that bawdy

Literally just all the sexual things Alexander Hamilton sent to John Laurens


“I love you.”

This one is pretty self explanatory. Men were much more intimate back in the 1700′s, forming bonds that seem very ~gay~ in today’s light. Homosexuality wasn’t a very understood thing back then because rigid moral codes and censured education prevented people from learning more about sexuality.

 But Alexander Hamilton knew.

 He grew up on an island where ‘Sodomites’ (gay people) were dumped and  allowed to mingle with the island population. Alex knew that there was a certain zone of interactions between men that went from being merely friendly to sexual. He clearly steps into the bounds of sexual while fully realizing it.

“In drawing my picture, you will no doubt be civil to your friend; mind you do justice to the length of my nose and don’t forget, that I [- - - - - -].”

Ahhhhhhhhh my son Alex, could you be more explicit? Alex here is obviously referring to his something else (you know) with the knowledge that John Lauren’s knows the size. This sentence right here is basically just one long ;).

 “Your friend” seems to be written teasingly, as if they both know how far from friends they are.

And we can only guess how dirty Alex got in those last six  CUT OUT words.

“Dear Boy” [sent by John Laurens]

John laurens calls his wife his ‘dear girl’, and here he calls Alex his ‘dear boy’.  Moreover, Laurens did not call any other man he ever wrote to as his ‘dear boy’. Laurens seems to see Alex as on the same level, if not higher, as his own wife.

“Did I mean to show my wit? If I did, I am sure I have missed my aim. Did I only intend to [frisk]? In this I have succeeded, but I have done more. I have gratified my feelings, by lengthening out the only kind of intercourse now in my power with my friend.”

This phrase right here I unfortunately do not see a lot when people talk about Alex and John’s letters. This, to me, is one of the most explicit. “Wit” also mean one’s you know what (here I give a nod to the Ravenclaw moto), so Hamilton’s saying he was pretty much just messing around with John the last letter he sent. This is the only sort of “intercourse” he is able to have with John, as they are both so far apart. He is incapable of ‘sexual’ intercourse because of their distance, so he feels he must, in the 18th century way, sext.

“I would invite you after the fall to Albany to be witness to the final consummation.”

As you might have already guessed, Alex is inviting John to a threesome on his wedding night. The idea that Alex feels so at ease inviting John to a threesome with his wife suggests they have already had something going for a long time now. 

“But like a jealous lover, when I thought you slighted my caresses, my affection was alarmed and my vanity piqued. I had almost resolved to lavish no more of them upon you and to reject you as an inconstant and an ungrateful –”

Here Alex compares himself to John’s lover, and a jealous one at that. John seems to be shying away from Alex’s bawdiness, as if realizing how strange their relationships is in retrospect. Alex is scrambling to hang on to him, even though he knows well what are and what happens to Sodomites. He would do anything for John while knowing the consequences. And John is too afraid to join him. And who the hell knows what the last word was.

“And believe me, I am lover in earnest,”

*cough cough* looks like John knows exactly what happens when Alex’s feeling frisky.

“She [Eliza] loves you a l'americaine not a la francoise.”

The French were renowned for their relaxed stance on extramarital love affairs, while Americans were more Puritan-minding and thought love affairs only should happen in church-sanctioned marriages. Thus Eliza has an a l’americaine love of John Laurens, rather than an a la francoise.

“You will be pleased to recollect in your negotiations that I have no invincible antipathy to the maidenly beauties & that I am willing to take the trouble of them upon myself.”

*cough* this sentence is a bit confusing, and could be taken a few ways. What I infer from this is that Alexander Hamilton is willing, and John knows this, to assume an air of femininity because he finds no fault with it. It was commonly noted by people who wrote of Hamilton that he was very feminine in comparison with other men of his day. Alex’s femininity seems to please John, the topic even having been discussed between the two in ‘negotiations’.

“My ravings are for your own bosom” Alex desperately misses Laurens’ intimate contact in a way that, in my opinion, could never be mistaken as simply friendship. Alex literally wants to be held by John. How fucking heartbreaking is that.

“Yrs for ever”

Ok, this one isn’t sexual, but I had to add it because it is so heartbreaking. This was Alex’s last farewell note to John. That is, if he even received it. He died shortly after Alex sent the letter; whether he read the farewell or not is all lost to history. Alex loved John so much, despite the fact that both already had a wife. He would have always loved him, even if they had grown apart…

That’s it folks: time for me to cry.

50 ways to practice self care when your mental health is crap

1. Snuggle an animal.

2. Pet others animals in public… with permission.

3. Say yes to a meal with a friend you love dearly.

4. Take a sick day from work. Don’t feel bad about it.

5. Dust a book off your shelf and read it. Or, at least read a few pages.

6. Go to work, do your best, and tell someone you’re struggling.

7. Take frequent breaks at work, even if they’re just to take a deep breath in the bathroom.

8. Read body positive blogs like the Fuck It Diet, Love, Food, and Bawdy Love.

9. Make yourself a cup of your favorite flavor of warm tea.

10. Make yourself tea, then add a bunch of ice cubes to the cup. Feel the sensations of the temperature.

11. Sit outside and stare at the sky. Lay in the grass if you can.

12. When your attention spans lasts 5 minutes, be okay with coming back inside.

13. Say no to someone asking you to do something you don’t want to do.

14. Avoid toxic people while you’re hypersensitive. Sometimes this means family.

15. Say no to events that will trigger you.

16. Be ok with many nights feeling like you’re acting selfishly by saying no.

17. Ask a friend if you can come crash on their couch and have a slumber party.

18. Bring popcorn and fuzzy socks to said slumber party.

19. Cook a simple meal from scratch with one of your favorite ingredients. (I made cardamom baked pears recently- YUM and super easy)

20. Do some therapeutic writing. Prompts can be found through a quick google search.

21. Donate books you don’t read anymore.

22. Workout for 15 minutes.

23. Don’t work out.

24. Don’t beat yourself up about not working out.

25. Mindfully eat a meal.

26. Totally un-mindfully scarf down a bunch of sweets. (I’ve been really into vegan ice cream lately).

27. Stop reading a book that you started and feel obliged to finish.

28. Pick up a new book that you’re excited about.

29. Only do exercise that makes your body feel good. (For me, simple stretching is all sometimes.)

30. Avoid exercises you think you “should” be doing. (Cycling hurts my knees. I hate cycling. I don’t do it).

31. Take “should” out of your vocabulary entirely. Quit “shoulding” on yourself.

32. Tell your partner how they can best support you.

33. Tell your roommate how they can best support you.

34. Donate clothes that taunt you or that you no longer wear.

35. Go to Goodwill and find a lovely outfit that fits great.

36. Take a nap. Don’t set an alarm.

37. Lower your expectations of yourself. Be ok with being mediocre right now.

38. Go to a 12 step meeting or a support group.

39. Call or text an old friend to meet up over a cup of coffee.

40. Buy a coloring book and some crayons. Color away.

41. Practice a 3 minute guided meditation.

42. Do a Pinterest DIY project with an old shirt that no longer fits.

43. Laugh if said Pinterest project ends up disastrous (mine usually do).

44. Binge watch Netflix. Watch a show that’s silly and not too emotional.

45. Throw your to-do list in the trash for a day.

46. Go for a gentle stroll.

47. Blast music that matches your mood (for me, this is often Slipknot or Katy Perry interchangeably).

48. Make a gratitude list about things you’re grateful for in your life.

49. Make a gratitude list about body parts of yours you’re grateful for and why.

50. Put on some nice scented lotion.

Just Hamilton Things

Recently, I’ve been reading Ron Chernow’s ‘Alexander Hamilton’ biography, and there’s a few things in there I find note-worthy. (If you’re as obsessed with Hamilton as I am, I do recommend reading this book. It is, after all, the foundation on which Lin-Manuel Miranda built ‘Hamilton’ and it gets into a lot of depth about Ham’s life. The excessive amount of research done for this book amazes me. I applaud you Ron Chernow.)

  • One time during the war, civilians in Broadway tore down a large statue of King George then melted it down and made 42,088 bullets, a fact which I find, for some reason, utterly savage
  • It’s no wonder people thought Hamilton and Laurens were gay, the letters they wrote to each other, primarily, the letters Hamilton wrote to Laurens… ah, I’ll just leave the examples down below

Hamilton to Laurens: “Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my dear Laurens, it might be in my power by action rather than words to convince you that I love you.”

Not enough for you? But wait, the letter goes on to say later:

You should have not taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent.”

Another one from Hamilton to Laurens: “I have written you five or six letters since you left Philadelphia and I should have written you more had you made a proper return,”

Looks like Ham is being clingy. He even admits to it:

“But, like a jealous lover, when I thought you slighted my caresses, my affection was alarmed and my vanity piqued.”

After his engagement to Eliza, he writes to Laurens again saying:

“In spite of Schuyler’s (Eliza’s) black eyes, I have still a part for the public and another for you.”

  • Hamilton made dick jokes. He wrote to Laurens about finding a wife making bawdy references to ‘the size of his nose’.… his dick, guys. He was talking about his dick.
  • Before their famous duel in 1804, Burr was so broke, he asked even Hamilton for help. (Note, they already hated each other at the time.)  Burr came to Hamilton early in the morning and you can imagine the awkwardness of the situation. Like, “Hey bro,  did I wake you? Yeah, sorry about that. Hey, I know we hate each other and stuff, but could you like, help me out here, since you’re so good with money and shizzz?”
    The best part was, Hamilton did help, and managed to raise 10,000 dollars in cash for Burr…… and still Burr shot him. Savage.
  • Hamilton impressed Adams’ cabinet and there was a conversation that went a little something like this
    Adams: Whom shall we appoint Commander-In-Chief?
    Pickering: Hamilton
    Adams: lol no, pick someone else
    Pickering: But sirrrr, Hamilton is fully qualified-
    Adams: NOT HAMILTON.
  • While the Reynolds affair was going on and Eliza was away, Hamilton wrote letters urging her to stay far, far away from home as he was “greatly concerned for her health”. Yeahhhh. Riiiiight. You two-faced little LIAR.
  • To make the above worse, Eliza, despite the affair, did remain wholly devoted to Hamilton. In fact, when she was old, she is supposed to have said, “I am so tired, it is long, I want to see Hamilton.”
    IT’S OKAY ELIZA, I DIDN’T NEED MY HEART ANYWAY
  • Okay, last fact to wrap things up. After Burr shot Hamilton in the duel, he showed no remorse for it, he took the entire event with a touch of humor. Burr is supposed to have made facetious references to, “my friend Hamilton, whom I shot.” What a savage.
Man Discovers His ‘Invisible Advantage’ at Work After He Switches Email Signatures with a Female Colleague

A Pennsylvania man learned just how much subtle sexism women endure in the workplace when he and a female colleague conducted a surreptitious experiment that led to eye-opening results.

Martin Schneider opened up about the experiment in a series of tweets Thursday that have since gone viral, explaining what he learned when he and then-colleague Nicole Hallberg switched email signatures for a week.

“I was in hell,” Schneider wrote on Twitter. “Everything I asked or suggested was questioned. Clients I could do in my sleep were condescending. One asked if I was single.”

Hallberg, meanwhile, had a decidedly different experience.

“I had one of the easiest weeks of my professional life,” she wrote on Medium for a story she wrote about her experience. “He … didn’t.”

Schneider explained in his tweets that the whole experiment came about after he noticed a client was talking to him rudely, and couldn’t figure out why until he realized that their shared inbox meant he was inadvertently signing emails as “Nicole.”

So one day I’m emailing a client back-and-forth about his resume and he is just being IMPOSSIBLE. Rude, dismissive, ignoring my questions.

— Martin R. Schneider (@SchneidRemarks) March 9, 2017

When he explained to the client in email that he was actually talking to “Martin” instead of “Nicole” he said there was an “immediate improvement.”

“Positive reception, thanking me for suggestions, responds promptly, saying ‘great questions!’ Became a model client,” Schneider tweeted.

“Note,” he also tweeted. “My technique and advice never changed. The only difference was that I had a man’s name now.”

Schneider, who supervised Hallberg, also explained that after their experiment he finally understood why it took her longer to get work done — an issue he says irked their mutual boss.

“I showed the boss and he didn’t buy it. I told him that was fine, but I was never critiquing her speed with clients again,” he wrote.

I wasn’t any better at the job than she was, I just had this invisible advantage.

— Martin R. Schneider (@SchneidRemarks) March 9, 2017

Hallberg, meanwhile, writes in her Medium post that while Schneider might have been shocked by the results of their experiment, she was, well, not.

“I would like the record to show that I have the filthiest mouth in the tri-state area, and one of my pasttimes has always been trying to come up with jokes off-color enough that I can actually embarrass Marty,” she wrote. “I would also like the record to show that I developed a trucker’s mouth and bawdy sense of humor precisely because I’ve always had to act ‘like a man’ to be found funny and be accepted in male spaces.”

From COINAGE: 5 Financial Mistakes to Avoid in Your 20s

Schneider put it in ever starker terms: “For me, this was shocking. For her, she was USED to it. She just figured it was part of her job.”

“I wasn’t any better at the job than she was,” he also wrote. “I just had this invisible advantage.”

archiveofourown.org
Empath - shulkie - Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Mature, ~5.5k words, ereri

Eren had been like this for as long as he’d remembered. Whenever a baby in the daycare would start crying, Eren would wail along with them. He remembered passing by old men telling bawdy jokes as a child and he would laugh along with them without knowing the punchline. When his friends hit puberty that was an awkward time for him. But it made him a better brother to Mikasa, because he knew exactly how she felt when a boy was mean to her (and…maybe he used his fists to settle that). And when Armin was cramming for a test, he was stressing right along with him, poring over notes for a final he didn’t even have.

This way he had, of feeling what others were feeling, grew. He became more aware of it. He knew when Jean had a crush on Mikasa. And he knew before Jean when he had a crush on Armin. Sometimes it was a blessing. Most times…it felt like a curse. Because when you’re a child that cries when someone else cries, they just call you sympathetic. But when you’re a grown man who has just watched a child drop their ice cream on the ground, it’s weird to cry too. But then, there were days he couldn’t help but enjoy. Passing by an older couple still holding hands and so in love with each other had Eren humming old love songs all day.

More often than not, these feelings lasted for a long time. It wasn’t just like a flash and then it was over; they lingered, floating around in his head, turning over and over. It was like running your tongue over a jagged tooth, or a song on the radio that you just can’t get out of your head. They were persistent. They were overwhelming. They were confusing. But he dealt with them.

That is, until the man in the elevator.

‘The Favourite,’ directed by Yorgos Lanthimos has wrapped. Official Synopsis Hints At a Royal-Centric lesbian love triangle

The film stars Rachel Weisz and Emma Stone as noblewomen jockeying for power in the court of Queen Anne, played by Olivia Colman.

New plot details for the period drama reveal that Weisz and Stone’s characters vie for power and influence in Queen Anne’s court by any means necessary — including seduction.

Described as a “bawdy, acerbic tale of royal intrigue, passion, envy, and betrayal,” the film is set in 18th century England during the court of Queen Anne (Colman). Weisz plays Sarah Churchill, Duchess of Marlborough and confidante, advisor, and secret lover to the Queen. The power shifts when the Duchess’s younger cousin (Stone) arrives to court, and the two women battle for influence and the Queen’s affections. Via IndieWire

Bite Me (M)

Warnings: self-indulgent Sehun smut no one asked for but here we are, mentions of blood, oral, slight pain kink

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY KIWI!! REMEMBER YOU LOVE ME OKAY????

Length: Sehun’s di–2602


Everything about him screamed, “Danger! Do not approach! Run or die!”  But there was something so magnetic, so irresistible that she knew she couldn’t run even if she had wanted to.  He had captured her in the trap that was his gaze from the very moment she first laid eyes on him.  From the dark glint of unbridled lust flashing in his eyes to the gracefully fluid way his body moved as he so effortlessly stalked his way across the crowded dance floor, there was something so undeniably powerful about him.  

His mysterious aura alone entranced her, but his whispered sweet nothings into her ear as he guided their bodies to the pulsing music compelled her to assent to his invitation to go somewhere more private.

The taxi ride to his apartment was spent with their lips slotted together in a series of rushed kisses and rough nips. Based on the brief trip, she expected him to rush her straight to his room as soon as they stepped through his front door.  He, however, showed her to his living room as he fetched two glasses and an ornate glass decanter filled with a perfectly aged cabernet sauvignon.  She watched him carefully pour each of them a glass, silently wondering if this show of gentlemanly smoothness was all a part of an act or a genuine part of his charms; in any case, she was still just as drawn to him as the moment she first saw him in the crowded club and the fire burning hot in her belly only reinforced her attraction.  As she lifted the glass to her lips, he broke the comfortable silence that had fallen between them.  “I can guarantee you’ve never been with anyone like me,” he boldly claimed.

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6

“I wanted to create my own Martha who had nothing to do with anybody else’s Martha. I think she is a desperate woman who has the softness of the underbelly of a baby turtle. She covers it with the toughness shell, which she pants red. Her veneer is bawdy; it’s sloppy, it’s slouchy, it’s snarly. But there are moments when the facade cracks and you see the vulnerability, the infinite pain of this woman inside whom, years ago, life almost died but is still flickering.” -Elizabeth Taylor

anonymous asked:

do you think benjen knew the truth about jon? or at least suspected it?

I like to think he suspected it, possibly even knew with certainty without Ned telling him. There’s a theory floating around that Benjen joined the Night’s Watch out of guilt because he knew of Lyanna’s plans to run away, so maybe when he saw Jon he just *knew*.

Benjen is particularly warm toward Jon, even joining him at the low table during the King’s feast in Winterfell to talk to him and tease him. That particular interaction doesn’t end well because Jon’s drunk and angry, but Benjen does say this:

“You might, if you knew what it meant,” Benjen said. “If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son.”

Jon felt anger rise inside him. “I’m not your son!”

Benjen Stark stood up. “More’s the pity.” He put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Come back to me after you’ve fathered a few bastards of your own, and we’ll see how you feel.”

Jon even becomes sullen that Benjen stopped being as friendly with him when they went to the Wall, because Benjen is trying to make a point that he’s just another brother at the Wall and would not get special treatment from him:

Even his uncle had abandoned him in this cold place at the end of the world. Up here, the genial Benjen Stark he had known became a different person. He was First Ranger, and he spent his days and nights with Lord Commander Mormont and Maester Aemon and the other high officers, while Jon was given over to the less than tender charge of Ser Alliser Thorne.

Three days after their arrival, Jon had heard that Benjen Stark was to lead a half-dozen men on a ranging into the haunted forest. That night he sought out his uncle in the great timbered common hall and pleaded to go with him. Benjen refused him curtly. “This is not Winterfell,” he told him as he cut his meat with fork and dagger. “On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns. You’re no ranger, Jon, only a green boy with the smell of summer still on you.”

Stupidly, Jon argued. “I’ll be fifteen on my name day,” he said. “Almost a man grown.”

Benjen Stark frowned. “A boy you are, and a boy you’ll remain until Ser Alliser says you are fit to be a man of the Night’s Watch. If you thought your Stark blood would win you easy favors, you were wrong. We put aside our old families when we swear our vows. Your father will always have a place in my heart, but these are my brothers now.” He gestured with his dagger at the men around them, all the hard cold men in black.

Jon rose at dawn the next day to watch his uncle leave. One of his rangers, a big ugly man, sang a bawdy song as he saddled his garron, his breath steaming in the cold morning air. Ben Stark smiled at that, but he had no smile for his nephew. “How often must I tell you no, Jon? We’ll speak when I return.”

Jon expresses a great amount of anger over his uncle’s treatment of him, which seems to indicate that Jon is very much unused to Benjen refusing him or being anything less than warm toward him. His anger reaches a boiling point pretty quickly too:

“I don’t care,” Jon said. “I don’t care about them and I don’t care about you or Thorne or Benjen Stark or any of it. I hate it here. It’s too … it’s cold.”

When Benjen goes missing, it affects Jon rather greatly throughout AGoT:

Jon remembered the wish he’d wished in his anger, the vision of Benjen Stark dead in the snow, and he looked away quickly. The dwarf had a way of sensing things, and Jon did not want him to see the guilt in his eyes. “He said he’d be back by my name day,” he admitted. His name day had come and gone, unremarked, a fortnight past.

For a moment Jon was too frightened to move. Why would the Lord Commander want to see him? They had heard something about Benjen, he thought wildly, he was dead, the vision had come true. “Is it my uncle?” he blurted. “Is he returned safe?”

The grey walls of Winterfell might still haunt his dreams, but Castle Black was his life now, and his brothers were Sam and Grenn and Halder and Pyp and the other cast-outs who wore the black of the Night’s Watch.

“My uncle spoke truly,” he whispered to Ghost. He wondered if he would ever see Benjen Stark again, to tell him.

“Very well, truly,” the fat boy lied. “I am so happy for you all.” His round face quivered as he forced a smile. “You will be First Ranger someday, just as your uncle was.”

“Is,” Jon corrected. He would not accept that Benjen Stark was dead. 

“Benjen Stark is still First Ranger,” Jon Snow told him, toying with his bowl of blueberries. The rest might have given up all hope of his uncle’s safe return, but not him.

In ACoK Jon still thinks of his uncle, and even mentions him to Ygritte:

“Do you know anything of my uncle, Benjen Stark?”

Ygritte ignored him. Stonesnake laughed. “If she spits out her tongue, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

In Jon’s crypt dream in ASoS, he calls to his uncle for help:

He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness. “Father?” he called. “Bran? Rickon?” No one answered. A chill wind was blowing on his neck. “Uncle?” he called. “Uncle Benjen? Father? Please, Father, help me.” Up above he heard drums. They are feasting in the Great Hall, but I am not welcome there. I am no Stark, and this is not my place. His crutch slipped and he fell to his knees. The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. “Ygritte?” he whispered. “Forgive me. Please.” But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his golden eyes shining sadly through the dark …

All of this to establish that a relationship did exist between Jon and Benjen, and overall it seemed a rather warm one. It’s just as well that Benjen would behave warmly toward any Stark bastard, but seeing as Benjen and Lyanna had been close in age, that they likely spent more time together than Benjen would have with his other siblings, and that they were partners in crime at Harrenhal may indicate that he feels close to Jon because of Lyanna.

X-Files Fic: D'un Nouvel Oeil, Chapter One

Six months ago, when I was working on “Au Cafe Pequod,” I settled on writing it entirely from Mulder’s perspective without any real thought.  It just seemed to flow naturally; it was, after all, his character that would be undergoing the most significant changes.  Later, however, I realized that there are so many things that I really, really wanted to write from Scully’s point of view- not to mention lots of moments Mulder wouldn’t have been privy to that could really add to the overall story.  And on top of that, there were bits I’d skipped for pacing’s sake, and once the story was done, it was too late to go back and add them in.

So what’s a fic writer to do?

Well, the obvious answer is, of course, to go back and re-write the entire thing from Scully’s perspective.  So, that’s going to be my big project for the month of February.  I know AU isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, historical AU even less so, so if you’re rolling your eyes right now (which I completely understand), I promise I’ll still be posting lots of drabbles and prompt responses this month as I continue whittling down my inbox.

If you’ve never read the original Au Cafe Pequod, I would recommend starting with that before reading this.  Scully’s the one keeping all the secrets in this story (there’s a shocker), and whereas this version reveals most of them at the outset, the original keeps them hidden for a few chapters.  If you’re not sure that you’d like this, take a short trip over here and watch the amazing trailer that @mulderswaterbed created- I’ve had people tell me they had no interest in the story until they’d watched that video!

Many thanks to @a-january-girl for her help with the title; it means “with fresh eyes.”  Enjoy!




ORADOUR-SUR GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE
EARLY DECEMBER 1943


She has been on her feet since before five o'clock in the morning, and she is ready to collapse.

It’s not the early morning that’s the problem- Dana Scully is more than used to days that begin before dawn- but, rather, the near-total lack of sleep the night before.  Two hours after closing the cafe spent on preparing dough and slicing meats for the next day, an hour feeding herself for the first time since noon, a half hour to bathe… and finally, three hours trying to bring down the fever of a delirious British soldier brought to her back door in the dead of night for treatment.  

He had spent the entire time crying for his mother.

Byers and Langly had staggered away with the soldier propped up between them at three-thirty in the morning, and Scully had managed less than two hours’ rest before dragging herself out to her mother’s farm to help with the morning milking.  She’d napped for an hour, at her mother’s insistence, before returning to town, to her cafe, but since then, she’s been in constant motion.

She’s grateful, really, that the place is so busy, even if it does mean she’s being run off her feet most of the time.  Plenty of businesses in Oradour-sur-Glane have shut down in the years since the beginning of the German occupation, but the Cafe Pequod has been getting along just fine- thriving, even.

Of course, that’s mostly due to the German officers and enlisted men who fill her tables every night… but, she continually reminds herself, they’re serving a very specific purpose.  Even if they’re not aware of it.

Keep reading

Green-Eyed Monster - Castiel x reader (NSFW)

Summary: Cas gets worked up after reading Dean’s smutty thoughts about reader, so he decides to show Dean who reader belongs to.

Words: 2257 

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, spanking.

Castiel x Reader

A/N: Now that it’s finally summer, I hope to write more stuff! <3 And hopefully not just Cas XD I need to give other boys some attention too, so if you want, you can drop a request in my ask or message it to me <3 


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Let’s lighten things up, shall we?

In a few short (long)  months, all this, will be on our screens for our viewing pleasure. Definitely one to be stored away in the spank bank, I’m sure.

*****

Chapter 56

In a few short months…this will all be on the screen for our visual, ahem, entertainment

I did, my resentment gradually melting into a sort of warm and glowing stupor as I ate. I hadn’t taken anything for the pain in my arm, but as my empty stomach expanded in grateful relief, I more or less quit noticing it.

“Will ye have another bowl?” Jamie asked, as I swallowed the last spoonful. “Ye’ll need your strength kept up.” Not waiting for an answer, he uncovered the small tureen Murphy had sent, and refilled the bowl.

“Where’s Ishmael?” I asked, during the brief hiatus.

“On the after deck. He didna seem comfortable belowdecks—and I canna say I blame him, having seen the slavers at Bridgetown. I had Maitland sling him a hammock.”

“Do you think it’s safe to leave him loose like that? What kind of soup is this?” The last spoonful had left a delightful, lingering taste on my tongue; the next revived the full flavor.

“Turtle; Stern took a big hawksbill last night. He sent word he’s saving ye the shell to make combs of, for your hair.” Jamie frowned slightly, whether at the thought of Lawrence Stern’s gallantry or Ishmael’s presence, I couldn’t tell. “As for the black, he’s not loose—Fergus is watching him.”

“Fergus is on his honeymoon,” I protested. “You shouldn’t make him do it. Is this really turtle soup? I’ve never had it before. It’s marvelous.”

Jamie was unmoved by contemplation of Fergus’s tender state.

“Aye, well, he’ll be wed a long time,” he said callously. “Do him no harm to keep his breeches on for one night. And they do say that abstinence makes the heart grow firmer, no?”

“Absence,” I said, dodging the spoon for a moment. “And fonder. If anything’s growing firmer from abstinence, it wouldn’t be his heart.”

“That’s verra bawdy talk for a respectable marrit woman,” Jamie said reprovingly, sticking the spoon in my mouth. “And inconsiderate, forbye.”

I swallowed. “Inconsiderate?”

“I’m a wee bit firm myself at the moment,” he replied evenly, dipping and spooning. “What wi’ you sitting there wi’ your hair loose and your s starin’ me in the eye, the size of cherries.”

I glanced down involuntarily, and the next spoonful bumped my nose. Jamie clicked his tongue, and picking up a cloth, briskly blotted my bosom with it. It was quite true that my shift was made of thin cotton, and even when dry, reasonably easy to see through.

“It’s not as though you haven’t seen them before,” I said, amused.

He laid down the cloth and raised his brows.

“I have drunk water every day since I was weaned,” he pointed out. “It doesna mean I canna be thirsty, still.” He picked up the spoon. “You’ll have a wee bit more?”

“No, thanks,” I said, dodging the oncoming spoon. “I want to hear more about this firmness of yours.”

“No, ye don’t; you’re ill.”

“I feel much better,” I assured him. “Shall I have a look at it?” He was wearing the loose petticoat breeches the sailors wore, in which he could easily have concealed three or four dead mullet, let alone a fugitive firmness.

“You shall not,” he said, looking slightly shocked. “Someone might come in. And I canna think your looking at it would help a bit.”

“Well, you can’t tell that until I have looked at it, can you?” I said. “Besides, you can bolt the door.”

“Bolt the door? What d’ye think I’m going to do? Do I look the sort of man would take advantage of a woman who’s not only wounded and boiling wi’ fever, but drunk as well?” he demanded. He stood up, nonetheless.

“I am not drunk,” I said indignantly. “You can’t get drunk on turtle soup!” Nonetheless, I was conscious that the glowing warmth in my stomach seemed to have migrated somewhat lower, taking up residence between my thighs, and there was undeniably a slight lightness of head not strictly attributable to fever.

“You can if ye’ve been drinking turtle soup as made by Aloysius O’Shaughnessy Murphy,” he said. “By the smell of it, he’s put at least a full bottle o’ the sherry in it. A verra intemperate race, the Irish.”

“Well, I’m still not drunk.” I straightened up against the pillows as best I could. “You told me once that if you could still stand up, you weren’t drunk.”

“You aren’t standing up,” he pointed out.

“You are. And I could if I wanted to. Stop trying to change the subject. We were talking about your firmness.”

“Well, ye can just stop talking about it, because—” He broke off with a small yelp, as I made a fortunate grab with my left hand.

“Clumsy, am I?” I said, with considerable satisfaction. “Oh, my. Heavens, you do have a problem, don’t you?”

“Will ye leave go of me?” he hissed, looking frantically over his shoulder at the door. “Someone could come in any moment!”

“I told you you should have bolted the door,” I said, not letting go. Far from being a dead mullet, the object in my hand was exhibiting considerable liveliness.

He eyed me narrowly, breathing through his nose.

“I wouldna use force on a sick woman,” he said through his teeth, “but you’ve a damn healthy grip for someone with a fever, Sassenach. If you—”

“I told you I felt better,” I interrupted, “but I’ll make you a bargain; you bolt the door and I’ll prove I’m not drunk.” I rather regretfully let go, to indicate good faith. He stood staring at me for a moment, absentmindedly rubbing the site of my recent assault on his virtue. Then he lifted one ruddy eyebrow, turned, and went to bolt the door.

By the time he turned back, I had made it out of the berth and was standing—a trifle shakily, but still upright—against the frame. He eyed me critically.

“It’s no going to work, Sassenach,” he said, shaking his head. He looked rather regretful, himself. “We’ll never stay upright, wi’ a swell like there is underfoot tonight, and ye know I’ll not fit in that berth by myself, let alone wi’ you.”

There was a considerable swell; the lantern on its swivel-bracket hung steady and level, but the shelf above it tilted visibly back and forth as the Artemis rode the waves. I could feel the faint shudder of the boards under my bare feet, and knew Jamie was right. At least he was too absorbed in the discussion to be seasick.

“There’s always the floor,” I suggested hopefully. He glanced down at the limited floor space and frowned. “Aye, well. There is, but we’d have to do it like snakes, Sassenach, all twined round each other amongst the table legs.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it would hurt your arm.” He rubbed a knuckle across his lower lip, thinking. His eyes passed absently across my body at about hip level, returned, fixed, and lost their focus. I thought the bloody shift must be more transparent than I realized.

Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I let go my hold on the frame of the berth and lurched the two paces necessary to reach him. The roll of the ship threw me into his arms, and he barely managed to keep his own balance, clutching me tightly round the waist.

“Jesus!” he said, staggered, and then, as much from reflex as from desire, bent his head and kissed me.

It was startling. I was accustomed to be surrounded by the warmth of his embrace; now it was I who was hot to the touch and he who was cool. From his reaction, he was enjoying the novelty as much as I was.

Light-headed, and reckless with it, I nipped the side of his neck with my teeth, feeling the waves of heat from my face pulsate against the column of his throat. He felt it, too.

“God, you’re like holding a hot coal!” His hands dropped lower and pressed me hard against him.

“Firm is it? Ha,” I said, getting my mouth free for a moment. “Take those baggy things off.” I slid down his length and onto my knees in front of him, fumbling mazily at his flies. He freed the laces with a quick jerk, and the petticoat breeches ballooned to the floor with a whiff of wind.

I didn’t wait for him to remove his shirt; just lifted it and took him. He made a strangled sound and his hands came down on my head as though he wanted to restrain me, but hadn’t the strength.

“Oh, Lord!” he said. His hands tightened in my hair, but he wasn’t trying to push me away. “This must be what it’s like to in Hell,” he whispered. “With a burning she-devil.”

I laughed, which was extremely difficult under the circumstances. I choked, and pulled back a moment, breathless.

“Is this what a succubus does, do you think?”

“I wouldna doubt it for a moment,” he ured me. His hands were still in my hair, urging me back.

A knock sounded on the door, and he froze. Confident that the door was indeed bolted, I didn’t.

“Aye? What is it?” he said, with a calmness rather remarkable for a man in his position.

“Fraser?” Lawrence Stern’s voice came through the door. “The Frenchman says the black is asleep, and may he have leave to go to bed now?”

“No,” said Jamie shortly. “Tell him to stay where he is; I’ll come along and relieve him in a bit.”

“Oh.” Stern’s voice sounded a little hesitant. “Surely. His…um, his wife seems…eager for him to come now.”

Jamie inhaled sharply.

“Tell her,” he said, a small note of strain becoming evident in his voice, “that he’ll be there…presently.”

“I will say so.” Stern sounded dubious about Marsali’s reception of this news, but then his voice brightened. “Ah…is Mrs. Fraser feeling somewhat improved?”

“Verra much,” said Jamie, with feeling.

“She enjoyed the turtle soup?”

“Greatly. I thank ye.” His hands on my head were trembling.

“Did you tell her that I’ve put aside the shell for her? It was a fine hawksbill turtle; a most elegant beast.”

“Aye. Aye, I did.” With an audible gasp, Jamie pulled away and reaching down, lifted me to my feet.

“Good night, Mr. Stern!” he called. He pulled me toward the berth; we struggled four-legged to keep from crashing into tables and chairs as the floor rose and fell beneath us.

“Oh.” Lawrence sounded faintly disappointed. “I suppose Mrs. Fraser is asleep, then?”

“Laugh, and I’ll throttle ye,” Jamie whispered fiercely in my ear. “She is, Mr. Stern,” he called through the door. “I shall give her your respects in the morning, aye?”

“I trust she will rest well. There seems to be a certain roughness to the sea this evening.”

“I…have noticed, Mr. Stern.” Pushing me to my knees in front of the berth, he knelt behind me, groping for the hem of my shift. A cool breeze from the open stern window blew over my , and a shiver ran down the backs of my thighs.

“Should you or Mrs. Fraser find yourselves discommoded by the motion, I have a most capital remedy to hand—a compound of mugwort, bat dung, and the fruit of the mangrove. You have only to ask, you know.”

Jamie didn’t answer for a moment.

“Oh, Christ!” he whispered. I took a sizable bite of the bedclothes.

“Mr. Fraser?”

“I said, ‘Thank you’!” Jamie replied, raising his voice.

“Well, I shall bid you a good evening, then.”

Jamie let out his breath in a long shudder that was not quite a moan.

“Mr. Fraser?”

“Good evening, Mr. Stern!” Jamie bellowed.

“Oh! Er…good evening.”

Stern’s footsteps receded down the companionway, lost in the sound of the waves that were now crashing loudly against the hull. I spit out the mouthful of quilt.

“Oh…my…God!”

His hands were large and hard and cool on my heated flesh.

“You’ve the roundest arse I’ve ever seen!”

A lurch by the Artemis here aiding his efforts to an untoward degree, I uttered a loud shriek.

“Shh!” He clasped a hand over my mouth, bending over me so that he lay over my back, the billowing linen of his shirt falling around me and the weight of him pressing me to the bed. My skin, crazed with fever, was sensitive to the slightest touch, and I shook in his arms, the heat inside me rushing outward as he moved within me.

His hands were under me then, clutching my s, the only anchor as I lost my boundaries and dissolved, conscious thought a displaced element in the chaos of sensations—the warm damp of tangled quilts beneath me, the cold sea wind and misty spray that wafted over us from the rough sea outside, the gasp and brush of Jamie’s warm breath on the back of my neck, and the sudden prickle and flood of cold and heat, as my fever broke in a dew of satisfied desire.

Jamie’s weight rested on my back, his thighs behind mine. It was warm, and comforting. After a long time, his breathing eased, and he rose off me. The thin cotton of my shift was damp, and the wind plucked it away from my skin, making me shiver.

Jamie closed the window with a snap, then bent and picked me up like a rag doll. He lowered me into the berth, and pulled the quilt up over me.

“How is your arm?” he said.

“What arm?” I murmured drowsily. I felt as though I had been melted and poured into a mold to set.

“Good,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Can ye stand up?”

“Not for all the tea in China.”

“I’ll tell Murphy ye liked the soup.” His hand rested for a moment on my cool forehead, passed down the curve of my cheek in a light caress, and then was gone. I didn’t hear him leave.


-Voyager

Like Limbs and Hearts, Entwined (Part 2)

Summary:  When the woven birch crown appears in the Sacred Grove, the village elders know that The God of Field and Forest, The Lord of the Ancient Wood, has decided to take a Bride.  The most beautiful girl in the village, chosen by him and blessed with his grace, is to perform the marriage rites on the First Summer Moon, thus ensuring a bountiful harvest and continued prosperity for the community…  And you are so very certain and so very thankful that it could never be you!

Warnings: SNEK, future smut

A/N: big thanks to @abovethesmokestacks for giving me so many ideas and letting me babble at her about things

Prev.

Soon after the ground began to thaw from the last snow, it was time to work on the season’s planting.  One cloudless early morning, your father set out on his daily chore of checking the traps he’d placed in the woods while you went about preparing the garden.  It was not a particularly easy task, but you had never shied away from hard work.  In fact, you were quite fond of this day of the year.  There was something about working the damp earth after a long cold winter, the promise of future harvest, the pride in a job well done.  It made the sweat and mucked up skirts and exhaustion at the end of the day worthwhile.

Keep reading

So, the song we hear Lucy Wells sing in Episode 5 of Harlots (at the Hades Party) is a real 17th/18th century English folksong, probably performed in brothels or at parties. It tends to be attributed to Thomas “Tom” d’Urfey (1653-1723), as it is often included in collections of his bawdy & love songs. d’Urfey was a professional jokester, the amusement of the late 17th century kings (such as Charles II) and in the 18th century, he wrote 10 songs included in John Gay’s comic masterpiece, “The Beggar’s Opera.” The song Lucy sings part of is usually referred to as “My Thing Is My Own” and can be sung to a variation of tunes. It is full of bawdiness and double-entendres, an embodiment of the zeitgeist of the 17th & 18th century in England. 

A sweet scented courtier did give me a kiss,                                               And promised me mountains if I would be his.                                              But I’ll not believe him, for it is too true,                                                                                                                    Courtiers promise much more than they do.

CHORUS: My thing is my own and I’ll keep it so still! Yet other young lasses may do as they will (x2)

A master of music came with an intent,                                                         To give me a lesson on my instrument.                                                                                                         I thanked him for nothing and bid him be gone,                                                                                                                  For my little fiddle must not be played on. 

CHORUS

A cunning clock maker did court me as well,                                                                                                              And promised me riches if I’d ring his bell,                                                                                                                    So I looked at his clockwork and said with a shock,                                            “                                                              “Your pendulum’s far too small for my clock!”

CHORUS

A blunt lieutenant surprised my blanket,                                                                                                          And speedily began to rifle and sack it.                                                           So I roused myself, and I became bold,                                                             And forced my lieutenant to quit my stronghold!

CHORUS

Well, I could brag of a hundred or more,                                                           Besides all the gansters recited before,                                                             Who made their addresses in hopes of a snap,                                              But young as I was, I understood that…

CHORUS x 2    

3

Back at the hospital after eating dinner. Sitting in the parking lot with my sister Hannah, my brother Seth, my sister Rachel and her new fiancé Chad. Dad has had a really scary relapse. Someone found him naked and unresponsive by the jacuzzi in his complex (that poor person). When my mom got there, he was in the jacuzzi talking gibberish. He was so agitated they had to restrain him. His blood alcohol level is 1.45, and he tested positive for marijuana. He tested negative for the rest of the standard drug panel, but it took them hours to do a cat scan, because even after 3 shots of sedatives he couldn’t keep still. I asked my mom if she thought his friend Ronnie’s death had pushed him over the edge and caused a relapse, but she said he’s been so self absorbed that she doesn’t think he was that deeply affected. I think if you hide from your pain in a bottle for 40 years, you don’t develop any skills for coping with strong emotions.

My crazy family is here smoking and talking shit in the parking lot. At least we’re together. Dad finally had a lucid few seconds after about eight hours. He finally had a cat scan and it was clear. They obviously think he’s on something, because they gave him Narcan, and it seems to be helping. All of us are worried, angry and sad, but we express it by being irreverent, bawdy and crass. We are huddled for warmth, and I’m going to smell like cigarette smoke when I get home.

Is this really turtle soup?

I’ve never had it before. It’s marvelous.” 

Jamie was unmoved by contemplation of Fergus’s tender state. 

“Aye, well, he’ll be wed a long time,” he said callously. “Do him no harm to keep his breeches on for one night. And they do say that abstinence makes the heart grow firmer, no?” 

“Absence,” I said, dodging the spoon for a moment. “And fonder. If anything’s growing firmer from abstinence, it wouldn’t be his heart.” 

“That’s verra bawdy talk for a respectable marrit woman,” Jamie said reprovingly, sticking the spoon in my mouth. “And inconsiderate, forbye.”

 I swallowed. “Inconsiderate?” 

“I’m a wee bit firm myself at the moment,” he replied evenly, dipping and spooning. “What wi’ you sitting there wi’ your hair loose and your nipples starin’ me in the eye, the size of cherries.” 

I glanced down involuntarily, and the next spoonful bumped my nose. Jamie clicked his tongue, and picking up a cloth, briskly blotted my bosom with it. It was quite true that my shift was made of thin cotton, and even when dry, reasonably easy to see through. 

“It’s not as though you haven’t seen them before,” I said, amused. 

He laid down the cloth and raised his brows. 

“I have drunk water every day since I was weaned,” he pointed out. “It doesna mean I canna be thirsty, still.” He picked up the spoon. “You’ll have a wee bit more?” 

“No, thanks,” I said, dodging the oncoming spoon. “I want to hear more about this firmness of yours.” 

“No, ye don’t; you’re ill.” 

“I feel much better,” I assured him. “Shall I have a look at it?” He was wearing the loose petticoat breeches the sailors wore, in which he could easily have concealed three or four dead mullet, let alone a fugitive firmness. 

“You shall not,” he said, looking slightly shocked. “Someone might come in. And I canna think your looking at it would help a bit.” 

“Well, you can’t tell that until I have looked at it, can you?” I said. “Besides, you can bolt the door.” 

“Bolt the door? What d’ye think I’m going to do? Do I look the sort of man would take advantage of a woman who’s not only wounded and boiling wi’ fever, but drunk as well?” he demanded. He stood up, nonetheless. 

“I am not drunk,” I said indignantly. “You can’t get drunk on turtle soup!” Nonetheless, I was conscious that the glowing warmth in my stomach seemed to have migrated somewhat lower, taking up residence between my thighs, and there was undeniably a slight lightness of head not strictly attributable to fever. 

“You can if ye’ve been drinking turtle soup as made by Aloysius O’Shaughnessy Murphy,” he said. “By the smell of it, he’s put at least a full bottle o’ the sherry in it. A verra intemperate race, the Irish.” 

“Well, I’m still not drunk.” I straightened up against the pillows as best I could. “You told me once that if you could still stand up, you weren’t drunk.” 

“You aren’t standing up,” he pointed out. 

“You are. And I could if I wanted to. Stop trying to change the subject. We were talking about your firmness.” 

“Well, ye can just stop talking about it, because—” He broke off with a small yelp, as I made a fortunate grab with my left hand. 

“Clumsy, am I?” I said, with considerable satisfaction. “Oh, my. Heavens, you do have a problem, don’t you?” 

“Will ye leave go of me?” he hissed, looking frantically over his shoulder at the door. “Someone could come in any moment!”

“I told you you should have bolted the door,” I said, not letting go. Far from being a dead mullet, the object in my hand was exhibiting considerable liveliness. 

He eyed me narrowly, breathing through his nose. 

“I wouldna use force on a sick woman,” he said through his teeth, “but you’ve a damn healthy grip for someone with a fever, Sassenach. If you—” 

“I told you I felt better,” I interrupted, “but I’ll make you a bargain; you bolt the door and I’ll prove I’m not drunk.” I rather regretfully let go, to indicate good faith. He stood staring at me for a moment, absentmindedly rubbing the site of my recent assault on his virtue. Then he lifted one ruddy eyebrow, turned, and went to bolt the door. 

By the time he turned back, I had made it out of the berth and was standing—a trifle shakily, but still upright—against the frame. He eyed me critically. 

“It’s no going to work, Sassenach,” he said, shaking his head. He looked rather regretful, himself. “We’ll never stay upright, wi’ a swell like there is underfoot tonight, and ye know I’ll not fit in that berth by myself, let alone wi’ you.” 

There was a considerable swell; the lantern on its swivel-bracket hung steady and level, but the shelf above it tilted visibly back and forth as the Artemis rode the waves. I could feel the faint shudder of the boards under my bare feet, and knew Jamie was right. At least he was too absorbed in the discussion to be seasick. 

“There’s always the floor,” I suggested hopefully. He glanced down at the limited floor space and frowned. “Aye, well. There is, but we’d have to do it like snakes, Sassenach, all twined round each other amongst the table legs.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it would hurt your arm.” He rubbed a knuckle across his lower lip, thinking. His eyes passed absently across my body at about hip level, returned, fixed, and lost their focus. I thought the bloody shift must be more transparent than I realized. 

Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I let go my hold on the frame of the berth and lurched the two paces necessary to reach him. The roll of the ship threw me into his arms, and he barely managed to keep his own balance, clutching me tightly round the waist. 

“Jesus!” he said, staggered, and then, as much from reflex as from desire, bent his head and kissed me. 

It was startling. I was accustomed to be surrounded by the warmth of his embrace; now it was I who was hot to the touch and he who was cool. From his reaction, he was enjoying the novelty as much as I was. 

Light-headed, and reckless with it, I nipped the side of his neck with my teeth, feeling the waves of heat from my face pulsate against the column of his throat. He felt it, too. 

“God, you’re like holding a hot coal!” His hands dropped lower and pressed me hard against him. 

“Firm is it? Ha,” I said, getting my mouth free for a moment. “Take those baggy things off.” I slid down his length and onto my knees in front of him, fumbling mazily at his flies. He freed the laces with a quick jerk, and the petticoat breeches ballooned to the floor with a whiff of wind. 

I didn’t wait for him to remove his shirt; just lifted it and took him. He made a strangled sound and his hands came down on my head as though he wanted to restrain me, but hadn’t the strength. 

“Oh, Lord!” he said. His hands tightened in my hair, but he wasn’t trying to push me away. “This must be what it’s like to make love in Hell,” he whispered. “With a burning she-devil.” 

I laughed, which was extremely difficult under the circumstances. I choked, and pulled back a moment, breathless. 

“Is this what a succubus does, do you think?” 

“I wouldna doubt it for a moment,” he assured me. His hands were still in my hair, urging me back. 

A knock sounded on the door, and he froze. Confident that the door was indeed bolted, I didn’t. 

“Aye? What is it?” he said, with a calmness rather remarkable for a man in his position. 

“Fraser?” Lawrence Stern’s voice came through the door. “The Frenchman says the black is asleep, and may he have leave to go to bed now?” 

“No,” said Jamie shortly. “Tell him to stay where he is; I’ll come along and relieve him in a bit.” 

“Oh.” Stern’s voice sounded a little hesitant. “Surely. His … um, his wife seems … eager for him to come now.” 

Jamie inhaled sharply. 

“Tell her,” he said, a small note of strain becoming evident in his voice, “that he’ll be there … presently.” 

“I will say so.” Stern sounded dubious about Marsali’s reception of this news, but then his voice brightened. “Ah … is Mrs. Fraser feeling somewhat improved?” 

“Verra much,” said Jamie, with feeling. 

“She enjoyed the turtle soup?” 

“Greatly. I thank ye.” His hands on my head were trembling. 

“Did you tell her that I’ve put aside the shell for her? It was a fine hawksbill turtle; a most elegant beast.” 

“Aye. Aye, I did.” With an audible gasp, Jamie pulled away and reaching down, lifted me to my feet. 

“Good night, Mr. Stern!” he called. He pulled me toward the berth; we struggled four-legged to keep from crashing into tables and chairs as the floor rose and fell beneath us. 

“Oh.” Lawrence sounded faintly disappointed. “I suppose Mrs. Fraser is asleep, then?” 

“Laugh, and I’ll throttle ye,” Jamie whispered fiercely in my ear. “She is, Mr. Stern,” he called through the door. “I shall give her your respects in the morning, aye?” 

“I trust she will rest well. There seems to be a certain roughness to the sea this evening.” 

“I … have noticed, Mr. Stern.” Pushing me to my knees in front of the berth, he knelt behind me, groping for the hem of my shift. A cool breeze from the open stern window blew over my naked buttocks, and a shiver ran down the backs of my thighs. 

“Should you or Mrs. Fraser find yourselves discommoded by the motion, I have a most capital remedy to hand—a compound of mugwort, bat dung, and the fruit of the mangrove. You have only to ask, you know.” 

Jamie didn’t answer for a moment. 

“Oh, Christ!” he whispered. I took a sizable bite of the bedclothes. 

“Mr. Fraser?” 

“I said, ‘Thank you’!” Jamie replied, raising his voice. 

“Well, I shall bid you a good evening, then.” 

Jamie let out his breath in a long shudder that was not quite a moan. 

“Mr. Fraser?” 

“Good evening, Mr. Stern!” Jamie bellowed. 

“Oh! Er … good evening.” 

Stern’s footsteps receded down the companionway, lost in the sound of the waves that were now crashing loudly against the hull. I spit out the mouthful of quilt. 

“Oh … my … God!” 

His hands were large and hard and cool on my heated flesh. 

“You’ve the roundest arse I’ve ever seen!” 

A lurch by the Artemis here aiding his efforts to an untoward degree, I uttered a loud shriek. 

“Shh!” He clasped a hand over my mouth, bending over me so that he lay over my back, the billowing linen of his shirt falling around me and the weight of him pressing me to the bed. My skin, crazed with fever, was sensitive to the slightest touch, and I shook in his arms, the heat inside me rushing outward as he moved within me.

His hands were under me then, clutching my breasts, the only anchor as I lost my boundaries and dissolved, conscious thought a displaced element in the chaos of sensations—the warm damp of tangled quilts beneath me, the cold sea wind and misty spray that wafted over us from the rough sea outside, the gasp and brush of Jamie’s warm breath on the back of my neck, and the sudden prickle and flood of cold and heat, as my fever broke in a dew of satisfied desire. 

Jamie’s weight rested on my back, his thighs behind mine. It was warm, and comforting. After a long time, his breathing eased, and he rose off me. The thin cotton of my shift was damp, and the wind plucked it away from my skin, making me shiver. 

Jamie closed the window with a snap, then bent and picked me up like a rag doll. He lowered me into the berth, and pulled the quilt up over me. 

“How is your arm?” he said. 

“What arm?” I murmured drowsily. I felt as though I had been melted and poured into a mold to set. 

“Good,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Can ye stand up?” 

“Not for all the tea in China.” 

“I’ll tell Murphy ye liked the soup.” His hand rested for a moment on my cool forehead, passed down the curve of my cheek in a light caress, and then was gone. I didn’t hear him leave.

alittlemissfit  asked:

126. "I’m a lucky girl. I’ll admit that." For the drabble challenge! If you want. :)

She’s still wrestling with the tricky little catch on her new grey pencil skirt, feeling slightly claustrophobic in the stall closest to the far wall in the fifth-floor ladies’ room, when the outside door swings open and three or four pairs of heels go clacking across the tile.

“God, I thought they were NEVER gonna let us take a break. I didn’t go through the fucking Academy and bust my ass in the field for five years just to sit through an entire day’s worth of slides on how not to sexually harass myself.”

A derisive snort. “We’re the least of the Bureau’s goddamn problems — six women in that room, I counted —”

“I bet every last one of us’s had to nut-punch at least one of the fifty-three men in there. Counted them, too.”

The sounds of several of the stalls being occupied, a little cross-chatter about who’s had to nut-punch whom (and who might actually have requested that act — peals of laughter echo off the walls).

Wardrobe finally in order, she’s reaching for the latch when she hears something from the direction of the sinks that makes her curious; she stops, listening with wide eyes.

“Spooky Mulder’s the only one I wouldn’t have minded getting inappropriately touched by —”

Bawdy cackling. How irritating — grown women, FBI agents, for god’s sake. Her pulse begins to pound.

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Cynthia, I pray thee not to beginn these mere Squabbles with me. It ys commone knowledge that the pasties thou claimed to have bakedeth for the tutor of thy children’s benefit were in facte not bakedeth by thee, but by the Handse of a dyfferente village wench, and dost thou know? The pasties tastedd the worste. Thou ys always Late to the bawdy Meetinges thee callest “Yoga” duringg whych thee disappeareth onn Tuesdayes fromme the afternoon houres of three onn the sundial to four onn the sundial and thou lookest liken to a reptile of the grounde that canst stay in control of yts Appendages when thou standeth yn a pose seeming akin to a Tree. Thou dresseth liketh to a wanton village wench who requireth of The Lord who hast all of a suddyne discovered the tawdry wares of one bawdy and Evyle store calledeth “Claire’s” and thy son cannot playeth for naught the Shrovetide football. For thine own benefit, venture there not, Cynthia!