Fic: Blood and Water
Title: Blood and Water
Author: nicole296
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Renard, OCs, brief mention of Adalind
Wordcount: 921
Summary: “Half of his brain told him that he needed to stop getting involved with women who wanted nothing from him. The other half told him not to think about it, for his own sake.”
Feedback: NEEDED!
Notes: Inspired by a prompt on the kink meme at grimm_kink
“Renard; Linguistics
French wasn't his first language, either.
Bonus points for thinking outside the box on what the definition of fairytale royalty is. Because we all know Renard's a king. We just know it.”
Blood and Water
I must say I'll always love you
Even if it hurts
- Maria Mena; 'Belly Up'
Ga.
His first word, they had said. She had said.
Just the one syllable. His parents had been so very proud. He couldn't remember them now. Their people, their proud people had built their lives around that one word. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d said it in his youth. Never to her, of course.
Her.
Adje.
His first word to her. He could still see her slender form that cold night so long ago. He didn’t even know her then. That’s a lie. He knew who she was; everyone did. His uncle’s family had stayed away from her his whole life, like anyone else did when it came to her.
Owli. Avata acoi. Kasko san?
How many years had he asked the same thing, trying to hear her same answer.
Kasko san?
He wondered himself. No, no he didn’t. He was hers. He hated that. How could he belong to someone who couldn’t have him? Who didn’t want him? Someone as ill fated as he was. Someone amria. Like him.
He could see her in the scarf she wrapped herself in after she would bathe. He could see her walking back into her room and seeing him standing there and the way her mouth would close a little tighter, almost cracking a smile as she would narrow her eyes at him. The way she would nod him into her bed begrudgingly and heave a sigh while tossing a spare blanket on the ground. He would say he would sleep on the floor and she would say that wasn’t why he was here and he would lie down.
He could see the way she tried to carefully dress with her back to him and a shawl tented around her body. The way the scarf would slip against her wet shoulders, revealing the pale birthmark on her shoulder blade. The way her head would lean to the side when the rain beat down harder over top of the thin roof.
The rain. He opened his eyes. The water from the shower cascaded down on him, splashing into his eyes and filling his ears as it beat against the tub around him. Just water, not rain. He was alone again. All alone.
Schade had left. He hadn’t even opened the front door; of course she had left. Not that the woman couldn’t walk through closed doors. Hell, that’s all he asked her to do. Half of his brain told him that he needed to stop getting involved with women who wanted nothing from him. The other half told him not to think about it, for his own sake.
He closed his eyes. He could see her again, moving behind his lids. Always the same, disapproving and amused face. Dark wet hair, bright knowing eyes. Her cool collarbone resting against his face on nights when his fevers wouldn’t break. Her soft voice singing suttur-gillies until he slept. He could still feel the heat of those old fevers. The bath was too hot. No - not the bath.
He had been shot.
He opened his eyes. She was there. Had she been there when he had been shot? He couldn’t remember. No, surely not.
But she was there now. Right there, close enough to touch. He knew better than to move. She wasn’t really there. She couldn’t be. And even if she could have, she wouldn’t. He watched as she lifted off the edge of the tub and crawled towards him. Her hair dampened and strands of it stuck to her face. The water ran off the skin of her arms and neck as she knelt down, leaving them slick and shining.
He watched as she lowered herself down onto him, her bare thigh warm against his pant leg. His pants. (Damn it.) He had stretched himself out in the bath with his clothes still on. His dress shirt was plastered to his chest, pulling at the blood crusting on his side and his pants were soaked. How long had he been sitting in there? He opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he had closed them.
She was still there, her dark hair matted and wet. Had she been unclothed when she had first made her way towards him? (Did it matter?) She leaned forward and suddenly her forearms were resting on his hips and her hand was gently probing the gunshot on his torso. (Her hand? His hand? Which one?)
Hers. He wanted it to be hers. If only this could last. Dying wouldn’t get him any closer to her but this, this would. It was. She was here now, wasn’t she? Not that this would kill him. He didn't dream he was that lucky. (Maybe at the moment, though...)
Her face was so close to his. So close. Her breath was warm on his mouth as she looked at him with her lips parted in a pout, upset by the wound. Concerned for his well-being. (As if. How long had it been since that?) He wondered idly if he was still bleeding as her nude body pressed further into him.
Her hand brushed his forehead like it always did in this situation and he wanted to reach up and hold it there. To reach his other hand around and trace the blush-colored birthmark on her back. To pull her face closer and tell her that he was all right.
Adje?
He couldn’t help himself. She only stared back sadly.
Kek cushti.
He closed his eyes. Even the fucking ghost wouldn’t stay with him.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
ga: walk; go
adje: stay
owli: yes
Kasko san: Whose are you?
Avata acoi: Come here.
amria: cursed
suttur-gillies: lullaby
Kek cushti: Of no use; no good.
Author: nicole296
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Renard, OCs, brief mention of Adalind
Wordcount: 921
Summary: “Half of his brain told him that he needed to stop getting involved with women who wanted nothing from him. The other half told him not to think about it, for his own sake.”
Feedback: NEEDED!
Notes: Inspired by a prompt on the kink meme at grimm_kink
“Renard; Linguistics
French wasn't his first language, either.
Bonus points for thinking outside the box on what the definition of fairytale royalty is. Because we all know Renard's a king. We just know it.”
Blood and Water
I must say I'll always love you
Even if it hurts
- Maria Mena; 'Belly Up'
Ga.
His first word, they had said. She had said.
Just the one syllable. His parents had been so very proud. He couldn't remember them now. Their people, their proud people had built their lives around that one word. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d said it in his youth. Never to her, of course.
Her.
Adje.
His first word to her. He could still see her slender form that cold night so long ago. He didn’t even know her then. That’s a lie. He knew who she was; everyone did. His uncle’s family had stayed away from her his whole life, like anyone else did when it came to her.
Owli. Avata acoi. Kasko san?
How many years had he asked the same thing, trying to hear her same answer.
Kasko san?
He wondered himself. No, no he didn’t. He was hers. He hated that. How could he belong to someone who couldn’t have him? Who didn’t want him? Someone as ill fated as he was. Someone amria. Like him.
He could see her in the scarf she wrapped herself in after she would bathe. He could see her walking back into her room and seeing him standing there and the way her mouth would close a little tighter, almost cracking a smile as she would narrow her eyes at him. The way she would nod him into her bed begrudgingly and heave a sigh while tossing a spare blanket on the ground. He would say he would sleep on the floor and she would say that wasn’t why he was here and he would lie down.
He could see the way she tried to carefully dress with her back to him and a shawl tented around her body. The way the scarf would slip against her wet shoulders, revealing the pale birthmark on her shoulder blade. The way her head would lean to the side when the rain beat down harder over top of the thin roof.
The rain. He opened his eyes. The water from the shower cascaded down on him, splashing into his eyes and filling his ears as it beat against the tub around him. Just water, not rain. He was alone again. All alone.
Schade had left. He hadn’t even opened the front door; of course she had left. Not that the woman couldn’t walk through closed doors. Hell, that’s all he asked her to do. Half of his brain told him that he needed to stop getting involved with women who wanted nothing from him. The other half told him not to think about it, for his own sake.
He closed his eyes. He could see her again, moving behind his lids. Always the same, disapproving and amused face. Dark wet hair, bright knowing eyes. Her cool collarbone resting against his face on nights when his fevers wouldn’t break. Her soft voice singing suttur-gillies until he slept. He could still feel the heat of those old fevers. The bath was too hot. No - not the bath.
He had been shot.
He opened his eyes. She was there. Had she been there when he had been shot? He couldn’t remember. No, surely not.
But she was there now. Right there, close enough to touch. He knew better than to move. She wasn’t really there. She couldn’t be. And even if she could have, she wouldn’t. He watched as she lifted off the edge of the tub and crawled towards him. Her hair dampened and strands of it stuck to her face. The water ran off the skin of her arms and neck as she knelt down, leaving them slick and shining.
He watched as she lowered herself down onto him, her bare thigh warm against his pant leg. His pants. (Damn it.) He had stretched himself out in the bath with his clothes still on. His dress shirt was plastered to his chest, pulling at the blood crusting on his side and his pants were soaked. How long had he been sitting in there? He opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he had closed them.
She was still there, her dark hair matted and wet. Had she been unclothed when she had first made her way towards him? (Did it matter?) She leaned forward and suddenly her forearms were resting on his hips and her hand was gently probing the gunshot on his torso. (Her hand? His hand? Which one?)
Hers. He wanted it to be hers. If only this could last. Dying wouldn’t get him any closer to her but this, this would. It was. She was here now, wasn’t she? Not that this would kill him. He didn't dream he was that lucky. (Maybe at the moment, though...)
Her face was so close to his. So close. Her breath was warm on his mouth as she looked at him with her lips parted in a pout, upset by the wound. Concerned for his well-being. (As if. How long had it been since that?) He wondered idly if he was still bleeding as her nude body pressed further into him.
Her hand brushed his forehead like it always did in this situation and he wanted to reach up and hold it there. To reach his other hand around and trace the blush-colored birthmark on her back. To pull her face closer and tell her that he was all right.
Adje?
He couldn’t help himself. She only stared back sadly.
Kek cushti.
He closed his eyes. Even the fucking ghost wouldn’t stay with him.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
ga: walk; go
adje: stay
owli: yes
Kasko san: Whose are you?
Avata acoi: Come here.
amria: cursed
suttur-gillies: lullaby
Kek cushti: Of no use; no good.