the yellow taint


Mint-Eye Rika:

Down the Rabbit Hole

Originally posted by carezero

Pairing: Maknae line x Reader

Genre: Wonderland!Au / Angst / Smut / Drabble series

Rated T for mentions of drugs, madness and mature themes

Word count: 4.7k

Synopsis: It took Y/n months - years. Infinite days of searching, of wondering, of grasping to the tiny, fragile hope of not being crazy as everyone said.

(But, really, who isn’t a child of madness in this world?)

And, finally, she found it: the key to open the gates to Wonderland. So, with a smile curling her lips and liquid danger between her fingers, the girl gladly fell once again.      

Author’s note: So, dunno what this thing is, an experiment, maybe. Hope you’ll enjoy this darkish lil series (but I swear this has some kind of sense in my mind).

Prelude // part 1 // part 2

Part one – the Cat

                                     “Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,’ thought Alice

          ‘but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!” 

Grass tickles on her check, over her lips, and suddenly the girl’s lashes flutter open.

She leans on her palms as the legs fold under the bluish skirt of her dress and her eyes try to adapt to the dusky light. In the tilting of her head, fair hair slides along petite shoulders like silk, eliciting the tiniest of shivers on her spine: the twilight air is cold, and the starlit strands over the bare skin only enhance the chilly sensation.

It’s not exactly unpleasant, though.  

The girl raises on her feet, and her head spins a bit once she stands tall under the crescent moon; one hand flies to the left side of her forehead, palm pressing down to attenuate the low pulsing in her temple.

Where am I?

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Okay, mashup of your AUs. A Mirror-Verse AU where the Jedi are all Sith, and the Republic is a Sith Empire. Sith!Obi-wan was killed by Jedi!Maul, leaving Sith!Qui-gon without his apprentice. Years later, Master Jedi!Obi-wan is brought over from the regular universe, and refuses to Fall. What would Qui-gon do?

“I have Lord Yoda’s permission to see the prisoner.”

The voice rang through the detention block and Obi-Wan let out a sharp breath through his nose. Else he did not move.

He let his head remain bent, remained in lotus position with his hands resting on his thighs, steadily breathing to keep his calm. He was not going to panic, he was going to cling to the very last shreds of his calm despite what had happened and despite what he had seen.

Every pair of yellow eyes in familiar faces…

He took another sharp breath as he listened to leather boots make their way through the hall to Obi-Wan’s cell until they stopped.

If he had access to the Force, he would most likely been able to feel the man outside his cell.

As it was, Obi-Wan relied on his other senses.

The soft shift of cloth against a tall body, the calm breathing and the silence of everything else.

The other was right outside the ray shields that made the door of his cell, watching him and Obi-Wan could feel his skin crawl even as a smaller part of him cried out in painful awareness of the exact being outside his cell.

“Open your eyes and look at me.” A familiar voice demanded and Obi-Wan fought against the cry stuck in his throat.

He slowly did as told though, raising his head ever so slightly to look at the man who had once trained him.

Qui-Gon Jinn, alive and handsome looking with his yellow eyes tainted red by the ray shield. The Dark side had been kind to the man Obi-Wan noted. Still tall and almost barrel chested with his head held high, less gray then brown in the mans hair that was held back with a ridiculously expensive looking clasp from what Obi-Wan could see. The beard matched the hair, well groomed with less lines and wrinkles around the mans eyes and over his forehead. Dark leather and fabric suited him along with a red belt around his waist. Overall the man gave of a predatory air that his Qui-Gon had never done except when needed, his Qui-Gon had always been a calm and placid lake until else ward was needed.

And the eyes that was looking over him almost hungerly, taking in Obi-Wan’s features as if he was drinking them in.

It made the Jedi look away.

“I see that our healer has taken care of your injuries. As they were reported to me.” Obi-Wan glanced back at the sound of the mans voice but Qui-Gon’s eyes were at this time focused on the blood stains on Obi-Wan’s tunic. “That is good.” He reached out to the console and brought the ray shield down.

Obi-Wan got to his feet instantly and backed away, meeting eyes amber like honey as the man stepped towards him.

“Why aren’t I dead?” He got out and the taller man stopped, seemingly taking in the words before continuing towards the Jedi.

“You are not dead because I requested it. My request was granted, though you are sans Force ability with a low level sedation pumped into your system.”  Qui-Gon prowled forward until he was looming over Obi-Wan, reaching out and cupping the others cheek, thumb stroking slowly underneath Obi-Wan’s eye.

“Your counterpart was killed by Jedi here. He was my apprentice and I buried him in his tomb far before I was ready to have him attempt himself against my life.” He smirked a bit before slowly continuing to caress the Jedi’s cheek.

“To bad.” Obi-Wan slapped the others hand of him, glaring up at him.

To his surprise, the Sith looked more amused then angered. “The same spitfire spirit…”

The Jedi pressed his back against the wall, staring up at him as Qui-Gon cupped his cheek. “I trained several apprentices after him. Varying importance and skills, none with the same spitfire to try themselves against me for my position in the Order.”

A heavy warm hand rested itself against Obi-Wan’s throat, his heartbeat fluttering against it as the Sith and the Jedi stared at each other.

“I won’t Fall. I’m a Jedi.” Obi-Wan swallowed, not caring if the other could feel it.

“I don’t need you to Fall. I lost Obi-Wan before I even gave him a name. His body is entombed. You? You are a pale imitation of what he was, little Jedi. But you are genuine enough that I will not harm you.” The other was pressing closer, trapping Obi-Wan against the wall.

“Then what am I still doing here?” Obi-Wan growled, his heart hurting at the sight of those eyes on him.

“Because I want you to be. And Sith do not deny themselves what they want.”

I love you

I left a bundle of carnations
On the stoop of your address
Where your door bleeds
Tainted yellow
And there’s paint
Dripped on the steps.

I knew you were not answering
Or taking any guests
Or giving life its time to breathe
Or handling your stress.

It was August and your plants
Had turned to coffins
And your driveway bore an empty space
From when your car
Was dispossessed.

In the bundle was a letter
With a poem inscribed be
Just three syllables 8 letters
With the hope to let you glean
I was not a friend in hiding
I was someone who believed
You weren’t destined for depression
That invisible disease
You were destined to be loved
If not by you
Just by me.

Winchester brothers-Wild


Pairings:Winchester brothers x reader

Word count:1923

Request:Hey could you do a fic where the boys are hunting a ghost of a 16yo girl in an abandoned university, but it turns out she is a feral left there by an abusive father. She can speak but doesn’t and they take care of her after hitting her with rock salt

Request:Hi again, to continue with the last ask, they actually take care of her, not like Family Remains. You know like: cleaning her wounds, getting her food, cutting her hair so it’s more manageable. But hey, its your fic, you can do it how you like.

Request:Hey could I make a change to the feral fic request? Earlier I said she was in a university, but could you actually do it in the woods? (They still think she’s a ghost though) Thanks!

‘’So?’’Dean shrugged, crumbs falling from the edges of his mouth as he raised his hand to swipe the crumbs away with the back of his hands. Sam scoffed lightly, pink lips turning down into a small frown as he glanced up at his brother with soft hazel eyes. 

Sam pressed his cassouled digits into the keyboards, little stains of oil from his fingertips leaving a sparkling glisten on the keys as he jutted against them in response to his brothers unanswered question. 

‘’So, it’s got to be a ghost.’’Sam reasoned, fingertips hovering over the keypad as his soft puppy like eyes poked out from over the screen of the large white laptop. 

‘’Okay’’Dean shrugged, shoulders bopping his thick large frame as his muscles flexed with the movement. ‘’Simple salt and burn’’.

Sam frowned once more, drawing his pink lip between his purely teeth, baring them slightly. ‘’I don’t think it’s gonna be that easy, Dean’’Sam sighed, eyes closing just a fraction to try and hide the headache that pounded heavily against his skull. 

Dean’s forest green eyes followed his brothers movements, unmistakeably catching his brothers pain. Dean had been brought up to protect Sam with his life, he knew every emotion Sam held in his face, he knew Sam more than Sam knew himself. 

‘’Here’’Dean grunted softly, broad hand plucking up the white bottle, label tearing slightly, as the edges folded in on themselves from being picked so many times. Little tiny stains of crimson marked then edges of the lid, tiny but there. 

Sam glanced up, the tiny green hidden flecks in his eyes brightening as he caught the white bottle in the palm of his open hand. The bottle rattled, signalling there was only a few left in there before Sam popped open the dusty lid and threw back two tiny pills.  

Sam shuffled in relief, his features no longer as tense as before as the creases of pain around his eyes had faded into small furrows. Sam huffed a sigh out as he jabbed his long slender finger against the down arrow on the keypad, eyes absorbing in information on the brightly lit screen. 


Leaves crunched under the buckled boots that belonged to the Winchesters, There hands rested in the void as they kept the barrel of their well used gun, pointed towards the floor. Their nimble fingers were only inches away from pulling the trigger.

Sam’s lips parted as he let out a slow breath, quiet and steady. His bottom teeth poked out from his plump bottom lip that held random stains of red splotches on the pink skin from where he had gnawed at it in habit. His hair was kept neatly behind his ears, tips flowing against the soft gentle breeze of the well kept wind. 

Dean continued to let out short breaths through his nose, eyes narrowed in thought and ready to attack anything within a seconds range. Dean was ready, stance low, knee’s bent so he could glide easily out of a attackers way. 

Faster than a single heartbeat, Dean’s blood pumped as he spotted something blurry in the distance. His jaw locked on itself, finger itching to tug the trigger in the very moment before he brought his elbow up to nudge his brother. The gun rustled under Dean’s movement, short clicking sounds as he brought it back down and kept his head forward, even though his brother had turned his head to the side, to see what his older brother had nudged him for. 

Dean squinted through the distance, as he let his jaw slack before nodding directly ahead to which Sam followed his motion. Sam’s body stood up straight as he saw it. His chest puffed out before unconsciously bringing his gun up an inch. 

When they got closer they stared at the girl. Your fingertips were worn and broken. Tainted yellow with green tints to the rims. Dirt had collected underneath your fingernails, clumps of dark green and black joining together. 

Dark dull rings had formed around your eyes, making your eye colour dull and faded. The simple black iris was blown out and dilated. Your hair fell to the below your waist, ends tangled and knotted, torn and fraid. Stray hairs stuck out in every direction, going against each other as they stood ruffled on the top of your head. 

Your skin was pale, a white cherished colour that looked cold to the touch. Brown patches of dirt stood out on your ashen complexion. Your lips were swollen, bloodless and crusty. Dry clumps had formed on the outer skin of your lips, tears into the raw skin creating a shiny cherry glisten. 

The grime marked your cadaverous skin as the tall mature oak tree’s stood proudly behind you. Your clothes were torn and ragged. Holes in every fraction as it dipped down in a tear at the collar showing off your angular collar bone. 

Your whole body was gaunt, nothing to the boys sun stroked brawn frames. With just a look, the boys knew you were a ghost. They nodded to each other before Dean pulled the trigger down, a whipping sound before a hard echo. 

They watched with surprise and shock on their faces as the arduous rock salt hit the soft flesh of your skin. A yelp of pain sounded from your mouth as you fell down, hand flying to cover the wound. 

The brothers both looked at each other before rushing over. A soft pink fleshy mark had stained your tainted skin, a swollen circle forming. You shuffled back, fear and territorial flexing into the features of your face as you growled at the boys, a genuine growl escaping your lips. 

‘’What the hell!’’Dean demanded loudly making you flinch, features twisting slowly as you bared your teeth at the two. Your teeth where white at the tops before slowly dipping into a pale thick coat of yellow. 

Sam’s mouth fell open, closing and opening like a fish with no water before everything finally made sense the cogs in his brain turning. 

‘’She’s a feral!’’Sam whispered, voice low as he watched in surprise, sadness and a hint of wonderment that he was actually experiencing this. 

‘’A what?’’Dean grumbled under his breath, not taking his eyes off of your snarling low form. 

‘’You know’’Sam said quickly, hands darting about as he tried to find the correct words to explain. ‘’Someone who’s been brought up in the wild. Doesn’t know how to live like a human.. you know like Mowgli from Jungle book’’Sam sighed rolling his eyes at the fact he had to resort to using that example. 

Dean’s eyes widened as he caught his brothers drift. ‘’Well..does she bite?’’Dean mumbled, trying not to provoke you before realising you didn’t understand what he was saying. 

‘’Well probably now we’ve hit her with rock salt’’Sam winced, thinking about the sore bruise that would appear later on. Dean laughed nervously, hand scratching the back of his head in a sign of discomfort. 

‘’Well let’s do this then’’Dean sighed as he and Sam looked at each other before looking at you. 


‘’Ready. On three’’Dean nodded, holding the handle ready to tug the door open so Sam could catch you. Sam gulped, swallowing thickly knowing you’d probably scratch him apart, but he and Dean both flipped coins and Sam had lost. 

Sam nodded signalling he was ready before Dean started counting down. 


Dean yanked the door of the Impala open, and like they had expected you jumped out, ready to run for it before Sam grasped you, feet hovering off the floor as he rushed to the bunker door, wincing at your fliaing limbs and scratching.

Once you were finally in, Sam set you down on the couch. You glared growling once more, an animal like sound coming from the back of your throat. Sam held his palms up, back low as he tried to show defence. 

‘’Should we put her in a dog cage or something?…’’Dean mumbled to Sam who glared at him, flashing him his classical bitch face. 

‘’No Dean.’’Sam snapped quietly. ‘’Right, think. what do people do when they come across wild dogs’’Sam muttered to himself. His eyes widened as he looked at Dean before nodding. 

Sam lowered himself down, not looking directly into your eyes but not looking at the floor either. ‘’Dean, copy’’Sam hissed. 

‘’What do I do, Bear Gryls!’’Dean snapped, as he ducked low. 

‘’Not to low!’’Sam snapped, panic flooding his voice. ‘’Just lower your back so she knows she’s not under threat. If you lower your back to much she’ll think you’re scared off her, then she’ll attack, same if you lower your eyes to the floor.’’Sam explained. 

‘’But if you stand up straight and making direct contact with her eyes she’ll think you’re challenging her’’Sam added. Dean rolled his eyes but did as he said and to his surprise, watch as you visibly relaxed. 


After a while you had started to get used to the brothers. They had only comforted you, not getting to close but looked after you. You had only been with them for a few hours. 

Sam made sure that Dean didn’t get to close until they were sure you trusted them. After a few hours Sam had decided that it was probably safe to start cleaning you up. 

As soon as Dean came out with the scissors, your eyes widened but Dean put his hands up in defence and sat behind you. At first you were tense but Dean just grabbed a lock of your hair, humming softly in thought as he gently took of as much of the dead hair he could. 

You were shocked and felt weird at how your hair wasn’t falling against your waist, not brittle against your skin but now short and ruffled but not dead. You feel in love with Dean’s voice. 

His voice was husky and rough yet it was soft and coated in honey. Sam noticed every time Dean said something you would stare. He finally pieced it together so now you were sitting in a bath (still clothed) as Sam washed your hair with Dean talking to you. 

Once again, at first you screeched as soon as the warm water hit your skin. You scrambled to get out and even bit Sam’s hand at one point. You growled and mewled but Dean started to panic telling you to calm down. 

And you did. 

When Dean sighed in relief and stopped talking you started to remember where you was a fight again. 

‘’DEAN TALK!’’Sam yelped out, trying to hold you. 

‘’What why!’’Dean yelled back only to notice when he did you had stopped fighting. Dean looked at you wearily before talking again and you remained silent. 

‘’Dude, she likes your voice’’ Sam cackled, teasingly. 


The night had ended and you found yourself taking a liking towards the boys, your appearance was neater and the boys found you were actually insanely pretty. 

Sam thought it was funny every time you purr’d whenever someone played with your hair. Dean also shit himself this one time where you roared at him because he accidently clipped your fingernail to low. 

‘’How does she make those sounds? They’re amazing’’Dean whispered in awe as they looked at you curled up on the couh. They had you in normal clothes, clean and well kept, the only problem left now was teaching you how to act human. 

‘’It’s all she knows’’Sam mumbled sadly, eyes softening. 

‘’but we’ll help her, Dean’’ 

The Second Kiss

Fic Request:  a fic where Stiles has a major panic attack and the whole pack is there. Malia tries to help but it doesn’t do anything and then Lydia manages to help him (kiss him!) like the first time.

Rating: T

Genre: Romance, Angst, Comfort, Thriller

Author:  panicattackkisses

Keep reading

The Arrangement: A Victorian Fraser Christmas Tale. Prologue One.

Set in 1850: Victorian Britain.

“Oi! Wretch, you’ve mail,” the quartermaster barked, kicking Claire swiftly in the ribs as she dozed on the workhouse floor. Being ‘well to do’ had labelled her as different from her *new* peers and sleeping amongst them had elicited only negative responses. Therefore, she had made herself at home under some old, forgotten equipment in a far off forgotten corner of their draughty government imposed prison.

The small envelope hit her on the head and she feigned sleep, waiting anxiously for the grumpy old man to disappear. As his footsteps vanished down the corridors of the empty building, she reached out and pulled the letter to her chest praying it was what she thought it might be. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to bat away the memories of how she’d come to be sequestered here of all places, fifteen and alone.

Uncle Lamb often left Claire in the capable hands of his man servant, Firouz, when he was called to duty abroad; being only young, she was a burden when travelling long distances. In return he wrote and brought home strange artifacts for her.

Having lost her parents before her first birthday in a tragic horse and cart collision, Claire had been thrust into her uncle’s mad world. Taken from country to country, she often travelled on dirty ships with hostile crew members. But, as she’d reached her teenage years, Lamb had thought it more beneficial for her to have a stable upbringing with a *good* education.

Boarding school had been his first suggestion, but Claire had been nothing but defiant when it came to being abandoned in a grotty old schoolhouse with people she did not care for.

Lamb, very conscious of Claire’s natural stubbornness, had succumbed pretty easily and had removed her before any serious damage could be done. But he still refused to sacrifice her schooling, and so, had hired Firouz to act as caregiver and educator during his absences.

Then, halfway through her fifteenth year, disaster had struck. Lambert Beauchamp had been aboard a ship bound for the America’s, a large passenger freight that had been caught short in a storm. The wreckage had been spotted by a returning ship.

No survivors were recorded, and no bodies retrieved.

It hadn’t taken long for the news to be conveyed to all relatives aboard the capsized vessel.

In mere weeks, Lamb’s Oxford home had been stripped and sold off and Claire had been torn from Firouz and thrust into a workhouse, a ward of the state. With no living relatives to claim either her or her dowry, she’d been left at the mercy of the government as a minor with no rights and no time to grieve for her loss.

Daylight shone through the grimy, tiny, windows of the tall brick building, shining a tainted black-yellow light over Claire as she shook the memory of the horror of her ordeal from her filthy skin. Misery wouldn’t solve her situation, not now. Instead, her only hope lay in the hands of one Brian Fraser.

Running the off-cream envelope through her dirty fingers, she brushed the pad of her thumb over the seal.

“Je suis prest.” it read, and she was, she surmised; ready to be out of this place for good.

Brian stood and watched as the rider cantered off, back on his journey to London no doubt.

“Is this the only way, my own?” Ellen’s voice drifted over the fading sound of hoofprints against the dry ground.

“Aye, mo ghaol. I ken it isna ideal for us, but I canna leave the bairn to rot in a *workhouse*,” he spat the word as if it were poison on his tongue, the stale, retched scent of the last one he’d been in clinging to the roof of his mouth as he shuddered at the recollection.

“Ye’ve a good heart, Brian Dubh…” she whispered, brushing the stray strands of his long black hair from around his ears, “tis why I married ye. But what if yer condemning the weans to a life in an unhappy marriage. Ye ken Jamie weel. He loves ye fiercely and he’d do anything to make ye proud. But he’s like me, aye? What if he falls madly in love wi’ another?”

Brian’s heart sank as he contemplated the risks. “Yer right, mo nighean ruaidh, o’ course ye are. I wish things were different, I wish that Lambert was still here wi’ us so that we didna have to make such bold moves. But he isne. So I have to rescue his niece, *we* have to do all we can to get her safely awa’ from that fate…” Wrapping his arm around Ellen’s waist, he pulled her to his side, drawing strength from her presence alone, “however I can.”

“I do love ye so, a ghràdh,” she returned, her heart swelling in affection for the lengths he was willing to go to in order to protect a lass he’d never even met. “Whatever comes o’ this, I’m sure our Jamie will see the benefit of it. And, I’m sure wee Mistress Beauchamp will be ever grateful.”

The harsh October chill whisked through the Scottish air as Brian and Ellen turned, as one, towards Lallybroch. Deal done, all they could do was wait. Claire would need to turn sixteen before she’d be released for her impending nuptials. Only a few days stood between her and freedom, the Frasers could only hope that she survived those and made it to them unscathed.

Rubbing her aching arm, Claire pulled at the tatty dress she’d been given for her long journey up to the highlands. Winter had well and truly set in. The deal that had been proposed months before had taken longer to secure than she’d have liked and it was mid-November before her freedom had been assured.

Dowry lost to unscrupulous fatcats and lawyers, Claire stood outside the vile workhouse with only a battered suitcase and a few measly possessions to call her own. Luckily, that hadn’t stopped Brian Fraser from coming to her aid, money or no, he’d been determined to do his duty by her.

“Mistress Claire?” came the deep Scots burr, breaking Claire from her thoughts as she twisted on her heel in the direction of the calm voice of her rescuer.

“Y-yes, that’s me,” she replied, her voice nearly lost to the rattle of carriages as they whizzed passed, splattering her already soiled dress with mud and muck from the over-clogged cobbled streets.

“Ach! Good. I have an inn for the night, ye dinna mind I hope. Only it’s a long ride back to Broch Tuarach and I didna ken if ye would wish fer a comfortable bed for the evening afore we start out.”

Blushing, Claire dipped her head and curtsied as best as she was able, conveying her appreciation. The overcrowded workhouse had been such a nightmare that she hadn’t stopped to contemplate whether accepting the marriage proposal of a man she’d never met could land her in an even worse situation than the one she’d actually been living. Now, watching as Brian Fraser offered out his hand to her, his kind eyes soft as he’d allowed her to make the first move, she felt the sweet rush of relief fill her right to the marrow.

“Thank you, sir. Yes, that would be most pleasant.”

“Nay, lass, no ‘sir’,” Brian admonished, a smile gracing his soft features, “we’re to be father and daughter-in-law after all, aye?”

At this reminder, Claire gulped. Fear overtaking comfort she’d allowed herself to feel.

Brian, seeing distress colour her features, took her by the hand and brought her to his chest, as gently as he was able.

“Jamie’s a good lad, Claire lassie. I promise ye he’ll do right by ye, no need to fret. Yer uncle was a good friend, he helped us in so many ways, and I wouldna do his memory a disservice by condemning ye to a bad marriage. I ken that words dinna mean a whole lot to ye at the moment, but I’m asking for yer trust on this, please?”

The lulling lilt of his accent soothed Claire as she rested her head against Brian’s chest, inhaling the soft scent of hay and whisky that clung to him like a fine musk. He smelt as a father should, she thought, fatigue seeping through every inch of her.

Nodding, she grasped her hands together behind his back, accepting his request. Having expended all that energy to obtain her immunity, she had to allow him that one courtesy.

Sparking, the fire crackled, filling the gaps in silence in Lallybroch’s main living room. Sitting around its warmth, basking in the glow, all three Fraser siblings sat with a wee dram each discussing the spring harvest regime.

“Jamie, lad?” Ellen called, hating to disrupt the harmony that she usually revelled in.

Dusting himself off, the youngest Fraser stood, placing his (now empty) tumbler back onto the silver tray by the decanter as he answered his mother’s request.

“Aye, mam?” he responded, kissing her cheek softly as she pulled him from the room.

“If everything has gone t’ plan, yer da should be well on his way by now, ken? We’ve everything prepared here. The bands have been read, so it shouldna take more than a week afore ye can be wed properly, ye and Claire.”

There was a faint tinge of sadness in her tone that worried Jamie. As a strong lad of eighteen, it was uncommon for him to still be without a bride, Janet and William were both married after all. But Brian and Ellen being as they were, they had left their youngest be, certain that his heart would guide him right in the end. Now, with his union sealed to a woman he hadn’t even met, Ellen was feeling supremely guilty for breaking the vow she and Brian had made in reference to their youngest surviving bairn.

“What’s amiss, mam?” he questioned, not wishing to see his mother so torn.

“Do ye begrudge me and yer da for arranging yer wedding like this, son?” she broached, a demure lilt to her usually upbeat voice.

Jamie swallowed back any doubts and shook his head, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Nay, mam, I dinna,” he began, his mind wandering as he pictured what Claire Beauchamp might actually be like. “I dinna ken what a work-house is, and I think I’m fair lucky that I don’t from what da says. The puir lass needs our help, and I wouldna see her in the hands of the English either.”

Ellen’s eyes shone with tears at hearing his words. A conscientious man by nature, Jamie had always been wise beyond his years but seeing him standing tall, his vibrant red hair clubbed at his neck, made her proud of the man he’d become.

“Yer a fair lad, Jamie.” Reaching her hand out, she laid it gently against the soft arc of his high cheekbones. “How can she no’ fall for ye?” she whispered, more to herself than to him causing him to flush bright red.

“I dinna ken, Mam. Maybe she’ll be put off by a rather large Scots farmer?” he jested, a twinkle in his eye. “After all, I do have a tang of horse about me, aye?”

– — –

Claire dozed lightly as the carriage bumped over the winding roads that lead her and Brian up into the Scottish wilds. Having spent nearly a week on the road, the weary pair were glad to be nearly home.

Home. The very word sent tingles down Claire’s spine. She had spent the last six months locked away in a building filled with the forgotten under the constant supervision of a number cruel guards. In that time, she’d seen women birth babies they had no means to care for, she’d witnessed families torn apart by famine and poverty, and she’d seen death in the most horrific ways. Mangled in the machinery, women often lost limbs as well as their lives.

The foul stench of spilt blood and feces wafted around her as if she’d willed it to be so and she wrapped her arms around her middle to avoid losing the contents of her stomach in the close confines of the carriage.  

“Claire, are ye alright lassie? Ye’ve gone sae green…” Brian interjected on seeing her crumple in front of him.

Nodding, she lay her head against the cool wood of the interior, unwilling to discuss it whilst they were still on the move. The motion combined with the memories was bad enough, but to dredge it up and have to actively talk about it during their rickety journey would not end well.

Letting the subject drop for the time being, Brian turned his attention to the scenery outside as it flashing by in brown and white blurs.

“The roads along here used to be impassable in winter, aye? We’re lucky now that they have men clearing the way for us, else we’d be stuck in Inverness until the worst of the snow passed,” he chatted, animatedly moving his arms in front of his chest as he pointed to the melting icicles hanging from the trees that lined the thin mud path.

Subdued by his tales of his childhood, Claire began to calm. She dropped her arm as she sat up straight again, relaxing her back against the soft cushions that lined the seats. Sitting for so long had its disadvantages and she squirmed, her back aching at the contact.

As well as various injuries from the worn machines in the factories, Claire had been thwacked with the strap more than necessary. In her final weeks in Oxford, with the taste of freedom coating her tongue like the finest of foods, Claire had been less cautious with her words. Her captors had not been the type to let her sass go unpunished and the final straw had been to strip her bare, haul her in front of the entire factory and thrash her to within an inch of her life with their threadbare leather belts.

Now, angry, sore welts lined the fine skin of her back. Lacing over one another, they were a staunch reminder of the bother her sharp tongue could get her in.

Sensing her anguish, Brian reached below and passed her his whisky flask, eager to offer her some relief. He didn’t know the ins and outs of her injuries, but he could guess that she wasn’t unharmed. Not many escaped the close confines of a workhouse without some form of physical abuse.

“Nearly home now, wee Claire. That willna fill yer belly, but it will make ye forget the hunger, aye? I’m sure Mrs. Crook will have something nice to eat once we’re back, too.”

Taking a swig of the spirit, Claire coughed as the sharp liquid hit the back of her throat.

“I want to thank you, Mr. Fraser…” she sighed, her sweaty palms running over the skirts of her dress as she tried to make herself as comfortable as possible, “for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Ach, Claire. Call me Brian, please, lass? Mr. Fraser is as bad as ‘sir’, ken?” He chuckled as he took back his flask and placed it back in his top pocket.

The sun was hanging low on the horizon as the horse and carriage began its ascent towards Lallybroch. Claire sat up straight, eyes focused out of the window on the faint glow of candlelight ahead, heart racing with nervousness as reality squarely hit home.

Silence filled the enclosed space as the intrepid adventurers came to a stop. Refusing to make eye contact, Claire waited for Brian to leave and come back to open her door before making a move to exit, her feet seemingly attached, firmly, to the floor.

Seeing candlelight flicker to Brian’s immediate left, Claire made it her mission to keep her gaze rigidly affixed to the floor.

“Come now, lass,” Brian cooed, his warm palm resting on her knee as if he were talking to an agitated animal rather than to a wee slip of a girl. “It’s no’ sae bad as all that. Come inside, there’s bannocks and honey.”

At the mention of food, Claire’s belly rumbled loudly, the echo of it resounding around the small space as she admitted defeat and allowed Brian to lead her from the carriage and out into the Scottish night.

“I ken yer uncle didna get chance to bring ye to meet us. Which, under the circumstances, was unfortunate. But he loved the big house.”

Blinking back tears, Claire glanced up, finally. “Y-yes, he did. He told me many stories about its fabulous architecture and its history,” she responded, unable to hold back the fond recollections of Lambert Beauchamp and his excitable recounts of his adventures.

She missed him terribly.

“Good evening, Claire,” a tall red-headed woman interjected, disturbing Claire’s thought as she took her place by Brian’s side, a lovely smile tugging at her pinked lips. “I’m Ellen Fraser. It’s so nice to finally meet yer acquaintance.”

Holding her hands behind her back, Claire couldn’t help but feel a tiny kinship with the Fraser matriarch. Even with only an introduction, Ellen Fraser felt like the mother Claire so desperately needed.

Slowly but surely, the Fraser brood began to step out of the shadows of the main doorway, assessing their newest family member as they looked her up and down.

“Hallo, Claire. I’m William, and this is Janet…”

William Fraser truly was a giant amongst men, and Claire’s eyes widened as she took in his massive stature.

“Ach, awa’ wi’ ye, Willie. I am Janet, Claire, but ye can call me Jenny, aye? Everyone else does,” Jenny quipped, patting Claire on the shoulder as she shoved her eldest brother aside as if he weighed nothing.

Overwhelmed, Claire simply nodded along, grateful that they had left her intended until last.

Jamie, tapping his fingers lightly against the thick wood of the doorframe, had remained hidden in the entranceway. He had watched from the window of the sitting room as his mother had rushed out to greet his father, intrigued by what would emerge from the family carriage but unwilling to spook the poor thing before she’d even stepped foot on Broch Tuarach soil.

Shifting his weight, he pondered his next move. He was half determined to meet his affianced, intrigued as he was by the prospect. But he also half longed for the sanctuary of his rooms, away from the pressure of marrying a complete stranger.

His heart picked up pace as he peeked his head around the door, watching as his mam held the candle she had aloft, lighting Claire’s face. A yellow glow surrounded her, illuminating her features as her eyes darted to and fro, from one Fraser to another.

“Ah Dhia…” he muttered, his lungs contracting as she blinked her large blue eyes, her eyelashes casting a beautiful shadow over her stained cheeks.

She was dazzling. Her delicate face tilted away from the luminous blaze of the wee flame, shining an orange hue along her graceful neck.

“Blessed Mary and Bride,” he muttered, moving outside into the courtyard as if compelled to do so by an unknown force.

“Och,” Brian exclaimed, his shoulders relaxing as he saw Jamie emerge, eyes glazed and mouth open, “laddie, come aye? Introduce yerself…”

Suddenly an eerie stillness swept through the quiet highland evening as all eyes rested on Jamie, his expression turning coy as he came forward, an alluring blush covering his cheeks.

Claire, her heart thudding loudly, shuffled her feet, her thin broken shoes disturbing the damp ground and sending small puffs of wet dust floating around her ankles in dark flurries.

He was *ravishing*. A subtle mix of statuesque grace and enticing handsomeness.

“Claire,” he began, forgetting his manners for the smallest of seconds, “I-I mean, Mistress Beauchamp,” he corrected, dipping his head in a courtly bow, “it’s a pleasure to meet ye. I’m James Fraser…”

His words pulsed through her and she felt alive, her whole body ignited with courage as she advanced towards him. Above all else, Jamie Fraser was beguiling. The word floated into her subconscious as she unconsciously reached her hand up to move a stray curl from his brow.

Hovering her fingers just above his ear, Claire suddenly came to, her brain finally catching up to her body as she went to pull back and then just –stilled.

Taking her hand under his, Jamie pulled her palm to rest over his heart and held her there, his touch light and gentle.

“…and I hope ye and I will grow to be fond of one another, ye ken?” he finished, humour lacing his tone as he stood tall in front of her.

“Please,” she replied, finally finding her voice, “call me Claire, Jamie.”

Twitching her fingers against his thin shirt, she focused on the fast rhythm of his heart as she counted its soothing beat.

He was as scared as she was. She could feel it.

“Thank you….” she burst out, taking a deep breath before continuing, “for, –well–, y-you know.” Losing her nerve, Claire let her chin fall to her chest.

Seeing her unease, Jamie leaned his forehead against hers, growing bolder by the second.

“Dinna fash, lassie,” he whispered, completely forgetting his audience, “there’s two of us now.”


The Second Kiss

This prompt was given to me by stydia-fanfiction for the Stydia fic takeover! As far as I can remember, someone wanted a story of Stiles having a panic attack, and only Lydia being able to calm him. So, I hope I did the idea justice!

Malia was holding one side of Stiles’ limp body as they burst into Derek’s loft, the empty space only making their frantic shouts and gasping breaths sound worse. Everything was loud, harsh and panicked.

Keep reading

Let Me.

Boy King.

There are all words that Sam Winchester associates with himself. These are words he hears in his head whenever he looks in a mirror, whether it’s morning and his hair is a mess and the shadows under his eyes are clear to see, or it’s evening and he’s staring at himself at 3am willing himself to fall asleep and hopefully escape the words. But he never can.

He doesn’t tell anyone about this. He doesn’t tell Dean, who honestly spends so much time around Cas he probably wouldn’t notice, and Cas? Cas wouldn’t even shake his hand the first time they met.

Sam didn’t need to tell Gabriel. Gabriel showed up at the bunker, causing Dean to shout and throw something at the archangel, calling him a ‘bastard’ and an 'asshole’ whilst Cas grabs him and asks him where the hell he’s been and 'how could you sit by and do nothing?’ Sam sits nearby quietly, wishing they’d stop throwing words around, because he knows the power of them, he knows they stick to your skin like glue and don’t go away.

Gabriel knows Sam is bothered, and comes to him at night, at 3am when he’s awake, tears on his face, tearing his hair out as the chorus of You’re tainted, you’re the vessel, you’re the boy king, you’re Lucifer’s, you’re gonna bring about the end of the world, you’re gonna kill Dean, you’re gonna hurt everyone circled round his head and he flashes to Sam’s side, fingers pressing to his temple, soothing him with a kiss to the forehead, gazing into those hazel eyes that Sam hasn’t seen since Jess. 

 "Why are you-“

 "Because you’re more than that.”

 "No - I’m not -“

 "Sure, you’re Luci’s vessel, but he’s still a freaking Archangel. He’s still from Heaven. You bring the 'Boy King’ means nothing since you ganked Yellow-Eyes. And tainted? Sam for Dad’s sake can’t you see how perfect you are? The selflessness, the goodness in your heart, in your soul because I can. I can see it. And you know what? It’s the best soul I’ve ever seen. Better than anyone’s. Let me help you Sam.”

And Sam does.

And no one is surprised when Sam slips up at breakfast dropping a kiss into Gabriel’s hair, nor when Gabriel holds Sam’s hand as they eat, nor when they’re caught sharing a kiss over the table, matching goofy grins on their faces, squishing their noses together before they part.