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jesevans · 13 hours

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All Dot wants is too find a little peace, to hide away with her book, and nurse her headache. She can’t even do that without those bitches nagging her. Now what’s she supposed to do? Where is she supposed to go? She can’t go home.

the girl next door 8

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

Your head is throbbing. The hangover of your night of crying greets you like a drumbeat. You cradle your skull and shudder, roused only by a clink from the kitchen. You grumble and sit up, blearily checking the clock beside your bed. The digital numbers stamp your vision. It’s too early for your mom to be up. You can’t even remember the last time she was awake before you.

You know she won’t be happy about having to make her own coffee. You get up, clumsy steps carrying you to the door as you rub your temples. You go out into the hall, your tee shirt caught in the top of your striped linen sleep shorts.

You squeak as you stop in the doorway of the kitchen. It’s not your mom. You’re so surprised, you can’t move. You drop your hands, hugging yourself as you stare at Steve’s back, his broad shoulders stretching the leopard print of your mother’s robe. The insinuation of the piece of clothing, makes you choke.

He glances over his shoulder before you can flee. His gray hair is slightly mussed and you can see his boxers poking out past the short hem of the robe. You sway on your feet.

“Good morning, sweetie. Want some coffee?” He asks, sleep dragging in his voice, “pot just finished brewing.”

“Oh, um... I’ll make my own.”

“More than enough,” he insists as he takes out another mug from the cupboard. His familiarity with the place makes you squirm.

“Erm,” you bite your lip.

“Here,” he turns to you with a mug. “You like sugar? Milk?”

“Black,” you answer as he nears.

You accept the cup as he holds it out. His lack of shame makes you even more uncomfortable. You are an adult. It isn’t that absurd that your mom would have... needs. It’s just not something you know much about. Nor had you ever really thought about her finding someone like this. She only ever griped about your father and every other man she knew.

“Wow, I would’ve thought you had a sweet tooth,” he remarks.

You shake your head, “thanks.”

You turn to escape with the comfort of the coffee. He hums as if disappointed but you let the sound fade behind you. You close your bedroom door and quickly cross the room, as if to get as far from him as possible.

You just weren’t prepared. You’re still reeling from the night before and your bout of tears. Ugh. You’re just stupid. You get so swept up in stupid emotions and then you mope around. You sip the coffee and set the cup down.

You look down at your bare legs and cross them, pulling subconsciously on your tee shirt. Oh gosh. You’d been walking around in front of him like this.

You grab the cup again. You focus on finishing it, on letting the temperature sooth you. You hear your mother’s voice but it’s distant and indiscernible. When you empty the mug, you go to your bed and sprawl out. You’ll probably just stay in here all day; out of the way, alone. Not much you can do with a headache.

You close your eyes and drift into a shallow half-sleep. You can feel the day brighten outside the window and hear the chirping birds but your room is shrouded in fog. A knock breaks through your stupour. You groan and roll onto your side.

The door opens and you lift your head to look at your mom.

“You’re not staying in your bed all day,” she stomps into the room, “get up. Go for a walk or something.”

“A walk?” You sit up, head wobbly.

“I don’t care where but you need to get out of this house,” she snarls, her lip quivering. You won’t ask if she’s used her inhaler, she’s already worked up, “get out of my way.”

You blink and nod. You stand up and go to your dresser. She huffs, “and don’t make a whole thing when you leave. Just go.”

You pull out a pair of thin pants as she slams the door behind her. You frown and change, quickly making yourself tolerably presentable. You don’t know that even if your clothes were nicer or your face prettier, that you would ever feel acceptable.

You take a book and go into the hallway as quietly as you can. The smell of maple makes your stomach growl. You glance down toward the kitchen and stay close to the wall. You creep down to the entryway and slip your feet into your shoes.

“Hey, off to somewhere?” Steve startles you as he peeks out of the kitchen, a spatula in hand.

“Um,” you look back and forth.

“She’s just going for her morning walk,” your mother chirps as she appears from behind him, “aren’t you, honey?”

You nod stiffly. Morning walk? You can’t remember the last time you walked past the end of the avenue.

“Oh, I wish I’d known. I’d love to come with. Maybe explore the neighbourhood,” Steve says, “what about breakfast? You wanna eat first?”

You look at your mom. She grimaces. You shake your head.

“Not hungry. Thanks.”

“Hm, alright,” he frowns, disappointed, “I’ll put some aside for you. Maybe another day.”

He goes back into the kitchen and your mom mouth’s one word, ‘go’.

You do as she says and you leave. You clutch your book tightly as you come down the front steps and try to figure out what to do. There’s a bench near the park you can sit on and read. A chapter will take a while and you should try to spend more time outside.

Your eyes narrow against the sunshine. Your head still hurts and your now your stomach is clenching violently. Just the smell of food had you ravenous. Well, there’s be cold pancakes waiting for your return at least.

You find the bench. It’s not where you remembered. It wasn’t by the entrance but further inside. Still, it’s early and there’s no one there.

You sit and watch the birds for a while before you open the book. A few squirrels skitter by, chasing each other’s tails, and you smile. You like being outside. You just don’t enjoy the people outside.

You put your head down and start the chapter. You can’t really remember what happened in the last one. It’s been a while since you were able to focus enough to read a book cover to cover.

As the morning light shifts, a woman and two children appear at the park entrance. The follow the path to the play place and you watch from afar. Soon, several other kids arrive to join the fun. Their parents stand around the parameter in pairs and clusters, chatting as they watch the younger crowd. You should find somewhere else.

You stand and notice someone walking toward you. You watch Marge as she approaches, and another woman, you think her name is Callie. You smile at them nervously. Are they mad? You don’t have kids, why are you sitting there?

“Good morning,” Marge chimes in a sing song voice, “you’re up bright and early.”

“Morning,” you murmur and peer between the blondes.

“And how’s your mother?” Callie asks with an edge.

“Okay,” you swallow dryly, hugging the book to your chest.

“Mm, great, that’s great. Your lawn looks much better,” Marge praises.

You nod and slant your mouth.

“You’re so lucky to have such a helpful new neighbour,” Marge smirks, “he seems so nice.”

You just stare back at her. You don’t know what she wants you to say. Sorry? Should you have done it yourself? You were going to but the mower broke.

“What’s his name?” Callie asks.

You frown.

“You can tell us,” Marge steps closer, “really? We’re just curious. We want to welcome him to the neighbourhood. I made him lasagna and I wanna know what to call him when I show up.”

You feel your chest locking up. They remind you of the girls in highschool who would take your lunch tray. You chew your lip until it’s raw.

“We know he’s been talking to your mother. And you. It’s a small neighbourhood, hon,” Callie chirps, “just tell us his name.”

You push your shoulders up and sidestep away from them. The bench presses to your knees as you retreat. They turn on you, following with hands on their hips.

“Don’t run away, hon. We’re neighbours--”

“I don’t know,” you say. “I gotta go home.”

Marge sighs and Callie blows a raspberry, “boo,” the former says, “fine, run home to mommy.”

You turn away and barely keep from doing just that. You don’t know why they care but you wouldn’t guess anything good. They have wanted you and your mom out of the suburb for as long as you’ve been through. Maybe they think Steve would be a perfect ally in their crusade.

#steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #silverfox au #the girl next door

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jesevans · 14 hours

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I wonder what the neighborhood women would think of Sy? They’d probably pretend he’s too crude & gruff for them, but secretly be trying to get together with him.

How outta place would Sy be in a suburban AU tho--

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jesevans · 14 hours

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Why do I want mean, medieval Steve so badly?

I'm in the mood for Steve to manhandled me 😞 please give me some nice input. Do I want medivial Steve, mob Steve, cop Steve, lumberjack Steve? What Steve? Help me 😭

I'm giving you medieval Steve

Merciless

Summary: You're caught in the spoils of war.

Warnings: noncon/rape, violence/hitting, blood, death. You know what it is, mind the warnings.

Notes: this turned out much longer than intended. As usual, I would appreciate feedback, reblogs and likes. Love yall 💓.

You clamp your hand over Agnes' mouth as you lay hidden from the furor. The screams of horror and agony, pleas for death and life, and the slash of steel and flesh. She quivers, her salty tears flowing between your fingers. Your own trickle down your cheeks and patter into her orange hair.

The loft is poor protection, you know it, and to stay would be as dire as to yield yourself to the soldiers and their bloodlust. It is undoubted that they will strike flame to the barn as they have the rest of the settlement.

Tales of brutality and blood precede them but the common farmers and serfs never imagined it would strike the insignificant hamlet. The huts and the fields are too sparse to offer bounty to pillagers but it seems their desires are not uniquely material.

You shudder as Agnes gulps, the hooves growing closer and closer. You can't stay. You hear the men calling for torches.

You squeeze your hand around Agnes' lips and lean in to whisper, "be very quiet."

She nods and you cautiously peel your palms away and slowly push yourself up from beneath the straw. You mop your cheeks as fear blooms anew in your stomach, causing you to quake as you crawl towards the edge of the platform, peering down the ladder.

The orange light of flames flickers faintly around the barred doors, the night drifting in between the cracks in bitter gales. You wave Agnes closer and point her down first. She descends as you watch the door, the crack of fire eating at wood noisily without. Closer and closer.

You follow her down, the girl you've known since you were barely able to walk. She's pallid with terror, her eyes dilated in the shadows of the barn. You grab her wrist and pull her around the bales.

"Here," you point to the loose slat hidden along the rear of the structure.

"We can't go out," she hisses, "they will see us."

"It's our only chance," you whisper, "otherwise, we'll burn as easy as the hay."

"Please," she clings to you, "I'm scared, I can't."

"I am too but we must," you insist, voice quavering as you recall the desperate whimpers of your mother, "to stay is a certain death, Ag, so we go."

She sniffles as a new wave of tears overflows and she wipes them away with her wool sleeves. You carefully inch the slat aside, angling it on the loose nail so you can peek out.

The forest isn't too far, not if you run. Your heart swells as you ponder the expanse.

"Don't look back, right? I'll watch from behind and you run."

"What– aren't you coming–"

"I will be only steps behind, I will only keep an eye for any soldiers," you assure her, "you go out first and I will follow." You reach for her hand and squeeze, "don't look back."

She shudders and you can't help but do the same. You angle the board enough for her to step through and she kneels in the tall grass. You come out in quick succession and ease the plank back into place.

"Buncha old man and their forks," a soldier growls from somewhere on the other side.

"Likely sent the young ones to the church for refuge," another scoffs, "women too."

"Not all, Wilson found a pretty little thing up a tree," a third snickers.

"Oh, she got good hips?" The second japes.

"Didn't notice, cunt is a cunt," the other slithers.

You wince in disgust as Agnes looks at you in horror. You shake your head as if to say, don't listen. You press a finger to your lips then point across the field. Your gazes meet in wordless consent.

You make a fist, a signal, then open your hand. In a moment, she's sprinting through the grass with her skirts raised to her knees, the rustle and snapping of twigs marking her flight. The men's voices carry on in their nasty repartee then pause as the noise draws their ears.

You hold your breath as she bounds without a glance over her shoulder. You hear metal clinks, the friction of leather and mail as a man comes around the corner. He doesn't see you as he sights Agnes flees and he gives a smirk before leaping into pursuit. Your chest knots as you quickly follow suit.

You chase after him as you hear Agnes give a pitiful cry at the realisation of her pursuer. You can barely keep stride with the man and jump forward to grasp at him desperately before he's completely beyond your grasp.

Your fingers cling to the pommel of his sword and the back of his thick leather belt. He staggers and shouts in surprise as you throw your weight into him. He topples as you land atop him.

He's face down in the grass as you scramble to climb off him. You get one foot down, then the other, fighting for balance as you heave and look ahead as Agnes nears the treeline.

You take a step, then another, your third is caught by the man's thick gauntlet and you hit your elbows as you fall forward. You kick blindly and call to Agnes to keep running. Several other man clatter by in mail as she delves into the forest. You can only pray she loses them.

"You're a tricky one," the man grabs your other ankle and crawls up your body.

His hand snakes to the back of your neck and pinches, crushing your face into the bent grass. He's large, made heavier by his armor, as he curls his arm around your throat and forces your head up. You writh and claw at the ground as you try to squirm out from beneath him.

"Ah, you're going to be good fun, aren't you?" He snickers as he keeps his thick arm around you, hauling you up with him as he stands, bending your back painfully with the awkward rise, "let me get a good look, hm?"

He spins you, grabbing your chin as the scales of his gauntlet dig into your skin. A streak of blood crusts his hairline and continues down to his jaw, defined and trimmed on dark blond hair. He smirks as his other hand gropes through the layers of your apron and dress, "full-bodied in the least."

You try to shove his touch away and he squeezes your chin until you whimper, bracing his wrist in a silent plea for mercy. He chuckles as your eyes prick and the pain furrows in your brow.

"Please, sir," you murmur, "I am only the daughter of a reaper–"

"No doubt he's somewhere among the traitorous corpses," he snarls and yanks you closer, his hand slipping around to knead your bottom, "but he does breed good stock."

You flinch at the depths of his blue eyes, striking but sinister. His blond hair is pushed back, shiny with sweat and blood, as a single shank hangs down his forehead. He smells of battle, a gut churning stench.

His chestplate is marked with a large five-pointed star with thorny vines wrapped around its arms. It is armor due to more than the common soldier. He must be a knight.

"Oi, Rogers, caught yourself a fawn, eh?" Another man chuckles as he appears just behind your accoster.

The loud lick of flames rises behind them, rising up the boards of the barn. The orange hues tinge your eyes as your forebodding burns in the evening dim.

"She would go well with the cask we found in the farmer's cellar," the dark-haired man reaches to touch you but is stopped as the knight, Rogers they called him, releases your skirts to fend him off with a swat.

"Not for you," he growls.

"Eh, you lords, always so selfish," the other retracts his hand and scowls, "I suppose you won't need the wine anyhow."

You try to pull away, drawing his attention back to you as he jars your neck painfully. You grunt as the other man stumbles of, muttering discontently. Rogers turns his wrath on your, his hand quickly spreading across your skull, threatening to crush it.

"Let me tell you, bunny," he sneers, "you'll pray you'd burned up in that wreck," he turns you, forcing you to look at the smoke billowing from the sparking wood, "or at least hopped a little quicker."

"Why--" your hand slips down his bracer, "why are you doing this?"

"We take no mercy on treasonous rats," he snarls as he leans in, his nose pressing to your temple, "especially not their whorish daughters."

"We... we are no traitors, sir, we are commonfolk--"

"Raise not your axes and scythes for the king, but wallow in your fields," he shakes you, keeping hold of your scruff, yanking you along with his sudden march, "indifference is as good as an assault upon the crown."

You reach back as he twists the fabric of your dress tight, choking you as he drags you around the rabid heat of the burning barn. You stumble on your toes, held up by his unyielding grip

"My horse, where is my horse?" He barks out.

You hear a shrill cry and turn to see. He pulls you back meanly and throws you onto the hard ground, your knees scraping even through the wool and linen.

"Mind yourself, wench," he growls as you look up from the dirt.

"Please, don't--"

You glance over as you press your scratched palms against your skirts. Agnes struggles between two captors as they tug at her dress, the laces already loosened as her bodice droops down. You go to stand as you call out to her.

Once more, you're hauled back as Rogers catches your arm and spins you around.

"Lost cause, now," he girds, "less you want to join her."

You quiver and sniffle as you watch Agnes weep, barely able to fend off the men grabbing at her. Her helplessness compounds your own, suffocating you as tears gleams along your eyelids and spill over.

"Tears won't help you," he sneers callously as he accepts the leather reins from another man, a great white warhorse snorting at the looming fire, "up." You hesitate and he shoves you, nearly under the feed of the steed, "suppose you've no need of manners tilling the soil but you'll learn, bunny. Go on."

He doesn't wait for you to grab onto the horse, instead he takes you by the hips and lifts you, so swiftly you feel as if you'll fall over the other side. You latch onto the saddle and bring your leg around, clinging unsteadily on the sturdy beast, never sitting more than the old mule in Theo's stables.

He's swiftly up behind you, body flush to yours as he crushes you against the curve of the saddle. You can hear Agnes still as she whimpers and whines, wailing as the tear of fabric cuts through the air. You glance around frantically, trying to find her.

"Stubborn thing," he raps along the crown of your head with his knuckles, "be grateful you only have one master, she'll see a dozen by dawn."

"Please--"

"Please?" he challenges as he snaps the reigns, the sweat dripping down your chest as the heat of the burning barn permeates the night. "Please, what? Shall I take you down and pull your skirts up for those heathens? By all means, make your choice, bunny. Me or them?"

You shiver, despite the boiling gusts of the flames. You hear Agnes and other women, shrieking, crying, groaning. There are shadows limned in shades of orange and yellow, violent jerking, flailing limbs. You're dizzy with the repugnant visions all around me.

"What shall it be, bunny?"

You shake your head. You can't speak. Your mouth is dry, your throat lumped in dread. Your slump your shoulders and hang your head, sobbing in shame. You cannot protect Agnes, you're too weak, too cowardly.

Rogers snaps the reins, the horse breaking into a cantor. You sway with its motion, the world blurring behind the wall of your futile tears.

⚔️

The tall walls of the tent billow with the night winds. You stand in a haze, the soreness of the horse's gait lingers in your thighs and back. You weren't abreast long but the frantic energy of your fear recedes and leaves you wilted.

It is indeed a rich man's tent, not like the short poles of the common soldiers you passed along the outskirts of camp. There is a four-postered bed with a feather mattress and canopy, a war not waged without luxury. The oaken furniture and brocade cushions or finer than any piece found in your village, even before it was raized to cinder.

You press your hands together as his movement distracts you from grief. Several pieces of armor lay on the round trestle table, lain over a map drawn on hide. His sword leans against the side, still attached to the slack belt hanging from it.

He lifts his mail over his head, further messing his blood-streaked hair. He glances at you but says nothing. Only the glean of impatience in his eyes speaks his irritation.

You stare, witless, then look over your shoulder at the canvas flaps.

You wince as his shadow nears and you turn back to him as he snakes his arms around you, yanking loose the not of your apron. He whips it away from you and traces his fingers up your bodice, bracing the round neckline and renting the wool down the middle to reveal your linen shift.

His gruffness jerks you as he strips, ripping your dress to the hem and making short order of your shift. You hug yourself, trying to hold the fabric around you and he shoves your arms down, tugging the sleeves past your hands.

"Bed," he jabs his thumb behind him.

You swallow and shiver, rubbing your upper arm as you cover your chest and hover your other hand before your vee. You step back fearfully as you eye the mattress. He growls and grabs your elbow, dragging you away from the ruin of your clothes.

"Must I say everything twice?" He snaps and tosses you ahead of him.

You hit the bed and fall onto your stomach. You roll over, bringing your legs up to your chest and hugging them. He sighs as he pulls his tunic off and crumples it before throwing it away.

He stretches his fingers then furls them as his eyes graze over you hotly.

"You act like a virgin," he scoffs, "I've never known your ilk to be chaste."

You push yourself away from him as he nears the edge of the bed. He picks at the laces along the top of his breeches as he approaches. You dig in your heels as you awkwardly evade him.

"Not that the modesty of a peasant is worth anything," he sneers as he shoves down his breeches, revealing the thick muscle of his thighs.

You blink at the golden hair across his legs, that thickens around his turgid length, and thins against along his stomach, trailing up to and across his chest. You've seen men before as they bathe in the river, but never more than flaccid.

"Come," he reaches for you and you roll away.

You get your hands and knees beneath you, crawling towards the other edge with a squeak. His grip closes around your ankle and pulls your leg out from under you. He flips you over as he climbs onto the mattress and snarls, a low guttural noise.

"I should've known," he pulls your legs apart and moves to kneel between them. You slap at him and catches your wrists, pulling you up as your back curls tenuously, "you stop or I'll make you stop."

He threatens to crush your bones with his strength, only easing up as you still and whimper. He scoffs and pushes your hand down, sliding his fingers along yours and guiding them around his cock. You gasp as he holds you there, letting your other hand fall to the bed.

"You should be so honoured that you can get me hard, wench," he bristles as he moves your hand up and down his length, "perhaps it is that the road has made me too eager."

He pushes your shoulder down so your hand slips from him and he pins you flat to the bed. He sidles closer to you on his knees, shifting his hand to your chest and resting his weight there.

You turn your face away from him as the air rushes from your lungs. He rubs his tip along your pelvis, trailing along the creases of your thighs, as if teasing you, taunting you with what he's about to do.

You bite down as tears rise again, the thick cloud once more clogging your nose. He presses against your entrance and grabs your chin.

He forces your head up and you close your eyes. He taps along your folds and tuts as a pang radiates through your jaw. You look at him through glossy eyes, tears trickling down your temples.

"That's it, bunny," he growls, "it is improper to disregard a lord... or his will."

He pushes on you, slowly, the resistance of your body keeping him out. Still, a twinge of pain flickers in your pelvis and he pokes harder at you, stretching you around him as he grunts. He exhales and shifts his posture, dipping his hips lower.

You whine as he inches into you. The pain is immeasurable, a deep ache in the bones, the strain of flesh around his intrusion like a blade tearing through you. You grasp his forearm, reaching to touch his thigh with your fingertips.

"Ow," you whine, "please, it hurts, sir. Stop--"

You're struck suddenly, the world spinning as your head snaps to the side with the sheer fury of his slap. You hold your head as you babble cluelessly.

"You do not issue me orders, bunny," he sinks in further and your back arches as you cry out, curling your fingers in agony, wanting to claw at your own face. "That's it," he rocks back then in again, still barely inside you, "you cannot keep me out, bunny, I have never left any unconquered."

You murmur and slap your hands down on the woven blanket, fisting the fold of it as he tilts into you, each time deeper than the last. Your toes clench as he moves your thighs over his, pulling you closer as he topples the last of your resistance.

You gurgle at the stunning pain, the dizzying rattle in your head as your cheek sears from his assault. He bends over you, his rough hand covering your breast as he gropes you, rolling his thumb over your tender bud. He rocks steadily, long strokes in and out, stretching you over and over.

You grit your teeth as the tears wet spill out freely and gather in your throat. His body moves against yours, the hair along his torso tickling you as the heat and friction entwines you. His blue eyes drink in your tortured sobs, watching you as he thrusts deliberately, your squeaks and squeals goading him on.

He slides an arm beneath you as your hand spreads over the corded muscle of his chest. He impales you to his limit and you shriek. It's as if you will split in half.

He turn you over as he rolls with you, bringing you up over him as he lays on his back. You sink deeper onto him and brace his stomach as the pressure tingles down your thighs.

He chuckles at your struggle to take him from below, your body shaking violently as you mewl. He slaps your ass and squeezes the hot flesh, his other hand on your hips as he guides your motion.

You hang your head, breathless as he works you atop him, wiggling his hips and adding to the torment within. Your nails dig into the lines of his stomach as you tremble over him, tensing each time he tilts you against him. He groans and purrs as he moves you faster and faster.

"Oh, bunny," he slaps your rear again, then pinches you until you squeal, "you are such a weak thing."

You shakily cover your face in humiliation, unable to stem the flood of tears as they well over. His hand slips up your back and he pulls you down against him. He grips the back of your neck as he holds your body flush to his, stilling you as he bucks from below.

You wail as he hammers into you. All restraint is lost to his lust as his growls underline your pathetic babbling. You cling to him with nothing else to ease your pain.

He guides your hips, slamming you down onto him as he thrusts up into you. You huff and puff as your eyes roll back and the shadows swirl in your head. You can't take much more.

"Shall I gift you with a bastard, bunny?" he growls as he slows, "hm? Something to recall me by."

"Sir..." is all you can get out as his motion turns erratic.

He groans and grunts as his fists your hair and a warmth erupts inside of you. His voice falters with his pace and he quakes as he spills his seed across your walls. He shudders as he falls limp, keeping you pinned against him as he pants.

You're stuck there, not only by his will but your weakness. Defeated, defiled, you lay over him, desecrated.

"If the lord wills it, you will have it," he rasps and wiggles his hips, "but it is said that it often takes much sowing to plant a seed."

#steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #medieval steve rogers

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jesevans · 15 hours

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I love to see this man walk 💙 🫠❤️‍🔥

#walk walk fashion baby

#steve rogers #captain america #nomad steve #chris evans

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jesevans · 15 hours

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#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #winter’s king

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jesevans · 15 hours

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Strange? No, nothing strange going on here Sweetie.

the girl next door 7

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

This lewk but silverfox

Your body is stiff. You blame your late-night drawing session hunched over the folding table. You feel it in your neck and shoulder. You sit up and groan, rubbing your muscles as you try to loosen the knots. You roll your arms as you stand up, yawning as you rub your eyes.

A dewy breeze flows in. The air feels like rain but the density has yet to break. You remember vaguely in the middle of the night cracking the window to cool off, your room stagnant and stale.

You near the window in your baggy shirt, dampened slightly with your sweat. It’s caught under your chest as you bulge against the fabric. You pull it free as you stand in front of the pane and blanch as you see movement on the other side. Shoot.

Your eyes meet Steve’s as he closes the window across from yours. He can feel the approaching storm too. He smiles and gives a two-fingered wave. You lift your hand weakly, barely extending your fingers before you tug shut the curtains. How much did he see? How much could he see?

You go out to get the day started. The overhead light of kitchen blares yellow across the space and you put the coffee pot on to brew. As you wait, you tidy the table, once more cluttered with your mother’s forgotten distractions. The crossword book, several pens, a home magazine, and several wrappers.

You slow the pour of coffee into your mug as you hear your mom’s bedroom door. You stare at the doorway until she appears. She limps to the table and sits heavily. You put the cup before her and grab another for yourself. She mutters and leans her head in her hand. She was home late last night.

You go to grab her inhaler from the bathroom. Once more, it’s missing. You return and find it on the counter hidden beside a used plate. It's only then you notice the blackened frozen fries on the cookie sheet. What the heck?

“Ugh, that man,” she croaks, letting it roll into a laugh, “he convinced me to have a little wine after the milkshake.” You put her inhaler in front of her. She raises her head and scowls. She rubs the furrow between her brows. “And then another. And another.”

You don’t even remember her getting home. You were up until one in the morning drawing. She must have been much later. How hadn’t you heard her make all this mess?

You sip your coffee around cleaning up. You wash the glass from the milkshake Steve brought over and set it aside. Your mother hacks and clears her throat.

“Mm, he’s too nice,” she mutters, “told him you didn’t need that. Too much sugar. You don’t even like strawberry.”

You hide your frown. You like strawberry. You’re not sure why she thinks otherwise. She’s never really asked.

“I’ll bring the glass back--”

“You remember your manners,” she girds before she hums into her coffee cup. She gulps through her wet lips noisily. “I don’t need you ruining this.”

“I will, mom.”

“Ugh,” she stands up with a groan, “I need my chair.”

Her hand trembles and the cup with it. She spills a little over the sides but doesn’t pay attention to it. You dump the tray of burnt fries and put it in the sink. You just cleaned this place top to bottom. You don’t think you’re that messy but it’s always a disaster.

You clean the rest of the dishes and put them away. Your mom hollers for more coffee and you bring the pot with you to refill her cup. She leans it on her chest and closes her eyes.

“I’m going to take the glass back now, I guess.”

“Mph, do whatever,” she utters irritably.

You trod back to your room and change into real clothes; straight-legged jeans and a stripped jersey tee. You just want to get this over with. It’s so awkward. You would rather your mom just take it back the next time she goes over but she’s in rough shape. It must be the alcohol. She’s not really supposed to have any.

You grab the glass and put on your shoes. As you come out, there’s a speckling of rain falling from the sky. You go up the walk and around the sidewalk, coming back down the pavement squares to Steve’s porch. You stop and look up at his front door. You climb the steps and drag your feet to the door.

You tap the bell. It’s one of those ones with the camera built-in. You feel overly conscious as you stand before the lens. The door opens before you can prepare yourself.

“Hey, sweetie,” Steve greets, “how are you?”

“Erm. Okay. Here.”

You hold out the glass. He doesn’t take it. He leans on the doorframe and smile.

“Crummy day, huh? Supposed to thunderstorm soon,” he comments, “too bad, I was really wanting to get that pool going.”

“Mm, yeah,” you keep the glass raised before you.

“Oh well, guess I’ll have to figure out what to do all pent up. Maybe a movie night? With all this moving, I’m way behind.”

You look at his chest, staring at the short-sleeved button up with chagrin. What is he talking about? Why is he talking so much?

“You got any suggestions? You youngins always know what’s hip,” he shakes his head and laughs, “sorry, I sound old, don’t I?”

“No,” you answer dully.

“No what? No suggestions or no I don’t sound old?” He challenges.

Your eyes go round and you look him in the face. “I don’t know.”

“I’m teasing--”

“Here,” you wiggle the glass at him.

He takes it, his fingers brushing against yours. You let it go and recoil. You bare your teeth strangely and back away, “thanks, er. Bye.”

You turn and cringe at the grey sky. You trudge off the porch and cut across the lawn, too mortified not to trod over his grass. You clamber up the front steps and quickly shut yourself inside the house. You hiss at yourself as you press your back to the door.

“Don’t slam the goddamn door,” your mother sneers, “Jesus. No wonder this place is falling apart.”

🏠

It’s one of those days where you’re just sad. You can’t pinpoint why. It’s just a vague malaise that won’t leave. Even as the sun beams and deepens to a soft evening hue, you can’t see a light among the dark.

You don’t know how long you’ve been like that. Under your covers, crying for no good reason. It just hurts to be. You keep your arm folded over your pounding head. You just want to sleep and yet you can’t cross the barrier into unconscious.

You give up and roll onto your back, pulling the blanket to your waist. You exhale and stare up at the ceiling. You’re head swims from the deluge of tears. You sop them up with the sheet and sit up. Your head is full and throbbing.

You get up, bleary-eyed, and muddle your way through reality. You pull open your door and find the bathroom on instinct alone. You shut yourself in and blow your nose. The effort has you even more dizzy. You shake your head, trying to clear out the fog, and turn on the cold water. You throw it across your face, holding a wet palm to your forehead to try to ease the tension.

Your ears tickle with a strange noise. A low drone. Like bass on the front television. Now and again, your mom will amp up the TV but it’s unexpectedly loud. You twist off the faucet and stand straight. You dry off and head back into the hall, peering down at the shifting light glaring from the living room doorway.

“Woahhh,” the voice catches you unaware as someone collides with you from behind in the dim hallway. You stumble and turn to face Steve as popcorn scatters onto the floor, tumbling over the brim of the bowl. The smell tugs at your stomach, “sorry sweetie, I didn’t see you there.”

You look at his silhouette, unable to make out any of his features. You didn’t even know he was there. Your mother didn’t even warn you. You suspect that may have been purposeful.

“Sweetie?”

“Sorry,” you back up, “didn’t mean... to get in the way.”

You turn and shuffle back to your room. He follows, “your mom said you weren’t feeling good. Hope you get better soon, but if you’re interested, we’re watching a movie.”

Your bedroom door is wide open. If you’d known, you would’ve been sure to shut it tight.

“No, thank you,” you grab the handle and slowly shift the door behind you.

“No problem,” he calls after you, “offer stands if you change your mind.”

You click the door shut gently and stay on the other side, listening for his footsteps. He lingers, a bit too long, and it’s only as he walks away that you go back to your bed. There’s something strange about him. Or maybe it’s just you.

#steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #silverfox au #the girl next door

107 notes · View notes

jesevans · 15 hours

Text

Lloyd really is a meanie! He has destroyed her entire life with a couple of clicks. She has no options. Except one.

The Man 5

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You double check the lock on your apartment door. Your paranoia buzzes like a broken radio. You pace around the cramped bachelor, thoughts strewn all around. One moment, you’re desperately trying to figure out what to do next; find a job, go home, call Bre and beg her to take you back. The next, you’re looking out the window, expecting a villain to be waiting outside. Every worry you have strings back to that man...

You manage to settle down enough to browse the scant offerings on Indeed. The work from home opportunities are questionable as you tap more information. Commission based... that’s not going to get you much. You send off a few applications for fast food joints, a quick solution just to you through, but you need something quick. Something today.

You give up and throw your phone. You stare at it as it lays screen down on the other end of the couch. You see it in that man’s hand as he flicks his thumb. Who does he think he is? The real question is, who is he?

You sigh and close your eyes, dragging your hands over your face. The more you think about it, the more it feels you were set up for failure. Why couldn’t Bre just warn you? Why couldn’t she tell you who he was? Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?

The stale smell of espresso urges you from the couch. You shuffle into the bathroom and start the shower. You strip off your clothes, slightly stiff from the dried coffee. Your skin is sticky too in places and there’s a particularly crusty patch on your chest somehow.

You wash away the caffeine-laced christening. You linger beneath the water and let it slake over you. You lean forward, hands flat on the tile as hot rivulets wash over your back. Your muscles are coiled tightly. The stress of the day and those to come have you tied up like a knot.

When you emerge, you yawn, too exhausted to keep up the existential despair. You stagger into the front room and over to your double bed. You trade the towel for a loose tee and sprawl across the futon. You melt into it and close your eyes.

You’ll figure it all out tomorrow. Maybe. Hopefully.

Or maybe tomorrow will be even worse.

☕

You wake up to the creak of your mail slot and the metallic clunk of it biting down on an paper. You gurgle and roll onto your side, coughing dryly as you rub your forehead. Your head is thick and foggy from sleep. A slightly thrum pulses in your temple.

You hover at the edge of the bed, staring at the door, weighing the distance. You yawn and roll onto your feet. You pad across the apartment and pull the paper free of the flap. You open the trifold letter and your vision clears as the font comes into view.

The building’s letterhead makes you think it’s another notice for the fire alarm test but the bold captials across the top send your heart into panic. NOTICE TO VACATE. What? How? Your rent for the month is paid, plus first and last. How can they evict you? You didn’t do anything.

You look through the peephole. The hallway is empty. Dang.

You rinse your face and brush your teeth hurriedly. You pull on a pair of sweatpants and your slip-on shoes. You check the mirror and shrug. Good enough. You don’t really care right now. You need to figure this out.

You stomp down the flight of stairs to the building office and knock frantically until the door opens. The squat woman inside gives you a death glare. You wave the letter at her.

“I think there’s a mistake,” you say.

She grunts and stares back at you.

“I paid my rent, but this says I have to leave.”

“Lease violation,” she shrugs.

“But what-- I’ve been here only a few weeks? What did I do?”

“Read the letter,” she sniffs.

You furrow your brow and unfold it again. You skim over the words; ‘landlord requires unit for personal use’. Huh? They can do that?

“Personal use? But—But you leased it to me. My deposit--”

“Take it up with a lawyer. All there,” she taps the top of the paper before she swings the door shut in your face.

What the hell? This can’t be real. You’re in a nightmare. You’re not really awake. This is just one of those really deep dreams where you can’t throw a punch. Too bad you can’t throw one in real life either. Hard to test the theory.

You frown and make your way back up to your apartment. You leave the paper on the counter and brew a coffee from the single-serve machine. You hold your head in your hands, elbows on the linoleum, as you try to sort through it all.

The machine grinds and you stand up straight. You take your cup and go to the fridge. You pull out the carton of milk and tip some into your coffee. The chunks that roll out of the spout make you gag. Frig, expired. You dump the whole mug and leave it empty in the sink. Nothing is going right.

You pour out the sour milk and rinse away the putrid scent. You need to get food. You’re out of eggs too. Just a few small things for now. You have to count your pennies.

You put a bra on and pull on a hoodie. You make yourself decent enough to face the public but keep your sweatpants on. You’re just running to the corner store. You grab your wallet, phone, and keys and head out.

Your stroll down to the store is distracted. You should ask a lawyer but you can’t really afford that. You’ll have to try the housing board, see if they offer public services. You don’t really know about all that stuff.

You grab your staples without much attention. Eggs, milk, a loaf of bread, and some sliced cheddar. Grilled cheese for life.

You go to the counter and wait for the cashier to scan the items. You try to tap your card but it declines. You insert instead and put in your pin. Pin accepted, transaction declined. You grimace, face burning with embarrassment.

“Sorry, one sec, I’m gonna just check my account.” You back out of the way of the next customer and pull out your phone.

You sign-in to your banking app. You see the balance you expected. More than enough for your lot but there’s a little red exclamation mark next to the account number. You tap it and a new page opens.

‘Account locked for security purposes. Contact Bank Services.’

Oh my god! What more can go wrong? You tap on the little chat icon in the corner. The automated responses lead you in a circle and tell you to call the toll-free or go into the local branch. Ugh! But you need milk now.

A message blips across the top of your screen. It fades before you can read it. You pull down the menu and stare dumbly at the text sent from a private number, ‘morning, sweet lips.’

#lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #the man

138 notes · View notes

jesevans · 16 hours

Text

Jazlene just never gives it a rest, does she? Maybe she and Jaskier could have an affair so Geralt would have reason to put her to death.

Winter's King 13

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Ahhh! I almost own a house.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The queen struts down the hall, the white satin limning her figure. She is shameless as she passes soldiers but she needn’t worry for their judgments. You peek up at the few errant eyes that follow her, though many pass without even a glance in her direction. Servants course through the corridors, busy with preparations for the morrow’s departure.

You think of asking Queen Jazlene whether now is not the best time. If she should be more concerned with her venture north. Of all she’s acquired of the queen’s former possessions, there is not a fur among her chests. Nothing more than a trim of squirrel or rabbit along a collar. The summer kingdom does not warrant the need. And certainly, you think, the king must be equally busied by the pending journey.

As ever, your duty keeps you silent. You do not know better than a queen. You bide her whims, not your own. You follow the soft whisk of the robes hem and your mind wanders in your stead. You think of the dark gardens and the king’s words.

‘Should I remain any longer, I might give it all up.’ He must be eager to return home. You can’t help but harbour your own impatience. For all you’ve heard of the Hinterlands, you cannot picture them well. You want to see them yourself. It is the only time in your life you really ever longed to see something entirely unfamiliar.

The queen stops and the soldiers on either side of the door shift, alert at her approach. The do not look welcoming. You wring your hands behind your back. What can you do but let the queen proceed?

“Let me through,” she demands, “I must see the king.”

“Your highness,” the rusty-haired soldier drawls, “he is not receiving--”

“He is my husband,” she sneers, “I am the queen.” She points to herself, “I give you orders, sir. Not the reverse.”

The other man huffs and tilts his head to the other as if to say, ‘don’t bother’. The first soldier raises his elbow to hit the door beside him.

“Your highness, you have a visitor,” he calls through.

“A visitor?” Jazlene scoffs and steps forward, grabbing the handles of the doors to try to force her way through. “I am more--” She shakes the doors as they offer resistance from the other side. You can see clearly through the crack between them that they are latched within.

The metal grinds inside as the lock is slid out of place. The queen blusters through as a dark-haired man stands by the left door, watching behind her as she blows in like a storm. You pause in the doorway, uncertain if you should go further.

The king sits at the table of his receiving chamber, maps unfurled and kept unrolled by heavy ornaments. He has one arm on the chair and his other hand against the tabletop. He watches his wife with his golden eyes, his lips straight and unamused. The man who opened the door, watches with a crooked grin.

“Husband, I have come to see you. As we have much travel ahead, I figured it was the best time for us to--”

“The best time?” King Geralt ponders flatly, “we ready for the ride north. We must anticipate the remaining rebels and assuage lingering acrimony. We must also account for the snows that will meet us in the Hinterland. This campaign has kept me long and the winter will be there to greet us.”

“Let the servants trouble for it,” she insists.

The man by the door flutters his fingers at you, “in?” He mouths.

You blink, uncertain. You step inside hesitantly and step to the edge of the other door. He pushes the left one shut and turns to watch the interaction with glee.

“You should trouble for it,” the king reproaches, “you should act as queen and so you should think of your people.”

“Husband, do not presume to educate me. I have had tutors all my life. I understand these things. I was borne to be a lady, to mind a castle--”

“A castle not a realm,” he shakes his head, “this is no banquet.”

“Ugh,” she huffs, “what has gotten into you? Last night--”

“It is today,” he insists over her, “I am occupied.” He shifts his chair pointed and frames an area on the maps with his large hands. “Jaskier,” he calls, “come, we must determine our way through Hare’s Pass.”

“Your highness,” the man jaunts forward bouncily and as he nears the table, he pulls out a chair, “Queen Jazlene, please, have my seat.”

The king looks at his companion with a deathly glimmer. The lord in his cornflower jacket is unbothered by the distaste aimed in his direction. He smirks back defiantly.

“Thank you, sir,” Jazlene simpers and sits with her back straight and her chest pushed out, “I think I’ve forgotten which one you are.”

“Lord Jaskier,” he intones, “I held the capital while the king claimed his beautiful wife.”

She giggles and runs her hand along the front of her robe, “oh, how valiant, sir.”

“Jaskier,” the king growls again, “put your mind back to the road--”

“We have it figured, your highness,” the lord rebuffs, “surely you should enjoy this time you have in one place with your wife.” Jaskier takes another stool and sits at the table, “I should very much like to know this summer queen better. You secret her away--”

The king sighs. His fingers tap in irritation on the table. He sits back and throws his hand up.

“I see you are no help, as usual,” the king snips.

“And you are tedious,” the lord smirks again. “My queen,” the man sits forward, his attention on Jazlene, “I traveled the summer lands once before. You see, I fancy myself a musician and as a young boy, I would play for the courts. I never ventured to Debray but I was at Harlowe. It is closeby.”

“I know Harlowe,” Jazlene brightens, forgetting her mission for talk of herself. “Yes, I went there often for their harvest fairs. Were you there when Lord Edmund was still alive?”

“Ah, yes, I believe he wasn’t there long after I left for the next county,” Jaskier artfully feeds her self-importance.

“He was a good man. Of the few my father respected,” she mourns with her hand to her chest. She shakes her head and pauses with a sullen sigh, “maid,” she snaps her head up, “bring wine for us.”

“No wine,” King Geralt counters swiftly.

“We have a guest, husband, surely we should entertain him according to etiquette. In these summer lands, we offer sustenance to our guests,” she argues.

“Bring warm milk then. You needn’t be glazed over with wine on the morrow--”

“I am the queen and I am grown, I will have wine,” Jazlene waves her hand at you tersely, “maid!”

The king glances at you. You stand in indecision. You can defy neither but in that moment, you must choose one or the other. His golden eyes drift over to the queen and back to you.

“Go, fetch wine,” he relents.

You bow your head and spin to set off on the task. Your thankful to escape the tension that floods the room. You can sense that the queen’s intrusion is unwelcome and yet that lord ignores the king’s mood. Almost as if he means to agitate him.

You weave through the disarray of the corridors down to the kitchen. Barrels of pickled foods and crates of dried goods are stacked, waiting to be loaded onto carts for the distance ahead. The king must still think of feeding his army, and now, a royal retinue.

You claim a bottle of wine amid the hectic furor and some goblets. You’re out of breath as you return to the upper floors and slow yourself to regain composure as you approach the king’s chamber. You’re let within without obstruction. Just the maid.

You cross to the table and set the goblets upright, then the heavy bottle. Jazlene ahems and taps the brim impatient before you can uncork the bottle. The neck moves away from your reach as Lord Jaskier snatches it instead. He opens it easily and pours the queen a cup as the king leans heavily on an elbow. As you glance over, you meet his golden eyes and quickly shy away. You see he is not happy. You thought by Jazlene’s measure, thing’s might have been improving.

You take your place by the wall. The king sighs. He does that a lot, as if he means to say something but will not. Lord Jaskier slides a goblet towards him.

“Drink and let loose, your highness, you can’t be surly upon the road,” Jaskier chides.

The king does not move. He glares at his company then looks at the ceiling. Queen Jazlene slurps loudly.

“How charming you are, my lord, a wonder his highness likes you so much,” she chirps.

“A surprise to me as well but I think my loyalty more tolerable than my other traits. Yet, you’ve yet to the king bellowing the most bawdy ballad. He is particular lively after a battle,” Jaskier winks at his liege tauntingly and receives nothing in return. “Mm, how about a game? The king is fond of those. How about it, then?”

The lord lifts his cup and holds it before his lips, watching the king in his cantankerous glower. Another sigh as he sits forwards and tilts a hand indifferently.

“If it keeps you from chattering,” the king mutters as he clears the heavy ornaments and rolls the map up. He focuses on that as Jaskier pulls a pouch free of his belt.

“This is one he taught me. The old king before him was fond of it too. The mind’s of rulers, hm?” Jaskier explains as he loosens the tie of the bag and pours out similar pieces to the ones in Geralt’s purse. “Have you played it?”

Jazlene keeps her hand on her cup. The king continues to clear the table, pushing aside the cup meant for him as he shifts the bottle off another map. He stands and gathers the rolled parchment. He approaches you.

“Bring these to my bedchamber,” he bids under his breath.

As you take them, your sleeves brush his and his fingers drag along the fabric of your dress. He stares down at you, his breath fuming like a hearth. You hug the maps and he backs away, returning to the table. You take your order and find your way through the east door into his bed chamber.

You set down the maps on the chest near the foot of the grand bed. His sword leans against the frame, tall in its sheath. You stop to admire the thick handle and its well-hewn grooves. It must be heavy.

You tear your admiration from the weapon and return to the receiving chamber. Jaskier reviews the rules as Geralt rolls his fingers against the armrest, bored by the explanation. You resume your vigil and stare at the wall.

Pieces are dolled out, dice are counted, and the round begins. The king is let to have the first turn. He plays the same as he did against you. It must be some strategy. The queen is prompted to have her go but she is silent. She hums and stares down at the table. Jaskier whispers behind his hand, drawing your gaze.

“Let her play her own turn,” the king insists, “isn’t any fun playing against two of you.”

“Your highness, I was only doing my duty as a royal advisor,” Jaskier returns playfully. “By all means, my beautiful queen, I am certain you are as a clever as you are elegant.”

Jazlene preens in the praise. She drinks some more wine then rolls a dice, seemingly without thought. Several of her pieces are plucked up by both king and lord. She pouts.

“Wait, what happened?” She mopes.

“Rules,” Geralt grumbles. “Jaskier, go on then, take my bronze.”

“I know your tricks,” the lord replies, “I will not fall for it. I’ll have your silver.”

Jaskier rolls the diamond dice and groans. The king takes his silver instead.

“You’ve switched out the dice, certainly,” Jaskier accuses.

“You whine about chance,” the king rebukes and rolls, taking even more silver from his advisor. “And again.”

He gestures to Jazlene and her brow ripples. You can see she doesn’t understand. She will want to use the square dice then, she might have the iron back that she lost. She uses the slightly rounded die instead. Jaskier is already counting her gold.

“I don’t understand,” she crosses her arms, “this game makes no sense.”

“It is your first attempt,” Jaskier assures her, “you will get better.”

“It’s boring,” she sits back and drinks more wine.

Jaskier has a swig of his own as he rolls. He claims his silver back from the king and some from Jazlene. She shakes her head and waves you over with her hand. You can see her goblet is empty as you near. You lift the bottle to pour as the king has his turn. He loses a few iron but doesn’t seem to mind.

The queen’s turn comes and you linger, examining her pieces. Your lips move slightly. Square, square, square. Your eyes flit up and find the king’s watching you. Oh no.

“Wine, maid,” Jaskier clunks down his cup with a hollow noise.

You move around Jazlene’s chair as she snarls under her breath. She rolls the triangle die. Her gold is all gone. She slaps her hands down and you rescind the bottle before you can pour as Jaskier’s cup wobbles. He laughs at the queen’s dismay and she sweeps away her pieces and dice before she can lose.

“It isn’t fair! I don’t understand.”

“If you don’t understand, ask. Do not be impetulant,” King Geralt reprimands. “You make a mess like a child.”

“Do not speak to me as one,” she spits back. “I am not!”

“Your behaviour would suggest otherwise,” the king says.

“Now, now, perhaps it would be fairer with a forth, eh? Trios always do prove imbalanced,” Jaskier intones.

As you go to pour the wine, you are suddenly pulled off your feet. You land in his lap and nearly drop the bottle. You hug it close as you notice the king lurch, sitting straight, only to stop himself on the edge of his chair.

“Eh, do not handle the maid as such,” he demands. “She serves the queen.”

“She may join us, yes? The queen could have an ally. We will play as pairs.”

“Let the maid go,” the king grits.

“Oh, do settle,” Jaskier unhooks his arm from around you. You stand and let your nerves settle, steadying your hands to pour the wine. “You are no fun, your highness.”

Jazlene giggles, “oh he certainly is not. So dour,” she sounds like Lady Rezlyn in that moment. Often the duchess would throw barbs at her husband shamelessly. “Even his games are dull.”

“You needn’t play,” King Geralt shoves his chair back and stands, “it was not my suggestion.”

“She is right. You are much too serious,” Jaskier remarks.

You leave the wine and back away. The air is thick. You feel as if you should go but cannot without dismissal. The king roils hotly as he exhales loudly.

“Far too serious,” Jazlene trills, “he hasn’t time for any sort of fun, has he? He must attend his kingly duties and yet, he neglects his husbandly ones.”

The king lets out a growl. He sneers at his wife as Jaskier’s laughter subsides. The lord looks alarmed as he peeks between the royal couples.

“Mm, suppose it is time I see to my own luggage,” he rises.

“No, stay, drink your wine,” King Geralt insists brusquely, “you and the queen can have mine,” he grips the goblet by the brim and shoves it towards Jazlene as the contents slosh. “You will find me attending my dour kingly duties, should you think to recall your own.”

The king spins and stalks off, hands in fists, and bulls through the doors. They slam behind him and make you jump. You blink at the wood as your heart pounds. For as much as the queen wants her marriage to improve, she is hardly helping herself.

“Ah,” Jaskier sits with a tut, “he can be a touch sensitive, can’t he?”

Jazlene laughs, though you hear the nervous rattle in it, “can’t he?”

#geralt of rivia #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #medieval au

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