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amyriadofleaves · 2 months

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outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter six

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, charlotte ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.8k

A subordinate of whom you do not recognise leaves a copy of the latest news on your desk and you do not pay it any mind until your lips leave your teacup of Fonta.

A MOST ROMANTIC SIGHT OF FONTAINE’S MOST INFLUENTIAL COUPLE SHATTERED BY THE BURSTING OF THE FOUNTAIN OF LUCINE!

You cannot say you are surprised; such a reaction was to be anticipated. The events of last night were far from ordinary, and the ring adorning your finger gleams in the sunlight streaming like bands through the blinds, affirming the reality of it all.

“An official report of this has been issued. Of whom do you wish to appoint this case to?”

“Why, myself of course,” you say primly, intonation insinuating the end of your phrase — but you take in a sharpened breath to continue. “Unless the Chief Justice — my fiance, might I add — wishes to accompany me. And if that ever so happens you may scribble his name of contribution in a footnote.”

The boy takes a hesitant step forward. “But, Madame, we have fresh graduates awaiting a job to take up. Wouldn't it be easier to have them do the work for you?”

You tut. “Oh, but that just won’t do. Doing the ‘work for me’, young man, does not mean doing the work effectively. I am not partial to cleaning up after my… protégés, if you will.” Another sip of your Fonta seems to shush any questions he might beg, and he complies, leaving you alone in your office.

And he’s left the door ajar. Pity.

As you stand, your chair scrapes against the marble and you wince. I should call for someone to replace the rubber padding of the legs, you note, rolling the tabloid into a scroll.

Though your stride is fast and your heels click a little too loudly for anyone’s comfort, you steal some time to skim through the newspaper.

A monochrome print of your outfit from yesterday makes a statement in a tiny corner of the paper you hold in your hands, and you almost smile. So people do like me! Perhaps it is your own self critique, but the words on the street after the Poisson incident were nothing shy of foul — not to mention how your rising to fame caught the attention of all the aristocrats in Fontaine (as Furina had once quipped, unaware you were right outside Monsieur Neuvillette’s office). You do not know what to take from it.

If more surges of the prophecy begin to manifest, it is mostly up to you to take yourself up on the job — another result of Furina’s damned dereliction.

Being proposed to does not cease the relentless flow of living, and thus is the sole reason why your feet drag you to the very precinct of Palais Mermonia. Fear lingers; you had just narrowly scraped death by a hair’s breadth, saved by your own reflexes at freezing the Fountain of Lucine before you could witness people dissolving into the very floors at which justice is determined.

Though the case is not very much ‘civil’ as your title suggests, there is no one better to take care of the problem if not you. And it does take into account the lives of people, so you do suppose that it is quite ‘civil’; in the context that it won’t very well be if more people die.

In layman’s terms, you have a case to solve that is very much your sole responsibility.

But this does not mean that you aren’t blazingly furious at the one who is supposed to spare her subjects from the injustice that is death; the sole guillotine looming over Fontaine.

Before you allow the guards to open the door, you lose the pencil in your hair and card your fingers through it to restore its lost volume. When the door does open, a crowd seems to swarm when you make an appearance at the front step — and you eye them with a sort of caution that has you preemptively biting your tongue. The stench of sweat and body odour shoot through your senses in one swift motion, and you almost lurch forward to gag, the flashing of cameras a blinding curtain over your sight.

And the queries commence.

"What measures have you taken to avert us from the prophecy?" a reporter cries out, thrusting a microphone toward your face, his crew trailing closely behind.

Another person, to whom you presume to be no older than twenty shouts warily. “Is it true that you are to be wed to the Chief Justice? What does this mean for your future and your new career?”

“Over here!”

“One for the cameras!’

You take a calculated move to disregard their questions and push further through the crowd — only to realise how much of a grave mistake you’ve made. An influx of more people come pouring in, snuffing the place out of any oxygen you can steal for yourself; and before you know it, you are unable to breathe. The throng of people swells and the contact of skin against skin from all the pressing bodies floods over you like a deluge.

Navigating your mind is the main challenge for a situation like this; how is one meant to think straight if all compass fails? Your eyes flicker to the floor, and you realise the space that surrounds you as if you are a magnet repelling its own pole; but this does not stop them from pushing in further. Regret is the first emotion you feel out of anything; Why did I sign myself up for this job? Is one of the questions that cry out— but it dissipates when the more people fight through the field.

Shitshitshitshit! It almost feels like the very ground you stand on begins to cave in and you’re shrinking under the captious gazes of all the cameras and you feel so small. A fruitless attempt to create space brings everything to an impasse; and then everything falls silent.

The crowd parts as your vision clears and your breathing slows. Damn it to the heat of the moment, but you swear you hear your heart pounding like a gong in the very forefront of your head. There he is, your knight in shining armour, as another headline stated — and if you were any more spiteful, your voice would’ve dripped with malice at the very notion of having him, the Chief Justice, by your side at every inconvenience.

But he seems to just do that at this ‘inconvenience’.

A low voice vibrates against your back and you feel a chill tease at your spine. “It is not necessary for you to converge at the Palais at this hour. I implore you all to return to wherever you came from, for my partner and I have important matters to attend to at this moment.”

This only prompts a surge of questions that drown out any attempts of the people to break through the surface of the stampede. Something — of what you presume to be a sharp edge of camera gear — grazes your side, and you physically feel a stitch come undone. The initial sting is almost akin to an ant bite, and you instinctively press your palm against it and hope that the pain from the pressure can override any pain from the wound. Pivoting, your left knee buckles as you shift your weight, your frame now shielded from the majority of the crowd. Lifting your cupped palm away from your hip, a little patch of red comes to bloom under the soft drapes of fabric of your blouse. This is what happens when you don’t take health care seriously, you jest in your mind: a fruitless attempt at diverting your attention elsewhere even if it is for a measly few seconds. Allowing your arm to slacken, your elbow nestles firmly against your side, offering brief respite from the discomfort.

Your ears begin to ring at the sudden crescendo of voices after the Iudex’s silence, and you briefly glance at him before you realise he is peering closely at you, ultramarine eyes trailing to the very curve of your hip.

“Must I reiterate — my partner and I have an urgent case to attend to, so if you would please excuse us.” A brief smile tugs at his lips, but it is an exasperated one. He reaches for your waist — to which he then withdraws, choosing instead to have his fingers interlace with your own. Almost dazed, you stare at your now elevated hand, and then to him, with an almost astonished awe that can only be considered as such: a want to slap him. This is certainly not of his character! What audacity…

It all happens so swiftly you have no time to turn your head at the voice that comes from the man to your left. He brings his lips to your ear and you barely make out the words — and yet the main message still prevails. “Stay close to me,” is the honey-lined command he mutters under his breath.

He starts his advancement through the crowd, and you absentmindedly comply and attempt to replicate his pace — albeit with a noticeable limp in your gait (your attempt to shield it only has the multiple daggers piercing from within to grow into a grotesque violence). A certain demographic splits away from the crowd, retreating; another, more resilient and stubborn, stand as though secured with screws embedded into cement. Some claw at your blouse, and some to your skirt — and you cannot tell if the shouts that leave their mouths are profanities, praise, or whatever else stands in the blur of the in between.

The autumn chill freezes the warmth that once wrapped around your limbs and leaves a delicate, yet lingering frost on the apples of your cheeks. Suffocating as the influx of people was, you are now free from them, and you look back to see the aftermath of dejected faces and the subsiding of camera shutters.

Awareness has you stealing a brief look downward and and you feel a slight prickle of a sting at the clarity. You do not want to tend to it now; hence why you freeze a layer of ice under the gauze with strained effort. 2-in-1! Numbing cream and makeshift stitch!

With now being spared the imploring curiosity of mortality, you do not hesitate to drop Neuvillette’s hand.

For good measure, you look past the man’s shoulder and over your own; a part of you tells you that no one is around — but how can you trust your surety? You are human; and to be human is to be defined by the errors that scream through the flesh of your being.

“There was no necessity for you to aid me, Monsieur. I was — and still am — completely, and utterly alright.” You do not turn to face him, nor do you dare to stop walking.

Neuvillette lags behind, his presence only recognisable from the shine of his boots under the sun. “I assure you it was not an action of intent, Madame; I was only off to seek a brief reprise from my duties, but instead, I was met with quite the group of people swarming you outside the Palais. Surely you must know this act was merely my own responsibility as —”

Strides fueled by adrenaline come to a brief stop and you whirl on your heel, met with a bewildered Neuvillette stopping just before he can collide into you. “Yes I do, very much know that, Chief Justice.” You lift your heel and swing it lightly backwards, stretching the distance between the two of you. “Now if you’ll excuse me; I am to mediate the threat that the Fountain poses right now.”

Instead of being patient enough to wait for a response, you curtsy and turn to leave. Someone just so happens to not take the memo, and you stop your stride again. “What is it now?”

“I am a man of my word, Madame; I claimed to have a role in what happened last night to the people, and so I must certainly be of service.”

Dejected as you are, you still remain unwavering in your gaze. “...Right.”

Neuvillette chooses not to refute, and you do not find it in yourself to speak. It is a walk of shame, almost — but the indignity lies not in the quiet, but rather in the Chief Justice's inaction in releasing the tension.

You steal a glance at Neuvillette, hoping for some sign of reassurance or understanding, but his expression remains impassive.

Your pace is now unrhythmic. The impulse to disrupt this unsettling silence with anything — a word, a gesture, or a mere breath — becomes a refuge sought in the recesses of your mounting desperation; because, God, you cannot stand another minute with this man! Yet, a brief flit of what he might be thinking gives you a taste of how, most probably, he is not feeling as disturbed as you are right now. Observing him from the corner of your eye, his demeanour remains unperturbed. Damn him and his impartiality.

Someone chooses to finally shatter the static, and it is not you nor Neuvillette. Instead it is that reporter: Charlotte. Though you do not see her, the sheer recognition of who it is is confirmed when she sounds from behind, and the two of you turn your heads almost in unison. A head of baby pink hair is the first aspect of her that you notice, and everything else comes into full view.

She claps her hands with a roll of paper in her left. “Oh. My. God. I have been struck with luck today, it seems! You would not care as to spare a few minutes of your time for some questions, would you?”

You exhale a nervous laugh, looking to Neuvillette to reject the offer.

Beaming, she turns to you, and lays a friendly hand on your wrist. “I’m a big fan. It is an honour to finally meet you in person.”

That is undoubtedly a first. Maybe she thought you were the acting chief justice? As President of the Conseil d'État, you haven't accomplished anything particularly noteworthy to warrant or merit such commendation.

Clearing your throat, you bring forth the most professional smile you can muster. “And to you, too, Charlotte. Though I am afraid we are quite occupied with other responsibilities… Perhaps we could arrange an official meeting for an interview? Just let me know of your schedule.”

“Oh! That is very kind of you, Madame. I will certainly send you my schedule and please, pick what date as you see fit.” Her eyes shift from yours to Neuvillette. “And congratulations on your engagement! The topic of your engagement has been thrown into every conversation under the sun. Trust me, I’ve seen it.”

Neuvillette closes in a little nearer, clearly piqued by her claim. “Really? I certainly did not foresee this to be upped to such a… grand scale. But surely —” He jolts at you nudging his arm to stop. “Ah. Yes. I apologise greatly, Charlotte, but the matter at hand is far too grave.”

“Yeah, sure — no biggie. See you two around!”

And there she goes, frolicking like a little girl in an open field. “A strange one, that girl.” You say, a tinge of amusement in your tone. Deep down, you are grateful that she happened to be there: a casual catalyst to have conversation up and running again. You pretend you do not dislike the man in front of you.

He hums a little. “Her childlike innocence is seldom seen nowadays; it is a quality I have so wished to feel.”

You turn to him, eyes narrowing in scepticism. “Never have I met someone with a childhood so terrible.”

His expression seems to tighten, almost as if he’s been caught. “That was not what I meant, I am merely enamoured and simply jealous at how people can still enjoy their youth. You feel that way, too, don’t you?”

You do not completely buy into his claim, yet you decide to play along. “What do you think?”

Another beat of silence.

“We must make haste,” he says.

“Indeed we must.”

To feel relieved or concerned at the lack of people at the Opera Epiclese is another question that looms like jeopardy trivia. Its perimeter is boarded by tape and identified with a bold AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY at its entrance. A peculiar stillness blankets Erinnyes, the previously flowing waters now arrested in their motion, the sight of a frozen fountain showing bright and iridescent in the setting sun.

The man next to you looks forward as if entranced, the reason for the fall of his expression unreadable. His gaze drops to yours and he snaps himself out of it. “Ladies first,” he says, extending his arm as a gesture of courtesy.

“I do not like that this is the first time you’ve shown me such courtesy in the context of such dire circumstances in which I could possibly die if the water thaws,” you jest offhandedly, but you do not think he takes it the same way.

“Forgive me if I have insulted you, Madame. I did not think my actions through,” he starts, but you stop him with a tut before he can continue further.

“Yes, Monsieur. You have insulted me and you certainly did not think your actions through.” you shoot him a glare.

"Was that... a joke? I certainly have not the talent which some people possess of conversinf easily. I apologise."

You scoff and brush past him, and though you do not see it — you just have a feeling he won’t attempt to overtake you in the dominance of your stride. And he doesn’t.

The Fountain is now dripping as it melts, its opal waters catching itself in the crevices of the ground. It lulls you ever so slightly, at how it trickles with an inexplicable slowness, a second longer than that of normal water; a possible explanation for why the Fountain has not fully melted yet.

There is a puddle of the Primordial water in front of you, and a sudden desire to touch it surges through you; it is a strange longing, but it lures you in like a moth to a flame. It wouldn't harm anyone to continue staring at it for a little bit, would it? You've always questioned if you were indeed Fontainian, and the solution to your dilemma is poised in front of you, pulling you toward it.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” The Iudex has his hand wrapped around your wrist, his gaze a warning. You do not know what has gotten into you — hell, you don’t even remember reaching for it.

You wriggle your arm from his grasp. “Don’t think much of it.” You feel protectively at your hand up until the base.

Neuvillette’s gaze lingers, before he soundlessly leaves your side. He makes his way to the other end of the Fountain of Lucine, where he examines it with such curiosity you begin to wonder what he finds intriguing about the rear end of a Fountain that appears uniform at every angle.

A shout sounds from you and reaches the man on the other side of the fountain. “So. Mister Chief Justice. What do you think we should do?" He seems just as entranced as you are, eyes not compensating to find yours as his lips move to find a response.

“I think I can possibly revert the waters to how they once were — store it deeper inside the Fountain,” as he speaks, he begins to advance in a return to your side.“But I can only work with bodies of water, not ice. So I need to request a favour from you.”

Unsure of where he is taking this, you reply with a diffident: “Sure.”

He is now standing in front of you (it is a little too close, however — so you shuffle backwards). “Could you… possibly — no, that wouldn’t work.” He stops midway, a wrinkle forming between his blond brows. What an awfully peculiar man he is, you think, eyeing the way he seems to be finding other words to phrase what he was to say better. You think he fails to do so when his slightly ajar mouth closes.

You would be a fraud to say you weren’t curious. “No. Tell me.”

“It was merely an afterthought, and I suppose now that you still wouldn’t be up for it if I told you, so I might as well. Is it possible for you to reverse your freezing of the ice? To revert it back to its liquid state, so to speak?"

Your eyes dart to your hands, and you bargain the sheer potential of your power; you are able to manipulate the waters into ice — this you know — but to revert ice to water? It is certainly not unheard of, and yet you would consider such a method to be unorthodox; nothing of the sort was ever taught in schools, let alone by tutors. A memory from your youth resurfaces, your father’s blaring, forceful voice a menacing exploitation of your power he so desperately wanted to possess.

Flair was a spectacle — a luxury; for flaunting your own strength resulted in punishment.

“I cannot promise you anything. Do not be so much as dejected when my attempts prove to be futile, Monsieur.”

With an interest piqued, he brings his eyes to level with yours. “There shall be no need to worry if it fails. I have another idea we could resort to.” Something in your intuition had you feeling he thought you wouldn’t agree.

“Wouldn’t the water annihilate the both of us?”

His eyes shoot to the now dimming sky, not stealing a glance at the gloves he begins to adjust. “I will restrain the flow of water, you need not be concerned.”

You roll your shoulders back. “Well. Doesn’t hurt to try.”

Though he does not respond, he takes a step back, allowing you the full expanse of the Fountain. You wriggle and flex your fingers. Shouldn’t be too hard, you tell yourself. How difficult could it possibly be? If anything, it is just a test of your skill; where are the cameras? If they were to take photos of you, you would love it if they would right now. Or maybe they find it all too mundane. Downfall and drama is what they prey on, after all.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you begin to reach into the ice with everything within you, forcing it toward you with a tug so hard it has you winded. The autumn chill intensifies as the wind carries the ice like a vice. Of all the things you think of, you are reminded of your father’s distant coldness: an extinguisher of warmth (of which belonged to your mother). It is a bitter childhood memory — one of an empty seat at dinner tables and palpable fury. You can almost hear your father’s voice, distorted as all memories are (they all come perfect, uniform — and yet they leave like glass breaking off at the hands of an all-too-passionate lover).

Ice crawls up your arm, the numbness a factor you do not pay any attention to. You cannot deny that this does bring you an odd discomfort, for the discomfort you usually feel at the use of your Vision is a draining of energy to create; yet this is the first time you’ve ever been required to destroy.

It slows your pulse, as ice does, and your eyes fight to shoot open at the idea of a slip of your consciousness. Yet you still pursue. Pulling harder this time, the oxygen in your lungs grows frigid and cut like knives against your ribcage. You attempt to channel more with pure instinct, but you cannot. There is nothing for you to reach.

With finality, you permit your eyes to flutter open, all the pain you should be feeling blurring into the foreground when greeted with a vista of bright blues and the billowing of the Iudex’s robes. Your arm instinctively lifts to shield yourself from the roaring wind.

A halo of azure hues encircle his wrists, lacing through his hair. The water remains frozen, but it is not from the ice that you hold dear, and instead it is from his outstretched hands, twisting against the tide in attempts to turn back time against the current.

You stagger backwards, and yet you miraculously feel grounded in place, a paradox of numbness and pain you wish not to acknowledge. The seal he begins to place against the water ripples through the air like a soundwave, stripping you of any hearing and in its absence is replaced by a constant ringing.

Neuvillette drops his arm, the suspended droplets of water following suit, crushed under the weight of his command. Everything seems to snap into motion the second the Fountain stills, a single wave of harsh wind fluttering through Erinnyes, the familiar rattle of trees swaying teasing at your ears.

Something about the whole spectacle seems like a fantasy, those of which you hear about in fables and folklore.

“Bravo,” you muse, noticing the way his shoulders sag.

The Chief Justice looks over his shoulder, slate eyes morphing into wide ones as he takes in your frame. “My, you’re awfully pale.”

You flash him a tired smile. “Nothing I can’t handle. And no, I am not pale — this is an insult. I am perfectly sunkissed, so much so that every man and woman desires me or desires to be me.” You wave him away, your hand limp in its action.

The Iudex’s face only deepens in distress. You do not give him room to speak. “Why the long face hm? Surely you don’t think so lowly of me. Surely you…” Weights weigh in on your eyelids, and your knees buckle. An attempt to balance yourself with your other foot fails, and instead of meeting hard cement the warmth of an unwanted embrace greets you.

“(Name),” he mutters. Your name rolls off his tongue like a curse; ludicrous. “You’re bleeding.”

Instinctively you use his arms as leverage. “I am fine, Monsieur. I am no princess in need of saving — oh! Nevermind, you are right,” you slur, a hand you never realised was on your hip coming away red. A drunk smile flickers on your features for a brief moment before you slump again into his arms.

He stumbles backwards at the suddenness of your movement, but his grip is firm. “You are unfit for a trip back to the city. I must escort you.” His breath brushes against the nape of your neck.

You push him away. “Do not treat me as if I’m a child, young man. I can manage myself, I am a grown woman and I am employed. That says something, doesn’t it?” Defensively, you point at yourself to prove that you are not injured. Your claim contradicts itself; your sight begins to fail, blurred by growing black spots dotting your vision.

“Madame, please. You have over-exerted yourself.”

The Iudex’s voice comes as a muffled blur, and you attempt to take a step forward — but it is limp and miscalculated. Neuvillette's gaze briefly falls to your hands, his touch supporting you with one hand on your back and the other delicately grasping your fingers. “Goodness. Your hands are cold.” Sapphire peeks through the ice, the engagement ring a cruel reminder of the tie that binds you both.

You manage a whisper. “Not entirely. Just the palm.” You wiggle your fingers slightly, albeit with great effort.

“Please, refrain from speaking,” he implores gently, a hint of concern laced in his voice. “It is imperative that I help you back home, so forgive me if my hold happens to be a little rough.” Before you can cry out in protest, he scoops you up, arms sliding under your inner knees and upper back. Platinum strands fall against your chest, his own rising and falling peculiarly slow. You can still make out a frown that pulls on his lips, and you almost smile at the notion that you’re the reason for his agony.

How sightly.

Your arms naturally curl around the groove of his neck. “I’ll hate you for this. Up until I am brought to my grave.”

“I believe your disdain for me would be far greater had I abandoned you,” he says plainly, no hint of jest in his tone. He adjusts his hold of you, and you slide further down into his grasp, now sandwiched between his arms and chest; you do not make any alarm of it, however, thoughts trailing to your fluffed mattress and plush pillows.

“My disdain for you is already much too cruel for a soul to comprehend,” you garble, a wisp of your misty white breath escaping as a plume.

"As it is for me," he breathes out, but you cannot read his lips.

Pointing blindly in a direction you assume is north, you declare: “Well then; if you don’t have any objections, to my apartment it is."

a/n: spot the subtle pride n prejudice reference I put for fun teehee

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun

#genshin impact #neuvillette x reader #neuvillettexreader #neuvillette #charlotte genshin #arranged marriage #enemies to lovers #neuvillette genshin

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argumentl · 5 months

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2024/01/20 aknot only Gorilla Hall Osaka - Report

I only applied for this date on this tour, so I feel super lucky to have gotten it, especially for such an iconic anniversary!

This was my first time at Gorilla Hall, but the entrance process was super organized and easy. I had quite a high ticket number, so was fairly far back when I first got inside, but I could see the stage, so wasn't too bothered. HOWEVER, there are no rails in Gorilla Hall other than the front rail! So as soon as the lights went down for the show to start, there was a big rush forward, and I pretty much found myself nicely mid crowd, only a few meters from the front, shimote of course! Happy!!

From the start there was so much fan service! Kaoru and Die standind together, Die and Toshiya standing together, Kaoru and Kyo standing together, everyone gathering around Shinya....even in the first few songs!

Die and Toshiya in particular looked...close. At one point Die stood behind Toshiya and rested his chin on Toshiya's shoulder, spoke in his ear, and after that even got down on his knees and played his guitar while looking up at Toshiya!

Yes, I did see the other members a bit this time, haha. There was a spotlight behind Kaoru for quite some time, which would shine directly into my eyes and blind me whenever he stepped out of its beam, so I was forced at times to look elsewhere to save my eyesight 😂

Kyo was still bald, all white make up with black eyes. He looked really spooky.

Toshiya was in his sparkly dress to start, and for the encore he wore a leopard print shirt, with the tiniest tight shorts ever. I only saw his shorts at the end when he stood up high on the truss, and I initialy thought he had lost his trousers somehow, haha (his shorts really just looked as small as underwear), but then i realised this was his actual outfit 😂

Kaoru was in his black jacket/white shirt/waistcoat combo, looking like a total aristocrat. Blonde hair, combed back 😍 And for the encore he wore a White Zombie band tshirt!

Kaoru was using his pink ganesa for Yurameki at the start, but changed to a few other guitars during the rest of the show. He also took off his black jacket few songs in.

The set list was amazing, as follows:

mode of adam

yurameki

Schwein no isu

Zomboid

Eddie

Mouai ni shosu

Myaku

304 goushitsu

Tsumi to batsu

Obscure

Byou shin

Karma

Unknown...Despair...a Lost

zan

ΕΝ.

Akuro no oka

Followers

Filth

Child Prey

So many of these songs were songs that I was listening to when I first became a fan of Dir over 20yrs ago, so it was actually surreal hearing them all live together like this. Especially having just watched the newly released footage from 1999, hearing Schwein, Tsumi to batsu, Byou shin, Karma together...omg, it was overwhelming!

And Akuro no oka! The audience was quiet for the whole song, and gave a respectful applause when it finished. It was really emotional.

My fave part of the encore was actual during Filth! Something came over Kaoru, its almost like he became the song...he was roaming the front rows of the crowd with his eyes, but his facial expressions just exuded the MOST erotic filth! Its like he was thinking about dirty, dirty things, and it showed on his face! If I had been in the front few rows, I would be dead for sure!

At one point I saw him pointing straight in my direction, with his head tilted and eyes half closed, but that wasn't during Filth, haha.

I didn't catch anything this time, but I did get watered on by Kaoru, Toshiya, and Die, so Im happy! Kaoru's bottle flew straight over my head, and when I was on my way out I saw a big puddle of (real) blood on the floor where it had landed, so Im assuming there was either a struggle, or someone had slipped on the water that splashed out of it. But there was a venue staff member standing there to stop people walking through it on the way out.

Kyo, Shinya, and Toshiya left the stage, and then Kaoru smiled and pointed at Die before leaving. The Die came over and tapped the mic, and said, 'Can I say something?'

He gave a really emotional speech about how they have come this far due to the support they have from fans and people around them, and he acknowledged that Dir en grey will have to end one day, due to the members being only human. But until that time, they will continue to cherish playing lives and being with fans. Then he said like, 'so Im not gonna let you die before us, promise me'

You heard it everyone, you gotta look after yourself, and keep living for Dir, and they will do the same for you!

#dir en grey #psychonnect #report #osaka

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ricefame · 4 months

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ctitan98official · 4 months

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Anonymous: Got an idea🧠 re8 ladies react to a heavy gothic punk style, rockstar wannabe y/n,,like I'm talking the leather, the studded spike belt/choker thingy, probably some gothic dress with those netted gloves here,,and ofc,,the extreme heavily stylized full face makeup🤯 also they probably have a more "party animal/aggressive" personality,,not mean or anything but they would definitely speak in yelling🗣️

Damn. You’re describing me in high school perfectly XD Let’s get into it!

Alcina:

Rock music? In her castle? It’s more likely than she thinks.

Alcina would never admit it, but she’s starting to develop a taste for punk. It’s so… Rebellious. It’s downright scandalous for an aristocrat like her to want to listen to such music (At least in her opinion).

While you may be a little rough around the edges (And loud), She wouldn’t change a single thing about you. She loves you for who you are.

Also, those tight black jeans you like to wear make her hot and bothered. She’s never seen clothes like this before, so it’s quite a shock to her when she first sees you in them…

Sometimes Alcina will surprise you by painting her nails black instead of their signature blood red. A non-verbal way for her to say “I love you”.

It looks really good on her and you beg her to do it more often.

Donna:

Donna was high-key afraid of you when she first so you in the village.

You were so… Confident and outgoing. Two things that, frankly, scare the shit out of her.

However, when you approached and asked if you could take her out on a date… Something about you presence made her feel… Protected. You had a kind smile and underneath all of the tough clothing and big personality, she could see you had a big heart.

Angie and you love to mosh together. Some of the other dolls want to join in, but Donna discourages it. She doesn’t want them learning bad habits… It’s a little too late for Angie, though, so she lets the two of you do your thing.

When you introduced Donna to the band… “The Donnas” She nearly lost her mind. She thought it was so cool. “Well, it is a badass name, cara mia,” She said with a shrug.

You busted out laughing.

Miranda:

Rock music… Hair gel… Black nail polish… Mm-mm. Not for her.

It’s almost like you two are polar opposites. But, maybe that’s why your relationship works so well. You balance each other.

She likes calm and peaceful music (Especially while she works). Screaming and angsty lyrics just sound like needless noise to her and it drives her crazy.

She also has to tell you to lower your voice because you tend to yell a lot without realizing it. “Draga mea, I’m standing right in front of you. There’s no need to shout,” She tuts and places a gentle kiss on your lips.

You blush and tell her you’re sorry.

Sometimes, you like to mess with her and while she’s reading or otherwise distracted, you suddenly blare a really loud song and scare the shit out of her.

You also spend the night on the couch.

Bela:

She is 100% drawn to you when you first meet. A badass rocker? She swoons, I’m convinced.

You’re just her type. A rugged, good-looking exterior with a heart of gold on the inside. Honestly, she’s more in love with your personality than anything, but you being hot is definitely a plus.

You play music for her and serenade her. For her, it’s just about the most romantic thing you could do… Even if you are singing angsty, gritty songs.

Bela is not keen on copying your style when she dresses, but it’s mostly because she doesn’t want to upset Alcina.

I think she secretly really wants to try out that “Alt girl” Aesthetic. However, she’ll leave that to you for now. She’s content to just admire you.

Cassandra:

She’s also drawn to you when you first meet. She’s never met anyone like you before and she finds you absolutely thrilling.

She loves to look at all of the different accessories you have. Your studded belts fascinate her… Maybe because they look like they could hurt somebody if they got too close to you. “That’ll keep those hussy maids away from you!” She cackles.

You sweat at how serious she looks.

If I’m being honest? I think Cass has a mad leather kink. Just seeing you in those tight leather pants… Does something to her.

She is instant putty in your hands when you sing to her. She enjoys all the gory violent lyrics tumbling out of your mouth.

Daniela:

While Dani is definitely a fan of cutesy things… She can’t deny that your brooding looks turn her on.

When you introduce her to your favorite bands, they quickly become her favorites as well.

I think she would generally be more of a fan of the pop-punk spectrum of rock, however, she might also enjoy some of the harder bands like Iron Maiden or Metallica.

Dani loves showing you off. She clings to your arm as you two take walks and feels so safe with big, bad you by her side.

You’re loud, but so is she. Sometimes you both sound like you’re literally screeching at each other but it’s only because you’re either really happy or excited.

You two are a match made in heaven. You get each other.

Masterlist

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gallifreyanhotfive · 4 months

Text

Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 22

One time the Fourth Doctor and Sarah Jane escaped the Daleks only because the future Fourth Doctor had gone back in time to strategically place objects that would aid them in their escape.

The Doctor visited Queen Elizabeth II's coronation in all of their first 13 numbered incarnations.

Sam Jones knows what the Doctor's name is.

Rassilonian timeflies are time sensitive insects that have carcinogenic and artronic shells that can cause chronal tumors.

Oscar Wilde looks a lot like the Eighth Doctor. After finding some of the Eighth's clothes in the TARDIS, he even put them on.

In fact, by some accounts, Oscar Wilde was a vampire.

After the Eighth Doctor lost his second heart, he'd get panic attacks upon only feeling that he only had a single pulse.

Once when the Ninth Doctor was listing his former companions, he mentioned a Prince Egon and an Ella McBrien. It is unknown when these two were companions or which Doctor they traveled with.

The Eighth Doctor carries food in his pockets because he doesn't like seeing his companions hungry.

Mickey was in a band called No Hot Ashes (temporarily renamed Bad Wolf) with Mook Jayasundera, Patrice Okereke, Sally Salter, and Jimmy Stone.

Destrii thought the Eighth Doctor was a "package" because he had "brains, buns, and barrel-loads of bravado."

The First Doctor lost his left hand in a fight with a Soul Pirate. Twenty years after losing it, he got a prosthetic but almost immediately lost that one too. He was very miffed by all of this.

It was the First Doctor’s second fight with the Soul Pirates (the fight involving the prosthetic) that inspired J. M. Barrie to write Peter Pan.

Time Lord brains are worth a lot of money.

The Eleventh Doctor's favorite fruit is pomegranate.

The Eighth Doctor once telepathically stopped someone's heart.

The Fourth Doctor once said that he "would never say 'bowties are cool.'"

According to the Ninth Doctor, the only two "halfway sentient" species on Earth in 2005 are humans and meerkats.

The Eleventh Doctor was incredibly guilty about all of the casualties that resulted from the siege on Trenzalore. Because of this, he suppressed his memories of these events.

The Eighth Doctor temporarily became a business consultant and a beekeeper in order to provide for his daughter Miranda.

The Eighth Doctor finds the Sixth Doctor to be embarrassing.

While trapped in the mirror, Daughter of Mine was visited by several incarnations of the Doctor, including the old one with all the hair (Twelfth), the one Benny had traveled with (Seventh), the thin white aristocrat (Shalka), the one who couldn't walk (the Doctor 2, who used a wheelchair), and the one with red hair (Merlin).

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28

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mccall-muffin · 3 months

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The Lady and the Major - Part 2/3 // John "Bucky" Egan x OC

Summary: Bucky quickly realizes that Liz is not like any woman he has ever met before. But there is still a war to win, and Bucky has his duties. So, every letter that arrives is a prized possession now.

Warnings: Language, teasing, kissing, sex (not too detailed)

A/N: So, here is part 2 for you. And yes, by now I've seen all the Episodes that are out as of now - so I'm up to date ;)

Here is my Masterlist

Tags: @liebgotts-lovergirl, @softly-writes, @mads-weasley, @brassknucklespeirs, @softguarnere, @shesgonna

As the band transitions smoothly into a slow, captivating melody, the atmosphere of the gala shifts, becoming charged with a different kind of energy. Bucky, seizing the moment, sets aside the formalities with the ease of a man used to taking the lead. He gently takes Liz's champagne flute, placing it on a nearby table with a confident grin. "Care to dance, Lady Cavendish?" he asks, extending his hand, his eyes sparkling with an invitation to step into a moment just for the two of them.

On the dance floor, Bucky guides Liz with a practiced ease, pulling her close enough that their conversation remains private, a bubble amidst the sea of dancing couples. His hands are respectfully placed, yet the occasional, deliberate brush of his fingers along her back suggests a familiarity that goes beyond mere dance partners.

As they move to the rhythm of the music, Bucky can't resist the opportunity to delve deeper into the intriguing paradox that is Liz. "You know, I've been told quite a few tales about the elusive Lady Cavendish," he teases, his voice low and playful. "Word around is that beneath that veneer of the perfect highborn lady lies a spirit too wild to be tamed by society's chains."

Liz, unphased and quick to respond, tilts her head slightly, a challenge in her bright blue eyes. "And just what exactly have you heard, Major Egan?" she inquires, her voice a mix of curiosity and daring. "I'm quite intrigued to know what stories have made their way to your ears."

Their dance becomes a metaphor for their conversation—each step and turn a delicate balance between revealing too much and not enough. Bucky, navigating this dance of words as skillfully as he does the physical one, leans in, his breath a whisper against her ear. "I've heard that you're no stranger to bending the rules, that you find the conventional life of aristocracy stifling. That you've been known to disappear into the night on adventures that would make your family's esteemed guests blush," he whispers, each word carefully chosen to entice and probe.

Liz's reaction is a soft, genuine laugh, a sound that seems to momentarily lighten the weight of her title and societal expectations. "My, my, Major, such scandalous rumors," she retorts, her tone laced with amusement and a hint of defiance. "Let's just say I believe life is too short to be lived within the confines of what others deem acceptable. And perhaps, I do enjoy the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the unknown."

Their eyes lock, and in that moment, a silent understanding passes between them. Here, in the middle of the dance floor, they've managed to peel back another layer of the intrigue that surrounds their budding relationship. Bucky, drawn to the fire he sees burning behind Liz's poised exterior, finds himself more captivated than ever, eager to discover what other secrets lie hidden beneath her aristocratic facade.

As the song comes to an end, they remain momentarily in each other's arms, the last notes fading into the background. This dance, both literal and metaphorical, has drawn them closer, weaving their stories together in a way that neither had anticipated. And as they step back, rejoining the world around them, it's clear that this evening has only served to deepen the intrigue and attraction that pulses between them.

Liz's invitation to step outside carries an undertone of challenge, a silent test of Bucky's willingness to navigate the complexities of her world. He accepts with a nod, the unspoken communication between them sparking with anticipation. However, as they make their way toward the grand doors leading to the estate's gardens, they are intercepted by none other than the Duke and Duchess of Wellington themselves.

With hardly a moment to prepare, Liz leans in, her voice a hurried whisper, instructing Bucky on the proper etiquette for addressing her parents. "Remember, it's 'Your Grace' for both of them," she murmurs, her tone urgent yet composed. Bucky, despite the sudden shift in situation, nods his understanding, a quick study in the art of aristocratic manners.

The Duke, a figure of imposing stature and dignity, eyes Bucky with a mix of curiosity and the guarded warmth of a father protective of his daughter. "And who might this be, Elizabeth?" he inquires, his voice carrying the weight of authority and expectation.

Liz, ever the adept navigator of her family's expectations, steps in smoothly. "Father, Mother, this is Major John Egan of the US Air Force. We met recently at a charity event where Major Egan was sharing some of his experiences from the war. His stories were quite enlightening," she explains, echoing the innocent tale she'd spun for her brother.

The Duchess offers Bucky a polite smile, but it's the Duke's reaction that holds the room in suspense. After a moment's evaluation, his expression softens, a nod of approval directed at Bucky. "A pilot, you say? Well, that's commendable. Our Edward has told us much about the bravery required in such a role," he says, his voice revealing a hint of the pride he holds for his son's achievements.

Bucky, sensing the importance of this moment, responds with the respect and humility befitting the situation. "Your Grace, it's an honor to serve. And it's been a privilege to share some of my experiences with those who understand the sacrifices made in the skies," he replies, his tone sincere.

The Duke nods, seemingly impressed by Bucky's demeanor and the shared bond of aerial combat. "Well, Major Egan, it's a pleasure to have you among us tonight. The bravery of you and your comrades in the Air Force is something we hold in high regard," he states, extending a hand in a gesture of respect and acceptance.

With the formal introductions made and the Duke's approval subtly given, Liz and Bucky are allowed to continue on their way, stepping out into the cool evening air. The brief encounter with her parents was a test, one that Bucky passed with the grace of a man who, despite his unorthodox entry into their world, understands the value of respect and common ground.

As they move away from the light and music spilling out from the mansion, the night around them feels charged with a new energy. Liz's challenge, Bucky's acceptance, and the unexpected approval of her father have all conspired to deepen the connection between them, setting the stage for whatever comes next under the starlit sky.

As they stand together on the balcony, the cool night air mingling with the tension of their conversation, Bucky watches Liz closely.

"You know why I turned them all down? All those ass-kissers of earls, viscounts, and so on who threw themselves at me?"

Her confession hangs between them, a raw and honest revelation that strips away the layers of aristocracy and high society, revealing the woman beneath. He's moved by her vulnerability, by the glimpse she's offered into the gilded cage that is her life.

"Why turn them all down, Liz?" Bucky prompts gently, already suspecting the answer but needing to hear it in her own words.

Liz's gaze meets his, steady and resolute. "Because marrying one of them would seal my fate. I'd be trapped in this world, expected to play the perfect wife, the dutiful daughter, forever," she confesses, her voice laced with a mixture of defiance and resignation. "I want more than what's expected of me, more than this life can offer."

Bucky's respect for her deepens in this moment, his initial attraction evolving into something more profound. He sees her not just as a challenge or a conquest but as a fellow soul seeking freedom from the confines of their respective worlds.

"And inviting me here tonight?" Bucky asks, the pieces falling into place. "Was that your way of rebelling against all this?" There's a note of understanding in his voice, a recognition of her courage in the face of stifling expectations.

Liz nods a small but significant gesture. "You're... different, Bucky. You don't belong to this world, and yet, you stood your ground. That confidence, that defiance—I wanted that for myself, even if just for a night," she admits, her eyes not leaving his.

Bucky steps closer, closing the distance between them, moved by her honesty. "Liz, I may not know all the rules of your world, but I do know about feeling trapped," he shares, his voice soft but firm. "If you're looking for a bit of freedom, even for just one night, then I say we take it. No expectations, no strings. Just two people enjoying the moment for what it is."

Liz's response is a smile, one that reaches her eyes and lights up the night. It's a smile of relief, of gratitude, of a burden momentarily lifted. "I'd like that, Bucky. More than you know," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

As they stand there, two figures against the backdrop of a world that demands so much from them, they find solace in each other's company. For Liz, Bucky represents a breath of fresh air, a chance to experience life unfiltered by the expectations of her status. And for Bucky, Liz is no longer just the enigmatic aristocrat but a woman of depth and courage, fighting for her own identity.

In the moment their lips meet, the world around them—the chatter of the gala, the soft rustle of the night breeze, the distant melodies spilling out from the ballroom—fades into insignificance. Bucky, taken aback by the intensity of the kiss, finds himself caught in the current of Liz's boldness and expertise. Her playful bite, the confident dance of her tongue, signals a depth of experience that both surprises and entices him.

As Liz wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the connection deepens, their bodies speaking a language of their own making. Bucky's hands, resting initially at her waist, venture slightly lower, his touch light but daring over the fabric of her dress, a silent exploration of the territory between propriety and desire.

When they finally part, the look Liz gives Bucky is one of playful challenge, a silent dare that speaks volumes. Her wink, a spark of mischief and promise, leaves him momentarily stunned, a statue on the balcony as she turns to make her way back inside. Yet, the invitation in her glance, the unspoken command to follow, ignites a fire within him.

Liz's graceful navigation through the gala's attendees, each step a tantalizing lure, leads Bucky on a path he knows is fraught with both risk and exhilaration. As she ascends the staircase, her silhouette a beacon in the sea of guests, Bucky's decision to follow feels not like a choice but a necessity, a call to adventure too compelling to resist.

The journey to her quarters, a silent procession through the dimly lit corridors of Wellington House, is charged with anticipation. Bucky, aware of the boldness of this pursuit, understands the unspoken rules of the game they're playing. This isn't just a physical attraction; it's a mutual rebellion against the confines of their respective worlds, a shared quest for authenticity and freedom.

As he follows, maintaining a discreet distance to avoid drawing attention, Bucky realizes that this night, this moment, could redefine the course of their acquaintance. Liz, with her daring and defiance, has challenged him to step beyond the bounds of his own experience, to engage in a dance as risky as it is irresistible.

The decision to pursue Liz, to accept her silent invitation, marks a turning point. It's a step into the unknown, a gamble on the promise of something profound. In this game of hearts and wills, where every gesture is laden with meaning, Bucky and Liz find themselves on the brink of a discovery that could either shatter the world they know or forge a new path forward, together.

As the door closes behind Bucky, marking their entry into a realm removed from the eyes of the world, the air between him and Liz becomes charged with an undeniable intensity. What unfolds is a dance of two souls, a private exchange of affection and connection that transcends the physical space they occupy.

In the seclusion of Liz's quarters, away from the rigid expectations of their external lives, they find a freedom and a fervor that is as much about rebellion as it is about attraction. The room, with its soft lighting and the distant sound of the gala continuing below, serves as a backdrop to a moment of vulnerability and honesty.

The exchange of kisses and the exploration of touch speaks to a deep-seated desire for authenticity and understanding. It's a conversation without words, a dialogue where every gesture, every breath, carries the weight of unspoken dreams and desires.

As garments become mere whispers on the floor, the world outside, with its rules and roles, fades into insignificance. What matters in this secluded space is the connection that thrives in the absence of pretense, a bond forged not just in the heat of the moment but in the shared recognition of each other's true selves.

The rustling of bedding, the soft sighs, and the gentle caresses are chapters in a story that is theirs alone—a tale of discovery, of the courage to seek out the spaces where they can be unapologetically themselves. In the quiet aftermath, as they lie entwined, the significance of this encounter is palpable. It's a promise of possibility, a testament to the power of finding someone who sees beyond the facade to the person beneath.

This night, in the privacy of Liz's quarters, is a declaration of their mutual defiance against the constraints of their worlds. It's an acknowledgment that, despite the challenges that lie ahead, they have found in each other a rare and precious solace, a sanctuary where they can explore the depths of their connection away from prying eyes.

As dawn threatens to reclaim the night, the reality of their respective lives looms large. Yet, in this moment, they are grounded in the profound realization that what they have discovered in each other is a strength, a partnership that might just have the power to redefine their destinies.

Two weeks have passed since Bucky's return from London to the base, and the changes in him haven't gone unnoticed by those closest to him. Gone is the relentless flirt, replaced by a man who seems preoccupied, his attention drawn inward. Buck Cleven, ever the observant friend, can't help but notice the shift, especially in light of the increasing pile of correspondence that seems to capture Bucky's focus each morning.

This particular morning, Bucky is more animated than usual, a smile playing on his lips as he carefully unfolds a letter. Buck, curious and a bit concerned, nudges him. "Who's got you smiling like that, huh? Someone special?" he teases, trying to catch a glimpse of the sender.

Bucky hesitates, a brief struggle visible in his demeanor before he decides to share the letter with Buck. It reads:

Dear Major Egan,

I hope this letter finds you wallowing in the misery of our separation, desperately missing my company. I regret to inform you that I've taken up with a prince, a real one this time, who showers me with the adoration and luxuries befitting a lady of my stature. So, it seems our little dalliance must come to an end.

Please, don't despair too much. I'm sure you'll find a way to mend your broken heart, perhaps with one of those American heiresses desperate for a title, or maybe with a nice farm girl? Someone who can appreciate your... what was it you do again? Oh, right, flying planes.

Do not fret, dear Major. You will always hold a special place in my heart, somewhere between my love for my horse and my tolerance for my brother's tedious war stories.

With all the affection I can muster (which, as you know, is quite limited),

Liz

P.S. I've included a photograph, as you so tiresomely begged for one. Please try not to wear it out with your ogling. I expect it back in pristine condition, or you shall owe me a new one.

Tucked within the letter is a photograph of Liz. The image captures her essence perfectly—beautiful, aristocratic, and brimming with the sly humor that Bucky has grown so fond of.

Buck, reading over Bucky's shoulder, lets out a laugh. "She's got you on a string, hasn't she?" he chuckles, handing back the letter. "You've got good taste, I'll give you that."

Bucky, looking at the photo once more, can't help but laugh as well. He can almost hear Liz's voice as she penned the letter, her teasing tone, the twinkle in her eye as she crafted each sarcastic remark. It's a comfort, a tangible connection to the woman who's managed to upend his world and settle under his skin.

"She's one of a kind," Bucky admits, a warmth in his voice that speaks volumes. Folding the letter and slipping the photo into his pocket, he feels a renewed sense of determination. Whatever it takes, he knows he has to see her again, to bridge the distance the war has placed between them. Liz might tease, might play her games, but beneath the sarcasm and jests lies a connection neither can deny, a story far from over.

Buck watches Bucky with an incredulous look. "Alright, spill it, Egan. Who's the dame that's got you all twisted up? I never thought I'd see the day when John Egan, the lady-killer, would be mooning over some broad," he teases, the smoke curling up into the air between them.

Bucky, feeling a mix of defensiveness and pride, takes a moment before he responds, choosing his words with care. "Her name's Liz," he starts, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile at the mere mention of her name. "Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, if you want to get all formal about it. Met her in London. She's... different, Buck. Not like anyone I've ever met before."

Buck raises an eyebrow, taking a long drag from his cigarette before flicking the ash off to the side. "Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, huh? Sounds like a real high-class bird. Got you good and proper, didn't she?" he chuckles, the humor not quite masking the genuine curiosity in his tone.

Bucky can't help but laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, she did. But it's not like that. She's sharp, Buck. Got a wit that could cut glass and a spirit that's just... infectious. And she doesn't give a damn about all that high-society bullshit. She's trapped in it, sure, but she's fighting it every step of the way."

The more Bucky talks about Liz, the more animated he becomes, his usual reserve giving way to a barely contained enthusiasm. It's clear to Buck that this isn't just some fling or a passing fancy. Liz has managed to break through Bucky's well-guarded exterior, touching a part of him that perhaps even he hadn't realized was there.

Buck, sensing the depth of Bucky's feelings, nods slowly, a new respect in his gaze. "Sounds like a real peach, John. A dame like that, yeah, I can see why you'd be hung up on her." He takes another puff of his cigarette, his expression thoughtful. "Just be careful, alright? These broads from the other side of the pond, they play a different game. But if she's got you willing to jump through hoops, she must be something special."

Bucky's response is a simple nod, his mind already drifting back to Liz, to the memories of their time together and the anticipation of what might come next. The conversation shifts as they move on to other topics, but for Bucky, Liz remains a constant presence, her image, her words, a steady pulse beneath the surface of his thoughts.

In the barracks filled with the coarse banter of soldiers, the smoke of cigarettes hanging heavy in the air, Bucky finds himself in a world apart, his heart anchored across the ocean, tethered to the enigmatic Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, who's managed to do the unthinkable—capture the heart of Major John Egan.

As the morning light spills into Liz's room, illuminating the delicate furnishings and the soft, luxurious bedding she's entangled in, her initial irritation at being awakened fades the moment Mrs. Baxter mentions the letter. Liz's eyes, still heavy with sleep, light up with anticipation, a rare show of eagerness that Mrs. Baxter notes with a soft, knowing smile.

"Seems like your American soldier can't quite keep you off his mind, my lady," Mrs. Baxter says, her tone playful yet respectful, as she hands over the letter to Liz.

Grasping the letter, Liz's usual morning grumpiness is replaced by a flutter of excitement. She carefully opens the envelope, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. The letter reads:

My Dearest Liz,

Hoping this note finds you shining bright over there. I gotta say, even the best days in Thorpe Abbotts don’t hold a candle to you. Your last letter? A real knockout. It was like a splash of color on a dreary English day, and let me tell you, that’s saying something.

You teasing about ditching this budding thing we got for some high-and-mighty life with the blue bloods almost had me. But behind all that sass, I know there’s a warmth that keeps me going, has me lying awake thinking about you.

That picture you sent is my new prized possession. Seriously, it’s with me everywhere. Every time I look at it, I see that spark in your eyes, that smile of yours, and it hits me hard—how much you’ve come to mean to me.

Even though we’re worlds apart, you’re always on my mind. The thought of seeing you again is the light at the end of this tunnel. I’m holding onto the hope that this mess of a war gives us a break soon, so I can be back by your side, soaking in your glow.

Till then, just know I’m here, waiting and hoping.

Always yours, Bucky

Liz reads the letter, a smile playing on her lips, touched by Bucky's words that manage to be both teasing and heartfelt. The sincerity in his tone, the open declaration of his affection, strikes a chord deep within her, warming her more than the morning sun ever could.

Mrs. Baxter, observing Liz's softened expression, can't help but comment, "Seems like the Major has a way with words, my lady."

Liz, looking up from the letter, meets Mrs. Baxter's gaze, her smile widening. "Indeed, he does, Mrs. Baxter. Indeed, he does," she replies, her mind already racing with thoughts of how to respond, how to match Bucky's blend of humor and sincerity in her next letter.

For a moment, the challenges and restrictions of her world seem distant, as Liz allows herself to be carried away by the promise of what's to come, buoyed by the words of a man who, despite the chaos of war, has become an anchor in her tumultuous life.

What she doesn't know is that soon everything will change.

Next part >>

#Masters of the Air #MoaT #John Egan x OC #Bucky Egan x OC #John Egan x reader #Bucky Egan x reader #John Bucky Egan #BoB #Callum Turner #Sorry not sorry

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mangomonk · 10 months

Text

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ marauders masterlist ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

remus lupin

goodie two shoes!remus — drabble i thought that i was dreaming when you said you loved me ↳ summary: remus deals with the repercussions of falling in love too late. pt. 1 based off goodie two shoes!remus drabble ↳ content: angst, one-sided fake dating i've been dreaming ↳ summary: remus deals with the repercussions of falling in love too late. pt. 2, based off goodie two shoes!remus drabble ↳ content: angst, fluff, happy ending, mentions of eating/sleeping properly

i caught myself ↳ summary: remus goes to a coffee shop for the first time ↳ content: coffee shop au, rock band!muggle oc, fluff, oblivious idiots x idiots call me whenever ↳ summary: remus is a clingy lightweight ↳ content: fluff, mentions of alcohol, established (remus x winnie) relationship

regulus black

pretty little aristocrat ࿏ ↳ regulus and his thief attend the Malfoy ball as a first step of selling their cover as lovers to infiltrate pureblood society and get closer to tom riddle's diary ↳ oneshot: fake dating, begrudging partners, slowburn, mutual pining proper ࿏ ↳ summary: regulus's lover learns that he's starved for touch and attention, despite still believing in pureblood courting proprieties ↳ content: fluff, slice of life emotionally constipated regulus trying to show his affection — drabble ࿏ regulus black x thief!oc oneshot based off my horcrux heist fic, take what you can carry, on ao3

sirius black

↳ coming soon

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dearestcynthiaw · 4 months

Text

Goodbye Stranger - House M.D x Reader

Chapter Two: Who Are You?

Source A: Photograph, with missing piece, and handwritten message: 'Spring 1928 - Trip to London' no other inscriptions.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Hello again!

Sorry for the long wait, this chapter might be a little dodgy writing wise, but I'm hoping it'll sound ok.

I just wanted to add that themes might get a bit heavier from here, but I'm still unsure. I'll let you know if any trigger warnings come up.

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Chapter One: World Weary

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TW: Mentions of blood, death, cigarettes and alcohol. (Sounds like a underground band name)

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In truth, House thought about this peculiar encounter for the rest of the day. He never once closed the Wikipedia tab on this mysterious, yet apparent English Rose. He'd found himself opening it frequently and scrolling to the bottom of endless pages to really see how far this woman would go with her 'fantasy'.

Due to this anomaly in his usual work day, he found it challenging to engage with his current case, often sitting in his office and pondering in the silence. His eyes glued to the door she had disappeared through hours earlier. Would she ever come back? She had been such a fascinating specimen, he just wanted to know exactly what was going on in her head. He thought about the endless illnesses that could have caused this odd phenomenon, ones that would cause hysteria or an overactive imagination.

Was she here to fool him into a prescription? Was she living out a long time wish to live the life of someone with great lineage and aristocratic fortune? Did she want to live in the romanticised perception of the past? It was all a colossal enigma that he wanted to unearth and tease out of the woman.

To him, the current case was a bore compared to what had transpired earlier that day. It sounded like a harsh flu, but not one that he’d ever seen. They’d isolated the patient and kept up with questions, which the man was reluctant to answer. With House acting distant, the diagnosis seemed far out of reach. House thought of giving up at one point, letting his team of three figure it out for themselves. That was until they found the man’s ankles were swollen.

At this point, due to House’s lack of interest, the whole procedure was moving at a snail’s pace. The case was getting increasingly worse and House’s team decided the patient would need to be scheduled for an X-Ray of the chest, checking the lungs for fluid and the heart for implications.

The conclusion was the possibility of heart failure, yet they were still unsure of how it got to this point.

The end of the day was nigh. Still after plenty of pestering, House rebuffed the idea of at least looking at the patient through the glass. The idea of this patient dying seemed to have no effect on him, maybe deep down it did, but he appeared oblivious or distracted.

It was late when he got back to his car. The rain was heavily pattering on the roof of the multistory car park. It was loud, but that never detached him from his buzzing thoughts.

Dr Wilson, his friend (you’d like to think) and colleague, caught him just before he left, knocking sternly on his driver's side window, which House reluctantly opened. Wilson’s eyebrows were knitted and his mouth was pulled into a straight line 'What's gotten into you? I’m made to believe this is a one-of-a-kind case, not even you can figure it out.’

House only huffed at this, rolling up the window. Again there was a torrent of knocks.

‘What? I’m late to a date with one of the hottest chicks in town.’

‘Don’t mess about, this is a life or death House. Why are you not interested?’ Wilson spoke, his voice sprinkled with concern.

In return, House revved his engine ‘No time to talk, probably won’t see you tomorrow, I doubt I'll be able to walk with all the fun I’ll be up to tonight. Bye.’ With that he flew out of his space, leaving Wilson in the dust.

Rain drops danced on his windows as he bolted down the bustling roads. The street lights and headlights of other cars painted his window screen with an array of vivid colours. The music on his radio hummed in the background along with the rattling of the wheels on the dodgy tarmac.

He was eventually stopped at a set of traffic lights, watching people trudge through the rain as he sat snugly in his warm car.

Amongst the hoard of busybodies was a young lady, one with a look of discomfort and panic. She was instantly recognisable, yet her togs were soggy and discoloured with the spatters of rain. Her hair was heavy with water and had lost its neat, waved styling.

He watched intensely as a singular man approached her, touching her shoulder, causing her to jump back in fright.

The lights flicked to orange and he was about ready to move on, when she was pushed up against the wall unbeknown to those around her.

He moved on through the green light. He thought nothing of this interaction, knowing someone else would interfere.

He was part way down the road when without thinking he flicked on his right indicator, stopping in a lay-by, hopping out in haste with his hand roughly gripping his cane.

Bracing against the frigid rain, he splashed through puddles approaching the pair.

He was close now, and could see how dangerous this situation was. The man was grabbing at her with his filthy hands, his face was close and his voice low.

House put his cane between the two causing an instant reaction from the unknown male.

‘Whatcha think you’re doing, cripple?’ The male hollered.

He attempted to push the stranger away, making sure to keep distance in case he decided to lash out, which his body language suggested.

House’s mind was sharp thinking ‘This woman has a disease that’s contagious through touch. She’s an escapee and has been on the run for the past 2 days. You’ve probably contracted it by being in close proximity.’

The man seemed to instantaneously spring backwards ‘How come you’re fine?’ his face scrunched up.

‘Inoculation, dummies don’t have access to it. Now move on, nothing to see here.’ and with that the frowzy man scurried away. The appearance of his walking aid would’ve probably been enough to strike fear in the stranger, but the spontaneous story-telling seemed to bring the alarming interaction to a close.

House moved away as well, pacing back to his car.

She hesitated before shouting after him, forgetting about nearby eavesdroppers ‘Why did you help me? I thought you said I was mad and should be locked away.’

‘Doesn’t matter, you coming or you just gonna stand there staring at my back?’ House turned back to look at her, water running down his face.

He finally got a closer look at her when they were back in the comfort of his car. She was soaked to the bone, dripping on the fabric seats. Black could be seen about her red, puffy eyes where her cake mascara had smudged. Her hair was tousled and unkept. She was quite a pitiful sight to behold.

There was an uncomfortable silence before the engine was started up. House was hesitating.

Again the music could only be heard faintly in the background, not even a single breath.

‘I’ve seen a lot. New things, that is.’ She attempted to start a conversation, hoping that after this frightful evening he would see some sense in what she had said previously that day.

He ignored her.

‘I’ve got a car at home.’ She muttered under her breath, she was speaking to herself more than him. She was partly facing away, looking out the window as the streets flew by.

He turned the radio up to drown out her rambling. He would much rather be glued to the thumping music and the overactive thoughts building in his mind. He detested the notion of making awkward conversation with a lady he did not wholly trust.

The music was blaring now, the bass rattling the plastic interior of the car.

As she listened intently, she heard a new plethora of instruments that was very unlike what she was used to. She didn’t know what to concentrate on, she couldn’t tell anything apart. Every instrument seemed to drown each other out.

Her eyes were wide from the boisterous sound but she happily sat tapping her fingers on her lap to the rhythm. She could only pick out one phrase from the lyrics;

“Who are you?’’.

Who was she? That really was the truth. The song just exaggerated that query.

House finally let a question sit in the noisy atmosphere ‘You like The Who?’.

‘Who?’ She turned to him.

‘Very funny.’ The conversation was quick, short and littered with sarcasm.

The song had a bit of a quieter section but jumped straight back into the chaos. It made her jump slightly with the suddenness of it all, consequently causing House to humph with a singular hissing laugh.

Again, there was a gap of silence and a sort of sizzling, filmy sound that rang out from the central system in the car. The bulky set of technology to her left disposed of a silver, holographic disk and she looked at it curiously.

Panicked, she asked ‘Did I break something?’.

In a quick movement, he flicked open a compartment in front of her knees ‘Pick one, and replace it.’

She tentatively did so, taking the plastic cases from the glove box and splaying them out on her lap, looking at the different images. She seemed to figure it out, it was much like the vinyls she was used to, but in a different format. She gently replaced the circular disk safely into its matching case. Opening another dark coloured case with a man and a blonde woman displayed on the front, she placed the disk where the other had originally come from. As it slid from her fingers into the machine, her eyebrows furrowed in awe.The new song flicked on after a couple seconds of whirring.

‘Top Gun? Really?’

‘I didn’t know what to pick, I’ve never seen any of these before. It's the only one I could see with the musicians on the front.’

‘They’re not the musicians, it's a film soundtrack, Marty. Maverick and Charlie? Have you not watched the movie?’ He used that odd nickname ‘Marty’ again amongst his rambling.

She sighed, looking down at her lap at the remaining disk holders. She brought one close to her face as the darkness obstructed the image. ‘You listen to King Oliver? Are you a fan of Jazz?’ she perceived his seated figure at the wheel. She was delighted that this music was still being heard. If she could relate to him with music then it might make the atmosphere more comfortable.

Irked by her continued persistence on making conversation, House stared back at her. ‘What? Are you going to tell me that you were there when they came out?’

He was still fighting conversation.

Feeling knocked back she spoke quietly again ‘I’m only curious, that’s all.’.

Her thoughts consumed her that when House had parked and was now exiting the car, she was too slow to realise. They were before an unfamiliar single-story building, he was bugging her to leave the passenger seat.

He ushered her towards the front door, both traipsing on damp gravel, water still continuing to cling to their raiments.

Hesitating, she stood by the entrance ‘Are you coming in or are you just going to stand there and freeze?’. She was already cold, she had barely had time to dry and was finding it hard to conceal her shivers.

It had been a rough looking public house, she had no longer been pleased when seeing its interior. Truthfully, she was glad to no longer be stuck on the streets but this brought no hope as to what House had in mind for her. She pined for her home, at this point it seemed ever so far out of reach. The panic was devouring her insides as she walked with him to the long stretch of bar.

She still had her bag of small belongings clasped to her side; a small pocket watch, a delicately painted case of cigarettes, a metal lighter, a compact mirror, a gold tube of lipstick and a small amount of notes and coins. It was a pure set of luck that it hadn’t been snatched out of her clutches whilst she helplessly wandered the streets.

House had already placed an order whilst she lingered a distance back from him. He’d downed a couple doubles and was waiting for his glass to be topped up.

The bartender seemed to look at her in inquiry, she felt pressured to place an order too.

‘Cognac, a little soda, please.’ Giving a small smile as she felt relieved to finally have a drink.

‘You think we do that here, sweetheart?’ The man seemed amused by her request.

She felt embarrassed, flushing a rosé shade on the cheeks ‘Just brandy then.’ She spoke as she placed a few shillings on the counter.

‘We don’t take whatever those are.’

House surely thought she was a fool at this point, he pressed his glass to his lip and gave a sharp snicker. Every aspect of her life had to be littered with old-timey things. He thought; she was quite committed to leading this lifestyle and neglecting the reality of today’s society. She proceeded to sit beside him after the interaction with the bartender, who went to tend to another customer. Demoralised, she let out a shaky sigh, elbows on the bar and right hand over her eyes. She felt like crying, but was certain that the doctor would degrade her for it.

‘So what’s your real name then?’ House questioned after a lengthy couple of minutes, again grabbing the attention of the bartender to fill up his glass.

In a huff she pulled out a little red cloth-bound book from her purse and pushed it in front of him. ‘That’s my driving licence, have a look at it yourself.’ He opened it in a blasé manner, finding the same name she’d given when they met, written in neat looped writing. Alongside her name were the start and expiry dates for her driving permit that conveniently matched up with her story.

‘That’s all I've got in terms of identification. That’s it, that is my name. If you can’t believe me after this then I don’t know what will convince you.’

He continued to study it ‘This is a good forgery, looks authentic.’.

She didn’t know why she hung around, but she felt that he might be her only chance when it came to getting home. She opened her cigarette case, placing one at her lip, flicking open her lighter and taking a deep exhale.

‘Better put that out before you get caught.’ He said in a snarky voice with a face to match when she chose to ignore him.

With that final comment she left her seat marching outside, gasper still between her fingers. House trailed behind her to the overhead roof outside where she continued to take drags. He didn’t want to lose sight of her, not again, he was far from finishing his investigation.

Snapping she snarled ‘What is it? What is it that you want? You’re following me yet you refuse to help me. You don’t even believe me, not even my name! I’m beyond it all, I just- I just - want to get back home, yet you ridicule and tease me to no end! What is it ‘Dr’ House? What do you want me to say? That I’m faking all of this, then fine have it your way, I am. Are you finally satisfied?!.

There was a second of silent acrimony before she finally stated; ‘I’m going back to the hospital’. She stubbed the cigarette butt beneath her heel, beginning to move.

Suddenly, a pair of headlights blinked at them. They both stood still like a pair of stunned deer in the beam. ‘House!’ came a shout.

House squinted and called back ‘Can’t you see I’m with a babe?’.

She was too stunned to react to his crude joke.

‘She looks wet, House.’ The voice came closer, it sounded sympathetic.

‘I’m sure she is, from the sight of me.’

Gritting her teeth she sneered ‘For goodness sake!’ Crossing her arms for warmth and setting foot back into the intense rain, she began to trudge through the drenched car park. She stood by what she said, she was going to find her way back.

She walked as far as the side of the car who’s headlights had previously blinded them.

‘She looks distressed, Are you going to stop her? You can’t let her go back in the rain, the hospital is miles from here.’ The man came into view, appearing to her right. She flinched backwards as he tried to rest an assuring hand on her arm. His face was scrunched and his eyes were squinting from battling the downpour.

‘Just hold on a second, I’ll take you there- House- Jesus Christ, we need to get out of this rain-’ This new man managed to convince her to step back under cover, she still kept her distance from the both of them, arms defensively crossed over her chest.

‘I was trying to find you, and I found you at a bar? You need to take this seriously, your patient went into cardiac arrest, we were trying to get a hold of you but you weren’t answering your phone.’

Looking unbothered, House shot back ‘Is he stable?’

‘Yes but-’

‘Well it's fine then, let me get on with my night.’

You could hear a very heavy sigh from the other man as he pinched the bridge of his nose, ready to speak again.

She finally let her quiet fury go ‘You let this man deal with patients? He couldn’t be the slightest bit interested in a man that is actively dying. He can’t honestly be a doctor, he's such an ass!’

‘Hey! That's not very nice to say to your prince charming!’ his eyes flew wide, pulling a mock frown, his words were a little slurred.

‘Well, I’m not wrong, you’re being a complete and utter cad!’

House gasped, looking defensively at the other man shrugging his shoulders ‘I don’t know what she's on about Wilson.’.

That was his name, Wilson. Was that a first or last name? She was yet to know.

‘Can we stop fighting like children? You, House, are going home and you’re going to take the case-file with you. Get in the car.’ Wilson paused to look at the lady, taking in her peculiar outfit. He didn’t know whether it would be dubious to ask her the same, especially with how distraught her manner appeared.

‘Whaaat? Are you calling off my playdate?!’ House whined. ‘I can drive myself, you know.’ He added in a flat tone.

‘The man behind the bar has his keys, I saw him take them earlier.’ She muttered in earshot of the man named ‘Wilson’.

There was a stern ‘In!’ from Wilson before House gave in; ‘Fine fine, Jesus, you really know how to be a stick in my ass!’

She remained hesitant as this gentleman, Wilson, opened the back door for her, ushering her in. She really had no other choice at this point, afterall, she had nowhere else to go.

Wilson turned back to look at her when he had finally seated himself in front of the wheel. ‘What do you need to go back to the hospital for? The clinic closed two hours ago...’.

‘Don’t worry about it, any hotel will do, I’ll go in the morning.’ She spoke softly in defeat.

House let slip ‘Don’t know how you’ll do that with no money.’.

A gasp could be heard ‘House! I-I can’t believe you! Were you planning to spend an evening with her and then just dump her?!’ Wilson shouted in a whisper, which was partly inaudible to the lady in the back. ‘You can’t do that! You’ll have to let her atleast crash on your couch until tomorrow.’

‘Why can’t you?’ He mumbled back.

‘Because I’m living out of a hotel at the moment, you know it's not possible.’ His voice went lower ‘You got yourself into this, not me!’

House heaved out a sigh, he was too inebriated to protest.

The drive was prolonged by the squabbling going on up front. She let her ears tune out, concentrating on different landmarks passing by her window. She recognized a few from when she had been roaming earlier that day; The laundromat where a woman stopped her for a chat, commenting on how her voice sounded funny and there was the barbers where she had been catcalled whilst trying to ask about the area.These were only a handful of places that were recognizable. She set about situating them on a map in her mind. She had to know her way around before it was too late, knowing that it would become a survival tool when House inevitably left her on her own.

Her eyes were terribly heavy as she peered out of the rain soaked window, her elbow resting on the seal, her chin propped on her hand. She could see her likeness reflected in the pane, it looked pale and exhausted. Although she felt miserable, It was also surprising how comforting this stranger's car was. She should’ve felt on edge not knowing where she was going, but the warmth and humming chatter seemed to lull her into a peaceful state of mind and eventually a light slumber.

The door was pulled abruptly open, causing her to tumble sideways. ‘You getting out or what?’. She sleepily trailed behind House up a couple of steps towards a green front door. His keys turnt in the lock, this must’ve been where he lived.

She was greeted by an array of objects, all messily placed around the entirety of the apartment. There were dark bookshelves filled with all sorts of oddities, some of which were recognisable like lozenge bottles, anatomical figurines and the odd syringe that she would see used in her hospitals at home. They were being used like decorational items, which she found quite curious.

Amongst it all was a grand piano, one possibly made from a rich wood, it was the only surface completely clear.

House limped through the apartment leaving her standing stunned in the entryway, Wilson was behind her, moving to her left to follow the doctor. She’d only seen him in low light, now realising how much more smartly clad he was in comparison to House. He looked and acted more like a man bearing the title of ‘doctor’. He seemed genuinely kind, but after House’s reaction, she didn’t want anyone else caught up in the mess she had gotten herself into. They were still having their previous conversation, she could hear their muffled voices from the other room.

Her heels clicked faintly on the hardwood floor, following the two into what looked like a kitchen. House was propped against a cabinet with a vile of tablets clutched in his hand. He tipped a couple into his palm, tipping his head back to swallow them. He glanced to his side, his steel blue eyes fixing on her figure awkwardly standing just outside the kitchen.

‘I’m going to get her a towel or something, at least offer her a glass of water instead of staring at her.’ Wilson was prodding House to accommodate his guest. Wilson promptly made his way out of the kitchen space, making sure to keep his distance and disappearing down a corridor, leaving them both alone.

House appeared disapproving as he continued to study her, lips curling inwards in thought.

She looked down at her shoes and spoke at the floor to avoid eye contact ‘I apologise, I didn't get the chance to thank you…’. She spoke softly and with gentle words only to hear a sniff and a heavy swallow in reply.

‘I wasn't being very kind considering you did help me.’ She added.

Pushing past her, in a way that didn’t cause physical contact he announced ‘I'm going to bed, Wilson will show you where everything is. You’re sleeping on the couch-’

He turned on his heel slightly, looking over his shoulder, which caught her attention; ‘Unless you want to join me for some sweet, passionate sex.’ He teased. He couldn't help himself, she thought, he had to pull some rudimentary rubbish to cover his arse whenever she tried to be polite.

Showing a slight grimace, she watched his back as he staggered away. She shifted her weight behind her on the kitchen’s doorway, head positioned upwards regarding the textured plaster on the ceiling.

There were a couple subdued footsteps before she noticed Doctor Wilson beside her, holding out a rather plush looking towel.

With a soft ‘thank you’ and a nod, she wrapped it about her person.

‘I’ve run you a bath as well. House stopped me in the hallway and asked if I could. The bathroom is just down that hallway.’ Pointing his thumb over his shoulder he noted the direction she should take. ‘If that’s everything, I best be getting back. It's getting late.’

Just before he left she spoke up, clearing her throat quietly, ‘Oh uh, thank you for everything-’ was all she could stutter.

With a prompt nod and a thoughtful smile he slipped through the front door, shutting it firmly behind him.

It was deathly silent as she slipped through the passageway to the bathroom. She was still studying her surroundings, taking in all of the little nic-nacs, when she stopped by a shelf just outside the bathroom. Huddled amongst the books was a sweet, well-loved teddy. He was only a tiny thing, just bigger than hand. His fur was thoroughly worn, showing darker spots where the threads were visible. His nose was hand stitched and his eyes glimmered in the low light. She turned him over gently in her hands, finding his maker’s mark. He was a Steiff bear, absolutely identical to her own. Hugging him closely to her chest, she felt a wave of comfort fall over her. A kind of comfort that hurts so terribly.

She let a silent tear slide down her cheek, thinking desperately of home. Her dear companion was where she left it, settled amongst her bedsheets battling the biting cold of her bedroom. He would never know where she had gone.

The feeling further gnawed at her heart, her chest burnt with grief. She thought of family, how she’d left them behind, without uttering a goodbye. She thought of her friends and her dogs and finally her fiancé. She let her head tilt slightly back, her flushed lips parted, trying to stop the tears from dripping onto the floor, but they only bled down her neck, stinging as they made their path. Looking back at the bear, she pulled him back from her person, giving him a light kiss on his woolly cheek. Tenderly, she seated him back on the shelf and continued on her path.

She was finally amongst the cold tile of the bathroom. Quietly locking the door behind her, she began to undress, hooking her garments over the showerail above the tub. They might’ve had a chance of drying there.

She sat on the stool in the corner to unclip her stockings. There, she caught sight of a scrape on her knee where she had taken a fall earlier that day. The adrenaline had been overpowering the pain, only now realising how the crimson blood had seeped into the rayon. Peeling the fabric off the wound she set about washing away some of the blood in the sink, hoping that she could salvage the tattered hosiery. She left them to dry like the rest of her clothing and undergarments.

She felt it was only right to leave on her few pieces of jewellery, knowing her tired state, she would likely misplace them otherwise.

Placing a foot into the sudsy water, the pleasant water enveloped her numb limbs. She led down fully, letting the warmth rush over her, finally ridding herself of the dreadful frigidity that had lingered upon her skin. Allowing her eyes to close, she let out a contented sigh. This small pause, where her body was finally in a relaxed state, brought on small waves of dread. Much like the bath water sloshing about in the porcelain, the top of her stomach was sweeping like waves, twisting and pulling in agony.

She hunched over, pulling her knees up to her chest as a form of comfort. Her breath grew heavy, the sense of foreboding setting in. Burying her face into the hard bones of her knees, she struggled against her chest wracking with affliction. The pure anguish of the situation hit her, far worse than it had in the hallway. She desperately clung onto her breath not wanting to make a sound, tears smothering the entirety of her face. Her arms were firmly wrapped about her head, her nails digging into the tops of her arms, clinging onto any part of reality that wasn’t being deadened by her continuous fear.

She suffered a disjointed sob, drawing a further deep breath through her teeth. Her body shook with the deeply embedded desolation.

She hadn’t noticed the figure stood to her right as she continued to sink further into her melancholy, her form violently trembling with mournful weeps.

There was a masculine, pitiful exhale that filled the claustrophobic space.

From the sound, she let one bloodshot eye take a peak above her arms, perceiving a blurry staunch figure who was instantly recognisable.

Embarrassment entangled her as she realised how she might’ve appeared. Her voice sounded broken as she whispered a quick apology, drawing her limbs closer to her torso.

He continued with what he was doing, flipping open the mirrored cabinet above the sink.

All she could do was turn her head in the opposite direction to hide her obvious flushed face and tear stained cheeks. She heard his rusting around but was too humiliated to look.

Hearing his footsteps echoing away and the door closing once again, she turned to take a peek. There was a thin blue and white dressing gown led over the edge of the bath, it hadn’t been there before. She took that as a sign to leave the tepid soak, finishing up in the bath, placing on her chemise and French knickers that were mostly dry. It would have to suffice for the night. She assumed this dressing gown was left for her, delicately placing it upon her person and tying it tight.

She padded down the hallway, taking quick,quiet steps to the living room. Anticipating his presence in the sitting room, she felt she would have to turn back and lock herself in the bathroom for the rest of the night. She couldn’t face him again, she felt completely mortified after he’d seen her in that state.

Perching on the chesterfield, making herself somewhat comfortable, she peered down at the coffee table in front of her, her eyes landed on the patient case file that the other doctor had left. Curiosity overtook her, she took a cautionate glance at the space before flipping open the blue folder to take a peak. She had wondered what the two were discussing earlier.

Her breath caught after taking in the symptoms. It was the usual symptoms of something like influenza, high temperature, fever, sore throat, difficulty breathing and swollen glands in the neck. It was sounding a lot like what her uncle had caught, but how could they not see it was a kind of flu? Was there something else they were missing? There were updated notes too, scrawled in the typical hard-read writing of a doctor.

It was affecting his heart.

‘What have I told you about patient confidentiality?’

‘It's just some.. Reading..’ Was all she could stutter, she was quite lost for words after jumping out of her skin at his abrupt emergence.

His eyebrows seemed to quirk in amusement ‘Can you not see the amount of books on the shelves around you?’

‘Yes I know, but, Dr Wilson was urging you to read this and you still wouldn’t. I thought I might have a look to see what you were avoiding. Well, I can see why...’

‘It's not the flu.’ House stated bluntly.

She sighed at his forthrightness, she was quite familiar with it now. ‘I was just…Starting to see the similarity it had to a relative’s death..’ She couldn't stand looking him in the eyes after her confession, she felt he might just laugh in her face.

His questions were quick and direct yet her willingness to answer was becoming restrained ‘What did they die from?’.

‘Distemper- no, uh? I can’t remember - I don’t like to think about it.’ Her eyes were visibly glazed, her eyes squinting when racking her brain for the given name of the illness.

He pushed further ‘You can’t remember any symptoms?’

Swallowing gravely, she continued ‘Well, they found a grey coating in their throat after they died. The doctor was too late to see it before. Their um.. Heart was weak from birth, so we barely saw symptoms before they passed. But it-it was like your patient…The um, cough and fever..’

His eyes seemed to focus on a point in front of him, his pupils constricting. His mind was whirring, connecting dots.

‘A Pseudomembrane. So it was bacteria?’

She looked clueless, wanting to shake her head in apprehensive confusion. He went on to pull a small rectangular silver case from his pocket, snapping it open and tapping a couple buttons on it, eventually holding it to his ear.

‘Corynebacterium diphtheriae. Have you checked inside the patient's nose? I think you'll find we're dealing with bacterial disease instead of a virus.’

There was a pause before he interrupted the murmur coming from the other end ‘-then dose him up on antibiotics and monitor his heart damage. Yes, I know you’ve found it’s myocarditis, so put him on anti-inflammatories and any other pain killers he’ll whine for. He’ll survive.’ Flipping the silver item, supposedly a phone, closed after rambling to the person on the other end, he examined the lady before him. Other than the slight scrunch about his eyes, his visage appeared completely blank.

Gasping as if he were to speak, he held his tongue to look upon her, further studying her face. He sat on the other end of the settee, lowering himself down slowly, holding his leg as he did so. Making himself comfortable, he placed his cane upon the table in front of them.

‘Who was this relative then?’ His words seemed to strike a nerve. She seemed to render a sorrowful glint in her eyes. ‘Who was it?’ He pressed.

‘My brother, the oldest.’

‘You have a brother?’ It wasn’t like he already knew, after reading up on her all day, he just wanted to hear it from her. He cruelly wanted to see if she had rehearsed the entirety of the historical documents he had found on the web, pitilessly trying to trip her up.

She only nodded, she was hesitant to give away any more information on her personal life, but she still stated that she once had four male siblings.

‘I’m sorry.’ Stating it unremorsefully, he still exhibited an unreadable blank expression.

He didn’t remain seated for long, making his way back to the kitchen in his usual slow walk. He returned, after a bit of rusting in the other room, carrying glasses and a bottle of unidentifiable amber alcohol. Pouring about an inches worth into both glasses, he passed one over to the accompanying female who took a reserved sip, brushing her tongue along her lip to identify the taste.

Reaching into her chestnut coloured handbag, she pulled out her ornate cigarette case, opening it to offer one to House who was sprawled out on the sofa.

‘I don’t smoke.’

Pulling an inquisitive grin she spoke ‘If you don’t, then why have an ashtray?’.

‘Decoration?’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.

She chuckled lightly at his comment. He did indeed take a straight, placing it at his lip as she sparked the metal lighter beneath it.

Doing the same for herself, the room became slightly hazy with the wispy smoke.

He appeared content with the taste ‘What are these then?’

‘Fribourg & Treyer, I have them when I'm in London.’ She gave a frolicsome smile ‘I’m not actually allowed to smoke, my father prohibits it.’

He made a humming sound, prompting her to continue. His interest was getting the better of him.

‘He’s a little old-fashioned, doesn’t believe women should smoke, he believes I’m starting to resemble the scandalous city girls. Not very fair considering my brother’s are happily welcomed to, and in his company. I mean one smokes a pipe, one does snuff for Heaven’s sake!’ Lamenting on the disparity of it all, she still displayed an impish grin.

His lips seemed to curl into a sort of smile as she spoke candidly.

‘What happened to your knee?’ He kept firing questions, one after the other.

She glanced down, finding the dressing gown was revealing the skin just above her knees. Readjusting the fabric she formed a response; ‘It's just a scrape, there’s nothing special about it. Anyway, are you ever going to stop interrogating me? I mean, you haven’t given me the chance to ask my own questions yet.’

‘Looks like you’ve been running, it’s elongated.’

She paused to flick her head away, looking back at him quickly again in discomfort, sharply stubbing out her cigarette.

‘Yes.. But that doesn’t matter.’

Regardless, he persisted ‘Who were you running from?’

‘I was just scared, alright?’ She exclaimed, nervously holding an odd smile.

It was deathly silent between them. The cars on the street outside echoed noisily throughout the front room.

‘Go on then, what were you going to ask me? No doubt it's going to be about my leg.’

She shook her head ‘That’s not for me to ask. I wanted to know what made you want to become a doctor?’.

‘I was greatly and passionately inspired by Patch Adams.’ He sounded dreamy, but she unperceived the underlying sarcasm.

‘I’ve never heard of them before? Did you know them?’

Bursting with an obnoxious laugh, he looked upon her as she rolled her eyes. There was no point trying to get any information out of him, House always found ways to deflect.

Leaning forward he forced himself to stand, hastily swallowing the rest of his nightcap, he began to stagger towards his bedroom. He gave one last comment before departing for good;

‘I know what you did.’ It was ominous. His back was still facing her.

‘I didn’t think you would have it in you to steal.’

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I hope you are enjoying it so far! This is going to end up being chock-full of metaphors XD

'Who Are You' - The Who 1978

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Tag list:

@indestructeible @suziek415

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~ I really have enjoyed my stay, but I must be moving on ~

#house #house md #housemd #drhouse #dr house #greg house #greg house x reader #gregoryhousexreader #housexreader #house md x reader #house x reader #1920s #1920s fanfic #historical fanfiction #dr house x reader #x reader #reader insert

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