came closer to her. He broke off small bits of bread, cheese, and fruit, arranging them in front of Joanna like an elaborate feast. She happily reached out for the food and started eating.
Joanna stopped munching on her portion, she was feeling very thirsty. She looked up at her father, he was still busy talking to Captain Kirk. Joanna rolled her eyes, her father meant well, but it seemed he forgot to get her something to drink. Joanna inched forward towards her father’s mug. She didn’t want to ask for help, she hated how helpless she already was. She could manage to get a sip of water at least. She climbs up the handle of the mug and leans over the side of the cup, trying to cup her hands into the water for a drink. She lost her balance and tumbled down into the mug of water beside her father's plate.
"Joanna!" McCoy shouted, his voice booming in her ears as she struggled in the water. Panic filled her tiny lungs, and she kicked frantically, unable to make a sound.
Without hesitation, McCoy plunged his fingers into the cup, fishing his daughter out of the water. Holding her gently between his thumb and index finger, he stared at her soaked form in disbelief.
"Joanna, you have to be more careful," McCoy admonished, concerned lacing his voice. “You could of just asked!”
"Sorry, Dad," Joanna choked out, coughing up a bit of water, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Here, let me help you," he said, using a napkin to pat her dry as best he could. He cradled her close to his chest, shielding her from the stares of the crew members around them.
*****
Days blurred together as Joanna spent most of her time confined to the dollhouse in McCoy's quarters. The tiny world within those walls felt stifling, and she longed for something more. She needed interaction, a chance to explore the ship that was now her temporary home.
"Jo," McCoy said one day after finding her in the dollhouse, her face buried in the pillows of her miniature bed. "I know you're frustrated, but I can't let you roam around the Enterprise on your own. It's too dangerous."
"Then don't make me be alone all the time, Dad," she argued, sitting up. "Please..."
McCoy sighed, taking in her pleading eyes. He knew he couldn't keep her cooped up forever, and there were people on this ship he trusted with his life. Perhaps it was time to trust them with hers as well. "Alright," he relented. "You can spend some time with a few crewmembers I trust. In fact Captain Kirk has time to give you a tour, if you’d like that.”
"Really?" Joanna's face lit up with excitement, and she clung to her father's finger in gratitude. "Thank you, Dad!"
***
"Jim!" McCoy greeted his friend as they entered the recreation room, Joanna once again held in the palm of his hand.
"Of course, Bones!" Jim beamed, holding out his hand for Joanna to climb onto. "Anything for my favorite doctor's daughter."
With a tentative glance up at her father for reassurance, she mustered her courage and stepped onto Kirk's waiting palm. As the captain grinned down at her, marveling at her diminutive size, Joanna tried hard not to tremble in fear. She felt safe with her dad, but it was scary to be held by other people.
The captain gave her a charming smile and started giving her a tour of his beloved ship. As they walked the immaculate halls, Joanna stared around in wonder. Kirk pointed out the rec room, the botany labs, and the observation decks. Joanna oohed and aahed, drinking it all in.
*****
Back in her father’s quarters, her father gets a com call from Mr. Spock.
"Doctor," Spock began. "I request that you bring Joanna to me later for a detailed scan. It may provide some insight into reversing the shrinking effects."
"Alright, Spock," McCoy agreed, cradling Joanna close to his chest. She clung to his hand, grateful for the safety it provided.
Joanna didn’t like the idea of being scanned again, but at least her father wouldn’t leave her side and would keep her safe.
****
Later on, the bridge.
"Security tracked our suspect to the star base, sir," said an officer. "He was spotted on camera in the merchant sector less than an hour ago."
McCoy clenched his fist. After weeks of dead ends, finally a solid lead. "Then what are we waiting for? Get a team down there and bring him in!"
Kirk places a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll get him bones.” Kirk was trying his best to keep his friend calm. Kirk turns to security. “Alright men, let's get a landing party together and beam down. Remember we must work with the local law enforcement on the star base but be ready for anything.” Kirk hoped they could catch the man responsible for this mess. He had managed to delay departure from the star base, so his friend could have a chance to hopefully return his daughter to her rightful size. And hopefully stop a monster from shrinking anymore people. Kirk hoped Joanna was the first, but he had a bad feeling, this person had done this sort of thing before. He mentally prepares himself for any potential horrors they might find. He tells Bones to stay behind in medbay just in case they find any other victims.
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I’m not much of a historical romance reader but when I realized A Caribbean Heiress in Paris by Adriana Herrera was a marriage of convenience? BABBBBYYYYYY!!!! I was hooked! I highly recommend reading/listening to this book on audio. Nneke Okoye is amazing as Luz Alana and Evan. The Scottish brogue used for Evan’s dialogue is at times thick, and I borrowed the e-book too so I could follow along to make sure I understood what was being said. It just added to the experience of being immersed in 1899 Paris and Edinburgh. Luz Alana Heith-Benzan is a rum distiller who must marry to access her inheritance so she can provide for her younger sister. She’s Dominican-Scottish and isn’t taken seriously as a business owner because she’s Black and a woman. She meets Evan Sinclair, a whisky distiller, who also must marry to gain access to his family’s land, distillery and as a bonus, to get revenge against his father. For two people who never wanted to get married, being tied to each other seems like the worse punishment. And when they start falling for each other letting go may be the hardest part. I love this book! Luz Alana is fierce and stands up for herself when she needs to. Her group of friends call themselves Las Leonas, and I can’t wait to see how Manuela and Aurora embody these traits in their books. Evan’s enjoyment of being verbally eviscerated by Luz Alana, and his respect for her as a business woman who can charm anyone and get what she wants against all the obstacles of the time, is part of my MOC is my favorite trope. It’s the begrudging partnership-to-mutual respect and then pining for each other that makes me root for the couple every time. Oh, and Luz Alana and Evan are hott together!!! I’ll never look at the Eiffel Tower the same way. 🥵 - marriage of convenience - annoyance to lovers - high steam - WDTK? Chapter 5 Special thanks to @morgan.shares.joy in Houston Baddies of @badbitchbookclub for picking this for our group to read! ❤️❤️ https://instagr.am/p/CpGBUNFL5fx/
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i appear to have this thing some call caffeine anxiety
#not coffee cause coffee tastes gross but every time I have something with caffeine I get kinda shaky and it doesnt give me energy. just too#many thoughts lol#if anything I kinda just feel more tired with caffeine#I have it and like 3 hours later I am all heavy lidded eyes and useless hands#ceffeine#gotta love it#..the devil talks in scottish brogue..#..hum to the tune of a tradgedy..
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jonsa victorian AU/promptfic
Prompt fic for @amymel86, who suggested: jonsa Victorian AU
...so remember that time months ago when I asked for prompts and got a ton of amazing ones?? and then I completely got distracted by writing a Bachelor fic??? Well, cut to now, I'm watching Miss Scarlet and the Duke (which, I have thoughts about and it's absolutely not perfect, but I'm very into hot Scottish men) and when I went on wikipedia to look it up, I saw “Victorian” and was like oh! And then I remembered this prompt and I just... had to write a vague Miss Scarlet and the Duke AU. I’m sorry?
(also, I genuinely know nothing about historical time periods, so... this is Victorian in spirit)
......
Jon is never going to live this down.
As it is, his relationship with the Stark sisters is already a problem, what with Arya's tendency to wriggle her way into the middle of police investigations. He's been able to handle it so far, but he knows some day, he will be forced to arrest her for it. There are only so many times his weight as a Detective Inspector for the Scotland Yard can get her out of trouble, there are only so many favors he can call in. He has known since the minute Arya had taken over Ned's private investigation business that things would come to a head eventually.
What he hadn't imagined was this.
“My personal whore?” he sighs, rubbing his hand over his eyes, putting pressure on them to stave off the incoming headache.
To her credit, Sansa at least has the grace to blush as she sits in the chair opposite him, back straight and hands folded primly in her lap.
No, he never imagined it would be Sansa that would rip him out of bed at nearly two in the morning by one of his constables, with news that his personal whore had been arrested.
“I didn't know what else to say,” she says calmly, though he can see the flush to her face even in the dim lamplight of his office. “They already thought I was one, and you have a reputation...”
Reputation. He scowls at the word and again, Sansa at least has the decency to be unable to meet his eyes after she says it.
His reputation comes from being an orphan, from having dalliances with women from the lower class. They were not whores, but Ygritte and Val may as well have been for all polite society cares. He hates that he has to worry about his reputation now, he hates the trappings of society, though he knows he must play along, or at least try to. He will never get a promotion if he does not watch his reputation, if he is not twenty times better than every other detective on the force. He did not go to the same fancy schools, he did not have a nice cushy rank handed to him in the army.
The only reason he is where he is today is because of Ned Stark's generosity and it is the only reason he helps Arya and Sansa.
“Jon,” she starts and he can hear it – the tone she uses with him that always seems to calm him down when he's particularly furious with something Arya has done. That's the way of it, Arya rushes in, bold as brass, and Sansa follows behind to soothe ruffled feathers and angry Detective Inspectors.
“I can't keep doing this,” he mutters, more to himself than to her.
He knows Arya never wanted a traditional life and so he hadn't been particularly surprised when, after Ned died, she found his cases and began working them herself. He had assumed, though, that the venture would fall through, but it is six months later and she is still going at it. And the strangest thing was that Sansa allowed it, that she joined in. Sure, she was more like a secretary than an investigator, but she took part all the same. The Sansa he knew growing up would never have allowed this, would never have participated, would never have been caught at a brothel at two in the morning and be forced to tell the arresting officer that she was Detective Inspector Jon Snow's personal whore.
In fact, the Sansa he knew had been well on her way to securing an engagement to the wealthy Joffrey Baratheon.
(His relief that she had not gone through with the marriage was simply because Joffrey Baratheon was a ruffian and insufferable and even Ned and Robb had hated him, nothing more.)
But Robb is dead going on three years now and so is Ned and the girls are alone and instead of marrying someone of great wealth, Sansa had instead chosen to help her sister run a private investigation office. He has not had a chance to ask their reasons, what with Arya constantly getting into trouble, but he imagines he won't particularly like the answer.
“I should lock you up for the night,” he tells her and her mouth drops open and her eyes widen like she is shocked he would even say such a thing and this further hardens his resolve to do just that. She is so sure she has him wrapped around her finger, that she can charm her way out of anything.
And when he stands her up and leads her down towards the cells, she gasps and tries to tug her arm out of his grasp and says, “you cannot be serious, Jon.”
“Do you have any idea how much you and Arya have cost me?” he feels the anger rising in his chest. He should not let the Starks get under his skin so well, but God help him, they do. “If I ever want a chance at that promotion Thorne keeps taunting me with, I can't keep sticking my neck out for the two of you. You don't think this is going to get back to the Chief somehow?”
He can hear his brogue getting thicker as he gets more worked up and he tries to tamp it down. It's just one more mark against him here, one more sign that he's an outsider.
“What else was I supposed to do?” she stops walking and turns to face him, eyes wide and shining with tears in the dim light of the hall and he shifts his gaze away from her and stares at the wall behind her. She knows all too well how weak he is to her tears. “You cannot put me in a cell overnight! You know you are not going to charge me with anything and holding me overnight is simply taking advantage of my situation, just as you did when we were children.”
“Are you bringing that up again?” he groans, tilting his head back and once again applying pressure to his eyes. “It was one chaste kiss, Sansa, years ago. Must you bring it up every time we argue?”
“I was grieving and you took advantage of that,” she sniffs.
That decides him, then, and he takes her by the arm and leads her to a cell and pushes her inside and closes the door behind her, ignoring her indignant gasp. She whirls and comes up to the bars, glaring at him through them.
“The way I remember it,” he tells her, his voice calmer now, but he lets the brogue stay rough, the way he spoke when they were children, “you threw yourself into my arms crying because Lady had died and it seemed to me you liked it.”
“I certainly did not,” she hisses, though he watches the color rise in her cheeks again. It makes him smile, that blush, which only seems to infuriate her further.
“I'll give instructions to let you out in the morning,” he says, as he starts to back away from the cell. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some whoring to do.”
She lets out one last gasp of rage as he turns and walks out and he knows that he will pay for this later, somehow, but for some reason he thinks he is looking forward to it.
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Light Across The Seas That Severed (Ch2)
Read on AO3
Jamie was sat, feeling maudlin and staring into the depths of his pint after a particularly difficult day. If Jenny had been beside him, she’d tell him to wise up and be grateful for the situation he was in. But he still wasn’t used to being so far from home, away from his parents and Lallybroch. He wouldn’t let himself say it out loud but he even found himself missing the tinny aftertaste of a pint of Tennents that he had yet to find on sale south of the border.
He knew his parents were over the moon about his acceptance into Oxford, how could they not be? Jamie had walked around Broch Mordha with his mother and father a few days after he’d received the happy news and found that the standard twenty minute scoot around the shop was considerably stretched out to allow his parents to stop and boast to every person they could about their youngest son’s achievement. Jamie had smiled sheepishly and thanked people for their well wishes but if he was being entirely honest, there was a knot in the pit of his stomach every time someone mentioned him leaving home.
Jamie tried not to let his nerves get the better of him as he settled into his new home those first few days. It wasn’t just that he stuck out like a sore thumb as the 6’ 4 red headed Scot that was almost as broad as he was tall. It was the fact that the people seemed to be looking at him funny. He made the mistake of asking someone for directions and ended up on the receiving end of a joke about his accent, the man making a mean comment about Jamie being asked to join Oxford University as some attempt to reach whatever entry quota of undergraduates hailing from underprivileged backgrounds. It didn’t matter that he was there on the merit of his exam results that he had worked his arse off for, the same as everybody else. Jamie Fraser was a working class lad from the Highlands, not some self-entitled Etonian arsehole whose father knew somebody who knew somebody. He was surrounded by future Lords and Dukes and he knew that if he heard the words ‘titan of business’ again, he was going to have to start cracking some overprivileged skulls.
And so he sat in The College Bar on a Friday night, hidden away in the corner upstairs where he could sit in peace and brood over his very fortunate situation that he didn’t feel so fortunate about. The only thing that he made the whole thing worthwhile was the girl who lived a few doors down from him in Merton College.
The first time he saw Claire Beauchamp she was fighting a losing battle with a cardboard box that looked like it had already taken a few bashings. Jamie had moved into his dorm a few days prior and was out that morning in an attempt to scout a route for his morning runs. He was keeping a close eye on his AppleWatch, making sure that his heart rate was staying in the optimal zone when he encountered one of the more colourful expletives he’d had the pleasure of hearing before.
“Jesus H Roosevelt Christ!”
His head swivelled on his neck and his eyes landed on her.
Her long arms were wrapped around the box, trying to keep it steady on a propped up knee while the glaring at the taxi driver who was stood fiddling with his phone rather than helping the poor lass. Irritated at the absence of chivalrous manners, Jamie jogged towards the car to offer help.
“Are ye managin’? Here, let me,” he moved to her side and grabbed the next box, lifting it without thought and immediately straining as gravity worked quickly against him. “Christ, lass, what have ye got in here? Rocks?”
“That one contains books, laddie,” she spat back in frustration at him, trying her hand at matching the Scottish brogue and failing miserably. Jamie found it utterly adorable and couldn’t help but smile as he placed the box on the pavement and unloaded the next one which was thankfully much lighter. After wrangling her suitcase from the boot of the car, he tried not to watch the delicate movement of her limbs as she paid the fare.
Trying to pretend that he hadn’t been avidly watching her, he faked a jump of surprise as she thrust her hand towards him, “Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.”
He liked her instantly. He found himself thinking, who the hell introduces themselves with their full name anymore? What an interesting wee thing she was.
“James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser,” he returned the gesture, shaking her small hand in his large one, damning the tough skin of his calluses for keeping him from feeling the exact texture of the soft skin of her palm.
“That’s too many names.”
“What?” The question burst out of him in an exasperated laugh. “No, it’s no’. ’Tis the number of names my parents gave me and if ye want tae live a good long life, Sassenach, ye winna get intae the bad books of my wee ma.”
“What’s a… sassanatch?” Her head tilted to the side in curiosity.
“Sassenach,” he corrected her pronunciation with a wry smirk. He knew that if he tried to give her anything but the truth, she would see through him in an instant so he decided to answer honestly. “It means ‘outlander’.”
She snorted at him and rolled her leopard eyes into the back of her skull.
“Sorry to break it to you, Toto, but I have a feeling we’re not in Scotland anymore.”
“Now that I am painfully aware of,” he sighed, sending a cursory glance around the quad that they were standing in and almost willing it to magically transfigure itself into the hills of his home.
“Not enjoying it so far?”
“Jus’ takin’ me a while tae get used tae it, naebody spiks tae ye here. Said hullo to the man in the shops and he looked at me like I’d twa heids.”
He was putting it on a bit, thickening his accent to amuse her but he was delighted to see that it was working. She laughed, looking at her feet and then sighing at the boxes that he had stacked into a neat pile on the pavement. She looked wistfully at them and cast a sideways glance at the man in front of her, an idea forming in her mind.
“Rather large, aren’t you, Fraser?”
He grinned wolfishly at her, “That I am.”
“What if I make you a promise to say hello to you every time I see you? In exchange for a small favour?”
“And what would that be?”
“Help me to my room with my things?” She sent him a dazzling smile to try and convince him but he had already resigned to himself that his morning workout had changed from cardio into upper body strength training.
“Wisnae going tae let ye carry these yerself, I’m no’ that cruel,” he smirked as she triumphantly pulled out her phone, bringing the information of her dorm up on her screen.
“You’re a saint. I’m staying in Merton, you wouldn’t happen to know where that is?”
He tried not to look too enthusiastic as he felt the universe click things into place, “As a matter of fact, I do.”
And that day was the first day of their story together. With Claire holding open doors, Jamie managed to get her boxes to her dorm in three trips and they bantered the entire time, her quick wit shining from her and almost doubling him over with laughter at one point. Without really making an effort to do so, they seemed to find themselves in each other’s orbit more often than not, walking to lectures together despite chasing completely different degrees and finding that they enjoyed the same very specific spot in the library that offered the most sunlight with the least amount of noise. He surprised her the first time he appeared with the correct number of sugar packets for her to dump into her coffee and he beamed when she peeled the gherkins from her burger and dropped them onto his plate, knowing that he would eat them for her. They came to know each other, slowly showing the parts of themselves that not many people were allowed to see. She banged on his door in the late afternoon after a particularly bad seminar and his hand found the perfect purchase against her shoulder as she laid her head on his and cried, admitting to feeling overwhelmed and burnt out in such a competitive environment. In turn, he let her in on his feelings of inferiority which she quickly shot down, telling him that he was not only the smartest person she knew but the kindest and that was no small thing. Soon enough, they were practically inseparable, both having their own friends but somehow always ending up in each other’s company. Jamie began to relax into his life in Oxford, knowing that as long as he could do it with Claire, well, it might not be so bad.
“Nice to see you didn’t wait for me, Fraser,” she puffed as she sat herself down on the stool across from him at their usual table in the pub, unwinding her long scarf from around her neck as she greedily eyed the pint that was sat waiting for her. Claire took a long drink before setting it down again and sighing heavily as her fingers, stiff and bright red from the cold, attempted to undo the buttons of her coat.
“Ye call me and tell me tae meet ye in the pub in ten minutes and then ye show up half an hour after. What am I meant tae do, just sit and stare at the ‘hing?” Jamie muttered in response, not meeting her gaze as he picked at a piece of dried candle wax that had dripped and solidified on the table. He had been studying in his room when she had called, demanding that he meet her and even though he would rarely say no to her, it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t let her stew for a bit. Trying to hide a smirk, he pulled his eyes up to see her face, immediately regretting his teasing. “Sassenach? What’s worst wi’ ye?”
“It’s nothing, it’s-“ she finally managed to pull her arm free of her coat only to thrust it deeply into her pocket, retrieving her phone and staring at it with a furrowed brow. “Bloody bastard, he hasn’t even text me.”
His ears pricked up at the mention of a ‘he’ but Jamie kept his mouth shut, raising his pint glass to his lips to stop himself from blurting out all the questions that were brewing behind them.
“Why are all men total pricks, Jamie?” She took a deep drink from her own glass, her eyelids drooping slightly at the relief the cold liquid brought her before she wiped her lips with the back of her hand which she then waved in his general direction. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“Och, I dinna ken, ye’ve called me worse things in our time thegither.”
That earned him a laugh and he watched as her shoulders relaxed slightly, her slight frame melting back into her chair.
“Bad date, was it?”
Claire snorted, the sudden expel of air causing one of her curls to dance around her face, “I don’t suppose it counts as a bad one if the guy doesn’t even show up.”
“He pied ye?” Jamie’s skin felt hot as anger licked at his insides. Her face scrunched up in confusion, as it did sometimes if he used a colloquialism from home that hadn’t quite found its way across the border.
“What?” she asked before deciding that it didn’t matter, carrying on in her irritation. “He didn’t show! No call, no text, nothing.”
“Good riddance then. Where did you find this one?” He asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
Part of being her friend was watching from the sidelines as men, and some women, fell at Claire’s feet. Not for the first time, Jamie found himself ruminating on the fact that her name in Gaelic, Sorcha, meant light. She drew people in and without meaning to, they soon found themselves to be in her orbit.
“We quite literally bumped into each other in the library. He’s reading History.”
“And what would a history man be doing in amongst yer medical textbooks, Sassenach? Sounds like a bit of a creep to me. Or mebbe he was lookin’ up some horrible rash he’s got on his-”
“Same again?” She interrupted after downing more than half of her pint in an attempt to catch up.
She was already out of her seat before he had the opportunity to answer. He enjoyed, probably a little too much, watching the sway of her hips and the way her curls bounced as she bounded down the stairs towards the bar and he leant backwards, letting his head rest against the wall and sighing in frustration. She was going to spend the rest of the night sneaking glances at her phone, hoping that this new guy would try to get in touch with her and he would have to suffer in silence. He would tell her that she has nothing to worry about, that whoever this guy was would have to be a fool not to crawl over broken glass to get to her.
Because that’s what Jamie would do. If she ever asked him to.
After a second round and a third and a fourth, they came to be sat on the same side of the table, hidden away in the alcove that their table was situated in. They were both drunk although Jamie would never admit to it, saying that a Scot was never drunk as long as they could stand upright. Their shared laughter was getting louder and Claire’s gestures were getting bigger, sloppier, as the frustration began to pour from her.
“I mean, I’m reading medicine, for Christ’s sake! I have good prospects, I’m only minimally neurotic, I don’t think I’m that terrible to look at. So what’s my problem? Am I just destined to be alone for the rest of my life?” A massive hiccup ripped through her, followed by a laugh as she brought her hand to her chest as though the act would calm them. Jamie’s eyes fell to her hand, trying so hard not to let his eyes focus on the breasts beneath it. Realising that the drink had made his reflexes slower, he pulled his eyes to face forward, staring at the floor and worrying that he’d been caught.
“I dinna think so.”
Her index finger stabbed a little too hard at her phone, the screen lighting up and showing no notifications, “It’s not like there’s a line of men waiting patiently at my door.”
“Then they’re eejits.”
A whirlwind of curls twisted towards him, a slight smile that was playing on her lips admitting to her surprise. The words had left his mouth before he realised it and the moment he did, red creeped insidiously up from the collar of his shirt, seeping into his cheeks.
“Eejits, huh?”
He looked at her then, blue eyes fixing onto their honeyed counterparts, humour dancing across her face mixed in with the light that was cocooning them.
“Every man who doesnae fall at yer feet tae do yer bidding is an eejit,” he conceded.
“Are you including yourself in that list, Fraser?”
He fought the urge to roll his eyes, not needing to lend even more credence to what they both already knew but were too afraid to speak out loud. That he was completely under her spell and happy to be there.
“I think ye’ll find ye had me cartin’ yer wee boxes tae yer room within minutes of meeting ye, Sassenach.”
Claire bit her lips between her teeth, trying her hardest not to smile, “Your mother raised you to be a gentleman.”
“That she did. Which means I buy the next round and then I’m walking ye home,” Jamie said.
“Not heading to see Annalise tonight?”
Rising to his feet, he fought back the urge to snap at her, irritated at the mention of the girlfriend that he hated being reminded of when he was with Claire and simply replied with, “Not tonight.”
Something playful and dangerous glinted in the amber eyes and she leaned forward on her elbows, as though she was stalking her prey.
“Then I shall delight in having you all to myself.”
By the time Jamie returned with their drinks, the moment of flirtation had passed. Claire was back frowning at her phone and tapping a single bitten fingernail against the wood grain of the table. Determined to distract her from falling down the rabbit hole of despair, their final drink was spent teasing, telling funny stories to each other about the idiotic things that had been said in their seminars, gloating about who got the best marks on their last essay. Before they knew it, Claire’s scarf was being wrapped around her neck once more as the two of them stumbled into the cold night air.
They had stayed a little later than last call, a classmate of Claire’s being the barman on staff and allowing them to finish their drinks while he wiped down the bar and cleaned the lines. It meant that they were alone as they walked, not amongst the mass exodus of warm bodies that had left the bar twenty minutes previous. Jamie watched from the corner of his eye as Claire furiously rubbed her hands together in an attempt to introduce some heat. With the alcohol loosening the usual restraint that he kept firmly in check, he turned to her and grabbed her small hands in his and brought them to his mouth, blowing the hot air from his lungs against her skin. Even through the drunken fog, he felt the flickers of electricity that seemed to pass every time their hands touched. It wasn’t unheard of for their hands to find their way to each other’s in those long study sessions when both of them were tired and stressed and in need of a comfort. A gesture that said ‘It’s okay, I’m here with you’. Things were always easier if they touched.
Slowly, he became aware that she was holding her breath, confirming it by sweeping his eyes from her hands to her face. She was staring at him, like a leopard stalking its prey. No smart remark or witty retort fell from her lips which were parted, allowing her breath to leave her in little bursts that betrayed how fast her heart was beating. The drink making him bold, he began to lace his fingers through hers, the only sound on the street being her sharp intake of breath as he pressed their palms together. Jamie became immediately more aware that their faces were closer than they ever had been before, that her body was pressed lightly against his and he suppressed a groan at how easy it would be to pull her closer and lose himself in her. His eyes caught her her tongue darting out to wet her lips and he wondered if she realised that she had done it. He couldn’t stop looking at her mouth, her pretty pink lips forming shapes that he wanted to know the taste of.
“Jamie…“ her breath was sweet against his mouth. It was an invitation but there was a hesitance there that he recognised and he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was. That if they did this, if they kissed, nothing would be the same again.
“Aye?”
“Can I…?”
An imperceptible nod of his head was all it took for her dart towards him but she stopped himself just shy of his lips. His mouth was hovering above hers, so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his face. Jamie held himself there, basking in the anticipation of a moment that he had dreamed of so many times. This wouldn’t be another first kiss to regret.
A small whimper escaped Claire’s lips as she softly pressed her mouth against his and it was all it took to undo him, his whole self filling with the need to taste her the moment that their lips met. Jamie raised a shaking hand to her face, to cup her cheek and kiss her slowly, deeply, wanting to drink in every part of her that he could.
He was kissing Claire Beauchamp. And it was everything.
#light across the seas that severed#clan donnachaidh#ao3#outlander fanfic#jamie fraser#Claire beauchamp#outlander#modern au
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What Happened to Michel Ney?
So maybe you don't want to read the book, let's talk about this crazy situation in Napoleonic history. I've gotten a few inquries through the years on here that occasionally bring up P.S. Ney and the possibility that it could have been Marshal Ney. So let's delve a bit.
This whole event is like, to quote Churchill, a mystery wrapped inside a riddle, wrapped inside an engima.
Let's not get too bogged down in the life of Michel Ney. Most will have a working knowledge of the man. He was the last man out of Russia. He lead out the rear guard from Russia, encountering hellish conditions, Cossack attacks and every other type of FUBAR event that he could. He helped with Napoleon's first abdication and then famously said he would bring Napoleon back in an iron cage when he escaped from Elba (spoiler alert: he didn't). He fought at Waterloo, though by this time his relationship with Napoleon had grown colder. He practically went nuts on the Waterloo battlefield, fighting until the bloody end and until his sword had broken in two. Still he carried on, one of the last to leave the battlefield.
He was later arrested, tried for treason, found guilty and shot.
Other things to know in order to piece Michel Ney with P.S. Ney, would be that Ney was gruff in manner, but kind-hearted. Had a "plain way" of speaking. Shied away from notoriety, money and promotions. Married to Aglae (whom he called Louise) with whom he shared four sons. It is known he spoke both French and German and apparently a bit of English as well. He played the flute.
Trial of Ney:
Ney's trial was a bit of a mess and to abbreviate it down, let's say that he cooperated, gave answers in his interrogations, and his lawyers tried to argue that he (Ney) was protected by Article 2 of a treaty that was drawn up after Waterloo and when that didn't work, argued that Ney wasn't beholden to French law, because he really wasn't French but German, because of the part of France he hailed from. This did not sit well with Ney, who shouted out at the trial that was French and would die French. He also gave a different and incorrect(?) birthdate at the start and in a strange twist told his lawyers to stand down in the middle of the trial.
Ney was found guilty, something Ney seemed to know was going to be the conclusion, and his death was voted on in the House of Peers. Strangely, most of the men who voted on it, then immediately went to Richelieu and let it be known that even though they voted for his death, they didn't want to see the sentence carried out. This leads to people from Richelieu and maybe even Wellington seeing if the sentence could be commuted. The King had no interest in doing so.
During his trial, Ney was jailed first at the Concergerie and then the Luxembourg, back to the Conceergerie, back to the Luxembourg where he had a huge security detail surrounding him at all times. The government had heard word of the various plots out there hoping to rescue Ney and became paranoid to keep him jailed.
Execution:
Instructions were sent on how the execution was to take place, and in a change of plans, Ney would be executed outside the Luxembourg and not in a military ground where executions usually took place. The deceased was to be shot, then lie there for those to see for a quarter of an hour at least. Ney met his fate calmly when the news was read to him and was driven out a few feet to the firing squad. Here eyewitness accounts vary on what was said and how he died. He was to be blindfolded and put on his knees, something he declined to do. Instead, he faced the squad, upright, hand on his heart, proclaiming his innocence and saying to "aim high". Shots were fired, Ney dropped face first and a pool of blood was on the ground under him.
Ney was dead. Or was he?
P.S. Ney Reporting:
In the United States, a man who roughly fit the description of Michel Ney appeared in the Alabama, North Carolina, South Carolina, Virginia area as a school teacher. He had reddish hair, balding. He was a plain spoken man but kind hearted and imposing. He said he was a French refugee and had served under Napoleon. He wasn't prone to drinking, but when he did and took too much, he let it slip that he was indeed the one and only Marshal Ney who had not died, but escaped. Who helped him? He didn't really say but did mention to a few people Wellington. Others heard the Freemasons, who Ney was a member of, did the work.
Peter Stuart Ney never spoke of his father but did often speak of his mother who he said was Scottish. He said his wife and children were in France and he hoped to return to them one day. He claimed his wife was close to Josephine and Hortense (this is true). He said he had four sons, never spoke of daughters. Others said he said he had two daughters and a son. What they all agreed on was that this P.S. Ney was the best teacher they ever had. He was kind, fair, tough but just. He was the best swordsmen they had ever seen. He was an accomplished horsemen, a good marksmen.
He taught language: English, Latin, Greek. Was reluctant to speak French but could. Also spoke a bit of Polish and Hebrew (?). Some said he had a Scottish brogue, others said a German brogue, others said it just sounded foreign.
He also played the flute. But was also a poet and artist. Drew a wonderful portrait of Napoleon. He was a fierce Bonapartist. When he heard of Napoleon's death, he fainted and later slit his throat in a suicide attempt. It failed and he was doctored. Later when he found out Reichstadt had died and wouldn't be placed on the throne, he despaired and said he'd never return to France or his family now.
He had a portrait of Napoleon and Napoleon's grave on St. Helena in his classroom.
A few who knew him thought he wasn't Marshal Ney, some thought maybe a relation. Some later changed their mind, yes, he was Marshal Ney, some never doubted.
Stories abounded that Ney was spotted by French refugees who served in the Grand Army and would see P.S. Ney and immediately say "It's Marshal Ney!"
P.S. Ney had war wounds. Some of the very same wounds that Ney had had. A wound in the thigh, a wound in the shoulder, the foot. A scar on his face that he said he got at Waterloo.
P.S. Ney never returned to France, died in Virigina of typhus fever but made the deathbed confession that he was indeed Marshal Ney. He escaped. He was given a bladder full of red fluid to hold under his shirt and when he fell he was to crush that bladder so he would look like he had been shot. The firing squad was made up of his old commrades an they recognized his order "Aim high" because Ney in battle would say the opposite, aim low. When they shot, he collapsed and the bullets went over him. Barely. It was a risk, but one that paid off. He sunk into a coma but his last words were akin to "Bessieres is dead. Let me die"
Oddities of the execution:
Ney was shot point-blank range with heavy bullets. According to the official reports, 10 bullets hit Ney, one hit the wall behind him, and the blank. Three hit his head, one is arm, the rest into his chest. The power of the gunblasts should have thrown him backwards, not forwards onto his stomach. There should have been blood spray on the wall, but only one official report says Ney's blood was on the wall and only one says he fell back. Eyewitness accounts say he fell forward and that the only blood was from under him. Ballistic experts haven't been able to answer the question of why on this.
Ney's body was taken to the Maternity Hospital where it was claimed by his brother-in-law and secretary. According to some reports, as many as 500 people saw his body while at the hospital. However, there doesn't seem to be any accounts or mentions by people in power or memoirs that they went to view Ney's body. Not that this proves there was none. Only a few eyewitness accounts do claim to have seen him, one being Ida St. Elme, and there it is mentioned that Ney had his vest buttoned to his throat and there were bullet holes, but no evidence of them hitting the chest. One said that the body was lain in a dark room that made it hard to discern features. Another said he looked peaceful and slumber and no obvious damage had been done from the bullets. Yet...he was shot three times in the head with heavy ammunition and no damage?
He was buried the following morning and no one attended in the family except for his brother in law and secretary again. His wife never once came to see the body or claim it. He was placed in a lead coffin and then an oak coffin, a practice usually only done for royalty. Or could it be because there would be no body and the weight of the lead would hide it? His grave became a bit of a place to leave anti-royalist propaganda and they government decided to move Ney to a vault that would be nameless so people couldn't find it. This was done. Later Ney would be removed from that vault and placed back at the gravesite. At this time, his coffins were opened and his grandson said there was a body with three bullet holes in the forehead proving Ney did die and was there. Later, during the reign of Napoleon III, it was a common telling that Ney escaped his execution that Napoleon III had the grave opened and there eyewitnesses said there was no body in the coffins. However, as big as a revelation this would be, the papers are mysteriously quiet on this new discovery at the time.
There are no records of who made up the firing squad. To this day, we don't know who the people were or having any of their testimonies.
Ney's wife never would visit the grave and would later remarry but the marriage would be on the quiet side and only immediate family seems to have known she re-married. When she dies, she is not laid in the Ney grave, but in a church crypt with her sisters.
On the other hand, the Ney family never stopped trying to clear their father's name and worked at it, lost their money and Ney's sons were all under survellience due to their hostilities to the new government. One even challenged Wellington to a duel. All odd behavior if Ney wasn't dead. Or did they not know?
P.S Ney did seem to have the general look and enough in common with Michel Ney to pass as him. The wounds match up, except the the facial wound. Michel Ney wasn't documented of having a facial wound, not to say that he couldn't have gotten one at Waterloo. Ida St Elme claimed to see him on the field of battle with a bloodied face. On the other hand, there was no mention of a wound when he was on trial. P.S. Ney could speak the multiple languages, and though we know Michel Ney spoke more than French, there is no proof he ever spoke Greek or Hebrew. He could have picked up some Polish being stationed with the Army. He could have had an understanding of Latin from his studies and maybe he did learn Hebrew and Greek after. P.S.Ney was also very good at maths, Michel Ney has no documentation that he was a mathematician. P.S Ney was a poet and artist, no documentation Michel Ney was, except for the flute playing. However, all of Ney's sons were quite artistic. Could have Michel Ney become more artistic when he no longer was in the military? Maybe. P.S. Ney seemed to know some intimate details of the life of M. Ney, namely he called his wife Louise and not Agale. He also said she was dark eyed with black hair which seemed true. Could he have seen a picture of her? Michel Ney also also a very quiet man about his personal life, maybe he was these things and it just went undocumented. Michel Ney was with Bessieres when he was killed in battle, right next to him. P.S. Ney's last words harkened back to Bessieres being dead. If P.S. Ney wasn't Michel Ney it seems he certainly believed rightly or wrongly he was.
P.S. Ney didn't get everything right. Namely his mother whom he said was Isabel Stuart, who is not the mother of Michel Ney.
Conclusion:
I don't know. Though I am not convinced P.S. Ney was Michel Ney, I'm not convinced that Ney's execution was completely legit either. There is definitely weirdness abounding here.
If you want to delve into this more I strongly recommend Empire's Eagles by Thomas Crockner. I just gave the briefest of the evidence, but the book goes more into depth in other evidence that both points to things not being right and reasons they are also right.
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the devil in me, part ii
Back to writing these two, inevitably, at long last. This is for the lovely anon who dropped by and mentioned this one, despite it having been years since the last post. This is slightly trigger heavy, so sorry if the triggers contain spoilers, but people's mental health comes first so they can choose whether or not to engage with the content.
This is part of a series. You can find part one here.
pairing: Marcus Flint x Oliver Wood
premise: When Marcus wakes again in the endless white of St Mungo's, Oliver is still there, and his wand is still gone. Marcus thinks it's about debts owed, or at least, that's what he's trying to tell himself. Whatever other reasons might keep Oliver Wood at his bedside aren't remotely within a framework he's equipped to handle. [possible triggers: severe PTSD, hospitals, battle situations, Legilimency, implied invasion of the mind, implied intention not to survive]
When he wakes, one needle is back in his arm and Marcus’ first inclination is to be pissed off about it. Of course it is. Being angry is the best alternative, sublimation for all of the other emotions he should be feeling and isn’t. He doesn’t need any St Mungo’s trained therapist to tell him about that, mainly because it’s deliberate on his part.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “I don’t want painkiller withdrawal on top of everything else. The dosage has to be sky-high for me not to be feeling anything.”
“So you’d rather have the searing amount of pain that makes you pass out within minutes instead? You’re right; being a masochist is a much better idea.”
He closes his eyes. “Why are you still here, again?”
“Waiting for you to take your head out of your arse, though it seems I’ll be in for a long wait.” The tart rejoinder in a lovely, rolling Scottish brogue that he instinctively wants to wrap himself in doesn’t help his temper. Neither does the fact that Oliver is still too earnest despite the familiar barb in the words, as though he thinks he owes Marcus something. The stubborn set to his jaw is familiar too, viewed more than once when facing him on a Quidditch pitch.
It makes Marcus want to push him away for his own safety, because don’t you know what I am? Instead, his gaze is sulky, as though he’s a teenager again in a way he hasn’t been in years, and it’s solely fixed on Oliver. “I don’t like you, and I don’t want you here,” he says, and if that’s not the biggest lie he’s told in the past couple of years, he’s not entirely sure what is.
Oliver shrugs. “That’s too bad, Flint, because I’m not going anywhere.” He’s wearing a poloneck jumper, just like he used to at school when it got to winter weekends out of uniform, and Marcus has the fleeting, horrifying thought that maybe it covers bruises or worse. A second thought just as horrifying resurfaces: he still doesn’t have his wand.
That thought makes him abruptly change the subject. “Alright, Wood, since you’re here, be a good boy and tell me why I don’t have my wand.” It’s not a question. He doesn’t phrase it as one. To punctuate it and make it clear he’s not asking, Marcus opts to verbally twist the knife for good measure. “You owe me. That’s why you’re here, right? To settle the debt. So start talking.” That’s not a question either, because why else Oliver might be there is more than he can possibly handle getting into.
Oliver’s (Wood’s, damn it) expression darkens momentarily, as though he’s about to pick a fight. Marcus wants him to, because at least that would be normal, but he sees it the moment that Oliver registers he’s in a hospital bed all over again, sees the way his gaze turns pained and then the shutters draw closed again so he’s at a loss for what the other is thinking. He doesn’t like it. Oliver was always an open book, no filter, no love lost on his side of the equation. He doesn’t know what this new thing is.
He clears his throat brusquely. “Well?”
Oliver sighs. “They’re concerned about your mental state as well. That’s why you don’t have your wand. They thought you might try something you’d regret.”
Fury is, of course, the quickest and most reliable reaction. “So they thought they’d improve things by taking away the only piece of autonomy I had available to me for months? That’s genius thinking, that is. Who do I need to see to recommend them for promotion?”
Oliver’s lips twitch briefly then, clearly catching the sarcasm, but at the same time seemingly unable to smile at it. That’s fine, because it’s not funny at all.
Marcus exhales a sharp sigh, one that’s less exasperated by this point than unimpressed. “I suppose they thought I’d curse the whole place down, eh?” This time, it is a question, and the smile that goes with it isn’t genuine, it’s mean and sharp-edged. It’s an echo of all the ugly things that have stained his hands and his mind, and it occurs to him that throughout that, Oliver has been the only good thing, a pure thing he’d constructed for himself, a secret he kept that was sometimes the only reason he didn’t give in altogether. Now that’s done and it’s back to reality.
To his consternation, Oliver shakes his head, as though he can sense what Marcus is thinking. “No one believes that after the battle. You threw yourself in the way of someone that would have been dead if you hadn’t, without knowing whether you’d survive.” The words seemed hard for Oliver to speak, as though it was like a demon lived in his throat for as long as they sat there. “They didn’t know if you were going to pull through, the first couple of days.”
An eye-roll is Marcus’ first response to that, and he averts his gaze from Oliver then. “That was sort of the bloody point, Wood.” The words fall heavily in the room between them, but this time it’s not out of malice, it’s from defeat, an admission that he should have kept to himself. The anger hasn’t emptied its well yet, but for the time being, it’s quiet, a savage thing made somnolent again by the fact that he can feel the needle in his arm start to pour more potion into him. Presumably, it’s going to knock him out eventually.
Oliver’s own exhale is shaken, as though Marcus has punched him square in the solar plexus and it hurts, badly. After all these months of silence, it’s as though the casually cruel words aiming to drive him away are doing more damage than even the war has managed to. “Flint, you can’t just…”
Marcus wants to sit up again but the potion, damn it, feels like it’s got him pinned in place. That makes him edgy, makes him feel the cold sweat of panic beginning to prick, and he absolutely will not have a panic attack of any kind in front of an audience. He swallows hard, and Oliver seems unable to finish the sentence. It hangs there between them, unfinished.
That’s the moment that the door creaks open and the healer walks in, oblivious to the conversation that had been happening beforehand. Oliver leans back in the chair beside Marcus’ bed.
Marcus’ lip curls just slightly. “Come to check I’m still breathing?” he asks snidely. “Sorry to disappoint. You can go now, your duty is done.”
The healer does no such thing. “I’d hoped you’d be asleep by now,” he says with a tsk tsk sound that reminds Marcus of the teachers from school whenever he didn’t do his homework correctly. It does nothing to endear the man to him at all. “Evidently we need to increase your dosage. You shouldn’t have ripped those needles out of your arm as soon as you did, but Mr Wood tells me you have a remarkably high tolerance for pain.”
That causes Marcus’ gaze to narrow in Oliver’s direction, and it’s as accusing as it gets.
Oliver, to his credit (the little of it that Marcus is currently willing to give) doesn’t look away. “I’ve been in the Hospital Wing with you multiple times,” is the reminder that unexpectedly arrives, softer than he’s ever deserved. “You never took your painkillers. You always cast Evanesco.”
On the one hand, Marcus’ glare only intensifies, because Oliver’s just ratted him out to the healer. On the other, what does it even mean that Oliver remembers; how there seems to be something dark and sad behind his gaze ever since a few minutes ago. It doesn’t correlate with his real life knowledge of Wood, only the fantasy version he constructed in his head to have a reason to go on, and Marcus is fully aware of how incredibly unhealthy that was and is.
It’s only the healer’s voice that interrupts their charged stare, clearly ready to go for another lecture. “Well, there will be no hiding painkillers here. What were you thinking, taking those out? Did you just not realise the degree of damage you took?” It isn’t an indignant pair of questions, instead asked with the tone of someone who wants to understand the subject they are studying. It presses all of the wrong buttons for Marcus, and he endures it in silence until he can’t.
This is the moment he snaps. But it isn’t like every other time he’s lost his temper. No, this is different; his voice is surprisingly quiet and unsteady when he speaks. “Why does everyone want to know what I’m thinking suddenly? I’ve just spent the last two years having my mind pulled apart at a moment’s notice. All that I want is for everyone to stop trying to get into my head because I don’t want anyone in there ever again. Got it? It’s none of your business what I’m thinking.”
Dimly, he registers that Oliver has gone pale as he starts to understand what Marcus means. The healer looks appalled, because evidently, this was something undetectable while he was unconscious, and he’s beyond lashing out, because this has hit places he doesn’t want to go.
“Get out.” The words are quieter still, and there’s a flat, dulled down, deadly note to them.
Even half-conscious on a bed, drugged by the potion, it leaves to question what Marcus is capable of, the one thing no one has dared to think about so far. It’s a weak threat, but his voice carries all of it, like it’s every atom of a star at the moment of destruction.
The healer leaves. Oliver doesn’t, because Oliver hasn’t learned to be afraid of him, even though he should have.
When Marcus looks at him again, he thinks that he sees Oliver flinch, just a little around the eyes, and he knows he’s going to say something unforgivable if he isn’t left alone. “I meant you as well.” The words are empty. You need to go before I do any more things that I regret, and I can’t live with any more.
Oliver doesn’t listen. Instead, he does something that Marcus can handle even less. He climbs onto the bed and rests there next to him, close enough for Marcus to feel him breathe. “You’re really not a good listener, Flint. I already told you. I’m not leaving.”
Marcus’ hands suddenly feel too heavy, utterly ineffectual when he tries to raise them to push Wood right off the bed. Land on his arse. That’ll show him. Instead, his head starts to nod forward, and Oliver, the scheming bastard, must have known that the potion would take effect soon, had kept him talking until he had no choice but to go back to sleep again.
He’s so angry. He’s exhausted. He’s repeating the same cycle, inescapable, stuck on a loop of his own making. There’s wool against his face, something warm against his back. Oliver’s voice is there, he can feel it rumble in his chest, but the words don’t even register. It’s a warm sound, like copper and firelight, and it’s the last thing in his dwindling awareness before the world is lost altogether.
The frightening part is that he’s starting to want to wake up again.
That wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
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Ginger Snap
A/N I was driving down the highway today and saw the license plate “I PieGuy”. By the time I got home, this story was half-born in my head. I have no idea where it might go, but it’s taking up valuable shelf space in there, so I’m birthing it onto paper. Modern AU. Silly fluff. Claire POV. First person, which I never write, so watch out for stray pronouns.
The shriek of the fire alarm was the final straw. I’d just stepped out of the kitchen for a minute, but that was all it took for calamity to strike. Opening the oven door in a panic, billows of smoke engulfed me before I slammed it shut again.
“Shit. Shitshitshit. Shit!”
Waving a damp dish towel back and forth like a flag of surrender above my head caused the head-splitting siren to finally desist. I blew a rogue curl off my sweaty brow and gave myself a pep talk.
“Time to woman up,” I sighed before donning the oven gloves and cautiously cracking the door once again. More smoke escaped, smelling of burnt pastry and ruined hopes. Once it cleared I could see the charred carcasses of what were supposed to be vol au vent shells. I carefully extracted them from the oven and dropped the cooking sheet with a clatter onto the quartz countertop.
“Dinner is D.O.A, Doctor Beauchamp. Now what the fuck am I going to do?”
***
Thirty minutes were spent cleaning the evidence of yet another cooking fiasco and ventilating our flat by opening every available window to let in the moist Edinburgh breeze. I now had less than four hours before Frank and three other members of the university faculty would be descending, expecting a home-cooked meal and polite chitchat. I was in no position to offer either.
In a last-ditch effort to salvage the evening, I typed “sophisticated home catering in Edinburgh” and started dialing. The first four numbers yielded either an answering machine or the news (unsurprising) that at least two days’ advanced notice were required to book their services. Nearly resigned to ordering in Italian and facing Frank’s wrath, a woman’s voice with a thick Scottish brogue picked up at the fifth business I called.
“Ye’ve reached Ginger Snap, this is Jenny speaking. How may I help ye t’day?”
I poured out my tale of culinary woe, laying it on a bit thick, but I was truly desperate by this point.
“Aye, we’ve a chef available this afternoon. What sort of menu were ye planning?” she asked.
“Really? Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver!”
I gave Jenny the number of guests and a broad idea of what I’d hoped to serve, although I was in no position to be choosy.
“Never ye fear, Ms. Beauchamp. We’ll pick up the necessary items and our chef will be at yer flat by four. Tha’ should leave jus’ enough time tae have everything ready fer six.”
Thanking her profusely and not even inquiring about the charge, I stood triumphant in the middle of my immaculate yet useless kitchen. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?
***
The buzzer rang as I was re-arranging the decorative objects atop our sideboard. I was aiming for the artless sophistication featured in Frank’s favourite design magazines, but instead I lined up each item in order of descending size, or grouped them by historical era. A second buzz had me trotting to the intercom where a male voice crackled.
“This is James Fraser o’ Ginger Snap Catering. Can ye let me in?”
I stuck my head into the hallway to find four organic cotton tote bags bursting with produce at my doorstep. Footsteps pounded down the stairs, where I assumed the chef had retreated to collect more supplies. I brought the first load into the kitchen where I began to unpack foodstuffs the likes of which I’d never seen. Not knowing what else to do to be helpful, I began sorting them; green leafy things here, round crispy things there.
“Hallo?” the same voice called from where I’d left the door ajar. Wiping my hands nervously against my slacks, I went to greet him.
Standing in the doorframe, almost filling it with his immense size, was a young man who seemed more suited to a stag hunt or a rugby pitch than haute cuisine. He had loose tawny curls, two days’ worth of stubble and wore a faded grey henley, dark wash jeans that clung to his muscular legs and utilitarian workman’s boots.
“Claire Beauchamp?” he interrupted my visual inventory.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Sorry. Pleased to meet you.”
Something funny happened when our hands met in a firm shake. A tachycardic blip, my internal medicine professor would have called it. There was no time to analyze this response, however, as he was already on the move.
“James Fraser, at yer service. I’d normally spend more time getting to know ye and yer style of entertaining, but we’re short on time, so let’s get straight to it, aye?”
I gave the chef a hasty tour of our kitchen, stumbling over the names of various implements and opening the wrong cupboard when looking for my saucepans. I blushed as he raised an expressive eyebrow, but shook it off. I was paying for his cooking proficiency, not his opinion on my lack of domestic competence.
“I ken ye spoke tae Jenny about yer menu, but I took a few liberties at the market, based on what looked freshest. I recommend starting with a simple salad o’ nettle and radish, garnished with a wee round of goat cheese and rye crumbs. Loin o’ lamb with new potatoes and pancetta fer yer main. An’ a simple rhubarb custard fer dessert. There’s none with food allergies, aye?”
“Aye,” I replied, then corrected “umm, no, rather,” at his concerned look. “Are you sure you can manage all that in only,” I glanced at my wristwatch “ninety minutes? It seems like an awful lot of work.”
“Och, tis no’ much. Lamb cooks swiftly, ye ken. Tis why I choose it over pork or poultry.”
My saviour rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, preparing to wash his hands and get down to work. There was probably something else I should be doing elsewhere in the flat to prepare, but I didn’t want to appear completely useless to this unflappable man.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
He looked dubious and seemed prepared to politely decline, but then his expression shifted.
“Aye. Ye can wash the tatties an’ chop the rhubarb while I dress the lamb, if ye dinna mind,” he suggested.
“Scrubbing in and wielding a knife happen to be two of the only transferrable job skills I bring to cooking,” I joked, taking my turn in front of the massive Belfast sink.
He emitted a low Scottish grunt of amusement before we each settled into companionable silence, focusing on our respective duties. I glanced over at him surreptitiously, envying the ease with which he moved from task to task, lean and nimble hands working alchemy where I only succeeded in producing dross.
“Ye’re a doctor, then?” he asked after my chopped rhubarb had been set on the stovetop to stew and the lamb was marinating in a bath of lemon and fresh herbs.
“Umm, well, I was. My partner and I moved here from Boston, where I trained as a surgeon. I haven’t yet obtained my license to practice here in the UK, so I’m afraid I’m just a culinary liability for the moment.”
It was a current source of strife in my relationship with Frank. He liked the idea of me keeping house, entertaining and eventually settling down to raise a family. I chaffed at this unfamiliar routine. But until I passed my licensing exams, it was rather a moot point.
“I’m sure ye’re far more than that,” he replied solemnly, before breaking into a sneaky grin. “I’ve ne’er seen stalks of rhubarb cut quite sae... uniform. Ye’d have a fine career in quality control, if ye wished.”
I faked throwing a dish towel at him while we both laughed.
“What about you, Mr. Fraser? How did you get into the catering business?” It wasn’t polite conversation. I was really quite curious to know more about him.
“I’ll tell ye, but only if ye call me Jamie.” At my nod, he continued, “twas my Mam. She was always a great cook, but then my Da passed suddenly and she with three bairns under the age of ten tae raise. She needed tae work. We moved tae Edinburgh an’ she laboured day and night tae save enough tae start her own catering business. Since I was a lad, when I wasna in school I was in her kitchen, watching and learning all the while.”
His striking face took on a faraway expression, and I knew he was remembering those days with a mixture of wistfulness and love. I recognized the look from my own reflection, when I thought about my dead parents. Without realizing it, I lay my palm over his forearm where it had stilled above my butcher’s block. His eyes were the same hue as midsummer blueberries, and they regarded me with silent inquiry.
A timer made us both jump, my hand falling to my side. What was I thinking, touching this stranger who I was paying to cook dinner for my boyfriend’s guests? I really needed to find a hobby, so my mind didn’t latch onto any feeble excuse for stimulation.
Brushing my hands against my thighs, I quickly excused myself and left to get properly dressed for dinner. Only thirty minutes remained before Frank and his colleagues were due to arrive.
I spent more time than was strictly necessary away from the kitchen, afraid I’d made things awkward with Jamie. By the time I finally returned, he was plating the lamb and putting the custard in the refrigerator to set. I tried to think of something to say that would re-establish the fluent rapport from earlier on.
“I’ve opened the wine tae let it breathe,” Jamie said without looking at me. I wished there was a similar process for blundering Englishwomen.
“Jamie, I really don’t know how to...”
The sound of the front door opening interrupted me and Frank’s nasal voice rang out from the entryway.
“Claire, we’re here!”
“Fuck!” I exclaimed. Jamie tipped his head sideways in question. “I never had time to explain to my partner that I hired your services. That’s the dean of his faculty out there, and...” I broke off, looking frantically around the room as though a trap door would suddenly materialize. Quick on his feet, Jamie understood the situation immediately. The kitchen windows were still open after my earlier catastrophe. With surprising grace for one so large, he slid through the opening and onto the fire escape.
“Bon appetit, Claire Beauchamp,” the ginger chef wished from outside, a mischievous smirk lighting his whole countenance.
I stood, mouth open in shock, as he gave an abbreviated bow before scampering down the metal ladder just as Frank entered the kitchen behind me.
“This smells delicious, darling. We really are going to make a chef out of you yet.”
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christmas baby
fem!reader x drew mcintyre
reader goes into labor with drew’s baby, while drew is in the ring fighting for his wwe championship
word count: 1.8k+
warnings: pregnancy, dad!drew (bc why not), fluffy
— day 8 lets gooo. i literally wrote this up yesterday during raw —
masterlist || request an imagine here
***
Drew’s POV
"The following match scheduled for one fall is for the WWE Championship. Introducing first the challenger, weighing in at 267 pounds, from Dublin, Ireland. Sheamus!" is announced as Sheamus stands across from me in the ring.
The crowd cheers and boos for my former best friend.
After the crowd calms down, Mike Rome says, "And his opponent, weighing in at 265 pounds, from Ayer, Scotland. He is the WWE Champion, Drew McIntyre!"
The crowd cheers for me and I hold up my title.
The referee takes my title and holds it up. I prepare myself for my match as the title is handed off.
The lights come up and the bell rings. Sheamus comes right after me, striking me with his fists. I try pushing him off me.
He starts yelling at me. "Come on, fella!" he shouts. "Hit me. I dare ya!"
So, that's what I do. I deliver the Glasgow Kiss to him and Sheamus stumbles backward, stunned.
I run at him, clotheslining him so he lands on his back in the ring. He lays by the ropes, using them to get up. I run at him but he pulls down the ropes and I go flying over them. I land on the ground outside the ring with a grunt.
Someone runs over to me and says so only I can hear, "Drew, we just got a call from your wife. Y/N just called from an ambulance. She's been in labor for a few hours but her water broke so she had to go to the hospital. She called 9-1-1 since she was alone. She waited as long as she could but she had to go to the hospital."
My eyes widen and Sheamus is looking over the ropes at me. He knows what this means.
I have to end this match and fast. I need to be there for the birth of my child.
***
Your POV
You scream in pain as another contraction hits. They've been getting closer and closer together over the past few hours. You wanted to wait for Drew to get home before you went to the hospital but your water broke so you had to go to the hospital. You have been progressing quickly. You were at six centimeters when you got here a half-hour ago.
When the due date got closer, Drew gave you the number of a WWE official and a close friend of Drew's. You were supposed to call when you went into labor and if Drew was at the arena. You felt contractions begin to start about two hours ago and waited as long as you could. Once your water broke and you were in the ambulance, you called.
It’s Christmas Eve. At the rate you’re going, you’ll be giving birth on Christmas Day.
As soon as you were settled in a room, you turned on USA Network. It's about forty minutes later and Sheamus is setting up for the Brogue Kick. This match has been really long and you aren't very happy about it. Drew was the main event and he wasn't on TV when you called.
You grip the sheets on the bed as you breathe your way through a contraction.
Sheamus hits the Brogue Kick on Drew and you gasp, eyes still on the TV.
"No," you say. "Drew, no."
You watch as Sheamus goes in for the cover. The referee counts to three and the bell rings.
The contractions get worse and you scream in pain.
Drew lost his title. He was supposed to retain. He purposefully lost his title.
A nurse comes in and checks on you. "How are you doing, honey?" she asks. "Everything okay?"
The nurse checks to see how dilated you are now as you nod and say, "Yeah, everything's okay. Um, I know I said I didn't want drugs but can I pretty please have an epidural?"
Your nurse laughs and says, "Of course. Someone will be in soon so administer it. You're also at about seven centimeters dilated. Can we call someone for you? Family? The father?"
"The father should be on his way any second," you glance up at the TV as Drew gives Sheamus a handshake.
The nurse looks at the TV and asks, "Wait, you're Mrs. Y/N McIntyre, aren't you?"
You nod and say, "Yep, that's me, and that's my husband." You nod at the TV as it goes off the air.
The nurse sits in a chair beside you and says, "My husband and sons love wrestling. They're huge fans of Drew's and I know that they're not happy that Drew lost his title."
You smile and say, "I'm not happy that Drew lost his title. I know he's in a rush to get here and that's why but he didn't have to give up his title."
The nurse laughs softly and says, "Well, I'm sure they'll give him a title run. When he gets here, we'll be sure to get him up here as soon as possible. It's still a few hours before the baby gets here."
An anesthesiologist comes into the room to give you the epidural. The nurse holds your hand as you're given the drugs. The epidural starts to kick in about ten minutes later, and you have several contractions between when the epidural is administered and when it actually kicks in.
It's close to an hour later when Drew shows up. He's wearing a black tank top with grey sweatpants. You can see his tights peeping out from the top of his sweatpants because they're hanging a little low.
"Are you still in your gear?" you ask.
Drew nods and takes your hand. "I had to get here as soon as I could," he says. "How far along 're ya?"
You say, "I'm close to eight centimeters. I still have an hour or two left to go before I give birth."
Drew kisses your hand and says, "I'm sorry I couldn't get here faster. Ya called right before my match and I wasn't given the news until the match started."
A contraction starts and you squeeze Drew's hand. You pant out, "You didn't have to lose your title to get here."
Your husband rests his other hand on top of yours are you breathe your way through the contraction. They've been the closest than they ever have been. They're about three minutes apart and lasting about a minute.
The epidural has helped the pain a little bit but not a lot because it hasn't fully kicked in.
"I wanted to," Drew says as the contraction stops. "We got lucky that Raw was here in Orlando this week. Next week, I'd be traveling to Michigan and right from there I'd be traveling to California. I wouldn’t have made it in time. It’s the one thing I always promised myself.”
You look at Drew and say, “Baby, I would have understood if you couldn’t be here. Your job pays the bills since I said I would be a stay at home parent.”
He leans down and kisses your sweaty forehead. “I promised ya that I’d be here, and I’ve never broken a promise when it comes to ya and our baby,” Drew says.
You smile as another contraction starts. You cry out in pain and hold Drew’s hand.
This continues for almost two hours. The contractions get worse and are closer together. The nurse checks your cervix every fifteen minutes when it dilates to nine centimeters.
You’re taken into a delivery room as soon as you hit ten centimeters.
Drew is given a plastic gown so he can come into the room with you. He stands by your bedside as two nurses get you prepared to give birth.
You’re covered in a thick layer of sweat and your hair is a mess. Hopefully this will all be worth it after all the pain you’ve gone through in the past several hours.
The doctor comes in and says, “Alright, Mrs. McIntyre. When the next contraction comes, I need you to begin pushing.”
You nod as the doctor gets set up. You look up at Drew and he looks down at you. He smiles at you.
A contraction hits and the doctor says, “Alright, push me me, Y/N.”
So you do. You push, and you push.
It’s close to two hours of pushing before the baby comes out.
The sounds of a baby crying makes you sigh with relief that the pain is over and that your baby boy is here.
As the doctor wraps your son in a light blue swaddle, you can see a head full of dark hair. The baby definitely has Drew’s dark hair.
Drew is handed your son and you look up, seeing your sweet boy’s sleeping face. Happy tears begin to fall down your face. You’re definitely still a little emotional.
“Do we have a name?” the doctor asks.
You nod and say, “We wanted to name him Archie John McIntyre.”
Archie was chosen because both you and Drew liked it, and it had some Scottish meaning. John is his middle name because it was your great-grandfather, grandfather, and dad’s middle name. You wanted to keep the tradition.
Drew rocks little Archie back and forth and you let your son hold your finger.
“So,” Drew says, looking at you. “When are we trying again for another one?”
You glare up at your husband and say, “Not for a while. I cannot handle this pain again, Drew. At least getting hit with a chair won’t feel as bad since I literally pushed a baby out of me today.”
Your husband laughs and presses a kiss to your head. “I love ya, Y/N,” he says. “And I love this little life ya have birth to.”
Archie begins to fuss in Drew’s arms and you giggle, “Someone’s hungry. Give him to me.” You hold your arms out for Archie.
Drew hands Archie over to you and you breastfeed him.
A few hours later, you’re discharged. When you get home, you take a picture of Archie holding yours and Drew’s fingers.
Drew posts on his social media saying, “A future WWE champ was born today. He’s definitely coming for that title.”
You post on your socials saying, “What a Christmas present that we were given today. Baby Archie was born early this morning, on Christmas Day. We love you, Archie. Thank you for making us parents on Christmas.”
That night, Drew sleeps with his arms wrapped around your waist and you sleep facing the crib in your bedroom. You watch your son sleep.
A smile forms across your lips as you realize that this is your life now. You have a husband who loves you and a baby who is loved by both of you.
#drew mcintyre imagine#drew mcintyre fluff#drew mcintyre x reader#wrestling imagine#wrestling fluff#wwe imagine#wwe fluff#imagines#imagine#fluff imagine#fluffmas#christmas fluff#christmas imagine
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