Tags: Vulpes Inculta, f!courier, het, complete, Summary: F!courier decides to court Vulpes Inculta and creeps him out in the process. Warning: Not sure if I should warn for severed heads, but just in case. There are severed heads.
When Vulpes Inculta woke, he knew he'd made a terrible mistake. Thirteen severed heads had been lined up around his bedroll. The coppery scent of blood was overpowering.
He'd always considered himself to be a light sleeper, but someone with enough skill had been in and out of his tent and left him either a horrifying message or a very twisted gift. He could only think of two others stealthy enough to pull something like this off, and one of them was long dead. That left one person and one person alone---Courier Six.
He suppressed a shudder of fear. He'd never met a more cunning and bloodthirsty abomination---tales of her exploits were the stuff nightmares were made of. The Massacre of Camp Forlorn Hope, the Novac Incident, the Catastrophe at Camp McCarran, the list went on for pages. (And that didn't even begin to cover the what she did to people who intentionally pissed her off. The Chairmen were still finding pieces of who they thought was Benny in odd nooks and crannies from Freeside to Gomorrah.)
Vulpes had seen her in battle. He knew the stories were mostly true. That was why the thought of her turning her murderous intentions on him made his blood run cold.
Before he could give in to the maelstrom gathering inside him, the tent flap pulled back. He half expected to see the woman herself but was relieved when it was one of his subordinates instead. Pale, young, barely out of training---Vulpes couldn't remember the man's name, only how disgustingly timid he looked.
“Sorry to bother you sir,” he said, eyes widening as he took in the collection of severed heads, the dark pools of blood, and the gloppy bits of brain matter, “But um---”
“Dignity, man, dignity. Are you a soldier or a slave?”
“A soldier, sir.”
“Well, what is it then? And don't mumble,” Vulpes said---he didn't even try to keep the irritation from his voice.
“The Courier is um---demandingtospeakwithyou, Sir.”
“Is she now?”
The poor excuse for a soldier nodded.
Demanding to speak with him? Even if she was Caesar's newest favorite, he didn't have to humor her. She'd ruined his tent, embarrassed him by slipping in and out without his knowledge, and made him look like a blood thirsty degenerate. Even the nameless meek disgrace of a soldier standing before him would be unable to keep his mouth shut about the state of Vulpes' tent. It would get back to Caesar, Antony or Lucius would be sent to speak with him---everyone would know.
The thirteen heads stared at him. One of them almost looked like it was smirking. Damn that woman.
“Very well,” he said through gritted teeth, “I wouldn't speak of what you see here to anyone. Unless you want to spend the rest of your short life on my---what do the profligates call it? Oh yes, my shit list. Understood?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
He practically fell over his own two feet as he retreated. Vulpes tried not to think about the quality of their troops lately or the incredible amount of stupid they seemed to posses. Instead, he focused his attention on standing, on not tripping over the mess, and on making himself at least semi-imposing before the source of his frustration walked into his tent and either laughed at him or tried to kill him.
Be brave, Inculta, she's still just a woman. And what does Caesar say about women? For a half second, the fear subsided and he was ready to unleash his fury on her. He turned when he heard her footsteps, the whoosh of the tent flap as she let it fall back in place behind her. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't the vision that appeared before him.
Daughter of Omega 1/2
Summary: F!courier decides to court Vulpes Inculta and creeps him out in the process.
Warning: Not sure if I should warn for severed heads, but just in case. There are severed heads.
When Vulpes Inculta woke, he knew he'd made a terrible mistake. Thirteen severed heads had been lined up around his bedroll. The coppery scent of blood was overpowering.
He'd always considered himself to be a light sleeper, but someone with enough skill had been in and out of his tent and left him either a horrifying message or a very twisted gift. He could only think of two others stealthy enough to pull something like this off, and one of them was long dead. That left one person and one person alone---Courier Six.
He suppressed a shudder of fear. He'd never met a more cunning and bloodthirsty abomination---tales of her exploits were the stuff nightmares were made of. The Massacre of Camp Forlorn Hope, the Novac Incident, the Catastrophe at Camp McCarran, the list went on for pages. (And that didn't even begin to cover the what she did to people who intentionally pissed her off. The Chairmen were still finding pieces of who they thought was Benny in odd nooks and crannies from Freeside to Gomorrah.)
Vulpes had seen her in battle. He knew the stories were mostly true. That was why the thought of her turning her murderous intentions on him made his blood run cold.
Before he could give in to the maelstrom gathering inside him, the tent flap pulled back. He half expected to see the woman herself but was relieved when it was one of his subordinates instead. Pale, young, barely out of training---Vulpes couldn't remember the man's name, only how disgustingly timid he looked.
“Sorry to bother you sir,” he said, eyes widening as he took in the collection of severed heads, the dark pools of blood, and the gloppy bits of brain matter, “But um---”
“Dignity, man, dignity. Are you a soldier or a slave?”
“A soldier, sir.”
“Well, what is it then? And don't mumble,” Vulpes said---he didn't even try to keep the irritation from his voice.
“The Courier is um---demandingtospeakwithyou, Sir.”
“Is she now?”
The poor excuse for a soldier nodded.
Demanding to speak with him? Even if she was Caesar's newest favorite, he didn't have to humor her. She'd ruined his tent, embarrassed him by slipping in and out without his knowledge, and made him look like a blood thirsty degenerate. Even the nameless meek disgrace of a soldier standing before him would be unable to keep his mouth shut about the state of Vulpes' tent. It would get back to Caesar, Antony or Lucius would be sent to speak with him---everyone would know.
The thirteen heads stared at him. One of them almost looked like it was smirking. Damn that woman.
“Very well,” he said through gritted teeth, “I wouldn't speak of what you see here to anyone. Unless you want to spend the rest of your short life on my---what do the profligates call it? Oh yes, my shit list. Understood?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
He practically fell over his own two feet as he retreated. Vulpes tried not to think about the quality of their troops lately or the incredible amount of stupid they seemed to posses. Instead, he focused his attention on standing, on not tripping over the mess, and on making himself at least semi-imposing before the source of his frustration walked into his tent and either laughed at him or tried to kill him.
Be brave, Inculta, she's still just a woman. And what does Caesar say about women? For a half second, the fear subsided and he was ready to unleash his fury on her. He turned when he heard her footsteps, the whoosh of the tent flap as she let it fall back in place behind her. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't the vision that appeared before him.