aslant

3D Lashes updated.

I updated my lashes.
Fixed an issue about the lashes clipping through a hair with texture alpha.

Thank you to Irina for giving me information!

The lashes will not be drawn front of bangs any more.
When a sim moves her head aslant,a hair clips the lashes,though… well,it’s the regrettable behavior of “SimGlass” shader.

Anyway,if you’ve got my lashes,and you usually use custom hairs with texture alpha, I hope you to see my blog for the details and update my lashes.

3D Lashes Version2

3D Lashes Version2 for Kids

3D Lashes Version2 for Skin Detail

3D Lashes Curly Edition

3D Lashes for Kids

3Dまつ毛、更新しました

透過ヘアと一緒に使用した際、まつ毛が前髪等の手前に描かれてしまう問題を修正しました。
ただ、シェーダーの問題自体は根本的に回避はできていないので、シムが斜めを向いた時に、前後が反転するので、奥に描かれるはずの髪の毛がまつ毛の上に描かれてしまいます・・・
とりあえず、正面向きの不都合は回避できるので、それだけでも違和感は軽減できると思います。

Irinaさん、情報ありがとうございます!

詳しくは本ブログにてご確認下さい。上記リンク、またはこちらから

A Hundred Lesser Faces: (Seven)


Notes from Mod Bonnie

  • This story stems from the premise: what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh?

Many a red-headed man I’d passed on the long road from Lallybroch. Every single time, my stupid, desperate heart had leapt with joy; and every time, I cursed myself for the fool that I was. For Christ’s SAKE, why the bloody hell should he be on the road from Inverness, Beauchamp? Jamie Fraser is south, in Edinburgh, with his wife. With his daughters. Happy. So, pull yourself together. 

So deep had been my longing, though, that my traitorous eyes had tried over and over to convince me that it might be, it MIGHT be this time! (even when the actual travelers hadn’t looked remotely like Jamie). Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, one had been a very tall boy no more than twelve, and I still had had to see his face from ten feet before I would allow my heart to quiet. Not him. Not him. 

Blind hope, indeed. 

But this time, as I whirled and fell on the hillside, heart exploding, in a single moment, I was certain. Even from a great distance, even two decades later, even not yet able to see his face through the snow-flecked gloom, even had he not been screaming my name, yes, I’d know the shape of that man anywhere. It was Jamie, tearing toward me on horseback, riding like the hounds of hell were at his heels. And the SIGHT of him? A relief and a love smashed through me, so deep and so visceral that I staggered downward; not running, not even making my way down the hill;  just slipping, pulled toward his orbit. 

Alive. I had known for months, believed, had confirmation from Jenny herself, and yet the proof was now there before my eyes. Not under a stone on Culloden Moor; that nightmare was now banished forever. Jamie Fraser was ALIVE.

I saw him kick hard, spurring the horse to an even more astonishing pace—how loudly must he have been screaming that I had been able to hear him from so far away?—and found myself bursting out with joyous laughter at the way his shirt flapped like a sail in the wind. Nothing changed, then, if the ridiculous man had ridden without a coat or a cloak against the wind and the sn—


Wife. 

No.

Daughters.

Please….please, no.

This changes absolutely nothing, Beauchamp. This ends with you going through those stones, sooner or later. Make it sooner. 

But he came for me—Jamie came! He’s HERE.

He’s happy. He may have come, but he’s happy.  Don’t make him suffer by forcing this impossible choice. 

Just let me say goodbye.

Please. 

Let me hold him, just for —

Beauchamp: 

Can you honestly do what needs to be done if you have to look him in the eye and pull yourself out of his arms?


“CLAIRE!—What are ye—? S T O P !”

I was running up the hill, stumbling and tripping, going as fast as I could. I couldn’t stop. If I looked at him—If I touched him…

Everything seemed to slow to single frames, impressions:


The slow shrill cry of my breaths,

the grass suddenly inches from my nose as I staggered low over a boulder.

Hoofbeats, closer, louder.


I’m running for my life through quicksand,

every footfall sinking me deeper, and slower, as the monster gets closer and closer and—


A fierce whinny, a curse.

A voice— my voice—screaming. “STAY AWAY!”

Boots hitting the ground,

“CLAIRE, STOP!


Running, both of us running,  

and I couldn’t stop.

I must not st—


Time smashed into its normal pace again as I fell, mere yards from the crest of the hill, and cried out in pain.

“CLAIRE!” God, he was so close, pounding up the hill behind me, no more than thirty—

Don’t!” I shouted as I scrambled to my feet. 

“CLAI—”

“DO—NOT—TOUCH—ME!”  I screamed it over my shoulder with all the violence I possessed, a feral beast, cornered and ready to go for the throat as it went down.

Silence fell on the faerie hill. Stillness, and absolute silence.

When human thought returned, I was on my feet at the very top of the hill, the stones screaming their evil song behind me. My body was slung sideways, both arms raised in defense; my head hung at an improbable angle so as to look nowhere, see nothing: not the stones, not him. It was elemental in my body, in that moment: the absolute imperative not to look at him. If I could keep from looking, keep from getting trapped in those eyes, everything would be alright.

It was a ridiculous logic, I knew; somewhere in the recesses of my consciousness, that was obvious. Jamie Fraser was HERE. He wouldn’t simply let me walk away unacknowledged; but such was the depth of my panic and hysteria that I couldn’t move. I was bare millimeters from completely falling apart, abandoning all my noble resolve, and flinging myself into his arms, begging him to choose me  take me and damn the fucking consequences.

But it still wouldn’t change a bloody thing, the rational half of my mind whimpered. He would still be married. He would still have his children. We still could not be together, or at least not under any circumstances that honor would permit. I still could not force him to make that choice. 

Hold yourself together, Beauchamp. No tears, remember? You said you could do the same for him; could be calm and sure for him. Now, do it. Stand strong.

“….Mo nighean donn?”

That flower-stem snap.

That voice—Jamie’s sweet, clear voice; my very heart speaking aloud, quietly, but with every ounce of pain and longing that I felt in my own breast. 

Look at me, mo nighean donn.”

Stand. strong.

My mouth was dry and my entire body was shaking, each word an effort. “— Can't—”

A sudden, vicious snarl. “LOOK at me!”

I half-growled, half screamed, “I—CANT!” 

Desperate. So desperate, that ‘can’t’. I was shaking. Going into shock, in fact. Could feel the darkness and the manic energy and the absolute inability to retrieve words or actions closing—

Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.” 

He said it like he always said his own name: low and distinct, with honor in every syllable.  

BE STRONG.

“I have ridden,” he said, in a voice so quiet and deep and measured, “night and day for nigh on a week, terrified that—terrified th—*Please,*” His calm vanished and the words were tumbling out of him in a frantic rush. “Please, for the love ye bear me, for the love that brought ye to find meTURN.”

STAND.

God, but I can’t stand.

“By everything that is holy…” A whispered moan. “Let me see your face, mo ghraidh.

….and damn my weak, foolish heart, I turned. I looked.


Day and night for a week, he’d said, and I believed it. Even at a distance of twenty feet down the hill, I could see just how bloodshot his eyes were, wide and wild. He was pale, underneath the red of wind and exertion, paler than I remembered. That glorious hair was now worn long. If it had been tied back, the ride and the wind had undone it. It was wild and tangled, whipping about his face, his chin covered in stubble that nearly amounted to a beard. His clothes—nothing but shirt, breeks and boots— were filthy and torn and splattered with mud. He looked, quite simply, dead on his feet.

He was the most beautiful sight I’d ever beheld.

God, you’re so like her, I wanted to moan. I’d known it, had had my heart broken every day to see the proof of him in our daughter, and yet seeing him now before me, I was absolutely run through to find her broad, good-humored face there, the same dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones and wide mouth. 

He’d aged, of course, as had I. The lines around eyes and mouth were deeper, the skin more weathered and coarse, but it was still him. His nose had been broken, at some point. It made him look fiercer, though perhaps that was simply fatigue and the vast waves of emotion obviously rushing through him, through us both. 

Jamie had staggered back a pace or two back as he stared up at me, nearly toppling down the steep incline. “Jesus….Christ…” he whispered. The back of his hand was pressed to his mouth as though to stifle a cry, “You’re….You….” The hand became a fist and he shook his head as a gasping smile broke from him. “Claire—God, Claire, mo chridhe!” He moved, about to sprint up the hill. 

I jumped backward. Raised my arms against him. No.

Hurt. Betrayal. Pain. It was as though I had shot him at point-blank range…And something deeper shone beneath it all: some blazing intensity I couldn’t quite identify. He looked as though he would bleed out there on the spot, from this newest wound. 

So will I, my love. 

But he heeded me, standing completely still. His hands shook, half-raised before him. He simply didn’t know what to do with them—I knew because I didn’t know what to do with mine. His mouth worked as he tried to speak, to ask, to say something, but failing. Those eyes held everything, though. Pleading.

Silence on the hill. Silence and screaming. 

“You—survived,” I managed at last, weakly, with something like a laugh.

“Aye—” He exhaled in a huge rush, clearly grateful that I’d broken the stalemate. “It was a verra close thing.” He spoke fast and frantically, babbling, even, as though terrified to let silence fall again. “I should have died in the battle, or from the firing squads after, or of my wounds festering, but— Aye, I—I was—spared.”

“Thank God,” I whispered, and his eyes lit with such hope and relief that I could have cut my bloody tongue out at the root.

STOP this instant, Beauchamp. Nothing has changed.

Jamie was the one to break the silence, this time. “Your letter,” he gasped out.

“You read it, then?” A stupid thing to say. He’d obviously read it, but I clung to conversation just as he had. The stupid words were something, something to keep from falling off the edge of this insanity. “When?”

“By providence, I arrived at Lallybroch the same day you’d left, and….Oh, God, CLAIRE….”

Oh, God, Jamie. 

Each time my name left him, it seemed to tear a piece out of both of us. I could only look down at him, waiting.

“When I saw your hand on that letter,” he said, voice shaking uncontrollably, “the print of your ring in the wax, I …”

He shook his head, at a loss, mouthing it over and over. I…I….

Through the snow, though darkness was creeping steadily around us, I could see the first tear sliding down his cheek. “….I felt as though I were dying.”

So did I. So do I.

“To know you’d survived—that you’d come back, and—and,” his eyes lit up. “Brianna.”

From his lips, our daughter’s name sounded like strange music from another world, and I wanted to listen to it forever.

“It would have been enough—more than enough—only to ken our bairn had lived, that the both of ye had lived and been cared for, but to….Claire, I simply couldna believe my eyes.” He shook his head, violently. “To see…to SEE the lass…our daughter.” Jamie released his sobbing breath and closed his eyes, holding out his hands before him, tears streamed down his cheeks. “Her entire life, there before me… and she so happy and so braw and bonny and—God, it tore out my beating heart.” He heaved a breath and smiled up at me, beaming with love and joy, though it was difficult for him to get out the words. “She’s—more wonderful than I ever could have imagined, mo ghraidh….Our Brianna.”

I forced a smile and choked down a sob. “I’m so honored,” I whispered, so haltingly, so carefully, so, so carefully, “to have been able—to bring her to you, in some way.”

My love.

My own love.


Nothing has changed.

I know. 


I took a step, two steps, backward toward the stones. This was the part where I was to be strong. 

Jamie’s eyes snapped into laser-focus, a predator’s, and that unknown intensity I’d seen earlier flamed now into life. It was anger

“Why would ye just GO?” His voice was still wretched with pain but he was snarling, stammering, growling in mounting fury. “Ye—ye came for me and—Ye came all the way from your time through the stones and then meant to go back and leave forever wi’out even—Damn ye, woman, ye didna even—If I hadna come just in time—Foolish—wretched, FOOLISH—” He hurled the demand toward me with his entire body. “WHY?”

“You *know* why.” It was all but a moan. 

He growled again. “Ye dinna ken —” 

“I know that you’re married,” I got out, moving sideways around the rim of the hill, countering his advance. “I know you have children. Jenny told me everything—how hap—”

“No, Claire, ye dinna understand!” Something had shifted in his eyes — relief? — and he was once again still, though scarcely fifteen feet in front of me down the hill. “Jenny lied. She lied, Claire,” he insisted, the words falling out of him. “She lied and made ye think I was—”

You’re not  ??”

Jenny lied! Thank the bloody stars above, the horrible bitch LIED!!! Jesus H— 

My smile broke through like the dawn, a blaze of glorious, raging happiness as I gasped out, “Then, you’re not married?”

And I watched as that hope shriveled and vanished to dust. His eyes dropped to the ground. “I am marrit.”

I swayed, eyes closed. I couldn’t bear this any longer, couldn’t take this agony raging in my heart, both the emotional and the physical heart. I felt light-headed, felt pain in my limbs. I couldn’t be strong. I couldn’t.

Just a little while longer. Say your farewell, and be gone. It will be alright, Beauchamp. 

“Then she didn’t lie,” I said, simply, my throat burning with the effort not to wail. “You have a wife and two beautiful daughters.” I caught my breath and opened my eyes, managing to smile, though I was so very near the brink. “I meant what I wrote in the letter. Every single word. I want you to be happy—and I’m glad that you are. I’m glad that you have a family and that they have made you happy.”

His brows were drawn up, making him look absolutely crazed. He mouthed the word like he’d never heard it before. Happy?

“But I—” Somehow, I kept up the smile as I whispered through wooden lips and burning throat and the tears. “—but it means—that I have—to go, now— before—”

“NO,” he snarled, springing with sudden force. I staggered still further away around the hill as he bellowed, “You’ll NOT—”

“BE STILL!” I bellowed back.

And once again, he heeded me. 

“For God’s fucking SAKE, you bloody — Scot!” I shouted down at him, suddenly just as furious as he. “Have you NO notion of what — Don’t you understand? I’m giving you up! I’m letting you go!” I gestured wildly behind me to the stones, choking on my tears. “I’m leaving so you don’t have to choose! Do you think I’m so arrogant as to believe I’m worth upending your happy—”

“DAMN YOU, woman, I havena been HAPPY in TWENTY YEARS!”


Silence on the faerie hill. Silence and screaming. 


When he spoke again, it was once more in that quiet, aching whisper.

“Jenny led ye to believe otherwise and may she be damned for it.” He took a step forward, pointing.  “But in that letter, ye renewed a promise to me; and I’ll give ye the same, now.” Another step. 

I stepped back. 

He surrendered, went to his knees, hands clenched in the posture of oath-taking. “No lies, Claire.” His eyes blazed into mine. “Nor secrets. Not ever. Not now. I swear it on Brianna’s life.”

God, my heart…

“Will ye hear what I have to tell?” 

…it simply couldn’t take this.

But I nodded. 


“I left Laoghaire more than a year past.”

LAOGHAIRE?!?”

The outburst was so violent, so loud and so shrill in the wake of my long silence, that it startled us both. Jamie had to put a hand out to steady himself as he jumped, and the acute panic of a fresh hell showed across his face.  “She—Jenny didna—?”

“No, she BLOODY well DIDN’T!”

“Aye, well—ah …ehm…Claire?” 

He was peering leerily up at me, and little wonder, for I was laughing—actually, CACKLING with laughter, hands clutched to my belly as I doubled over with it. 

“No, Jenny didn’t tell me who,” I sighed, when I had calmed down (marginally). “The only detail your darling sister deigned to divulge about your wife—” 

Of all people. Of ALL the marriageable women in all the bleeding Highlands. He had married —had had children with—loved—

All levity, all scorn dropped out of me, and my voice cracked, a whispering shell. “—was that you were happier with her than she’d ever seen you….And that you had two little girls that call you Da.”

“But they’re not mine, Claire. They’re not mine,” Jamie said again more urgently as I stared. He gritted his teeth. “And I shall wring my sister’s neck for a wicked liar when next I see her, for she kens fine that I’ve not had ninety-nine happy minutes in that marriage since it began.”

I was so cold. Frozen, in every cell. 

“Two years ago, we wed,” he began carefully. “She was marrit before, twice, and found herself a widow wi’ two bairns to feed just as I was newly come back from England.” 

His words were running together, a bit. There was so much warring within him, so much he clearly wished to say, but cold and fatigue and emotion were taking their devastating toll.  

“I’m fond of her lassies—Marsali and Joan. They’re aged fifteen and twelve and have had a cruel, rough way of it, in lives so short. Wi’ all that they’ve endured, I was glad—honored, even— for them to take me into their hearts as a father, but hear me, Claire.” He held my eye. “I’ve shared scarce more wi’ them than what loving gentleness I could offer, and a scant few months of meals shared ‘round the same table. No more.” He shook his head with a sound of shame and regret. “Christ, I sound an unfeeling wretch. I do care for them, I do.

But they weren’t born of his love; nor had he had a hand in raising them.

“Their mother…She…”

She. 

“I did have hope, at the beginning; hope that perhaps there could be some — tenderness between us. Nothing like—” He make a vain gesture up at me and closed his eyes, as though he couldn’t bear it. “—like what I kent it could be between a husband and wife, but something good to keep me sane; keep me alive….Can ye see?…Have ye kent that same hope, Claire?…. Only she couldna; or I couldna. I’ll accept the blame in full, but in the end, the ‘why’ and ‘who’ dinna matter. It was a broken thing within months, and I knew that if I’d stayed….” 

He hung his head, and for the first time, I could truly see the twenty years that had gone from his life. 

“I left for Edinburgh; have been there ever since. I provide for them, but I havena called Balriggan home for over a year…nor shared her bed since long before that.”  

The wind whistled between us. What he was saying…

I was numb. I was…It was like I was underwater, with news being shouted to me from dry land as I slowly drowned. 

“I’ve lain wi’ three women, since you’ve been gone,” he blurted suddenly, urgently against my silence, his voice so miserable, his eyes imploring. “Laoghaire, and two single-night encounters, and from one of those—From one of those nights…”

Oh, Jesus…

“William,” he whispered, nodding in confirmation, his eyes absolutely wretched but shining with the need to confess. “He’s a — a bastard, in England, and I shall never see him again. I’ve never told anyone of him, not even Jenny or Ian. His mother, his putative father—they’re both dead. He’s highborn, in the care of a man I trust. John will give him a good life; better than ever a convicted traitor could.” 

He closed his eyes and I could see his mouth working furiously as he tried both to form words and to hold back his weeping. “But he’s my son,” he whispered. “My only son, alive in the world because of me, and he’s bonny and canty and strong, just like Brianna, and there are days when I canna seem to live wi’out seeing him, holding him, or —” And he went silent, hiding his face in his hands until he could manage to speak. “Nor can I regret that he lives, for those years I had near Willie were the closest thing I’ve had to—to — And that only a shell of what….”

He raised a hand up as though he would cup my cheek across the chasm between us; then dropped it. Both hands lay on his thighs, aimless. 

“No. Happiness has not been granted me, Claire.” He stared at his palms, speaking in the barest, broken murmur. “My heart left wi’ you and the bairn; and while it is my duty to go on, to care for those under my protection, as I shall do, I’ve had little joy save the knowledge that at the end, I’d die and be able to find ye, just as I promised. Two hundred years, I said I’d wait. I’ve been counting.”

The snowflakes danced around us in the near-night, oblivious to desperation or to miraculous sparks catching in dark, deep places. 

“And to then learn in a moment that you’d come back…”

I tried to speak; but I was shaking so hard that I couldn’t open my mouth. I clenched it tight, feeling the tears slipping over my lips. 

“Claire?” he moaned, reaching out a hand. “…Lass?…Love?…I feel as if I shall die if I canna touch ye….Please.”

My knees had locked — everything within me had locked, between Jamie and the cold— and as I tried to adjust my footing, I accidentally stumbled backward a pace.

Despair escaped out of him and he jumped up as though to run to me, but he thought better of it, and came back down to his knees.

“Twice, I brought ye here to send ye away, mo nighean donn, because I knew a better life awaited ye on the other side of those accursed stones. Perhaps it does, this day, as well, but this time, I shall beg. Don’t go.” 

He raised both clawed hands to me. The tears were flowing so violently and his face was so deeply contorted so as to be barely recognizable. 

“Don’t go. Stay wi’ me. Stay. I canna…I canna do it…Please.*please*….”  

I was paralyzed, completely immobilized by — by —

“Is it too much to forgive, Claire?” came the cracked moan of my heart through the darkness that had suddenly hidden him from me entirely. “Laoghaire and—and William? Do… do ye not want me?”

God, Jamie…” I whispered, so softly that surely only the grass and the snow could hear. 

It was the first time I had said his name aloud to him.

“….you’re all I want.”


“Then  what   else   matters?”


“….Nothing.”


Nothing else mattered.

And I was flying down to him, and he was flying off his knees to catch me, and the feeling of his arms around me, of Jamie’s arms around me at last was —

Like lightning, striking upon the sand. A flash of light, of power, instantly transforming the hundreds of tiny fragments— the millions of shards weathered to all but nothing by time—into a single, molten one. A whole. 


END OF PART I

I was asked by someone to spoil the reunion scene for them, so of course I was more than happy to comply 😏 Without further ado, I give you The Print Shop.


A. MALCOLM
PRINTER and BOOKSELLER

I stretched out my hand and touched the black letters of the name. A. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Perhaps.

Another minute, and I would lose my nerve. I shoved open the door and walked in.

There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tracked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.

The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.

“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the–”

“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”

He straightened up very slowly. He wore his hair long; a thick tail of a deep, rich auburn sparked with copper. I had time to see that the neat ribbon that tied it back was green, and then he turned around.

He stared at me without speaking. A tenor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed, but still he didn’t say anything.

It was the same broad, good-humored face, dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones of a Viking, long mouth curling at the ends as though always on the verge of smiling. The line surrounding eyes and mouth were deeper, of course. The nose had changed just a bit. The knife-edge bridge was slightly thickened near the base by the ridge of an old, healed fracture. It made him look fiercer, I thought, but lessened the air of aloof reserve, and lent his appearance a new rough charm.

I walked through the flap in the counter flap, seeing nothing but that unblinking stare. I cleared my throat.

“When did you break your nose?”

The corners of the wide mouth lifted slightly.

“About three minutes after I last saw ye – Sassenach.”

There was a hesitation, almost a question in the name. There was no more than a foot between us. I reached out tentatively and touched the tiny line of the break, where the bone pressed white against the bronze of his skin.

He flinched backward as though an electric spark had arced between us, and the calm expression shattered.

“You’re real,” he whispered. I had thought him pale already. Now all vestiges of color drained from his face. His eyes rolled up and he slumped to the floor in a shower of papers and oddments that had been sitting on the press – he fell rather gracefully for such a large man, I thought abstractedly.

It was only a faint; his eyelids were beginning to flutter by the time I knelt beside him and loosened the stock at his throat. I had no doubts at all by now, but still I looked automatically as I pulled the heavy linen away. It was there, of course, the small triangular scar just above the collarbone, left by the knife of Captain Jonathan Randall, Esquire, of his Majesty’s Eighth Dragoons.

His normal healthy color was returning. I sat cross-legged on the floor and hoisted his head onto my thigh. His hair felt thick and soft in my hand. His eyes opened.

“That bad, is it?” I said, smiling down at him with the same words he had used to me on the day of our wedding, holding my head in his lap, twenty-odd years before.

“That bad, and worse, Sassenach,” he answered, mouth twitching with something almost a smile. He sat up abruptly, staring at me.

“God in heaven, you are real!”

“So are you.” I lifted my chin to look up at him. “I th-thought you were dead.” I had meant to speak lightly, but my voice betrayed me. The tears spilled down my cheeks, only to soak into the rough cloth of his shirt as he pilled me hard against him.

I shook so that it was some time before I realized that he was shaking, too, and for the same reason. I don’t know how long we sat there on the dusty floor, crying in each other’s arms with the longing of twenty years spilling down our faces.

His fingers twined hard in my hair, pulling it loose so that it tumbled down my neck. The dislodged pins cascaded over my shoulders and pinged on the floor like pellets of hail. My own fingers were clasped around his forearm, digging into the linen as though I were afraid he would disappear unless physically restrained.

As though gripped by the same fear, he suddenly grasped me by the shoulders and held me away from him, staring desperately into my face. he put his hand to my cheek, and traced the bones over and over again, oblivious to my tears and to my abundantly running nose.

I sniffed loudly, which seemed to bring him to his senses, for he let go and groped hastily in his sleeve for a handkerchief, which he used clumsily to swab at first at my face, then his own.

“Give me that.” I grabbed the erratically waving swatch of cloth and blew my nose firmly. “Now you.” I handed him the cloth and watched as he blew his nose with a noise like a strangled goose. I giggled, undone with emotion.

He smiled too, knuckling the tears away from his eyes, unable to stop staring at me.

Suddenly I couldn’t bear not touching him. I lunged at him, and he got his arms up just in time to catch me. I squeezed until I could hear his ribs crack, and felt his hands roughly caressing my back as he said my name over and over.

At last I could let go, and sat back a little. He glanced down at the floor between his legs, frowning.

“Did you lose something?” I asked, surprised.

He looked up and smiled, a little shyly.

“I was afraid I’d lost hold altogether and pissed myself, but it’s all right. I’ve just sat on the alepot.”

Sure enough, a pool of aromatic brown liquid was spreading slowly beneath him. With a squeak of alarm, I scrambled to my feet and helped him up. After trying vainly to assess the damage behind, he shrugged and unfastened his breeches. He pushed the tight fabric down over his haunches, then stopped and looked at me, blushing slightly.

“It’s all right,” I said, feeling a rich blush stain my own cheeks. “We’re married.” I cast my eyes down, nonetheless, feeling a little breathless. “At least, I suppose we are.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then a smile curved his wide, soft mouth.

“Aye, we are,” he said. Kicking free of the stained breeches, he stepped toward me.

I stretched out a hand toward him, as much to stop as to welcome him. I wanted more than anything to touch him again, but was unaccountably shy. After so long, how were we to start again?

He felt the constraint of mingled shyness and intimacy as well. Stopping a few inches from me, he took my hand. He hesitated for a moment, then bent his head over it, his lips barely brushing my knuckles. His fingers touched the silver ring and stopped there, holding the metal lightly between thumb and forefinger.

“I never took it off,” I blurted. It seemed important he should know that. He squeezed my hand lightly, but he didn’t let go.

“I want–” He stopped and swallowed, still holding my hand. His fingers found and touched the silver ring once more. “I want verra much to kiss you,” he said softly. “May I do that?”

The tears were barely dammed. Two more welled up and overflowed; I felt them, full and round, roll down my cheeks.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He drew me slowly close to him, holding our linked hands just under his breast.

“I havena done this for a verra long time,” he said. I saw the hope and the fear dark in the blue of his eyes. I took the gift and gave it back to him.

“Neither have I,” I said softly.

His hands cupped my face with exquisite gentleness, and he set his mouth on mine.

I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting. A reprise of the pounding fury that had accompanied our final parting? I had remembered that so often, lived it over in memory, helpless to change the outcome. The half-rough, timeless hours of mutual possession in the darkness of our marriage bed? I had longed for that, wakened often sweating and trembling from the memory of it.

But we were strangers now, barely touching, each seeking the way toward joining, slowly, tentatively, seeking and giving unspoken permission with our silent lips. My eyes were closed, and I knew without looking that Jamie’s were, as well. We were, quite simply, afraid to look at each other.

Without raising his head, he began to stroke me lightly, feeling my bones through my clothes, familiarizing himself again with the terrain of my body. At last his hand t raveled down my arm and caught my right hand. His fingers traced my hand until the found the ring again, and circled it, feeling the interlaced silver of the Highland pattern, polished with long wear, but still distinct.

His lips moved over mind, across my cheeks and eyes. I gently stroked his back, feeling through his shirt the marks I couldn’t see, the remnants of old scars, like my ring, worn but still distinct.

“I’ve seen ye so many times,” he said, his voice whispering warm in my ear. “You’ve come to me so often. When I dreamed sometimes. When I lay in fever. When I was so afraid and so lonely I knew I must die. When I needed you, I would always see ye, smiling, with your hair curling up about your face. But ye never spoke. And ye never touched me.”

“I can touch you now.” I reached up and drew my hand gently down his temple, his ear, the cheek and jaw that I could see. My hand went to the nape of his neck, under the clubbed bronze hair, and he raised his head at last, and cupped my face between my hands, love glowing strong in the dark blue eyes.

Dinna be afraid,” he said softly. “There’s the t w o  of  u s  now.”

~ Voyager, Chapter 24, “A. Malcolm, Printer”

A. MALCOLM, PRINTER

Jamie. There it was; the anchor point to which I had clung, my single hold on sanity. I breathed slow and deep, hands folded over my pounding heart, summoning Jamie’s face. For a moment, I thought I had lost him, and then it came, clear and bold in my mind’s eye.

A. Malcolm. The name kept running through my mind like an anthem of hope. A. Malcolm. It had to be Jamie, it simply had to! James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.

The coach debouched into a yard at the back of Boyd’s Whitehorse tavern, near the foot of the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. The passengers emerged into the watery sunshine like newly hatched chrysalids, rumpled of wing and jerky in movement, unaccustomed to mobility. After the dimness of the coach, even the cloudy gray light of Edinburgh seemed blinding.

Originally posted by nighean--donn

I turned and darted up the slope of the Royal Mile, moving as quickly as my voluminous skirts would allow, jostling and bumping my way through the crowd. I had had the luck to pick a market day for my arrival, and I was soon lost to sight from the coachyard among the luckenbooths and oyster sellers who lined the street.

Originally posted by jamesandclairefraser

Carfax Close. I edged my way back into the crowd, pressing close to the buildings, to avoid the occasional shower of slops that splattered into the street from the windows high above. There were several thousand people in Edinburgh, and the sewage from all of them was running down the gutters of the cobbled street, depending on gravity and the frequent rain to keep the city habitable.The low, dark opening to Carfax Close yawned just ahead, across the expanse of the Royal Mile. I stopped dead, looking at it, my heart beating hard enough to be heard a yard away, had anyone been listening.

Originally posted by manders1984

It was a longish, winding close, and the printshop was at the foot. There were thriving businesses and tenements on either side, but I had no attention to spare for anything beyond the neat white sign that hung by the door.

A. MALCOLM

PRINTER AND BOOKSELLER

it said, and beneath this, Books, calling cards, pamphlets, broadsheets, letters, etc.

I stretched out my hand and touched the black letters of the name. A. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Perhaps.

Originally posted by manders1984

Another minute, and I would lose my nerve. I shoved open the door and walked in.

There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tacked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.

The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.

“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—”

“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”

Originally posted by justfollowyourdreams

He straightened up very slowly. He wore his hair long; a thick tail of a deep, rich auburn sparked with copper. I had time to see that the neat ribbon that tied it back was green, and then he turned around.

He stared at me without speaking. A tremor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed, but still he didn’t say anything.

Originally posted by thebookboyfriendharem

It was the same broad, good-humored face, dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones of a Viking, long mouth curling at the ends as though always on the verge of smiling. The lines surrounding eyes and mouth were deeper, of course. The nose had changed just a bit. The knife-edge bridge was slightly thickened near the base by the ridge of an old, healed fracture. It made him look fiercer, I thought, but lessened that air of aloof reserve, and lent his appearance a new rough charm.

I walked through the flap in the counter, seeing nothing but that unblinking stare. I cleared my throat.

“When did you break your nose?”

The corners of the wide mouth lifted slightly.

“About three minutes after I last saw ye—Sassenach.”

There was a hesitation, almost a question in the name. There was no more than a foot between us. I reached out tentatively and touched the tiny line of the break, where the bone pressed white against the bronze of his skin.

He flinched backward as though an electric spark had arced between us, and the calm expression shattered.

“You’re real,” he whispered. I had thought him pale already. Now all vestiges of color drained from his face. His eyes rolled up and he slumped to the floor in a shower of papers and oddments that had been sitting on the press—he fell rather gracefully for such a large man, I thought abstractedly.

It was only a faint; his eyelids were beginning to flutter by the time I knelt beside him and loosened the stock at his throat. I had no doubts at all by now, but still I looked automatically as I pulled the heavy linen away. It was there, of course, the small triangular scar just above the collarbone, left by the knife of Captain Jonathan Randall, Esquire, of His Majesty’s Eighth Dragoons.

His normal healthy color was returning. I sat cross-legged on the floor and hoisted his head onto my thigh. His hair felt thick and soft in my hand. His eyes opened.

“That bad, is it?” I said, smiling down at him with the same words he had used to me on the day of our wedding, holding my head in his lap, twenty-odd years before.

“That bad, and worse, Sassenach,” he answered, mouth twitching with something almost a smile. He sat up abruptly, staring at me.

“God in heaven, you are real!”

“So are you.” I lifted my chin to look up at him. “I th-thought you were dead.” I had meant to speak lightly, but my voice betrayed me. The tears spilled down my cheeks, only to soak into the rough cloth of his shirt as he pulled me hard against him.

I shook so that it was some time before I realized that he was shaking, too, and for the same reason. I don’t know how long we sat there on the dusty floor, crying in each other’s arms with the longing of twenty years spilling down our faces.

His fingers twined hard in my hair, pulling it loose so that it tumbled down my neck. The dislodged pins cascaded over my shoulders and pinged on the floor like pellets of hail. My own fingers were clasped around his forearm, digging into the linen as though I were afraid he would disappear unless physically restrained.

As though gripped by the same fear, he suddenly grasped me by the shoulders and held me away from him, staring desperately into my face. He put his hand to my cheek, and traced the bones over and over again, oblivious to my tears and to my abundantly running nose.

I sniffed loudly, which seemed to bring him to his senses, for he let go and groped hastily in his sleeve for a handkerchief, which he used clumsily to swab first my face, then his own.

“Give me that.” I grabbed the erratically waving swatch of cloth and blew my nose firmly. “Now you.” I handed him the cloth and watched as he blew his nose with a noise like a strangled goose. I giggled, undone with emotion.

He smiled too, knuckling the tears away from his eyes, unable to stop staring at me.

Suddenly I couldn’t bear not to be touching him. I lunged at him, and he got his arms up just in time to catch me. I squeezed until I could hear his ribs crack, and felt his hands roughly caressing my back as he said my name over and over.

Originally posted by thebookboyfriendharem

At last I could let go, and sat back a little. He glanced down at the floor between his legs, frowning.

“Did you lose something?” I asked, surprised.

He looked up and smiled, a little shyly.

“I was afraid I’d lost hold altogether and pissed myself, but it’s all right. I’ve just sat on the alepot.”

Sure enough, a pool of aromatic brown liquid was spreading slowly beneath him. With a squeak of alarm, I scrambled to my feet and helped him up. After trying vainly to assess the damage behind, he shrugged and unfastened his breeches. He pushed the tight fabric down over his haunches, then stopped and looked at me, blushing slightly.

“It’s all right,” I said, feeling a rich blush stain my own cheeks. “We’re married.” I cast my eyes down, nonetheless, feeling a little breathless. “At least, I suppose we are.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then a smile curved his wide, soft mouth.

“Aye, we are,” he said. Kicking free of the stained breeches, he stepped toward me.

I stretched out a hand toward him, as much to stop as to welcome him. I wanted more than anything to touch him again, but was unaccountably shy. After so long, how were we to start again?

He felt the constraint of mingled shyness and intimacy as well. Stopping a few inches from me, he took my hand. He hesitated for a moment, then bent his head over it, his lips barely brushing my knuckles. His fingers touched the silver ring and stopped there, holding the metal lightly between thumb and forefinger.

“I never took it off,” I blurted. It seemed important he should know that. He squeezed my hand lightly, but didn’t let go.

“I want—” He stopped and swallowed, still holding my hand. His fingers found and touched the silver ring once more. “I want verra much to kiss you,” he said softly. “May I do that?”

The tears were barely dammed. Two more welled up and overflowed; I felt them, full and round, roll down my cheeks.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He drew me slowly close to him, holding our linked hands just under his breast.

“I havena done this for a verra long time,” he said. I saw the hope and the fear dark in the blue of his eyes. I took the gift and gave it back to him.

“Neither have I,” I said softly.

His hands cupped my face with exquisite gentleness, and he set his mouth on mine.

I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting. A reprise of the pounding fury that had accompanied our final parting? I had remembered that so often, lived it over in memory, helpless to change the outcome. The half-rough, timeless hours of mutual possession in the darkness of our marriage bed? I had longed for that, wakened often sweating and trembling from the memory of it.

But we were strangers now, barely touching, each seeking the way toward joining, slowly, tentatively, seeking and giving unspoken permission with our silent lips. My eyes were closed, and I knew without looking that Jamie’s were, as well. We were, quite simply, afraid to look at each other.

Without raising his head, he began to stroke me lightly, feeling my bones through my clothes, familiarizing himself again with the terrain of my body. At last his hand traveled down my arm and caught my right hand. His fingers traced my hand until they found the ring again, and circled it, feeling the interlaced silver of the Highland pattern, polished with long wear, but still distinct.

His lips moved from mine, across my cheeks and eyes. I gently stroked his back, feeling through his shirt the marks I couldn’t see, the remnants of old scars, like my ring, worn but still distinct.

“I’ve seen ye so many times,” he said, his voice whispering warm in my ear. “You’ve come to me so often. When I dreamed sometimes. When I lay in fever. When I was so afraid and so lonely I knew I must die. When I needed you, I would always see ye, smiling, with your hair curling up about your face. But ye never spoke. And ye never touched me.”

“I can touch you now.” I reached up and drew my hand gently down his temple, his ear, the cheek and jaw that I could see. My hand went to the nape of his neck, under the clubbed bronze hair, and he raised his head at last, and cupped my face between his hands, love glowing strong in the dark blue eyes.

“Dinna be afraid,” he said softly. “There’s the two of us now.”

“Trust me.” Speaking in a gruff tone barely audible enough to overcome the din of conversation and music in the raucous bar, Dean thrust a motel room key tucked between a few folded bills at Castiel’s chest.

Cas squinted at the hunter in the dim light. “I don’t understand.” Head cocking quizzically aslant, the angel’s focus flitted between Dean’s staid expression and the wad of cash he was offering. “Why would I need a motel room?”

“Because-” Dean arched a brow at the far counter where you were busy flirting with the bartender, peaking over your shoulder to flash the angel a toothy smile and hoping to ignite some sort of divine jealous fire in his being. “-Y/N is about one strawberry daiquiri away from throwing herself at you. And when that happens,” Dean continued,” Sammy and I have every intention of being on the other side of the state line.”

“Why would she-” The angel’s features furrowed in confusion, muscles tensing in concentrated thought as he pondered why in creation one alcoholic beverage too many would compel you to throw yourself at him and for what purpose.

Dean rolled his brilliant green eyes, asking in exasperation, “Really? She’s been making doe eyes at you since she started working cases with us three months ago and you don’t have the faintest idea why?”

The angel’s jaw went lax as the realization of what Dean was suggesting dawned on him. “I-I think I understand.” Cas’ posture stiffened, flustered eyes blowing wide as he cast a furtive glance your way. “What do I do?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Dean smirked, clapping Cas roughly on the back as he shoved the key into his trench pocket for safekeeping. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Attention fixed on the angel’s bright blues from across the room, you hopped off the bar stool and began to stalk toward him.

Cas gulped at your lusting gaze, throat bobbing, muttering, “That does very little to narrow down the list of possibilities, Dean.”

The Winchester remained uncharacteristically silent in retort.

“Dean?” When the angel turned, the only sign of his friend was the exit door swinging shut, crooked shutters clattering against the glass.

Keep reading

Ophelia at the River’s Edge (c.1900). Carlos Ewerbeck (German, active early 20th century). Oil on canvas.

“There is a willow grows aslant a brook
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do “dead men’s fingers” call them.”

5

Back Home - Peter Hale (requested)


Request by anonymous on Tumblr
Prompt y/n McCall is back in beacon hills to help her brother
Pairing Peter hale x reader
Warnings swearing
Story

You left beacon hills when your mother and father split up. You went with your dad to New York while Scott stayed in beacon hills with your mother. You visited during holidays but not as much as you would have liked.

You had come back home after hearing your mother was in the hospital after the shooting at the house. During the trip home you had been stopped and your father arrested.

Looking up at your family home your stomach twisted at the sight of the bordered up windows, bullet holes in the door. you went to use your key but the was another padlock added to the busted door. you sneaked round the back like you used too as a kid breaking into the back door. stepping into the kitchen you closed the door feeling a hand on your shoulder.

Grabbing the mystery hand twisting it hard. you flipped the heavy aslant over pulling a knife out if your belt holding it to the dark haired mans neck. “y/n no stop he’s a friend” your brothers best friend shouted. running in the kitchen, followed by another man. “stiles” you say confused still pinning the guy down. “y/n what are you doing here” he asked as you let the man up. “well its my house I really don’t think I need a reason but you could tell me what your doing here and who these are” you snap back at stiles. “ Y/n this is Derek and peter hale, friends of mine and Scott’s” stiles says. Derek the man you had thrown to the floor stirred at you his eyes still frowning you gave a small apologetic smile. The other man Peter looked at you with a flirtatious smirk, his eyes looked you up and down. You blushed before sending him a wink.

“well my mum has been shot, dad his locked up in beacon hills jail and the is half a town armed to the eyeballs who want my brother dead! Where did you think I was gonna be? I’m here to help” you say. Stiles nods realising how bad things had become now you listed it. “and where it’s my twin brother?” you asked your hands on your hips. “behind you” Scott sad making you spin hugging him tight.

After a catch up and an update on how your mother was doing Scott had tried to get you to leave town but it was short lived he knew stubborn how you can be. Soon a call came from Gerard Argent telling Scott half of his friends was in danger.

***

peter watched the new girl in awe he hadn’t seen anyone get the better of Derek in a long time, not like that anyway. he couldn’t help but laugh when she put stiles in his place. most of he couldn’t help notice how incredibly beautiful she was. The way she spoke to the pack with no fear was a turn on to peter. “no, no way I’m I staying here out the way Scott no!” she called making Peter smile. He watched the argument play out between brother and sister Scott not winning. “if they find out your my twin sister and back home they will come after you y/n” the alpha shouted back flashing his eyes in anger, only making the y/h/c girl laugh. “don’t you see the fact they don’t know who I am is an advantage to us” she a answered back. Scott groaned looked round for Derek’s opinion “what do you think?” Derek shrugged his shoulders “she’s your sister mate” he answered. Stiles shook his head agreeing with Scott she should leave town and stay out the fight.

“well I think she should join our fight, she clearly wants to and is going to join of you agree to it or not Scott, and besides she did put Derek in his ass, none of us, Well expect for me can do that!” Peter said smugly not taking his eyes of the you.

After a lot of decisions the plans were made. Scott, stiles, Derek and Lydia was going to the school to stop the Anuk-Ite. Theo and Malia was going to help Liam, Mason and Cory. Leaving you and Peter to go and save Jackson. “I’ll go with him” you say pointing at Peter to everyone’s surprise, “no, why would you want to go with him” Scott said “yes I am because he’s the only one who wants me here!” you argue back as Peter folded his arms smugly.

You had a plan and being human unknown to the hunters as Scott’s twin sister, you thought you had the best chance of getting in there armoury. Finally Scott agreed then threatened Scott if he let anything happen to you he’d kill him.

In the car Peter faced the road but watched you out the corner of his eyes. You was messing around in your bag taking out rope and needles filled with purple fluid. “So this plan of yours to get us in” Peter started slowly now a little worried not knowing what you had in mind. “I’m I going to like it and is going to get me killed?” he asked.

You smirked at him “will you like it” you tilled your head like you was thinking “probably not! Get you killed not unless you do as I say and pull of some good acting” you teased lightly laughing. Peter pulled up a little away from the bunker, “so are you going to tell me what were doing?” he said not taking his eyes of the syringe. “this is water, and a purple colouring. I’m going to make them think it’s diluted wolfsbane and your my victim. I’m the girl who captured Peter Hale!” you smile at him, making him laugh more. “now put these in we don’t have much time” throwing him a set if handcuffs.

Peter took them “I can think of another way to use these” he flirted doing as he was told slipping them on both wrists. “You pull this off and maybe we can talk about it later” you winked as you walked to the door banging on it “I’m starting to think this is a bad idea” he whispered as you covered his face with a hood. “shut up and stick to the plan” you say as the small flap on the door opens.

You see half a man’s face looking at you, “what do you want” the voice on the other side of the door shouted. “I’m here to see Tamara Monroe” you said boldly. “she’s not here right now come back” the voice said again shutting the hatch. You banged on the door again it opened “look I said” the man started but you pushed open the door. “I don’t think you understand me. I’m here to see Monroe because I have Peter Hale alive” you say pulling the hood from his head.

Peter roared flashing his fangs and eyes. You took a needle out of your pocket, stabbing Peter in the neck with it. He fell against you almost passing out, you was impressed the plan was working. The man let you in helping carry Peter, we took him to a room toeing him to an electric fence.  looking round the room not seeing Jackson, “I’ll see what I can find out and distract him, I want to carefully look for Jackson if you don’t meet in ten minutes” you whisper knowing only Peter would hear me.

You followed the man who told you his name was Kevin, and met up with another 3 guys. You all went into a little room with a tiny kitchen area and big seats it looked like a break room. It had been 10 minutes and Peter hadn’t gave you a sign he’d found Jackson. “is the a toilet round here I can use?” you asked. They all looked at each other unsure before pointing you in to the bathroom.

***

Peter waited to hear you get far enough away to snap his cuffs. He listened for Jackson’s heartbeat, following the sound. He found Jackson tied to an electric fence, he new it was on he could hear the low hum coming from it.

Jackson looked weak, but when he saw Peter coming toward him his eyes went wide shaking and mumbling under the duct tape over his mouth. What Peter didn’t see was a guard behind the door lining it with mountain ash.

Peter pulled the duct tape from Jackson’s lips but it was too late for Jackson to say behind you. The man hit Peter in the ribs with an electric kosh sending him to the floor.

***

You waited a few minutes before pulling out a sleeping fog grenade from your handbag and tossing it into the room. You could hear the men inside running to the door but the smoke was too powerful you heard the thumps of the unconscious bodies hitting the floor.

You ran to the room you had left Peter in, seeing it empty only your handcuffs remained on the floor. You spin looking round thinking of where he and Jackson could be. You rounded at corner hearing screams come from Peter and you guessed Jackson. Inside the was a man turning the dial to the fence Peter was chained to. Rolling your eyes not even questioning how he’d be caught, you sneak into the room.

Jackson’s eyes widened when he saw you, putting a finger to your lips shushing him. Looking at a shelf next to you, you see a rifle picking it up you took a few steps then hit the guard over the head with the butt of the gun.

Jackson smirked “y/n McCall, aren’t you a sight for saw eyes” You turned off the power off  “it’s been to long Whittemore” you say hugging him. Peter smiled at you, “and to think your brother doubted you” he said impressed still looking at the man on the floor. “well I did say I can handle myself” you playful teased back untying his hands “more then handle that was badass” Peter says using his free hand to move a fallen piece of your hair.

“not to interrupt your flirting but can we find Ethan now” Jackson asked. You and Peter looked at each other with a smirk heading out the door with Jackson. Had you really been that obvious you liked the older man, You all headed down the corridors looking in different rooms for him. Jackson found him tied up and weak, you watched as he pulled off the chains. Ethan and Jackson were talking about Jackson having a tail searing a kisses once Ethan was on his feet.

“can we hurry up and get out of here now” you said worrying you’d been there way too long. You and Peter was the first out the door when an alarm sounded, slammed the door automatically shut with Jackson and Ethan still inside. You banged on the door calling their names when Peter grabbed you dragging you into another room as the corridor started to fill with smoke.

Peter took his jacket off covering the gap under the door with it, leaning against the wall breathless. His attention quickly went to y/n when he saw you freaking out muttering to yourself. “this is my fault, where all gonna die because of me” Peter sensed the anxiety, heart your heart beat change and now your hands shake in fear. He got up holding your hands in his bringing them to his chest. “look at me y/n” peter said boldly. “this is not your fault”

You tried to pull your hands away but he was too strong. “if I had listened to Scott we wouldn’t be here, it’s my plan that got us trapped and most likely get us killed” your voice breaking nearly the end as you held back the tears. Peter held both your hands in one of his as other cupped your face lifting it so he could look you in the eyes. “y/n, no, one is getting killed. Jackson and Ethan are still alive I can hear them banging trying to open their door” you smiled knowing they was okay. “your plan was working if anyone is to blame its me for getting caught.”

You wished you could believe him, you really did but panic had already set in and you struggled to breathe. You hadn’t had a panic attack in years but could already feel the signs. Peter noticed to he tried calming you “y/n look at me it’s going to be okay just breath” he said but you pushed past him towards the door wheezing and panting.

Peter stood blocking the door knowing of you opened the door the wolfs bane smoke would weaken or possibly kill him. He needed to do something anything to help you to breathe and stop your panic attack. He grabbed your cheeks in his hand crashing his lips to yours, in the suddenness of his actions you kissed him back almost forgetting moments ago you couldn’t breathe. Peter pulled his head back looking at you “wh.. What was that” you say touching your lip.

Peter smiled “I was told it worked for my friends when stiles had a panic attack so I thought I’d try it” he smirked. “thanks” you whispered out still looking at Peter’s lips close to yours, his breath fanning your face making you want to lean in and kiss him again.

A bang from outside the room made you both break part looking at each other worried. Peter put his ear to the door “it’s Jackson still trying to get out” he said talking about the banging noise. He turned round when he heard a ripping sound, you had torn the bottom of your top making a mask to cover your mouth and nose. Peter looked at you confused rising an eyebrow “I’m getting us out of here” you told him, your confidence back. “I’m human the smoke won’t affect me like you, I’m gonna find a way to clear the corridor and get us out of this place” you said with your hand on the door handle. Before Peter could do say anything you left the room.

You passed the room Jackson and Ethan was trapped in telling them you was finding a way out. After a looking round for a while you found a room with lots of computer screens in. You looked at them seeing Jackson and Ethan and the door you knew Peter was behind. The 4 men you had knocked out with a grenade where all still on the floor. You a man walking down a hallway you tried to work out where he was when you heard him outside the door. You hid in the room watching as he ran in coughing from the smoke.

He put his gun on the desk and went straight to a cupboard getting a gas mask from it. You stood from you hiding place you grabbed the gun making him look at you with his hands up. “I need that mask for me and some friends so drop it” you order him. After he puts it down to tell him to go to the desk throwing him a set of hand cuffs making him cuff himself to the bolted down desk.

Once you felt he couldn’t break free you grabbed the mask from the floor putting the tank on your back. Looking in the cabinet getting 3 more out. The was heavier than you thought they would be dragging them along the floor. You went to peter first hanging him one. “you truly are amazing” he said when you walked in the door “when this is all over I’m taking you out” he said putting the tank on his back like you had.

You stepped outside Peter kicked in the door trapping Jackson and Ethan, you handed them both a mask each as you started to leave. The 4 men in the break like room had woken and came out as you turned the corner. Jackson and Ethan ran at them Jackson using his kanima venom to paralysed them as you and Peter ran past them.

The drive back to your house was quite Jackson and Ethan talking low to each other, you and Peter stealing small glances. Inside you all told Scott and the rest of the group what had happened and heard how the rest of the group defeated the Anuk-Ite. You could feel Peter’s eyes on you the whole time, thankful he hadn’t told anyone about your mini panic attack back in the armoury. “well seeing as no one is in danger I’m n going to visit mum” you told Scott. Peter followed you out “so what we said back there I really do wanna take you out y/n, I like you and need to get to know you more” he said his cheeks a little flushed “also you did make a promise about doing something more fun with handcuffs” he flirted. You took a step closer “good because I think I’m starting to like you to” you said putting your hands on his chest “Its a date”. He held you with one hand on your lower back and the other on your neck bring you in closer. When Peter kissed you it wasn’t like the one earlier this was more passionate lustful and loving. When you broke apart Peter offered to drive you to the hospital, you looked up at the house then to peter more then happy to be back home. 

It was a longish, winding close, and the printshop was at the foot.

There were thriving businesses and tenements on either side, but I had no attention to spare for anything beyond the neat white sign that hung by the door. 

A. MALCOLM 

PRINTER AND BOOKSELLER 

it said, and beneath this, Books, calling cards, pamphlets, broadsheets, letters, etc. 

I stretched out my hand and touched the black letters of the name. A. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Perhaps. 

Another minute, and I would lose my nerve. I shoved open the door and walked in. 

There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tacked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt. 

The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie. 

“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—” 

“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.” 

He straightened up very slowly. He wore his hair long; a thick tail of a deep, rich auburn sparked with copper. I had time to see that the neat ribbon that tied it back was green, and then he turned around. 

He stared at me without speaking. A tremor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed, but still he didn’t say anything. It was the same broad, good-humored face, dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones of a Viking, long mouth curling at the ends as though always on the verge of smiling. The lines surrounding eyes and mouth were deeper, of course. The nose had changed just a bit. The knife-edge bridge was slightly thickened near the base by the ridge of an old, healed fracture. It made him look fiercer, I thought, but lessened that air of aloof reserve, and lent his appearance a new rough charm. 

I walked through the flap in the counter, seeing nothing but that unblinking stare. I cleared my throat. 

“When did you break your nose?” 

The corners of the wide mouth lifted slightly. 

“About three minutes after I last saw ye— Sassenach.” 

There was a hesitation, almost a question in the name. There was no more than a foot between us. I reached out tentatively and touched the tiny line of the break, where the bone pressed white against the bronze of his skin. 

He flinched backward as though an electric spark had arced between us, and the calm expression shattered. 

“You’re real,” he whispered. I had thought him pale already. Now all vestiges of color drained from his face. His eyes rolled up and he slumped to the floor in a shower of papers and oddments that had been sitting on the press— he fell rather gracefully for such a large man, I thought abstractedly.

It was only a faint; his eyelids were beginning to flutter by the time I knelt beside him and loosened the stock at his throat. I had no doubts at all by now, but still I looked automatically as I pulled the heavy linen away. It was there, of course, the small triangular scar just above the collarbone, left by the knife of Captain Jonathan Randall, Esquire, of His Majesty’s Eighth Dragoons. 

His normal healthy color was returning. I sat cross-legged on the floor and hoisted his head onto my thigh. His hair felt thick and soft in my hand. His eyes opened. 

“That bad, is it?” I said, smiling down at him with the same words he had used to me on the day of our wedding, holding my head in his lap, twenty-odd years before. “That bad, and worse, Sassenach,” he answered, mouth twitching with something almost a smile. He sat up abruptly, staring at me. 

“God in heaven, you are real!” 

“So are you.” I lifted my chin to look up at him. “I th-thought you were dead.” I had meant to speak lightly, but my voice betrayed me. The tears spilled down my cheeks, only to soak into the rough cloth of his shirt as he pulled me hard against him. 

I shook so that it was some time before I realized that he was shaking, too, and for the same reason. I don’t know how long we sat there on the dusty floor, crying in each other’s arms with the longing of twenty years spilling down our faces. 

His fingers twined hard in my hair, pulling it loose so that it tumbled down my neck. The dislodged pins cascaded over my shoulders and pinged on the floor like pellets of hail. My own fingers were clasped around his forearm, digging into the linen as though I were afraid he would disappear unless physically restrained. 

As though gripped by the same fear, he suddenly grasped me by the shoulders and held me away from him, staring desperately into my face. He put his hand to my cheek, and traced the bones over and over again, oblivious to my tears and to my abundantly running nose.

- Voyager

A. MALCOLM

PRINTER AND BOOKSELLER

it said, and beneath this, Books, calling cards, pamphlets, broadsheets, letters, etc.

I stretched out my hand and touched the black letters of the name. A. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Perhaps.

Another minute, and I would lose my nerve. 

I shoved open the door and walked in.There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tacked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.

The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.

“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—”

“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”

He straightened up very slowly. He wore his hair long; a thick tail of a deep, rich auburn sparked with copper. I had time to see that the neat ribbon that tied it back was green, and then he turned around.

He stared at me without speaking. A tremor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed, but still he didn’t say anything..

It was the same broad, good-humored face, dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones of a Viking, long mouth curling at the ends as though always on the verge of smiling. The lines surrounding eyes and mouth were deeper, of course. The nose had changed just a bit. The knife-edge bridge was slightly thickened near the base by the ridge of an old, healed fracture. It made him look fiercer, I thought, but lessened that air of aloof reserve, and lent his appearance a new rough charm.

I walked through the flap in the counter, seeing nothing but that unblinking stare. I cleared my throat.

“When did you break your nose?”

The corners of the wide mouth lifted slightly.

“About three minutes after I last saw ye—Sassenach.”

There was a hesitation, almost a question in the name. There was no more than a foot between us. I reached out tentatively and touched the tiny line of the break, where the bone pressed white against the bronze of his skin.

He flinched backward as though an electric spark had arced between us, and the calm expression shattered.

“You’re real,” he whispered. I had thought him pale already. Now all vestiges of color drained from his face. His eyes rolled up and he slumped to the floor in a shower of papers and oddments that had been sitting on the press—he fell rather gracefully for such a large man, I thought abstractedly.

Arthur Hughes (British, 1852 - 1913)

Ophelia, 1852

There is a willow grows aslant the brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come.
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples.
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke.
When down the weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook.

More Ophelia on hideback

Ephemeris

Words I’m bleeding  
Pour quiet, venial as

Vernal starves to elicit
Words I say from the

Fount of thou sands of
Voices passed

Since my longing
Began in embers,

Clear of the fires lit,
Resides in winds of

Grain, Symbol-as-Self,
Carries across umbral time

Matching aslant the
Tethers beyond tomorrow

Bares a path for shattered
Night as egress abates the dawn


© K. James Ribble

Because you asked about the line between prose and poetry

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.

There came a moment that you couldn’t tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

—  Howard Nemerov, “Because you asked,” Sentences
Terra Firma Chapter 3

-HERE WE ARE- The shaft of earth splayed out into a horizontal paddle. A writhing mass of small crimson crystals, flowing over one another; scraping in perpetual motion.
The small, fist sized assortment of crystals pulsed in a strangely familiar fashion.
“So then” Tech breathed deeply “how does this work?”
-AS FAR AS WE UNDERSTAND, THIS WILL HURT YOU A LOT-
“But… It will get me my arm back?
-CORRECT- Tech nodded
“do it” a small spire of earth extended itself upwards in layers and met his left shoulder at the armpit. He only had a small amount of arm left, it ended almost at his elbow, a few inches back up towards his shoulder.
-YOU ARE READY?-
“Hell if I am, do it.”
-WE WILL BE QUICK, MAG JUST NOTICED THAT YOU ARE MISSING-
“Aw shit. Is he coming?” Tech was panicking now, Mag had great eyesight, retina packed full of cones. But his eyes had next to no rods, so he was almost incapable of seeing in even low light conditions. This was the case for almost all avian species recognised by the Galactic federation.
-THE ENTRANCES ARE SEALED- Tech let out a lungful of air.
“Do it, whatever ‘it’ is”

Keep reading

Keeper

I’ve been on the losing side far too much,
Not convinced it was ever the wrong one.
When others slip into a harrowing defeat,
My chin rises above that lingering misery.
But I’m not safe from the arduous feeling,
Disappointment hiding in my aslant smirk.
As I leave behind those closing moments,
Memories of my efforts settle into a smile.
Pride keeps me afloat along the sadness,
Knowing that it’s all that I have remaining.
If the universe has proven anything to us,
The light shines brighter against the dark.

Foreword to Nostalgia of the Infinite

When time, blissfully awry, spreads milky arms across the black expanse, to sleep, of what does time dream. And, thus unraveled, of where does time long.

In the wake of such delicious oblivion who presides over the edges of our sleep and the parting star and the hour under glass.

The dustman, spent upon a cloud, comes no longer. Who will toss the grains to mask all sense and swing, as dew upon a string, the wide and wizened orb.

What hand will prepare the canvas for our sail and draw us on, as the ferryman, from the bound to the unbound.

The painter smiles. Thus commissioned he performs all the benevolent, unnatural acts required to expand the arena of the closed eye. He stirs the common with the mythic and renders the mystery of his mathematics on linen light as the waistcoat of a prince and as tightly woven.

The gallery of the eastern sky is dressed, wall to wall, in a vile, seductive drape. The violent arcade is pressed with the flexible statue aslant in a space thoroughly modern; grecian. A space so new, so ambiguous, that only a poet, such as Breton, dared entangle and entitle. And here, a future later, another poet, with precisian grace, beats back to re-echo a universe of eruptive silk.

This same poet I have known well. In callow years we shared much trouble, much laughter and lavished our girlhood love on the likes of Byron and Rimbaud. Often, when not having the price for a proper supper, we would dine on one another’s work, concord in the desire to one day create, not without sacrifice, something fine.

Before the face of a new work, one salutes the muse, the arrow of the muse and the creative process. And in return, if the work resounds, one feels greeted as well. And so, upon reading, may you be moved in such a manner, that burning, you leap to your feet and presume a journey thru the blooming depths of an uncharted street.

Or, finding yourself pleasantly spent, turn to sleep, glimpsing well before you do the watermark upon the sail. It is but the scrawl and signature of the poet, who, in humble gown presumptive, crowned in bitter laurel has labored to redesign the birth and rebirth of a dream.

 © Patti Smith 1992

Nostalgia of the Infinite, Copyright © Janet Hamill 1992

Giorgio de Chirico La Nostalgia del Infinito

Rickochet

Here is my Secret Santa gift/fic (sorry it’s a little late!!!!!!) for @01100111011011110110111001100101

-also bizarre is that it doesn’t seem to be properly tagging you! I copied and pasted the username so it’s exact.

Prompt: “Rickcest between Doofus Rick and C137 Rick. Doesn’t have to be super NSFW They could just be in the same picture, story, etc. (no gore please)“

This is definitely safe for work and could preslash or just friends. Found doing something consenting which is what I wanted was really hard to create a premise for so I did.

As Morty enters the garage he is accosted by Rick dressed up as a skinny, blue-haired Santa. “Morty! It’s time for a Christmas adventure! Christmas Adventure, Morty! I’ve been planning this ALL year. Just you and me, Morty! Christmas Adventure!”

Morty looks down, unconsciously gripping his left arm, “Ah jeeze, Rick. I’m actually going - Jessica invited me to her home for Christmas. And, you know, since we’re dating now it would be rude to-to cancel. Sorry, Rick.”

Morty doesn’t wait for a response, he leaves the garage and house in a rush. He feels bad leaving Rick, but not bad enough to wait and be verbally abused by the old drunk. Besides it’s not like he’s leaving him completely alone.

*****

Rick sits at his desk not even pretending to work on anything. There’s no point. The one person he can never fool is himself. At least not when he’s this sober. He takes long pulls on his flask, dribbling it over the stupid Santa suit he hasn’t bothered taking off. Pissed off at his daughter for not only, taking Jerry back, but agreeing to some cheesy, pathetic “romantic” getaway in the Poconos of all places. Pissed at Summer for not even being available to come! He could have used all hands on deck for this adventure. And that’s not even to mention how pissed he feels at Morty!

“Et tu Morty.” He mutters to the empty room. That damn kid. Pulling a fucking Brutus on him. All because finally, somehow, his pathetic fumbling around Jessica paid off.

Rick had known this would happen eventually, but the keyword here is the “eventually”. But of course, his Morty would be as precocious in love as he’s turned out to be in every other endeavor.

Suddenly a portal opens next to him, Doofus Rick steps out. He’s dressed as Santa too, except he also holds a bulging red bag.

Rick doesn’t bother trying to make eye contact before belching, “EURRRRRP-Well, if isn’t Doofus. Look your little pal, Jerry isn’t here. So just fuck-fuck right on off. Bah humbug or whatever.”

Instead of fucking right on off as commanded, Doofus just laughs merrily. “I’m not here for Jerry, Rick! I’m here to see you! Your Morty called mine and said that you-you could use some company, today!”

Rick stands slightly aslant and addresses the intruding Rick, “My Morty called your…… That motherfucker! Listen, Doofus. I don’t need a - need a pity fuck, okay? So my family ditches me on Christmas? I don’t give a f-fuck. So seriously fuck off! Don’t you have some shit you should be eating, anyway? Wouldn’t-wouldn’t want to keep you from something so important.”

Doofus still refuses to fuck off or even back down like normal. “Yeah, your Morty said you would react this way. But here’s the thing, one is I don’t eat poop, you-you know that and it’s offens-offensive you would say it. And two? I-I came prepared for a Christmas Adventure! You are planning to go to Santalandia, right? Planet of Santas?

Rick grunts in assent begrudgingly.

“You want to get one of their magic Santa sacks? The ones that can hold seemingly infinite amount of things. Like the-like the-“

“Like the TARDIS of bags! Okay, fine you know the mission. I guess Morty can read me better that I gave the little shit credit for.”

“No, Rick. You-your Morty didn’t need to tell mine that. I’m still a Rick, Rick. I know what you would do cause it’s what-what I would. Look! I dressed to come with you!” Doofus does a dainty twirl, smiling like a, well like a doofus.

Rick raises one side of his unibrow. “Huh, I suppose you won’t go away till we do this?”

Doofus’ smile widens showing all his crooked teeth. “Nope!”

“Fine! But I’m in charge.”

Rick opens a portal and the pair step through.

******

After waking a few minutes they come across what looks like a cliche Santa workshop except there are thousands of them. They can even see some Santas milling around outside.

Rick speaks,“Okay, ahead of us is the Santa Compound. Now, these fuckers aren’t gonna give up one of these bags without a fight. And they’re practically impossible to kill, but I found a way.” Rick pulls out a device from his suit. Showing it to Doofus who, he fails to notice, is inching towards the Santas.

Rick turns his attention to the square, pulsing device in his hand. “Now this won’t outright kill them, but it does take a lot of the fight out of them. And it also creates a shield exactly the size of one workshop. That way one no more of them can come in. Now, there are twenty Santas to a shop. I’ll take 15. Even you should be be able to take 5. Watch their teeth and beards. Those beards are like-like tentacles or something and will strangle you.” Rick continues on for some time not realizing that he isn’t taking to anyone anymore.

“So, you think you can-you got all that?” Rick looks around and sees Doofus running towards him away from one of the workshops.

“WHAT THE FUCK, DOOFUS!! You already got us spotted! Didn’t I tell you I was in charge?!?”

Doofus looks only slightly chagrin, before holding up his now mostly empty sack and and another empty one which is obviously one of the Santalandia Santa’s bags. Obviously, due to its plush velvet and exquisite craftsmanship.

Rick looks utterly befuddled. “How the-How the- what?!?”

“Well,” Doofus nervously scratches the back of his head, “I knew you would want to do something very violent. So I brought the one thing Santas can’t resist. The sack that I-I brought was full of cookies! Me and my Morty baked them ourselves! And made sure they were full of the best ingredient of all!”

“Weed?”

Doofus laughs. “No! Love! And then I asked them for one of their sacks.”

“Okay, I get the cookies. But still. They still just gave you one??”

“Of course! I mean I’ve been a good boy all year, so why wouldn’t they? Let’s head back I saved us some cookies!”

Doofus opens a portal and Rick numbly follows.

Back at Rick’s home, he ends up eating cookies and drinking spiked eggnog with Doofus.

“Thought you would be too ‘good’ to drink, Doo - uh - Zeta.”

Zeta shakes his head, “It’s a holiday, the mission was a success, and I-I made a new friend. All are good reasons to have a celebratory eggnog!”

Rick snorts, “so we’re friends now?”

Zeta nods and gives Rick a tight hug. Rick refuses to return it, but if he leans into it a little bit - well, he blames the eggnog.

In honor of the scene Sam is most looking forward to:

http://veraadxer.tumblr.com - for the fantastic artwork!

I stretched out my hand and touched the black letters of the name. A. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Perhaps.

Another minute, and I would lose my nerve. I shoved open the door and walked in.
There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tacked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.
The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.
“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—”
“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”
He straightened up very slowly. He wore his hair long; a thick tail of a deep, rich auburn sparked with copper. I had time to see that the neat ribbon that tied it back was green, and then he turned around.
He stared at me without speaking. A tremor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed, but still he didn’t say anything.
It was the same broad, good-humored face, dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones of a Viking, long mouth curling at the ends as though always on the verge of smiling. The lines surrounding eyes and mouth were deeper, of course. The nose had changed just a bit. The knife-edge bridge was slightly thickened near the base by the ridge of an old, healed fracture. It made him look fiercer, I thought, but lessened that air of aloof reserve, and lent his appearance a new rough charm.
I walked through the flap in the counter, seeing nothing but that unblinking stare. I cleared my throat.
“When did you break your nose?”
The corners of the wide mouth lifted slightly.
“About three minutes after I last saw ye—Sassenach.”
There was a hesitation, almost a question in the name. There was no more than a foot between us. I reached out tentatively and touched the tiny line of the break, where the bone pressed white against the bronze of his skin.
He flinched backward as though an electric spark had arced between us, and the calm expression shattered.
“You’re real,” he whispered.

Excerpt From: Diana Gabaldon. “Voyager.” iBooks.

white and gray of geese swelling
the swarm of sunshine, the sea,
steering over the water-widths  
the blue pastures, the waves’
white foam, the hissing heart of
their crest 

pine stands vigil, great dark
sentinel of time

twisting in the ether

she gathers the horse to her,
his hooves hardly wet in his swiftness

huntress rises from dawn arrow
springing after arrow from the bow as
permanent as its constellation

so she stands without fear,
blinded and bewitched by the center of
her own fortune

huntress, sleek, well-fed

she walliows, has her bounty, 
wants more

geese slip with the last of the day-wind
aslant, no more

this: the last song