#and losing Randall could have sent her over the edge | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

space-blue · 3 years

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The Esper’s Tears

Her name is Yuri. It's a boy's name, but she loves it. It was given to her by the man–the first thing she owned that no one could take away, and the first man Yuri had met with more ability than her. He'd taken her off the streets, cared for her, taught her to rein in her powers, and lots of new skills.

He'd turned her world upside down.

Your imagination is your limit Yuri, he'd say, if you want a necklace of water, make it so, if you want the drops to fall to the sky, make their up into down! And he was right. The man had always been right–and nice, and not scared of her.

Now the man is dead, and Yuri is on a rampage.

•••

'Status report, unit one, report!'

'Quit it, Randall! They're dead.'

'If that explosion was that bastard Svarenko taking them down with him, how come the chief and Bart just went off the radar? What the fuck is going on?!'

'Use your senses, heck, use your eyes! That's another esper!'

The soldiers risk a glance over their ragged cover, to the body floating fifteen metres up, silhouetted by crackling plasma and a cloud of orbiting debris.

'Oh man, this wasn't in the mission briefing!'

•••

Before she had a name, in the nettle-infested ditch of the Past she never thought she would climb out of, Yuri had been Alone, with-a-capital-A. Too different to belong with the curb-squatting, glue-sniffing urchins she shared the streets with, too powerful to risk attracting the adults' attention, she'd spent years roaming the city, its many wonders locked behind cold glass, often leaving her feeling like it was her who was trapped in a vitrine, and the rest of the world rolling by, an endless show of things for her to see and desire but never own, lest she steal or got lucky at the bottom of some bin.

She'd used her powers sparingly: while other destitute kids chased down the likewise destitute cats and sent them hurling toward clothes lines, aiming at new jeans and hoping they'd claw them and fall back down together, she could will the clothes to her. She could part the garbage without sullying her hands, she stayed dry under the rain, and could reach any roof for the best hiding spots. But not much more, for the three kids she'd known who'd had a shred of power in them had all disappeared-the girl with the red curls, the boy who stole pastries though the windows, and Vanya's baby brother from the south church orphanage–gone.

•••

Her powers are melting reality around her, churning pockets of matter bubbling and fizzing out of existence. Gravity is a mess, with Yuri as the eye of a typhoon of psychic energy and tears. Her eyes well, their water rising, each bat of her lashes sending the salty drops to swirl above her head. Even through the blur she can see the ruins under her feet of the home the man had made for them. A hiding spot from all the world's troubles, he'd called it. Your new home. Blown away now in twenty chunks of dust by the attack of twenty cowards.

She prods for the twelve survivors, their weak esper minds struggling against hers.

There is no one to stop her, no one to save the men from her.

•••

They had come in the quiet of the night.

The man had been dozing, the book he'd been reading to her resting on his chin. She'd delicately brushed his silver-blond hair from his brow and daydreamed of a future in which she dared to call him papa. Or da. Anything to reflect the love that had grown to bursting inside her. In her fantasy he'd smile and laugh and make her fly, high on the wind. They'd sensed the approaching threat simultaneously, heads snapping up, dreams discarded, alerted by the the soldiers' foul fear, the collective mass of their doubts, and the unrepressed waves of their own ability.

'Yuri, these men are psychics, espers like you and me.'

'But not strong like us.'

'No but they can work together, it makes them dangerous. Do you remember what I told you?'

'There's only twenty...'

'Yuri!'

'Yes but can't I stay with you? I know I–'

'No buts. They're only after me, and they can't find out about you.'

It used to be that no one knew or cared. Before the man, she'd not even been 'Yuri', just another freak kid that all the others made great efforts to avoid. Now in this person's eyes she had positive value. She mattered. The gears of her powerful mind tripped and grind at the thought of losing him.

'Do you remember?'

•••

A soldier steps forward, anonymous behind his kevlar vest and balaclava, spearheading a mental attack. It ricochets on her shields with a spark. Yuri knows she cannot alter any creature with an opposing will, so she traps him in a bubble of vacuum. Fighting him over the air, heat, pressure. The man pushes back, but he lacks her intimate knowledge of coldness, hunger, the void you feel in absence of all things, the negation of life. When the soldier dies, she collapses the bubble with him in it, and terror shimmers in the eleven remaining minds.

Things are as she wills them, and she wills them dead, like the man, gone, like the man, never to be seen again, heard again, felt again, like the man!

•••

'I got blood on my hands.'

•••

She'd left running, on foot and empty-handed, all the new things the man had gotten her, an urchin's dream made true, left behind in her rush to obey his orders to stay hidden and undetectable. She'd stopped when the explosion behind her took away all awarness of him. He'd sacrificed himself to protect her.

Anger rose like magma in her throat.

•••

'I'm a wanted man.'

•••

There is nothing to stop Yuri from annihilating the soldiers. She has no greater understanding of what the man's wishes might have been, in sending her away, what hopes he'd entertained for her well-being, what morals he'd planed to instil in her. She was raised in the streets, where the most brutal of materialism applies, and death attains its most complete form: it makes no sense to think for the dead or wonder about their opinion or wishes. They are dead.

•••

'Do you understand?'

•••

'Please, oh fuck, please!'

The final soldier flails helplessly on his back, crushed by a pressure he cannot shake off. She steps through the mist of blood she turned his last teammate into. Everything went so fast, he cannot think, not with her animosity rubbing his mind raw. He sees a girl-shaped mass of hate, the edges of her being growing fuzzier, her eyes pits of light, her fluttering pink pyjamas the most human thing about her. Her aura seems to bend the moonlight in a million colours that hurt the eye, sending arcing fingers of deadly thunder groping the air for something to curl around. In despair he pitches all he has to free himself, to inch away from the weight that vows to merge him with the cracking concrete.

•••

'It's not what I want for you.'

•••

She steps forward, mindless, lost in her rage, completing the task she set herself, ready to lose that last bit of purpose to her life.

'Oi, Yuri!'

Two large hands slap the sides of her face, crashing right through her shields, ringing her ears.

'What the hell are you doing, didn't I tell you to run away?'

It's the man, come out of thin air. Everything stops, roaring silence blanketing them: the surviving soldier, the man who ought to be dead, and the girl who looks just like a ragged ten years-old about to cry her eyes out.

The man looks around, his hands never leaving Yuri's face.

'Sheesh, no wonder they didn't follow me, and I'm barely back in time... Couldn't you trust me Yuri? Do you think I'd have left you alone like that, if I couldn't fight these punks? Ah, don't cry now–'

He picks her up, cradling her spindly body in his arms and shoulder. She curls there to sob, to turn back into the child she's hardly begun to learn how to be.

'I'm sorry kid. I should have told you the whole plan,' he murmurs in her hair, patting her head, 'I should have trusted you more too. I won't leave you again.'

He turns to the soldier who has not yet dared twitch a muscle.

'What's your name, you lucky idiot?'

'Haaah–Randall!'

'You go back home, Randall. Bag whatever is left of your friends and give it to Marlow, or whoever runs the CIA these days,' the man bends forward, his eyes blazing white hot, 'you tell him that Vitomir Svarenko says hi, and to leave my daughter and I alone.'

~~ January 2017 – Theme : Urban Fantasy

#original work #original story #competition #urban fantasy

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mymelodyheart · 4 years

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Starting Over Chapter 12 ~The Reckoning~

Jamie quashed his growing irritation as his brothers happily hijacked Claire's attention at the table. After they've gatecrashed their date earlier, somehow, amidst the mayhem of surprise, introductions and small talks, he and Claire ended up joining them. How the hell did this happen?

He resisted the urge to slam his whisky glass down on the table as he thought of how close he had gotten to kissing Claire. What exactly had he done to warrant this particular brand of torment? He paid his taxes, he'd brought joy to his thousands of fans over the years by playing top of his game in rugby, recycled like nobody's business, donated to worthy causes, and yet the universe chose to fuck with him big time.

Although he loved his brothers, right now, he was very close to disowning them. Not quite, but close. Resigned, he watched Claire chat animatedly with Willie, Rabbie and Ian, looking delighted and in her element as banters and stories were exchanged.

"So tell me, while growing up, did you all get along? Or are there a lot of sibling horror stories?" Claire asked, her twinkling amber eyes momentarily landing on him.

Groaning, Jamie buried his face in his hands. "Christ, I knew this was coming."

"Och plenty of stories, I can assure ye," Willie replied, leaning forward to draw her in. "Once, my sister and I convinced Jamie that he was adopted. It wasnae difficult considering he's ginger, and the rest of us all have dark hair."

"And then Willie told him that his real last name was McTavish ..." Rabbie added.

Jamie cut him off. "Aye, and I got back at ye lot when I said I wasnae coming back after I was sent to uncle Dougal and aunt Maura in Leoch to train for the under twelves rugby." He turned to Claire. "I told them I was glad I wasnae their brother and wee Rabbie here, and Jenny threw a fit. Eventually, Willie sent a message and admitted it was a bad joke. I didn't reply for days. In the end, he was grovellin' for me to come back like a wee daftie."

Her laughter nipped at his heart. "Too bad, I don't have many family stories. My life revolved mostly around museums, archaeological sites and lecture halls. and we're constantly on the move."

"Sounds pretty exciting to me," Rabbie grinned. "Say, have ye thought of where ye want to continue yer residency?"

Claire sighed, swirling her glass. "Just loosely. Nothing definite. I've thought of Glasgow and Inverness. Or maybe Boston."

Jamie nearly choked. "Boston? Ye better mean Boston in Lincolnshire and not Massachusetts." His voice sounded the furthest thing from normal to his ears.

"Oh, nothing is planned yet," Claire dismissed his question with a flutter of delicate fingers. "To be perfectly honest, they're just rough ideas."

"Weel, whatever ye decide, don't go too far, Claire. I dinna think our lad here would be tae happy to see ye go so early in yer relationship," Ian teased, winking at Jamie.

Ignoring the jest and the uncomfortable shift in his chest, he looked into her amber eyes. "Plenty of time to think things over, aye?"

She gives him a slow nod. "Of course."

"Claire?"

His head jerked up to find Frank Randall standing next to their table. A trickle of sweat beaded and slid down his spine as silent fury gripped his guts. A sudden realisation hit him then as he looked at the man that Claire nearly married and he was shocked to the core. Amid this blurring between real and fake, there's always a constant—which was his jealousy for Claire's ex. It was something he never experienced before. To know that Claire was once his, made him sick and want to throw up. But the unexpected gentle squeeze of her hand under the table immediately stopped the unwanted bout of paranoia in its tracks, taking him by surprise.

His brothers and Ian leaned back on their chairs, waiting for something to unfold as they eyed the doctor with caution. They knew Claire's story, and he could see they were prepared for whatever was to come, their bodies tensed and their faces impassive.

"What is it, Frank?" Claire asked, glancing nervously around the table.

His first instinct was to drag Claire's ex-fiance out of the bar and give him a sound beating. Too bad there's a restraining order on him. Despite wanting to tell him to fuck off, he kept his mouth shut, afraid of attracting attention from those who might recognise them. The thought of all three of them being photographed and their picture passed around on social media was enough for him to restrain himself. He knew it would devastate Claire if ever that happened.

"Sorry to disturb your meal, but can we talk? It won't take a minute."

"Ye don't have to do this, Sassenach," he murmured for her ears only.

"I know, but I must. It won't take long."

Helpless to do anything, he could only watch as she stiffly stood up and followed Frank.

..........

Claire peered over her shoulder and saw Jamie and his family looking at them with the intensity of wild cats ready to pounce. Not wanting to cause a scene, she refocused her attention on Frank and took calming breaths, reminding herself she was in control.

"What do you want, Frank?"

He shifted on his feet. "Claire, I want to apologise for ..."

She raised a hand and stopped him midsentence. "If we're going to rehash everything that happened between us, I'm not interested in hearing it. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I've said what I had to say to you, and nothing has changed." She made a move to go, but Frank's hand shot out and grabbed her elbow, making her jump. The sudden harsh sound of a chair scraping on the wooden floor told her someone stood up abruptly. She turned to look and found it was Jamie, his face looking like thunder. Even from where she was stood, she could see his jaw bunched and his massive chest rising and falling beneath his shirt. She could almost hear the cranks turning in his head. With a stern look in her eyes, she warned him to back off and faced Frank. "Let me go," she hissed in a whisper. "You've lost your right to touch me."

Frank flinched and let go, swallowing audibly when he looked beyond her. "I'm not here to talk about us. I understand it's over. I get it now. I only want to apologise for the things I've said the other night and to tell you that I want to return your belongings."

She looked into his eyes to judge his sincerity but witnessed only honest resignation in his steady gaze. Something had changed in him, but she didn't want to over analyse, still too fraught about what transpired at the hospital less than twenty-four hours ago. "Very well then, I'll get someone to collect it from your apartment."

"No need. I can drop it off at your place." When she eyed him suspiciously, he sighed. "Look, Claire, I said things the other night that I shouldn't have. I was so desperate to get you back no matter what. After you walked out of the A&E, I realised I went too far. I don't want to drag this on any more than you do. The sooner I have your things out of the apartment, the better it is for both of us. I'll have your stuff boxed, and I'll bring them to your place ...Friday at six?"

She wanted to think it over, but that would mean prolonging things between them. Frank was right. The sooner their connection was severed, the better for both of them. "Fine, Friday at six. You drop off my things, and then you're out again. I don't intend to serve you drinks, nor exchange pleasantries with you."

His expression turned grim; nevertheless, he nodded in agreement. "I'll see you at six this coming Friday. Enjoy the rest of your evening." And then he turned and left the bar.

She watched his retreating back as sadness settled over her. It was hard to imagine that she used to love him and that they had been happy once. Where had it all gone wrong? Had she been so blind to all the warning signs? How long have they been together before they started to lose their way? What made him turn so cold and vicious? She remembered the many hours they'd spent making love in the beginning. He'd worshipped her and told her over and over again how much he desired her. And then as time went on, his needs became a priority, and she was just a vessel to relieve his needs. He became more critical of their lovemaking, continually telling her that she lacked techniques to satisfy him until she began to doubt herself.

And then she thought of Jamie and almost laughed. She was drawn to a commitment-phobe and a sexually experienced man. So what were her chances in inspiring the type of lust and attraction to make someone like Jamie wholly want her? Only in your dreams lass.

A hand grasped her wrist. "Sassenach, are ye alright?"

Claire spun around, and her eyes shot to Jamie's, startled by the intense emotions swirling from them. He looked on edge, the combined effects of worry and something else she couldn't put her finger to etched on his face. His grip on her wrist was like steel, and his shoulder muscles looked tight with strain as if his control could snap at any moment. The instinct to reassure him rose within her, and she lifted a free hand and touched his face. "I'm fine, Jamie. I think I'd like to go home now."

When he spoke, his tone sounded like it could cut glass. "Good. Stay here. I'll tell the lads and sort out the bill."

She wondered what was wrong as she waited for him. Did his brothers say anything about him dating a runaway bride? Did they disapprove? Was it Frank? Unlikely . Most of the evening, he'd protectively slung his arms around her shoulders or had a hand on her knee, play-acting his claim on her, even though they were sat in the hidden corner away from prying eyes. If his family had been surprised to see that they were together, they showed no indication—only warmth and friendliness.

Scenes from earlier played in her mind, beginning with Jamie's parcel that morning and ending with the way he'd looked at her as if he wanted to kiss her. And in between, a whole lot of touching and holding. Reminding herself constantly that this was just a stunt to help Jamie get his job at the network, would be the smartest course to take. She couldn't mistake sexual attraction, albeit a powerful one, for anything beyond a bodily need. With her mind made up, Claire swore to keep it together, thinking her friendship with Jamie was more valuable than a passing fascination for her crush.

Seeing Jamie walked towards her, she smiled at him, but his face remained expressionless, as he took her hand and led her out of the bar without a word. When he hailed a taxi instead of taking his car, she surmised he'd had a bit to drink.

They rode in silence, but the quiet got too disconcerting. Claire opened her mouth to initiate a conversation and ask if anything was wrong, but she held back midway. His rigid posture told her now was not the time to talk. The air around them thickened and the longer Jamie remained silent, the more agitation gnawed at her. Something was definitely off. What the hell is wrong with him? Finally, when the taxi finally pulled up outside her cottage, she was about to thank him for the dinner when he took out his wallet and handed the driver a few pound notes.

"It's late Jamie. Aren't you going home?"

"We need to talk."

"Can we leave it for another day?"

"No."

She didn't like his short, clipped tone. "If you're planning to argue, maybe you ought to leave," she said, as she got out of the car.

She fished for her keys in her handbag, aware he was following close behind. "We need to talk." Oh, such bloody arrogance!

Once inside the house, she threw her bag on a nearby table and faced him. "Fine! Stay. But only if you tell me why the bloody hell you're acting weird all of a sudden."

"Boston. Ye never told me ye were thinking of going to Boston."

"Wot? Boston?" This time she was confused. "It's just an option among many. I've thought of going there years ago before I started at the Royal Infirmary. Joe has friends there and knows people who can get me into a residency program."

"Ye belong here, Sassenach. Yer friends are here, and ye have yer uncle to think about."

How dare he question her choice when he would go to London in a heartbeat once their fake relationship was over! Inwardly she bristled but forced a sunny smile. "Well, I can say the same thing about you. All of your family and friends are here, and you have obligations that are expected of you. And yet, that wouldn't stop you from going to London once you get the job, now would it?"

"Your circumstance is different. There are plenty of hospitals here in the UK where ye can continue yer residency."

"I know that. But have you considered that maybe I need a change of scenery to find myself again? It's no different to you trying to find your identity and purpose in a new career. I'm supportive of your life choices, so why can't you be supportive of mine?

He pulled back at her words and scrutinised her. The idea of him moving to London made her think of a parade of women eager to get their paws on him. She didn't like the idea at all. But she'd rather die before admitting it. She turned away and sat down on the sofa, fiddling with the straps of her shoes, cursing her inability to remain indifferent. A moment passed before he finally spoke. "What did Frank say?" he asked.

Irritation coasted down her back. Jamie was avoiding her question, and if he thought he would get away with that tactic easily, he was sorely mistaken. "Not much." She slipped off her shoes and massaged the back of her leg. "Same old. Apologies and whatnots.

She sensed his frown but refused to look at him in the eyes. "Is he still trying to get ye back?"

"No."

"Did he want ye to go back to the hospital then?"

She scooped up her shoes and placed them in a shoe cupboard in the hallway. "No. He wanted to apologise. And since you mentioned Boston, I'm beginning to think it's a brilliant idea. No one will know me there - at least not as the runaway bride. It will be a perfect place to start over again."

His eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened into a thin line. Did he look disappointed? Refusing to decipher the meaning in his expression, she made her way to the kitchen. He followed shortly after.

"If the tabloid stories about ye bother ye so much, why are ye doing this fake relationship with me then?"

She opened the fridge and got a bottle of white wine. "I told you my reasons already. I'm helping you get the job at the network which I'm quite sure you'll get. And meanwhile, while we're a fake couple, I can start planning what I want to do with my life." After grabbing two glasses from the cupboard, she finally glanced at him. "Wine?"

In the kitchen lighting, Jamie's blue eyes were shadowed and the scruff on his face more pronounced. He nodded at her offer, his gaze moving like a rough palm over her skin. Uh-oh, not good. Despite dampening her emotions with cold logic, her traitorous body was not having any of it, as her face heated at his perusal. Damn him! She hated not being in control. Quickly turning away, she poured the wine in the glasses.

"There's no need for ye to go so far to dodge the tabloid stories. In a year, it will all be forgotten."

"You have a point." She handed him the glass of wine and took a sip from hers.

"Or ye can come to London if ye want to get away from Scotland. London is far enough," he said, looking directly into her eyes.

"Wot? London?" she gasped. "London is a crazy place, and rents cost a premium."

He placed his glass on the countertop with a clack. "Ye were confident earlier that I'll get the job in the network. Well, so am I. We can share a flat in London."

She nearly laughed out loud. "Share a flat? With you?" All sort of thoughts and images leapt at the back of her mind. But the one that stood out the most is the ridiculousness of his suggestion. It could never work. "What if you want to bring a girl home? What then?"

His face flushed, but his gaze didn't waver. "Not once have I ever brought a lass to my apartment nor to Lallybroch."

"Oh ..." If he'd never brought a girl to his home, it could only mean he took them to fancy hotels. That thought brought a stab of pain into her heart. Life was already complicated as it was, and the last thing she needed was to hear stories of his escapades with his dates. Better scrap London off her list of options. "Well, London is certainly an alternative. So is Manchester and Liverpool. But I'm kind of warming to the idea of Boston," she said casually as she could muster.

"Ye can't just up sticks and move to a country ye've never been to before. Don't ye want to visit the place first?"

"I don't have to. I'm flexible, and I adapt quickly. My uncle and I have lived in many countries while I was growing up. I never had trouble adjusting."

"Sounds to me ye're running away."

"I'm not running away," she shot back. "I'm done with Frank. As I said, I need a change of scenery. I've looked up Boston on the internet in the past, and it seems like a fascinating place. Who knows, I might meet a cute American guy and end up staying there for good." Who am I kidding?

Darkness clouded his face. "Ye are running away."

"I'm not!"

"Ye are. Ye are putting an ocean between ye and whatever ye're running away from."

Claire snapped. Somehow the thread holding her composure had been stretched so thin by recent events, there was almost nothing left. Red fogged her vision as she put her glass down to face him full-on and gave him her truth.

"Bollocks! You ... of all people have the gall to point out to me that I am running away from my problems. Ha! You can't even commit to anything or anyone that doesn't involve rugby." She shook her head at him. "I've never judged you on how you lead your life, so I would appreciate it if you do the same for me. And even if I'm running away, what business is it of yours? It's my life, and I decide what I want to do with it."

"Sassenach, I'm..."

"NO! I'm not done yet." She tilted her chin in anger. "In as much as I love Edinburgh, it is a reminder to me how I allowed Frank to break me to the point that I don't feel worthy. It's a bloody sad state of affairs, but hey, I am trying my utmost best to do what's right for me even if it seems like I'm stumbling in the dark." She let out a hysterical laugh and shoved her curls back, beyond caring what sprouted out of her mouth. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to feel undesirable and less of a woman? Frank used to criticise how I look, how I touched him when we made love. And, oh, how he would mock me endlessly when I gagged at the things he made me do, making me feel like I'm not enough to tempt a man to lose his mind and heart to her. So I remained with him thinking I'll never be good for anyone else. But you wouldn't understand, would you? Because women come easily to you."

He muttered a string of profanity as he took a step forward, but she pushed him with full force on his chest, making him stagger a step backwards.

"How do you do it, Jamie?" she taunted. "Do you have a small talk beforehand, letting a girl know it's just a bit of fun and you don't do relationships? At least you can make yourself feel better by saying you were honest and then walk away with a clear conscience and satisfaction on your face. How many orgasms does it take to assuage your guilt?"

Jamie remained silent, his gaze ensnaring her and refusing to let go. How dare he remains so unaffected and calm?

And then she lost it. "Get out!" she screamed.

"No."

"I said, get the fuck out!"

"I'm not leaving ye." Determination etched out the lines of his face.

"You won't go until you hear it, don't you?" she hissed in crazed vehemence. "Fine. I'm running away! There you have it! Are you happy now that you've finally figured me out, huh? I ran away from my own wedding, and I ran away from my job. Appears cowardly, doesn't it? But I'm too broken to fight, but one day I will get up, and I will heal. And I will find someone who will love me and my flaws."

He made a move towards her, but she stopped him. The last thing she needed was his pity and for him to see her tears that were threatening to spill. "Don't you dare feel sorry for me, James Fraser! I need you to leave now and let me be." Her voice cracked, but she pushed on. "I'm begging you. If you're a true friend, you'll do as I ask."

Exhausted and nothing left to say, she turned and faced the window. Jamie didn't move nor speak, and the only sound that permeated the room was the ticking of the wall clock. She waited and mentally prayed for him to go so she could cry in privacy. Tomorrow was a new day, and everything would be alright. But tonight she felt precariously out of control, on the peak of something so intense, she didn't know how to handle it.

The floorboards creaked, and she held her breath and waited for the blessed silence, but instead of walking out, Jamie stopped right behind her. His body heat enclosed, wrapping her in a protective blanket. She held the edge of the countertop in a deathlike grip, sensing him move closer inch by inch until his rock-solid chest pressed against her back.

"Sassenach, look at me," he said in a low gravelly voice. Although she wanted to remain still, she was helpless to resist his command. With no more fight left in her and feeling spent, she faced him but avoided his gaze. Then he tilted her chin up.

To her surprise, raw lust shot out from his eyes, and his grip tightened, refusing to give her room to retreat. He crowded her space by leaning in so close, the edge of the countertop dug into her lower back. His scent of citrus and cotton steeped her senses, drowning out the voices in her head and their surrounding.

"I'm going to tell ye something, and I need ye to listen very carefully because I'm only going to say this once. Am I making myself clear?"

Her eyes widened, and her lips parted. She could only summon a shaky nod, too mesmerised and unable to form words.

"I'm done with pretending, rationalising and civility. That wanker Frank has messed up yer mind that ye have nae idea the power ye have to grip me in a hold so tight I can scarcely breathe. I'm so bloody over analysing why I feel the way I do right now even though I still don't understand anything. I'm tired of walking around with a cock that won't go down and sleepless nights every time I think of ye. Are ye with me, Claire?"

A swirling combination of heat, dread and anticipation diffused inside of her, turning it into a fierce ache coursing between her thighs and tightening her muscles. The way he easily made her body respond left her intoxicated, seizing her with a need she'd never felt before. "Y-yes," she whispered.

Then he spoke slow and deliberate. "Good, because tonight I'm going to make love to ye. If I were a true friend and gentleman, I'd do as ye asked and walk out of that door to give ye the space to rebuild your damn walls. Ye deserve that and much more. But I'm a selfish prick who wants ye so bad I'll trade my soul to the devil for a night with ye. Still listening?"

"Y-y-yes."

"I'll give ye three seconds to get away from me and lock yersel' in the bedroom. That would be the wisest thing to dae. And if ye choose to walk away, I'll take it like a man, and we'll never mention this again. We'll go back to being mates, forget this whole incident, and go on pretending. But if ye're still here after that, ye're mine. Every inch of yer beautiful body. And I promise ye, ye'll never doubt your ability to cast a spell on a man so powerful and encompassing he'll spend the rest of his life comparing ye to every woman he meets and touches."

Her head began to spin, as her brain scrambled to catch up with the meaning of his words. "Jamie this is ..."

"We're done talking, Sassenach. One."

Her heart lurched, and her stomach dropped to the ground as he moved closer.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!"

"Two."

She gulped, her body poised for escape, knowing it could destroy their friendship, change their relationship forever, opening a door that could never be close again.

"Christ, Jamie, I'm..."

"Three. Too late, Sassenach."

"But ..."

"Nae buts." And then he kissed her.

#melodyheart #startingover #Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser #outlanderfanfic

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kayah16 · 5 years

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Cameron and Randall Come Face to Face

Looking at the house and at the pictures on his phone. Randall was trying figure out how Marcie downgraded. He had looked up everybody in the Young family and he didn't like it. Ms. Young was a maid for a white couple.

How can Marcie even want to be in a family like that? The sister was a hoe. One of the sisters was engaged to the presidential elect. That was the only good thing he read about them. Thats why he was at the Youngs house now, to get Marcie back. He could change. He stop fucking with Alex.

He started to see a therapist himself. He didn't want Marcie to be around this family who was beneath her. She needed him. She needed to be around him. Giving 5 heavy knocks he started to call her name. He didn't care who heard him. He didn't care who he pissed off. He was here for Marcie.

"MARCIE! MARCIE! MARCIE!"

He heard the door open and was met by a pissed off Benny.

"Ayo, my man. What you doin'? Doin' all that loud yelling and banging. You woke up my son!"

"She had a baby?"

Closing the door in Randalls face, Benny went to go get Cameron. He was not in the mood. Randall was offended, how dear he close the door in his face? He balled his fist up and was about to bang again when the door opened up. It was Marcie and Cameron. She had a babyboy in her arms and Randall felt jealous.

"How did you find out where I lived?"

"Is that my baby? Whos this?"

He asked as he looked Cameron up and down with disdain in his eyes.

"I'm Cameron her husband. Who the hell are you?"

"He's Randall, baby."

Grunting Cameron told Marcie to go upstairs with Cameron Jr and hang with Melissa and Benny. Waiting until she knew he was fully upstairs Cameron glared at Randall.

"Why you at my door?"

"I'm here for my wife and son. That baby shes holding is my baby!"

"Lower your damn voice before I knock you on your ass. And no hes not your baby. Thats my son with my wife. Remember you was proud you caused her to lose numerous babies."

Cameron hissed. Fists balled up to his side. Randall stepped closer to Cameron where their noses were almost touching.

"You took my wife and my son!"

"No, I took your ex wife showed her how a real man is supposed to treat his woman. Made her my wife and the mother of my son. You wouldn't know bout that? You was so busy fucking the neighbor, that she ended up fucking somebody behind your back."

Randalls brown eyes got a shade darker his anger rising with every word Cameron spoke.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No and I don't give a damn. Next time you pop up at my house and disturb my family. I will shoot you where you stand."

Cameron took a few steps back closing the door in Randalls face. The Alex situation had already sent Randall into a spiral. His house getting broken into sent him into a spiral. Now this was about to send him over the edge.

He lost everything and he couldn't get it back. Banging on the door again he waited for Cameron to answer. He wasn't met with Cameron this time he was met with Mama Hanna.

"Old lady take yo ass in the house. I want your son."

"You must be Randall, Marcie talked a lot about you. My son is not a very nice person as it is. You keep testing him and you be met with a bigger demon bigger than yourself. Have a blessed day, Randall."

Closing the door, Mama went back inside leaving a confused and stumped Randall. She didn't curse him out. She didn't call Cameron back down. She told him to have a blessed day. Blinking rapidly Randall stepped away from the door he lost.

AN: Sucks. Sorry.

#If Loving You Is Wrong Fic #haves and have nots fic #Cameron Fic #Randall Fic #kayah writes a mess

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otheroutlandertales · 6 years

Text

A canon divergent story in which Bree and Roger go through the stones together.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

En Même Temps - Part 4

by @theministerskat

Boston, January 1971

Brianna read the passage in front of her for the fourth time, fingers gliding along with her eyes to ensure she processed every word and their meaning. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, she thought, then smiled at the appropriateness of using her mother’s favorite exclamation. Her mind began racing with the possibility of it all. Could it really be the same?

She shifted her position on the couch, moving her long legs out from beneath her and stretching them out over the edge of the cushion. Her feet made contact with a pile of papers instead on the hardwood as she set her feet down. Scattered around the floor were sheets of notes with important historical dates, photocopies of 18th century maps, large tomes lying open to pages that may be pertinent to their trip into the past. It was all evidence of how much planning and thought they had put into the journey.

Bree was satisfied with the amount of research they had completed. There wasn’t much more for them to find, but feelings of uncertainty still plagued her. She pushed those thoughts from her mind, knowing all the what ifs would drive her mad if she dwelled on them, and instead she found something else to focus on. Usually, that something else was Roger.

She looked up from the mess at her feet, eyes darting around the room, searching for him. Bree hoped he would interpret it in the same way she did, confirm what she had been suspecting for the last few minutes.

She looked to the right, and her gaze finally fixed on him. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, book in one hand, the other in his trouser pocket, completely focused on what he was reading. She opened her mouth to call him over, but stopped before getting the words out. His hand moved from his pants pocket to turn a page, then returned to its resting place. She had noticed this small quirk he’d developed as of late, his fingers making small indistinct movements within.

Bree studied him for another moment, enjoying the view. Roger’s dark hair had grown out a bit, hanging just below his ears, and a week’s worth of beard growth spread across his face, it had just crossed the point from being prickly to feeling soft, especially against her own cheek. He had ditched the layered academia look for more casual attire; she hadn’t even known he owned blue jeans until their second day back in Boston when he had exited the bathroom, hair still wet from his shower, in a pair of jeans and an old faded tee.

Today he wore khakis that hugged his hips in all the right places and a grey Inverness Royal Academy tee that stretched across his broad shoulders. A warm sensation crept up her body and she let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

Bree squinted then, trying to see which book he was reading. She instantly recognized the worn cover and the rounded corners of the journal Fiona had sent from Scotland, The Grimoire. In it were the musings of Gillian Edgars, the self-proclaimed witch’s thoughts and theories on time travel, all laid out within its pages. Brianna wanted nothing to do with it for the most part, believing much of what was in it to be unwarranted speculation, but Roger had been fascinated, if not also a little horrified, by its contents, and would amble through it, time and time again.

The days were passing quickly, and she was thankful they had been able to find some time to focus on one another between packing and research. Bree had taken him on a tour of her own history in Boston, showing him the Harvard history department where she spent many afternoons after school with her father and the old brownstone the Randall’s had called home for more than 20 years. They had seen The Wizard of Oz in all of its Technicolor glory at a local theatre that prided itself on showing old movies. She had laughed until her cheeks hurt as Roger sat next to her in the empty theatre singing along to all of the songs; it was a favorite from his childhood, he had told her.

Then there were the quiet nights spent in her apartment. Just the two of them, eating food from take-out containers and laughing at some odd thing or another, their minds focusing only on the moment. They would perch on opposite ends of the couch, watching reruns of Dark Shadows and I Love Lucy, only to end up in each other’s arms late into the night. Hands would roam over clothed skin, then dip below hems of shirts and waistbands of pants to feel the warmth of bare flesh, lips connecting in passion and urgency, the television forgotten in the background.

Roger, with a heavy sigh, would always stop them before anything went further than they intended. He would slowly pull away from Brianna, brushing stray strands of hair from her face, and suggest they turn in for the night. She would kiss him one last time and head for her own room, leaving him behind to settle into the sofa bed. Sometimes, under the covers of her achingly empty bed, Brianna fought to steady her breathing, the lingering feeling of Roger’s touch still electrifying every inch of her skin.

Looking at him now, calm, cool, collected, Brianna felt the need in her rise again. It wasn’t just a physical need -- it was emotional, too. He told her multiple times he would be there for her, and with him she felt supported, protected. And here he was, turning his entire life upside down to follow her on a journey that might actually kill them both. She wasn’t even certain if she’d shown him just how much everything he had done, everything he was planning to do, meant to her.

He must have felt her eyes on him because he looked up from the small black journal. The green eyes that she could lose herself in looked at her, a slight question there, but mingled with love, always with love. It was a kind of loving look she had never experienced before Roger; not one of a parent or friend, or even a romantic fling. It held an air of pure and utter devotion, full of possibility.

Roger quirked an eyebrow at her and it snapped her back in to the moment, finally remembering why she had looked for him in the first place.

“Rog-” his name caught in her throat and she cleared it before starting again. “Roger, I think I found something.”

“What is it?” He set his book down on the counter behind him and crossed the space between them in a few long strides. He leaned over the back of the couch, his face close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.

“It’s a book on the Native American tribes of North Carolina,” she told him. “You said mama and Jamie were in the backwoods of the region. They must have some dealings with them. I thought it best to know, right?”

“Aye . . . are they in there?” he asked, pointing to the book in her hand.

“Well, no. But there’s a section on the myths and legends of the region, and, well . . . here, see for yourself.”

He took the book from her and began to read aloud from the section she had pointed to.

“The island of Ocracoke, called Wokokkon by the native people of the region, was primarily used as a hunting and fishing ground. It was not permanently settled until Europeans arrived in the new world, but evidence suggests that temporary camps were established for occasional use throughout the year.” Roger looked up, an unsure look on his face.

“Keep going,” Brianna said to him with a nod.

“Oral history suggests it was also used as a ceremonial site for many of the tribes. A circle of standing stones is located on the island and it is believed to have been used to celebrate the quarterly equinoxes and solstices.”

He didn’t say anything as he finished reading aloud, but Brianna saw his eyes moving up and down the page once more, just as she had done. She watched as he took one long deep breath, his chest rising, then he let it out slowly.

“The notebook Fiona sent,” she nodded towards the journal that lay on the counter, forgotten for only a moment. “Geillis’ journal,” speaking the witch’s name sent an involuntary shiver ran down her spine, but she continued, “She- she speculated that it’s possible other circles of standing stones may have the same kind of . . . properties, as Craigh Na Dun.”

“She did,” Roger agreed, flipping the pages of the book on Native American tribes back and forth. “She listed out all the sites across Britain where there are standing stones, and the mysterious deaths or disappearances associated with them.”

“So, maybe the standing stones on Ocracoke would work the same way?” She could hear the small inflection of pleading in her own voice.

“Possibly . . .” He handed the book back to her and straightened up, his brows furrowed.

“Roger, don’t you see? We could go through sooner. And here, in America.”

“Aye, it may be the same type of thing.” He ran of his hands through his hair, letting them come to rest atop his head as though to keep all the information in.

“We wouldn’t have to risk an ocean crossing. And we wouldn’t have to travel very far over land. It would put us right there, in North Carolina!” Her thoughts were pouring out of her, she finally allowed herself to feel excitement at the prospect of not having to wait another two months.

Roger paced between the kitchen and living room, hands stuffed deep into his pockets once again.

“When’s the next fire feast?” Brianna asked him, impatient, setting the book down next to her, and rose from the couch to move towards the kitchen where a calendar hung on the refrigerator.

Roger answered her without having to think about it. “February 1st . . .Imbolc. But Bree, that’s just two weeks from now. Ye think we’ll be ready?”

The apprehension in his voice stopped her and she turned to him. His face was a mix of emotions, but worry dominated all others. She went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him close to her.

“I don’t see why not,” she said in a reassuring voice as their eyes met. “We’ve already been through the majority of Daddy’s collection of books on life in the colonies, and the ones his colleagues recommended. And we won’t be there for long, shouldn’t have to know everything.”

She felt his body relax in her arms, releasing tension. She relaxed herself, thankful that she could give him the same type of comfort that he gave her. Bringing his own arms around her, he smiled.

“Aye, yer right.” He kissed the top of her forehead. “Alright then. We’ll try it.”

She smiled in response to his words. Moving her hands up to cradle his face in reassurance, she slowly lifted her chin and brought his face down to hers. His lips felt hot on her own, all the excitement and worry of the last few moments released in the connection between them.

Roger’s hands ran along her back as he pressed her tighter against him, the usual passion and urgency building between them. Her eyes were closed, allowing herself to be completely consumed by the feeling of him, of the two of them. When he pulled his lips from hers, she instinctually sought them out again with her own mouth.

“Bree . . . Brianna . . .” The way he said her name sent a warm wave rolling over her body and she opened her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “There’s one more thing I think we need to do before we go.”

“Oh?” She pressed her lower half into him in a suggestive way. “And what would that be?” She was teasing him and could feel the effect it was having on him.

“I want you, Brianna. All of you.” He took a breath to fortify himself and continued, “Will ye marry me before we go? I don’t want to risk this without making ye mine, before God.”

She felt her heart pounding in her chest, or perhaps his heart, pounding against her own. She didn’t need to think about it this time, it was exactly what she wanted, her way of comforting him, showing him how much he and everything he had done meant to her.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, of cour-”

His mouth was back on hers because she could finish. She moaned softly into it and let her entire body melt into his. They weren’t urgent or hurried kisses, but long and slow, worshipping each other with their mouths.

After a few moments, she felt the loss of warmth as he removed his hand from the small of her back, felt him fumbling in his pocket against her own hip. Bringing his hand back up, he took her left hand in his and slid a silver band onto her ring finger. A simple emerald was set in the middle of it, a color that was a perfect match to his eyes. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the ring there. Her chest felt heavy with emotion, filling her so that all she could do was stand there and look at him.

“Come on,” Roger said, and before she knew what was happening, he grasped the back of her thighs and lifted her into the air. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, as he set off down the small hallway, to her bedroom.

Continue to Part 5.

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod kat #pair: roger x bree #ch: bree #ch: roger #canon divergence #book: DOA #catergory: mf #en meme temps #oot #*

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stories-you-wont-hear · 5 years

Text

– due process. pt 8

we are heading towards the end, ladies and gents! i’m thinking maybe two more parts to this and boy let me tell you, no one is ready for where this is heading :) please let me know what you think of this part, i love love love hearing your opinions of this story! xoxo mira

tag: @abcreid @mattiemurdocksvoicemakesmesplosh @krazy-katt-lady @digicharr

“I see no reason for my client to be held in jail for the duration of this trial, Your Honor.” Tap tap tap. “The alleged murder and rap-” “Objection!” Tap tap tap. “Sorry. The alleged murderer, Benjamin Harris, is free to go on about his life while the victim, Amanda Taylor, has lost her life. I don’t think that’s quite fair, Your Honor.” Tap tap tap.

You didn’t have to look behind you to know that Matt had entered the courtroom, and from the sound of the tapping subsiding, you figure he had found a seat. Meanwhile, you focused your attention at the situation at hand, which was the prosecution trying to revoke Ben’s bail. “Innocent until proven guilty, unless I’m mistaken,” you countered. “Your Honor,” the prosecutor stood in the middle of the room, hands out as if she were pleading with the judge, “The last time Ben Harris was out on bail, the very same victim ended up losing her life.” “That case was dismissed,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at the opposition’s lawyer. “Without prejudice,” the ADA shot back, to which you took a second to address. “Are you charging him with that?” you said after a moment, having caught yourself in a sticky situation. She was right, those charges had been dismissed without prejudice, meaning the district attorney’s office could charge both Ben and Andrew again. “No,” the ADA said pointedly, making eye contact with you before returning to face the judge, “Those charges were dismissed, Your Honor, Ben Harris was not acquitted. But the fact of the matter is that this very court has the power to hold Amanda Taylor’s alleged murderer, who was also her alleged rapist and I don’t know about the defense here, but I don’t believe in coincidences.” “Your Ho-” you stood up to cut in, but the judge held his hand up.

“Enough,” he said, casting a grave look over both the prosecution and your own table, “While our country’s justice system relies on the assumption that one is innocent until proven, I am inclined to take the prosecution’s point into consideration.” Beside you, a confused Ben looked up at you and then back, to Matt you assumed. “What’s happening?” Ben whispered, his eyes wide. “Your Honor,” you started again, gesturing for Ben to stay seated. “I’m sorry Counselor,” the judge said, holding up his gavel, “I order Benjamin Harris into custody for the duration of this trial.”

“What?” Ben cried, his mother rushing up behind you, adding to the clamor in the courtroom. “Ms. Harris,” you could hear Matt attempting to assuage her as you tried to reassure Ben. “You’ll be okay,” you tried to say in your most convincing voice. “Why are they doing this?” he asked, the court officers coming up to take him. “You’ll be okay,” you mouthed as they led him away.

A few moments later, you left the courtroom only to run into Ben’s mother and Matt. “How can they take my son like this?” the woman asked you, her eyes watery. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Harris,” was the only thing you could say. “It’s just the DA’s office trying to cover their bases,” Matt added. She somehow seemed more reassured at Matt’s words, rather than the words of the actual lawyer defending her son but you stayed silent and let Matt do the talking.

You were sure he’d leave with her, but to your misfortune, Matt turned to talk to you after Ben’s mom left. “Look,” you started before he could say anything, “The ADA brought up a good point, I couldn’t say anything.” He nodded as you talked before speaking up himself, “Look, Y/N. I know you’re used to murky cases with blurred lines, but Ben is innocent. You have to defend him like he is.” You opened your mouth to say something but couldn’t find words. “I wanted you to take this case because it’s morally clean-” “Murder is morally clean? What kind of shoddy Catholic are you?” you interjected. He sighed, giving you a serious look in return, “Y/N. This is your new start.” You scoffed, making moves to brush past him until he held your arm. “Let go,” you said between clenched teeth. “Don’t tear yourself apart over this,” he said softly, low enough for only you to hear before letting go.

You meant to walk away, you really did, but this bit of you urged yourself to turn back to Matt, and so you did. “Who’s tearing themselves over this? Not me, Matt,” you said pointedly, ignoring the looks you got from the occasional passerby. “I’m helping you,” he replied, his posture a bit more relaxed. You chose not to reply, instead, you stared, hoping the glare you were giving him opened the lock that he seemed to keep on everything he somehow happened to know. “There was someone there,” he finally said, catching your attention. “Who?” you asked in a loud whisper, to which Matt shushed you for. You reluctantly apologized but leaned in to make sure no one else overheard. “I don’t know,” he said admittedly, “But that could be who killed her.” Part of you dreaded asking the question, but you had to, “How do you know it wasn’t Ben?” Matt stood, speechless for a moment, but in the end, he just shook his head, “It wasn’t.” “Matt,” you said softly, with the absence of the edge that your voice had carried towards him for the last couple of weeks, “How do you know it wasn’t Ben?”

“I don’t,” he replied finally, and maybe you should’ve felt happy at his admission for not knowing something. Finally, something that the ever omniscient Matthew Murdock didn’t know. But you didn’t. You felt bad, a twinge of guilt clouding your mind as you placed a hand on his arm. “I’ll fight this,” you reassured him, “I’m going to fight for him.” “Thank you,” Matt replied, with a smile and despite all that had happened, that devilish grin still made you swoon.

Over the past couple of months, you had found yourself letting a number of people into your apartment. Foggy, Karen. Matt. But the last person you expected to see outside of your apartment was your old boss, Malcolm Randall. “Malcolm,” you said as you spotted him while coming up the stairs. He seemed oddly out of place in your apartment building, he certainly seemed to feel the same way. “Y/N,” he replied in acknowledgment. “Can I help you?” you said, your voice signaling your confusion at his presence. He held up the box in his hands, similar to the one that had appeared at your apartment after your departure from your firm.

“Some of your things,” he said, holding the box out towards you. “I thought you already sent them,” you said, nevertheless taking the box. “Not all of it,” he replied, his speech curt. You wondered if the man held any animosity towards you, as the two of you had grown as close as you’d imagine you could while working on your last case together. Loyalty was valued at any top law firm, and your abrupt departure was not something that would reflect well on that. “Malcolm,” you started, cutting into the awkward silence between you as you leaned against the door of your apartment, “I’m… I’m sorry.” “Don’t be,” he said, reaching into the pocket in his coat to lay an envelope on top of the box you were holding. Caught by surprise, you didn’t say anything as he abruptly took off, leaving you alone.

“How much is it?” Matt asked over the phone. “Ten grand,” you replied gleefully, sipping at your glass of wine while staring at the check in your hand. You had opened the envelope Malcolm Randall had left you immediately after getting into your apartment, and at first, you were blown away by the glowing recommendation he had written you, so much that you hadn’t noticed the severance check that was in the envelope, too.

“That’s insane,” Matt’s voice commented through the speakerphone you had laid on your coffee table. “It is,” you agreed, “I guess I didn’t realize I had grown on him that much.” “Do you regret it?” Matt asked, and you found yourself able to answer the question without too much thought. “No,” you said sincerely, “I don’t. I like being… morally clean.” He chuckled at you quoting him from before and you imagined him at his desk, tie loosened and head leaning back as he talked to you. “Are we good?” he asked, cutting into your thoughts of him. “Yes,” you replied, only after a moment’s hesitation. Maybe it was the wine. “That’s good to know,” he hummed back, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “I really am sorry, Y/N,” he blurted and you shook your head as if he could see you. “I know, Matt,” you interrupted, “And I forgive you.” He said nothing but you knew he was smiling on the other side of the call. “Any plans for tonight?” he asked, and you held up your wine glass, examining the red liquid in the cup. “Just me, this court case, and some Chinese takeout,” you hummed into the phone, and as if on cue, your doorbell rang. “And that is my date for the night,” you said, getting up to grab your pocketbook. “Alright,” Matt said, “Call me if you need me.” “I’m an independent woman, Murdock,” you teased, moving towards your door. “Yeah, but let me know if you need a vigilante,” he laughed. You rolled your eyes, sure he could probably hear it through the phone, “Good night, Matt.”

Slipping the phone into your back pocket, you opened the door, pocketbook in hand to pay the delivery person. “How mu-” you started, only to be caught floored by the sight of the familiar man standing at your door. “Hey sweetheart,” he said, flashing a signature white smile. You swallowed audibly, stunned at the sight of the man who had been such an important part of your life, now suddenly having appeared at your doorstep. He chuckled, leaning down to kiss your cheek. You simply stood there, feeling the brush of his facial hair as he pressed his lips to your cheek before pulling back. Hand moving up to touch where his lips had just made contact with your skin, you looked at him with disbelief, somehow convinced that he would disappear just as suddenly as he had appeared. When he gave you a look, eyebrow raised in confusion, you were certain he wasn’t a figment of your imagination, that’s when you finally stepped back, letting him into your apartment.

He stepped in, navigating through the place expertly, almost as if he lived there. Which he had, a long time ago. “The necklace looks good on you,” he commented, leisurely sitting back into your armchair, “I knew it would.” You sat down across from him on your couch, your hands folded in your lap as you struggled to think of something to say. “Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” he said, the grin spread across his face signaling his amusement. “What are you doing here?” you asked finally, your voice level as not to give away what you were really feeling. He pouted in mock disappointment, “What? I’ve been gone for so long and that’s the first thing you say to me? Where’s the warm welcome, sweetheart?” You nodded, moving your shoulders back a few times to relax, before meeting his eyes and granting him a small smile.

“Hey, Billy.”

woooooahh BILLY RUSSO IS THAT YOU?? ok i feel like i had alluded to Y/N’s “B” being Billy and if you didn’t catch it... well NOW YA KNOW. i have a very clear idea of where this story is going and again, let me say that y’all are not ready and tbh, neither am i!

#stories-you-wont-hear #stories: due process #Matt Murdock #Matthew Murdock #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock fic #marvel daredevil #marvel #marvel fic #netflix daredevil

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adleryoung · 5 years

Photo

Well, that took care of Jerry for a while. How long would it take him to gather five copies of the book and bring them back, I wondered? Maybe I should have asked for more.

I thought about remaining in Fauxfox-form, since the lowfolk had been much more courteous toward me, and hadn't persistently demanded shoes. Then again, transmogrification disguises did have a tendency to become habit-forming the longer one stayed in them. And what would Jerry want from me, when and if he returned with the books? I realized with a shudder that shoes were probably the best thing he could demand from Relda Fauxfox, at least from my point of view.

Maybe I could get my Ixies to make shoes for me ... I would have to pursue that angle when the time came. But for now, it were best if I changed back to my normal self. However, I probably shouldn't do it out here in the open where somebody might potentially see.

I had pooked from the scryspace out here to the stone circle; theoretically I should be able to pook back. The only difficulty was that I had been able to see my destination out here, but on the way back I would have to do it "blind." This could be risky ... but I was going to have to learn to do it eventually anyway. Might as well try now. What did I have to lose?

I concentrated very carefully on visualizing every detail of the scrying chamber, and mentally placing myself within it.

A second later, I was in the chamber, in front of the orb, only two inches above the floor. "Not bad!" I thought, as I landed and bounced up & down excitedly. A very precise pook for my first attempt without looking!

Now that I was alone, I transmogrified back into my regular form and entered the scry-space.

Supposedly this device had been used for remote viewing, back in the days of the DV, so I thought I might be able to extend my perceptual range if I directed my attention toward points farther away. After peering through the tree-shaped hole at the stone circle outside, I gazed up toward the treetops and willed my vantage point up there.

Almost immediately I felt a physical lurch as if I had pooked, but I was slammed back through the hole into my scry-space. Had I just collided with the edge of Edessa's imprisoning geas? At any rate, I didn't want to pook to the treetops - I just wanted to see from there. I leaned back into the hole and tried again.

This time I shot up with stomach-churning speed to a point above the trees. I spun around and spied a village on the edge of the forest, a few miles away. Could this be Tulgeyside? I concentrated on Ethel and felt a sudden tug of yearning (by Fuma, her Wiles were potent!) drawing me toward the town.

My vision whizzed over the landscape with a speed that made me dizzy and slightly nauseated.

I seemed to pass right through the roof of a house, and into a room where Ethel was pacing nervously.

"Ahem," I said, politely.

"WHOZAT??" Ethel snapped, cringing while simultaneously lunging toward a low bureau. "If you voices are back, what I told you before still stands. I'm not torching the town til you deliver on your end of the bargain."

"Uhh, top o' the blarney to ye," I stammered. "Sure an' what is it ye moight be on about then?"

"Oh, is that you, Lord Randall?" she said, standing up and visibly relaxing. "Still sticking to the accent, even by telepathy huh? Well you're determined, I'll give you that."

"Sure an' this proves oi'm an elf, does it not?"

"Not completely, but it's a point in your favor," Ethel conceded. "Jerry just rushed through and packed a rucksack for a two days' journey. Said something about a beauteous fae lady. Was that any of your doing?"

"Oi moight have sent the lad on a wee bit of a quest," I chuckled. "One he'll not foind easy to complete."

"What did you tell him?"

"He's off to collect foive copies o' the Chanson du Percy," I gloated.

"Uhh," Ethel interjected, with a disappointed look. "You do know he can just go to Percysthorpe and buy them, right?"

#furry #elf #scrying #spying #story #plot #adventure #tboay

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ladygloucester · 7 years

Text

A common enemy - The confrontation

Previously...

Never heard before sounds reverberated in her ears. The agony screams, the gaelic slang, but above all, the steel. The clashing of the swords, the noise the blade made when it entered the flesh, the crash of life and death on the dirt. It was frenetic. The overwhelming fear, the uncertainty of the nearest future, the smell of demise burdening her nose. All her senses were sharpened and, at the same time, her mind was completely blocked faced with all the stimuli that flooded her.

Time slowed down to a painfully unhurried cadence. When the red dash of curls appeared through the door, her heart skipped a bit in panic, then resumed its beating, fast, runaway. The fear and her instincts kicked in and when the highlander began to come closer, Claire took advantage of his unexpected change of demeanor and threw her foot as hard as he could against his face, hitting him with a loud thud. Then she launched herself through the door, hoping to bypass the highlander and escape, but she miscalculated his strength. With gaelic profanity still ringing in her ears, she felt his arms surrounding roughly her waist and holding her over his shoulder.

“Let me go!! You fool, bloody brute!!“ She screamed while kicking.

“Watch it, meer. Ye might kick me once but next time I will treat ye as I do with my mules.”

But Claire didn’t stop fighting. When they both came out the carriage, her frantic skirmish made her hit her head with the threshold and dizziness took her senses away. Jamie felt her body get calmer, and allowed her to descend in front of him, sliding her against his chest, keeping his arms solidly wrapped around her waist and capturing her own arms under his bond. The men saw him and their faces varied from astonished to disappointed, in a colorful array of sneers, most of them directed at his bloody nose.

“Didna know Randall wore skirts these days,” said Angus causing a general burst of laughter in the middle of the adrenaline rush they all felt.

Dougal, however, didn’t laugh. Not even a sly smile crossing his thin lips. He accommodated his bonnet, and cleaned the blood of his mouth against the sleeve of his shirt. Jamie’s eyes watched his uncle while he slowly strode towards them. He felt the English woman resistance quietly subside, but still was there, dormant, just waiting for the concussion to go away. He made a gesture to Rupert, one of his clansmen, to get some rope and tie her hands, but as he was about get on with it, Dougal pulled out the rope from his hands, threw it to the ground and draw his dagger.

Just as he was unsheathing, Jamie pushed the woman behind him and put himself before her. Without Jamie’s support, she fell to the ground, numb and unaware of the rush of events that had developed in matter of seconds.

“Jamie lad, move. She canna live. She saw us.”

The faces of both men were close. Blue and brown eyes, defying each other. Jamie was one of the tallest man of the clan, but his uncle wasn’t any shorter. Silence overcame the scene, not even the wind dared to blow among the leaves. But where Dougal was impulsive and abrasive, Jamie had colder blood. He knew how to restrain his anger and contemplate honestly what was right and wrong. And killing that woman was wrong.

“We dinna ken who she is. We dinna even ken if she has anything to do wi' Randall.”

The tone of his voice was soft, as always. Low and rich, but there was a firm edge to it. Even though his eyes never left his uncle’s he was well aware of where the dagger was, and how he’d stop it if it came to that. Dougal was waiting for this. For a chance to measure himself against his sister’s bairn. The only one that, if things went sourly, could deprive him of ruling the clan one day. There was more at stake than the life of a wench. It was a clash of powers, of minds, and of different ways of seeing life and justice. After a silence that seemed to last forever, Jamie’s voice quietly filled the moment.

“We maun take her with us and fin’ out who she is. For nou she’s under my protection.”

Placing her under his direct protection was a bold move, and Dougal knew it. The clans law still ruled those hills and meadows, and when a highlander declared in this way, only killing him would deter him from fulfilling his promise. That woman wouldn’t die if Jamie didn’t first, and there was no time for it. Not yet, at least.

When Claire regained some control over her senses, the first thing she felt was the rope, rough and painfully tied around her wrists. Testing its strength, she realized it wasn’t too tight, but enough for it to be undoable. With a sigh leaving her parched lips, she leaned back to rest, only to realize the context of the situation. Between her legs there was a splendid Arab horse, and riding behind her with one arm around her waist and the other holding the reigns, there was a man, and not a little one. The shock was probably tangible in her body, because a familiar low voice spoke almost into her hair and sent chills over her spine.

“It was about time, lass. Thought ye’d sleep till the morn… No, dinna try to,” he warned her while tightening his grip on her. “Ye’d probably fall off the horse, and it’s not a nice way to start off yer day, losing all those pretty teeth.”

“My day already started with an almost decapitated soldier in my carriage. Don’t think it can get any worse,” she barked under her breath while he let out a low, quiet laugh, but stopped shaking the rope. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere ye can rest. We all can. ’Tis been a rough night for all of us.”

After a while, the dizziness was completely gone and replaced by a pounding headache. The blow against the threshold must have caused a gash in her temple, where she felt the skin tender and wet. The hours flowed slowly, excruciatingly slow. Her hips began to ache from the riding and even though at first she tried not to, Claire gave up and leaned against her captor. He didn’t seem to mind, as he stood straight on the horse, with the mastery of someone who is accustomed to long journeys on the saddle.

The sun was low when the group decided to stop. To avoid being seen, they had left the road aside and the ride was a test of resilience for everyone. The man who appeared to be in charge restrained his horse and looked around, inspecting the turf.

“Aye, we camp here for the night. Tend to the horses first.”

The redheaded highlander riding behind her got off the horse more gracefully than it was expected for a man of his size, and grabbed her waist to help her down. His hands felt strong, and when she stood on the ground, she could feel the heat irradiating from his body, only inches away from hers. His cinnamon curls stuck to his forehead with a mixture of sweat, blood and drizzle, and obscured his deep blue eyes, who lingered upon her a bit more than it seemed necessary.

He then grabbed her rope and drove her carefully to a tree nearby, helping her sit by the trunk.

“Dinna move or try to run. Ye ken you willna make it far before we get you.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement. With her hands tied, the soreness of her body longing for a warm bead and the headache making her feel the blood rushing through her brain, there was no chance she could plot an escape. Let alone fulfill it. She nodded silently and laid back against the wet bark, closing her eyes.

The small camp was instilled with life. Every man knew what he was supposed to do, and while the redheaded was in charge of the horses, others prepared the bonfire and a couple of them left to inspect the vicinity with small bows. The sun was already setting and darkness expanding over the crown of the trees when the man who captured her returned, followed suit by two of the men carrying two small rabbits.

She hadn’t realize how hungry she was until the smell of the stew started to smoke. And then, it all hit her at once, unleashing a wave of fear that shook her to the bone. She was alone in the forest, with outlaws and murderers that had exterminated her whole caravan. As much as she knew, they could kill her in her sleep and they seemed pretty favorable to the idea in her eyes, all together a few feet away from her, whispering in gaelic and looking at her over their shoulders. No masters of discretion, that��s for sure.

“Who d'ye think she is?” Rupert asked, hands on his hips.

“The best way to fin’ out is to ask her.” Jamie grabbed the flask that was being passed along and took a long sip. He looked around and turned to the woman sat by the tree, squatting down in front of her and offering the flask. She refused with a gesture of her tied hands, but Jamie insisted. “'It willna fill your belly, but it will make ye forget you're hungry”. She slowly nodded and grabbed the flask, taking a long sip before returning it.

“Why are you taking me with you?” She inquired with a spark of pride flying in her eyes. Jamie smiled and covered the flask.

“We dinna ken who you are, Sassenach. It would help your situation to throw some light on the subject.”

Her eyes dropped and Jamie could see her mind running wild. Obviously she was going to lie, but at least he was willing to give her the chance to tell the truth.

“We dinna want to hurt you. We can, and some of us are more willing than others,” he added looking slightly over his shoulder, “but you are safe with me. Ye need not be scairt of me. Nor anyone else here, so long as I'm with ye.”

The woman looked him straight in the eye, confused, surprised and still not fully trusting him. It didn’t matter. He had uttered the words and would die, if it came to it, to keep his word.

It was stupid to trust him, that’s for sure. But there was something in his eyes, some sort of… Comfort? Sincerity? She couldn’t put a name to it, but it was warm. And inviting.

“You’re asking me who I am and for all that I know, you’re just a kidnapper and a fugitive.”

A smirk started to appear in his lips and a small chuckle followed it.

“Fair is fair, Sassenach. I’m Jamie.“

“Claire.”

Next…

#Outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander fic #ladygoutlanderfic #Jamie Fraser #jamie x claire #claire beauchamp #a common enemy

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