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cannedsoupsucks · 4 years ago

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“I know, Pero. I just...I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. It’s better to just walk away. If we hadn’t, it might - it might have escalated. This is what women do, Pero. We downplay how unsafe men make us feel from small harms in the present in the hopes of preventing larger harms in the future.”

This paragraph resonated for me because it perfectly describes what I've had to do in past situations and never been able to explain to the men in my life.

On a lighthearted note, I drive a Ford Fusion and could instantly picture Pero in my car! I have to drive a long distance this coming Tuesday and I wish Pero could accompany me.

Stranger At My Gate - Chapter 4 (Pero Tovar x modern!OFC)

A time-traveling Pero. A modern woman trying her best. A kitchen full of possibility. A helping of Midwest kindness. A dash of magic. And a lot of Christmas spirit.

paring: Pero Tovar x modern!OFC

ratings & warnings: T for now [mentions of food insecurity; mentions of a toxic workplace; discussion of parents/grandparents dying; men being vaguely threatening towards Tessa (not Pero); protective!Pero; yearning out the wahzoo; arguably way too much OC backstory; non-explicit hints of Tessa’s praise kink]

word count: 9.3k [yeah I dunno what happened there either]

a/n: Oh my. Strap in, folks. This one got away from me. A lot of things happen in this chapter. Probably too many things. The garbage disposal reference is dedicated to @whataperfectwasteoftime, who sent me the lovely ask that inspired it. ❤️

Previous chapter.

Masterlist.

————

When Tessa was in college, she spent a semester in London.

For a young history major who’d never left the borders of her own country before, exploring Europe had been a dream. Things and places she’d only ever seen via images on a screen were suddenly there, in real life, to see and hear and touch and feel. Things and places that were old, older than she felt she could truly conceive of, that felt holy and sacred by the mere fact that they had endured.

Westminster Abbey.

The Tower of London.

A Gutenberg Bible.

Notre Dame.

The Mona Lisa.

St. Peter’s.

Even in the pub she’d frequented with her friends in Hampstead she’d felt the enormous weight of history, a shiver of distinctly nerdy excitement accompanying every pint with the knowledge that the pub had been there for more than four centuries.

It is especially astonishing to her then that, as old as all of those things are, all of them had been created far into Pero’s future.

What little information she’s been able to wheedle out of him since Moira had bridged their language barrier has allowed her to narrow down the year he’s from to about 1030 or so. Pre-Battle of Hastings, as Moira had suspected. And every day, Tessa is stunned anew as she remembers something else that didn’t exist in Pero’s time.

Forget Dickens or Milton or even Shakespeare. Pero is centuries too early for Dante, for Chaucer.

Sixty years too early for the First Crusade.

Two hundred years too early for the Magna Carta.

Three hundred years too early for the Black Death.

Tessa thinks she probably won’t tell Pero about that last one.

She tries to introduce Pero to things slowly, and only as needed. No use showing the man all of the ways life has changed and become easier in the past thousand years if he’s only going to be here seven weeks.

The problem is that Tessa is realizing just how much she doesn’t know about how really any of the modern conveniences she’s used to actually work. She’d accepted the morning Pero had woken up in her house that she would never be able to explain things like electricity without language, but now she’s realizing she can’t really explain those things with language either.

She tries anyway.

She plays him bits of music from her phone, trying to pick things at first that might have some shared familiar element with things he’s heard before: soft acoustic versions of songs with just a guitar; Irish drinking songs; hymns. Songs that tell a story the way a bard might once have done and that don’t contain too many modern, synthesized sounds. Hotel California. Scenes from an Italian Restaurant. Goodbye Earl.

But it’s tough to convey that there’s an actual logical, science-based, technological explanation for why and how these sounds are emanating from a tiny rectangular piece of metal.

Tessa lasts three days before she graduates Pero from listening to audio to watching video, going absolutely insane from not being able to have her tv on while she goes about her day.

She tries to give him as much information as she can beforehand, to reassure him that what he will see is mostly very elaborate - but very fake - storytelling, but she also recognizes that at the end of the day, she’s asking him to place an awful lot of trust in her.

The first time she turns on the tv, Pero’s whole body goes rigid. Tessa can see his eyes get big as she tries not to be too obvious about watching his reaction. It’s clear that telling him about what he would see and him actually experiencing it are two very different things. After a moment, he gets up and slowly approaches the tv, reaching up to where it’s mounted over her fireplace and placing his hand on the screen. The image changes to a different camera angle and he jumps, startled, and Tessa has to bite back a giggle at how utterly innocent a reaction it is.

“Magic,” he murmurs, with a small shake of his head. “Witchcraft.”

“Technology, Pero,” Tessa gently corrects him.

He says that a lot when she shows him something new, often grumbled half under his breath like he doesn’t quite believe that there isn’t any magic involved in any of this. Tessa honestly can’t blame him.

Once she can use her tv in front of him it actually becomes easier to give him more information about how things work, and to give him a little better picture of how the world is now. But she still mostly sticks to streaming platforms without ads, every commercial break revealing a hundred new things Pero has no context for.

The two of them end up sitting down most evenings after dinner and watching something. Tessa mostly picks historical or fantasy movies. The Three Musketeers. Robin Hood. Pirates of the Caribbean.

As far as she can tell, Pero relies on her to gauge his reaction to the things she shows him the way Tessa looks to flight attendants during turbulence: if she doesn’t seem concerned, there probably isn’t cause for alarm.

Still, on the whole, he’s not as visibly freaked out by any of this as she would expect him to be. One evening, as they share a skillet’s worth of spicy shakshuka and slices of crusty garlic bread, she brings it up.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He nods, a mouthful of food precluding him from answering her otherwise.

“You seem astonishingly calm about - “ she gestures broadly to everything around them, “all of this.”

He looks at her expectantly.

“That is not a question, Tessa Walsh.”

“My question is - why? How? I’m a literal witch and I know I would be losing my mind if I were in your situation. I find it pretty remarkable, actually. Your...fortitude.”

Pero doesn’t say anything right away. He does this, she’s noticed. He takes time to respond to her, and she’s had to learn to be patient.

“A few years ago, I was part of a company of travelers making their way to the far eastern land of China.”

Tessa sits up in her chair. Pero is an anthropologist’s wet dream, but he hasn’t been terribly proactive about sharing much about his life with her thus far.

“Only myself and my friend William survived the journey.”

“Why were you trying to get to China at all?” Tessa asks softly, attempting to hide how much she desperately wants to know everything about this, about him.

But suddenly Pero’s not sure he wants to tell her the rest of this story. Not because he’s worried she won’t believe what he has to say about the Tao Tei, but because he’s afraid of what she may think of him and his actions.

William had stayed and fought, he’d faced death and come out a hero. Pero had selfishly abandoned his friend and fled, a thief in the night.

“We were...looking for something. We had heard rumors of a new kind of weapon, a black powder that could do unimaginable damage to an enemy.”

“Gunpowder,” Tessa says, eyebrows rising in surprise. “That’s right...the Chinese invented gunpowder.”

“You know of it?”

“Everybody knows of it, Pero. It changed the course of human history. But that doesn’t explain why you haven’t run from here in terror after seeing my microwave or hearing my garbage disposal.”

Pero still isn’t convinced that the garbage disposal isn’t really a demon living in Tessa’s sink, but he continues.

“When we made it to China, we found the black powder we were looking for. But we also found...something else.”

He tells her about the Tao Tei, how he and William had fought the monsters and witnessed the incredible invention and bravery of the Nameless Order. He doesn’t look at Tessa when he describes his attempted theft of the black powder, his recapture, and William coming to his rescue.

“He should have left me there,” Pero says bitterly to his plate.

Tessa pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth. “What?”

“He should have left me there,” Pero repeats. “He should have taken the powder instead and left me to rot. It was nothing more than I’d deserved.”

Tessa sets the fork down and reaches across the table, gently gripping his chin in her hand, tilting it up so he's forced to look at her again.

“I’m glad he didn’t,” she says with a quiet fierceness. She has to stop herself from giving him a gentle rub of her thumb against his jaw (his strong, scruff-covered jaw) before pulling her hand back.

“And I guess that explains your nerves of steel about everything new you’ve seen, huh? Subjecting you to my Spotify playlists and movies full of fake monsters is nothing after you’ve actually faced ones in real life.”

———

The house is noisy in ways Pero isn’t used to. It’s loud.

Not that the places he’d been accustomed to in his own time had been silent, whether he was camped outside, or staying at an inn, or bunking with fellow soldiers. The whistle of the wind was usually a constant, always finding some new way to infiltrate under a door or a window or a through a crack in the wall. Depending on where he was, he’d hear the sounds of animals nearby, horses or chickens or songbirds. The crackle of a fire in a hearth. The patter of rain on a roof. The rustle of fellow soldiers in their bedrolls, or the movement of other patrons outside the room he’d have bought for the night. The sound of William’s voice, chattering on at him despite his usual reluctance to respond.

But this house is full of unfamiliar sounds. The dull hum of the larder Tessa calls a fridge. The whirs and thumps of the machines down the hall that wash and dry his clothes. The trickles and whooshes of water from the sink or the toilet or the shower. The cyclical murmur of the house’s invisible heating system (despite there being a perfectly adequate and working fireplace). It never stops. It’s never truly quiet. The house is, it seems to Pero, alive in ways he does not understand. It’s unsettling.

And then there is Tessa.

Tessa, who hums and sighs and mutters to herself as she goes about her day. Who sits in her armchair many an afternoon with a book, rustling pages as she reads, sometimes laughing or gasping quietly at some part of the story. Who plays her music and sometimes sings along as she rustles through the many instruments in her kitchen until finding the thing she needs and working through another recipe. Who talks to Pero and asks him things and watches him through her long lashes like she’s actually interested in what he has to say.

Tessa makes the house feel alive in ways Pero does understand, but finds no less unsettling.

———

Three days into sharing her house with her strange new roommate, Tessa works through the next recipe she wants to post to her site, a crumb cake made with thick slices of apples cooked in cinnamon and brown sugar. She has two different kinds of apples, sweeter Honeycrisps and more tart Braeburns, and decides to try them both separately. As they bake, the entire house fills with the quintessential scents of warmth and spices and autumn. After they’re done, Tessa calls Pero over, cutting each of them a slice of both cakes.

For the first time, Tessa asks him for feedback on something she’s cooked.

“My preference is for the Honeycrisp,” she tells him, “but I always go for the sweeter version of anything. I need a second opinion.”

He takes bites of both.

“They’re good.”

Tessa waits, but he doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

“And?”

He shrugs, methodically making his way through the rest of the portions on his plate.

“They’re good. Everything you make is good, Tessa.”

Something pleasant and warm blooms in her chest at his quiet, direct praise. But it’s still not an answer to what she’s asking of him.

“But is there one that you prefer? The Braeburn’s a little more tart, but I think that it does go nicely with the brown sugar. And what do you think of the cinnamon? Have you ever had cinnamon before?”

He shakes his head.

“Not that I recall. And I don’t prefer one; they’re both good.”

Tessa chews her lip thoughtfully. She pulls out and sits on the stool closest to where Pero is standing, getting as near to his personal space as she dares.

“Pero, I have a very important question to ask you.”

He looks up at her as he chews.

“What’s your favorite food?”

Again, he shrugs. “I don’t have one.”

Tessa frowns in surprise.

“What do you mean, you don’t have one?”

“I don’t have one.”

Tessa’s mouth hangs open as she tries to wrap her head around the concept.

“How is that possible? How can someone not have a favorite food? How can you not have a favorite food? You put away food like it’s your job, Pero. You devour everything I’ve put in front of you thus far. How can you not have a preference for at least something you like?”

The corners of Pero’s mouth tighten.

“Food is not about preference, Tessa. Food is about taking what you can get so you do not starve, and eating it quickly enough so that no one can take it from you.”

Oh.

The queasy sour feeling of shame grips Tessa’s stomach. Of course. How could she have so easily dismissed and forgotten about what she knows of Pero’s life?

In an instant, a whole new perspective on food opens up in her mind’s eye. Tessa isn’t ignorant of her own privilege, of the fact that so many people, even in her own community, don’t have enough, and that food isn’t something she’s ever had to worry about. She’s not ignorant of nor indifferent to the truth that there is so much food in the world that no one should ever go hungry, and the injustice that millions of people do anyway.

But never has Tessa considered that someone might view food solely as a means of survival. That someone might have known so little pleasure from food in their life that they cannot even conceive of having a favorite dish.

Tessa doesn’t push Pero any further on the matter, and they finish their crumb cake in silence.

But later that night, Tessa becomes a woman possessed.

Long after Pero’s gone to bed, she sits on the couch with her laptop, having tumbled head first down a Wikipedia rabbit hole about the diet of Europeans during the Middle Ages.

It was mostly a lot of grains, she discovers. Grains and extremely weak beers because most water sources would make you sick.

Bleak. Bland and bleak.

Tessa makes as comprehensive a list as she can of all the foods she has in her kitchen and a bunch of foods she could easily get on her next grocery run that she knows did not exist in Europe in Pero’s time.

Pero may not have a favorite food, but Tessa is sure as shit gonna give him the opportunity to find one.

———

Tessa finally meets some resistance from Pero about a modern invention the day she pulls her car out of the garage, no longer able to put off several errands she needs to run.

“Pero, come on!”

“No.”

The man crosses his arms, plants his feet, and pouts.

“I have tried to take in all the things you have shown me thus far with an open mind, Tessa. Your little communication device that also plays music and the moving images on your teevee and your internet portal of knowledge, but this is clearly a cursed death trap you’re trying to lure me into for your own amusement.”

Tessa is a little insulted on behalf of her car.

“Pero, it is not a death trap,” she says, indignant. “It’s a Ford Fusion, for fuck’s sake. And it is much safer and more comfortable than any horse you’ve ever been on, I promise. Besides, you’re gonna be here for a little while, you can’t spend that entire time cooped up in the house. Let me show you my town. Come on, don’t you wanna go to the post office?” She teases, knowing full well he has no clue what that is, and probably still wouldn’t be interested in it if he did.

Pero attempts to stare her down. Tessa plays her trump card.

“Did I mention that one of the places I need to stop by is the grocery store? You know, the place where I buy all of our food?”

Pero’s scowl doesn’t shift, but Tessa sees the interest creep into his eyes.

“You mean a market?”

Tessa nods. “But bigger and full of more kinds of food than you can possibly imagine, Pero. If you come with me, I’ll buy you anything you want. And I’ll take you to the McDonald’s drive-thru after. We’ll get cheeseburgers and fries.”

“Are you attempting to bribe me with food?” he asks.

“Is it working?”

He huffs, rolling his eyes, and awkwardly folds himself into the passenger seat. Tessa’s grin is akin to the Cheshire Cat’s.

“Magic,” she hears him mutter. “Witchcraft.”

Tessa doesn’t bother to correct him, instead showing how to fasten his seatbelt.

———

Tessa is certain she gets more pleasure out of introducing Pero to new foods than she does introducing him to anything else.

Stuffed eggplant parmesan. Oven-braised beef with tomatoes and garlic. Pear, cranberry, and gingersnap crumble.

And as Pero discovers new dishes for the first time, it’s like Tessa re-discovers them along with him. She can’t remember the last time she felt this excited about cooking. It even inspires her to make progress on her book (much to her editor’s relief). In between home-cooked meals she shares her favorite processed snack foods with him, too.

Frosted brown sugar cinnamon PopTarts. Double Stuf Oreos. Blueberry Eggo waffles.

And slowly, Pero starts to figure out how to actually enjoy food. Tesssa tries to be so careful about not pressuring him in any way, to never make him feel like the way he views and consumes food is wrong. Instead, she coaxes him to take the time to savor meals, to take notice of different flavors and textures. She gives him a safe space to be able to say no, I don’t like this, or yes, I do, and I want more of it.

“What do you think?” she asks him one afternoon, several days into this exercise.

Pero sips a spoonful of the soup she’s put in front of him with a thoughtful expression. He swallows, and Tessa tries her best not to focus on the way his throat moves when he does so.

Then he shrugs.

“I’ve had better.”

He’s never said that before. For a moment, Tessa just gapes at him.

“What do you mean, ‘you’ve had better’? Confidence in my own skills aside, it’s squash - it’s a native North American crop, not to mention there’s a bunch of spices in there that also wouldn’t find their way to Europe for centuries after your time. It would be literally impossible for you to have had - “

She stops, mid-sentence. The corners of Pero’s lips have quirked up, and there’s the tiniest little shake in his shoulders.

“Hang on,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Are you - Pero Tovar, are you messing with me?”

He looks down at his bowl and quickly scoops another spoonful into his mouth, but he cannot hide his smirk.

“Oh my god, you are. You’re totally messing with me!”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do too, you absolute bastard.” She tries to make it sound stern, but she can’t make her expression obey, her lips stretching wide in a smile no matter how she fights it.

“That is not funny, Pero,” she says through her laughter, and the more she tries to suppress it, the funnier it becomes, and the more Pero starts to laugh too.

It might be the first time she’s seen him truly smile, let alone heard him laugh.

It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.

———

That same evening, as they sit in their usual places on the couch, Pero finally asks Tessa something he’s been curious about.

“Would you tell me more about your Gift?”

Tessa pauses the credits to another episode of M*A*S*H.

“What do you want to know?” She’d told him the bare basics the first day she could speak to him, if only to clarify that whatever witchy stereotypes he may be familiar with didn’t apply to her family’s type of magic. But he hadn’t asked for more information. Not until now.

“You always tell me that all of these things -” he gestures to the tv, “have nothing to do with your magic. Perhaps I should get better at recognizing magic when I see it. If only for my own safety,” he adds wryly.

And I want to know more, he thinks. I don’t understand why, but I want to know more about you.

Tessa turns to fully face him, putting her legs up on the couch and wedging her toes in between the cushions.

She starts telling him about her Gift: what it feels like, when it first started to make itself known, what it’s been like to live with and to keep secret.

“I could feel it, you know. That you would come here. Not that I knew that’s what was going to happen, but just...this feeling. That something was coming.”

“Does it frighten you?” He asks. “Being able to feel these things?”

“Only when the thing I’m feeling is bad.”

Pero cocks his head at her. “Bad?”

“Sometimes, the feeling heralds something good or hopeful. Like I knew my sister was pregnant all three times before anyone else, even her. But other times, it feels...wrong. It’s a sick, sour feeling in my gut.” She pauses, trying to figure out if she wants to tell him more. She decides she does.

“I felt it before my parents died.” She says it so quietly Pero almost doesn’t hear her. “I was sixteen, and had barely slept for days. This awful feeling of dread kept me up at night, stronger than I’d ever felt before, but I didn’t know what it meant. And because I never quite know what the feeling refers to, I can’t ever do anything about it. Henry and Amie were both away at college by then, and I didn’t say anything to my parents because I didn’t want to worry them.”

She props her elbow up on the back of the couch and rests her cheek on her hand.

“They were in a car accident. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit them,” she tries to say it without emotion, to just relay facts, but Pero can hear the pain that is still so evident in her voice. “The EMTs - the medics who get called to help when things like this happen - told me they probably died instantly. So at least they - “ she has to pause here for a moment, before continuing, “at least they didn’t suffer. They didn’t feel any pain.”

“I’m sorry,” Pero says, not sure what else to do except to look Tessa in the eye and try to convey to her how much he means it.

“After that, I moved into this house, actually. It was my Gran’s; my grandfather died before I was born and afterwards she moved in here to be closer to us grandkids, and to Moira. We got each other through our grief, I like to think. I learned how to cook from her. Every spare minute we had we’d be in that kitchen together; it was like as long as we kept busy, kept cooking, kept creating, we could bear back our grief, keep it from consuming us whole.”

Tessa looks over the back of the couch at the kitchen, and Pero is sure she’s seeing the ghosts of a thousand memories of that space in her mind.

“She was like me,” Tessa murmurs, a faraway look in her eyes. “We had the same Gift. So she understood more intimately than anyone that I wasn’t just sad, I was angry. Angry at myself, angry at my Gift for not giving me the ability to prevent what had happened. She was angry at herself too, for not having been able to save her daughter and her son-in-law.”

Pero thinks he might understand in some small way what that’s like. He recalls moments from when he’d been younger, when he’d been foolish enough to get swept up in camaraderie and brotherhood with his fellow soldiers, only to see them get cut down time and time again on the battlefield before his eyes, unable to prevent it despite all his fighting skill. He can’t imagine how much worse that helpless feeling would be if it had involved his own family.

“I started Kitchen Witchery to share and document what we made,” Tessa continues, “and the site remained this little hobby that I kept coming back to all through college, and then law school, and then even when I was out working.”

“Three years ago, I started having that feeling again. But I was...not in a good place. I was working at a big law firm in Chicago, and it was killing me. I was so overworked and so miserable, I didn’t even recognize the feeling for what it was until Henry called me to tell me Gran had passed in her sleep one night. I hadn’t been home to visit her in a long time, and then suddenly, the person who had become my best friend was gone.”

Pero is not someone accustomed to giving, or receiving, physical comfort, but he has the strangest urge to reach across the couch and gather Tessa up in his arms.

“She left me the house. We’d never talked about it, I’d never expressed any interest in it, but she left it to me anyway. She always seemed to know what I needed, even if I didn’t. I quit my job and moved back in here and now,” the barest hint of a smile crosses her face, “here we are.”

A sneaking suspicion that there is more to that story flares in Pero’s mind, but he ignores it.

“I’ve never told anyone any of this before,” Tessa says quietly, almost surprised at herself. “It’s actually nice to have someone to talk about it with, outside of my family.”

“I’d never told anyone about the Tao Tei before,” Pero responds. “I’d never thought anyone would believe me if I did.”

She meets his eye and something shifts between them, now that they’ve laughed together and exchanged secrets, a new sense of ease and understanding weaving itself into the fabric of their relationship.

They may be in the running for the oddest pair of roommates in history, but now, they’re friends too.

———

The next day marks a week since Pero’s arrival. The occasion ends up being marked by Tessa’s sister barging into her house before nine in the morning.

“Oh good, so you are alive,” Amie says in greeting, her tone thick with exasperation.

Tessa blinks at her from where she sits in her breakfast nook, sipping her coffee and scrolling through Twitter while she waits for Pero to be done in the shower before starting breakfast.

“Good morning, Amie,” Tessa replies, “please, do come in.”

“Don’t get cute with me,” her sister says. “How am I the last person to know that you’ve been harbouring a time-traveling thief in your house?”

Tessa gets up from her seat, glancing down the hallway.

“Please keep your voice down,” she murmurs, holding her hands out in front of her to try to placate Amie.

“Pero is not a time-traveling thief,” he is, technically, but that’s not the point, “he is my guest and I’m just helping him out until he’s able to go back to his own time - “ she squints at the calendar stuck to her fridge, “six weeks from now.”

Her sister sighs.

“Tessa Elizabeth Walsh, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Amelia Margaret Walsh, how did you even find out?”

Amie rolls her eyes. “How do you think? From Moira, of course.”

Now it’s Tessa’s turn to sigh. This conversation was inevitable, she supposes.

“Amie, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. But I was handling it and I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve got a lot going on right now and the farm opens up in two weeks - “

“That does not mean I’m too busy to know what is going on in your life, especially if this is what is going on in your life! Are you going to bring him to Thanksgiving?”

Tessa has an inch or so on her sister, but Amie’s presence has always completely filled and dominated any space she’s found herself in. A tiny, sandy blonde tour de force.

“I don’t know, I - I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

“Because if you want to bring a complete stranger to Thanksgiving at my house and have him be around my children, I am going to first have to meet - “

“Tessa?”

They both turn and look at Pero, who’s emerged from the bathroom. His attention is entirely on Tessa, as though he’s waiting for her to let him know whether to be concerned about the steadily rising volume of voices in the house.

“Well Amie, I have good news. Amie, Pero. Pero, Amie.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence before Pero nods his head politely and offers Amie a quiet, “Hello.”

Amie eyes Pero up and down, though what she’s thinking even Tessa cannot say.

“You vouch for him?” she asks Tessa.

“I do,” Tessa replies without hesitation.

Amie exhales, then opens her mouth to say something else but she’s interrupted by the buzzing of her phone in her pocket.

“Shit,” she hisses, fishing it out and looking at the screen. “I’ve got to get to the farm for a delivery. Nice to meet you,” she says to Pero, “and you -” she looks at Tessa, “be good.”

Then she’s out the door faster than Tessa can remember that she has a tin of cookies intended for her niece and nephews sitting next to her stove.

“My sister, everybody.” Tessa turns back to the table and takes a long sip of her coffee.

“Is her Gift...intimidation?” Pero tentatively asks. “Because I’ve been in the presence of noblemen who did not give off such an imposing air.”

Tessa laughs, and she sincerely hopes Pero will keep showing her more glimpses of what she suspects is a very dry, very intelligent sense of humor.

“You get used to it,” she replies. “And no, her Gift is, well...”

There’s not a particularly elegant or imposing term to describe Amie’s Gift, not like intuition or healing or manipulation. Personally Tessa thinks the coolest-sounding magic in their family is their great-great-great grandfather’s Gift of metamorphosis, a talent he’d used to great effect as a Union spy during the Civil War. Compared to those, horticulture just didn’t have the same ring to it. But anyone fortunate enough to witness Amie’s Gift soon found that her power was at least as impressive as anyone else’s.

“It’s plants,” Tessa tells Pero. “Growing things. Our mom had the same Gift. It’s why Amie took over the family business after she died. The Walsh Family Christmas Tree Farm.”

“Christmas tree farm?”

“Mhm. You can see it from here, actually.” Pero follows her to the window over the sink, looking over her shoulder as she points to the rows upon rows of pine trees that come all the way up to the back of Tessa’s yard. “Finest Christmas trees in the whole Midwest. But it does unfortunately mean that this time of year my poor sister is particularly high-strung.”

She turns around to face him, and the entire front of her body is all at once very, very close to his. Close enough that Pero doesn’t dare breathe.

“Don’t take it personally. She - she doesn’t mean to be rude,” Tessa says softly. Pero knows he should take a step back, but he can’t get his limbs to cooperate. She’s so close to him, if he wanted he could lean down and close the distance between their mouths, he could find out what she tastes like, it would take no time at all -

But then Tessa looks down and away from him. She slides her body around his, reaching in the direction of the coffeemaker and mumbling at him about breakfast. For the first time in his life, Pero has a hard time refocusing his attention on food.

It’s not until many hours later that he thinks to ask her what the hell a Christmas tree is.

———

There’s an odd scraping sound coming from outside her front door.

It’s now ten days since Pero’s arrival, and the November air has turned cold, too sharp and brisk for Tessa, but Pero doesn’t seem to mind it much as he sits on the small settee on her front porch. Tessa joins him, curious, and sees that he has the small axe that’s been sitting stuck in an old tree trunk in her backyard for who knows how long in his lap. Several stones he must have also pilfered from her backyard are laid out on the table in front of him, along with both of his swords. He has one stone in his hand and runs it over the edge of the axe blade, generating the unusual sound.

“You should not neglect your tools so, Tessa,” Pero says, instead of hello.

He’s been digging around in her garage and the old shed/greenhouse structure in her backyard lately, looking for ways to make himself useful. A week and a half of modern luxury and idleness are all that he can take, it seems. Several days of cold, late fall drizzle have impacted his plans to use some spare lumber sitting in the shed to patch up parts of the fence around Tessa’s backyard, despite her protests that he absolutely does not need to do anything other than help her wash dishes after dinner.

Today, he’s apparently focusing on sharpening her axe, and doing a little maintenance on his own weapons.

“Well you’re not giving me much incentive to do this myself when you seem so determined to do it for me, Pero,” Tessa teases him back.

“Yes, but I’m not always going to be here, am I?” He responds gruffly, and there’s an uncomfortable squeezing sensation around Tessa’s heart as she remembers that Pero’s seven weeks are down to five and a half. It’s strange and completely unexpected, how quickly she’s gotten used to him being here, and that the thought of him leaving already makes her a little sad.

She pushes the feeling aside and asks him about his weapons instead. He lets her hold his broadsword, showing her how to properly grip it. She can only swing it around for a minute or so before her arm starts to hurt, gaining a new level of respect for the strength Pero must have to wield not just one, but two swords competently in battle.

He guides her through the proper way to sharpen the axe, slowly filing the blade with each progressively smoother stone until the metal shines bright and sharp again. As they work he tells her stories of how he learned to use an axe, not just as a tool, but as a weapon, until he was as competent with one as he was with his swords.

“When you are a mercenary, it pays to be skilled with more than one type of weapon. Increases the chances you’ll survive the job.”

Tessa is in the middle of trying not to stare too obviously at the way one of Pero’s large, calloused hands grips the stone and confidently scraps it along the axe blade when a thought occurs to her.

“I’ve just had an idea,” she says excitedly, pulling out her phone to fire off texts to Henry and Amie. “One I think you’ll enjoy, Pero. This weekend, we’re going out.”

———

Tessa bills it as a night of food and drink out at a tavern with her siblings and their spouses. Pero’s hardly an eager social butterfly, but the promise of food and drink is enough for him. And if it’s important to Tessa that he get to know her family a little better, well, then, he’s happy to oblige.

Pero’s gotten a bit of a crash course in modern feminism and gender roles by sheer virtue of the fact that he lives with Tessa, but she’d also sat him down before they’d headed out to the bar to explain to him what it meant that her brother was gay, and if Pero couldn’t be, in her words, “cool and accepting as fuck” about it, he’d better be prepared to sleep in the backseat of her car until the solstice. But she’d been pleasantly surprised to find that apart from asking a few good-faith questions, he had, in fact, seemed pretty cool and accepting about it.

That Saturday night she drives him to a place about twenty minutes from home, located in the next, and much larger, town over from her own.

“I’m surprised you didn’t invite your aunt to join us,” Pero mutters with dark humor when he gets out of her car.

“Moira’s been banned from this establishment,” Tessa quips back without missing a beat, and Pero can’t decide if he wants to know the story there or not.

When they walk inside, a rumble of noise hits them. People talking and laughing, glasses and dishes clinking, music playing over the sound system, and -

Thunk.

The sound of sharp metal axes hitting wood.

Along one entire wall of the bar are brightly lit throwing lanes, most occupied by a group of people taking turns throwing, sure enough, small axes at wooden targets. The rest of the place has the darker, slightly grungy atmosphere of a classic dive bar, neon signs advertising Budweiser on the walls and a jukebox playing Springsteen.

“Is it common now to combine weapons training with drinking?” Pero asks.

Tessa shakes her head as she grins.

Not typically. But this is like a trendy thing now. Instead of going bowling or playing pool at a bar, you throw axes.” She looks up at him, her expression becoming a little bashful. “I thought you might like it. Henry, Amie and I have been here a few times and I thought it might be fun. And besides,” she nudges him towards the lane where her siblings and their husbands are waiting for them, “I refuse to believe this is the first time you’ve combined weapons training and drinking.”

———

They have the lane for an hour, and each lane is supervised by a trained staff member. Theirs introduces himself as Robby, who seems to enjoy the fact that five of the six of them have been here before, and therefore don’t need the standard skill and safety tutorial.

But nowhere near as much as Tessa enjoys watching Robby walk Pero through the basics of how to throw an axe, only to then have Pero take one of the instruments, square up to the throw line, and embed the axe so deeply in the dead center of the target it takes several tries to dislodge it again.

Robby lets them all go through a few practice throws before offering them the option to keep score. If any person in their group scores over one hundred points across ten total throws, their tab is on the house.

It’s a bet they readily take.

It’s clear from the jump that Pero knows exactly what he’s doing. Tessa wishes she could take video of his throws without being obvious about it. What she wouldn’t give for slow-motion evidence of the way the blue flannel shirt he’s wearing stretches across his shoulders as he raises the axe above his head, the muscles of his back and arms bunching beneath the fabric, a low noise of satisfaction leaving him every time the axe inevitably finds its target.

She isn’t half-bad herself, glad she at least hits the target consistently, if not always where she wants to. Halfway through the game, Tessa humphs in quiet frustration as her axe once again misses the center to lodge on the lower edge of the target.

“You’re releasing too late,” Pero says behind her. He hands her another axe. When she lifts it up, he moves to stand close enough beside her she can feel his breath in her ear. He places one hand on her back and another around her forearm. “You’re letting go of it here,” he says, guiding her arms forward to the point where she would typically release the axe, “when you should be letting go here.” He moves her arms several inches up and back.

“Try again,” he murmurs, his voice so gravelly and warm she has to suppress a shiver. He steps back, and Tessa throws. The axe doesn’t land dead center, but it does catch the edge of the bullseye.

Tessa whirls around with a gasp. Pero folds his arms in front of him, and Tessa feels like she could exist for days on the look of pride in his eyes. What she would not give, she thinks, to have him look at her like that again, to have him look at her like that all the time -

Far too soon, their hour is up, and Pero walks away with a score of one hundred and ten to roars of approval from Tessa’s family.

After all that a celebratory feast is in order, Henry declares, and they all take great joy in introducing Pero to the wonders of modern beer and greasy bar food. Pero is amazed at the contents of the brightly colored plastic baskets that soon cover their table, full of deep-fried onion rings, chips and salsa and guacamole, mozzarella sticks, golden pretzels studded with salt alongside cups of beer cheese for dipping, and chicken wings in several flavors accompanied by copious amounts of a white substance Tessa inexplicably calls “ranch.”

The lights are brighter, the noise level is louder, and the smell is (barely) better, but despite all that Pero is surprised to find that it feels much the same as a night of food and drink and revelry at a local tavern would when he and William were fresh off a job with coin to spare. Many things may have changed over the last millenia, but it is a bit of a comfort to know that some things, at least, had not.

He likes Tessa’s siblings and their spouses, he finds. Martin, Henry’s husband, is a doctor too. A pediatric oncologist, and though Pero doesn’t really understand what that means even after Martin attempts to explain it, it’s clear that the man is passionate about helping the sick children in his care. Amie’s husband Thom is relaxed and easygoing where his wife is energetic and quick to rile (a trait, Pero notes, that she and Tessa share). He’s a professor of literature at a local college, and looks at his wife like she hung the moon.

After the third round of beers her siblings head out, leaving Tessa and Pero to linger, determined to polish off the remaining food.

“So, did you have fun?” she asks him, swirling her fifth mozzarella stick in what’s left of a tub of marinara.

He frowns, like he actually has to think about it.

“I...did,” he answers slowly. “I did have fun.”

“Good.” The light from a vintage Coca-Cola sign on the wall behind her casts Pero in a reddish hue. It makes his scar look even fiercer and Tessa has to force herself to look away.

When they’re finally ready to leave, Pero makes a quick detour to the restroom while Tessa heads to the car.

The instant she leaves the building, dread shoots up her spine.

Her Gift. A warning.

Then she notices them. A group of four men standing near the entrance, having a quick smoke before heading into the bar.

Men she recognizes. Maybe if she just keeps walking -

“Tessa?”

Shit.

“Ryan,” she says, turning to face her ex-fiance. He takes a few steps towards her, wobbling slightly. She wonders if he’s already been drinking. Probably.

“Tessa,” he says again. He’s got a beard now, the neatly trimmed hair covering his face and neck. “Long time.”

“Yeah,” she replies. “What are - what are you doing here?”

He spreads his arms wide, the other three men coming up behind him.

“Just getting some air, you know. Just getting out of the city for the weekend.”

“Figured we’d let Ryan show us his neck of the woods,” chimes in one of the other men, a cruel edge to his voice. “See if there’s actually any fuckin’ culture out here in suburbia.”

“Daniel.” Tessa hopes that her clipped tone belies the anxiety thrumming through every vein. But even so, she can’t help her retort. “Finally got banned from every club in Chicago, did you? What indiscretion of yours is your daddy trying to keep out of the Tribune this week that he sent you and your buddies an hour and a half from the city to keep a low profile for a couple of days?”

Daniel’s face contorts in rage.

“You never did know when to quit runnin’ your mouth, did you, you little bi-”

“Everything alright, Tessa?”

Pero.

Relief floods her down to the tips of her toes.

He’s suddenly there, a solid, warm presence at her back. Tessa doesn’t take her eyes off the men in front of her, who are less cocky about encroaching on her space now that Pero is undoubtedly levelling them with his trademark scowl. There’s a firm pressure on her right hip and she knows without looking that Pero’s wrapped his hand around her there, a gesture of comfort to her and a further warning to the other men to back off.

“Everything’s fine, Pero,” she says, less confidently than she’d like. “Come on, let’s go home.”

She turns to go but he doesn’t move, glaring at Daniel and the others. She reaches back and takes hold of the hand that had been on her hip, giving it a tug.

“Pero, it’s okay. Please.”

Finally, he moves, allowing her to pull him towards where her car is parked. She doesn’t let go of his hand until she has to open her door.

“Tessa...” he starts, once they’re buckled in and Tessa’s cranked up the heater. “Who were those men?”

“No one, Pero. Just some people I know. It’s fine.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No. No, they’re - they may talk big, but it’s harmless. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine.” Pero’s bluntness cuts right through her attempts to wave the situation away, startling her. “Tessa - “ He shifts in his seat to face her. “Those men made you afraid. That is not harmless. That is not fine.”

He actually sounds angry, the harsh rumble of his voice filling the small space in the car. It’s the first time she’s ever heard him raise his voice.

“Whether they tried to put a hand on you or not, they made you afraid. That is harm.” She grips the steering wheel as hard as she can, watching the skin on her knuckles stretch and distort. Then she sighs in defeat.

He doesn’t respond, like he doesn’t know what to do now with his frustration. He just turns back to face the windshield, letting his back fall against the seat.

Tessa puts the car in gear and silently drives them home.

———

When they arrive back at her house, she turns the car off, but doesn’t move to get out.

“Do you remember,” she says after a moment, “when I told you I’d almost been married once?”

She sees Pero nod out of the corner of her eye.

“Ryan, the man back there with the beard, is the person I almost called my husband.”

“We didn’t meet until law school, even though he grew up not far from here. We got engaged the day we graduated, and we thought we were so lucky that the same firm had hired us both.” She hasn’t let go of the gear lever, the stitched leather creaking under her grip.

“It was a hard, stressful work environment, but we expected that. We put in ungodly long hours, put up with difficult bosses, but we did it together. We were a team. Then, two years in, we were assigned a new case working for one of the name partners of the firm. One of the wealthiest, most powerful people in the city of Chicago. You met his son Daniel tonight. The one who called me a little bitch.”

Tendons stretch and release in Pero’s neck as he grinds his teeth.

“I won't bore you with the details of the case, but at one point Ryan and I came across evidence that would almost certainly lose us the case if the other side got to it. But we had to give it to them. We were legally obligated to give it to them. The partner instructed us to get rid of it instead, which is a crime in and of itself. Ryan was willing to do it.”

“And you?” Pero murmurs, already suspecting the answer.

“I leaked it to the opposing council. We lost the case. And we should have lost it. It’s good that we lost it. And my boss couldn’t outright discipline me for it, because then he’d have to admit that he’d directed us to break the law. I didn’t lose my job, but...” She takes a breath. “They made my life a living hell. The worst cases. The longest hours. I was set up to fail, assigned impossible tasks so that when I inevitably couldn’t complete them, they had a reason not to promote me. And Daniel, who worked at the firm by sheer virtue of his name, and who already got away with so much because of it, took it as an opportunity to target me with his sense of cruelty.”

“And Ryan?”

It’s been three years, and it’s still hard for her to talk about. It’s still hard for her to admit, still feels like maybe she did something wrong.

“He kept his head down. He’d be there for me in private, but was too scared of losing his own position to stand up for me in public. We were supposed to be a team. And instead - well, you saw him there tonight with Daniel. And I couldn’t just quit - as part of my contract with the firm, they were paying off the loans I’d taken out for law school. But in return, I had to work for them for at least five years, and if I left before then, I’d have to pay back the firm all the money they’d put towards the loans. I couldn’t afford it.”

She looks over at the house.

“And then Gran died. And in addition to the house, she left me just enough money that I could get out of there. I could pay the firm back. Suddenly, I was free. And I knew I couldn’t take Ryan with me. I didn’t want to take him with me. I left the firm, I left Chicago...I left him.”

Tessa Walsh, Pero thinks, is a remarkable woman.

“Such a man has no honor,” Pero growls. “Such a man is not worthy of you, Tessa.”

She gives him a slightly watery smile.

“I’m glad you were there tonight, Pero.”

“If any of them had so much as tried to lay a hand on you -”

“I know,” she says, reaching out to squeeze his hand again. “I know. Come on, let’s go inside, before we freeze out here.”

———

I’m glad you were there.

She’d been afraid of those men, and as he lies in bed that night, Pero still sees red when he thinks of how those men had made the bright, fierce woman that is Tessa tremble and retreat.

But then, he thinks, she’s never acted like that towards him.

She’s not afraid of him, Pero realizes, and it’s like a punch to the chest.

He glowers and grumbles and glares and is so much bigger than she is, but apart from the first time he woke up in her house, she’s never so much as flinched from him. In the face of his surliness she just smiles at him, a determined little ray of talkative, stubborn sunshine completely unfazed by any attempt of his to be intimidating.

It should annoy him. But instead, he thinks it might be wonderful.

He can’t remember the last time a woman looked at him without fear. He is a warrior, a mercenary, a hardened criminal. His demeanor is armor just as much as the leather and metal he wears. It protects him - with his lifestyle, it’s better if he never gets close, never lets anyone get too attached.

But Tessa...

Tessa doesn’t know Pero Tovar, sellsword, thief, murderer. Not really. She only knows the man who fell, literally, into her life one day who needed her help. Who doesn’t know how to navigate this strange new world, where so many of his skills have been obsolete for centuries.

Tessa, who is kind and giving and understanding when she has absolutely no reason to be. Who takes him out to a bar she picked because she thought he might like it. Who takes the time to explain things to him without making him feel stupid, to make him feel safe and comfortable in her life and her space, who makes him laugh and makes him feel like a different person. The sort of person who could let someone else in, who could be worthy of someone like her. The sort of person who could care for her, could protect her, could belong here -

He shakes himself out of it. It’s a dangerous road to wander down. His time here is limited, is finite. Better not to consider such fanciful possibilities at all.

———

The next morning, Pero finds Tessa up early, pouring over her planner that’s open on the countertop to a page dedicated to a series of lists and timelines color-coded in a frankly concerning number of hues.

“I need your help.” Her eyes burn with a renewed intensity, and Pero wonders if she’s going to just try and pretend like the encounter outside the bar last night never happened.

“I’ve been thinking; I wasn’t sure how much I’d be able to do this year given the additional workload of my book, but if you’d be willing to help me with the prep, I think we might be able to actually pull off everything typically involved in a Walsh Thanksgiving after all.”

A ridiculous sense of pride bubbles up inside Pero’s chest at the idea that Tessa might need him for something, even if he doesn’t understand for what yet. He shoves it aside, and instead asks the first question that comes to mind.

“What is a thanksgiving?”

———————————————————————a/n: For those of you familiar with London’s geography, I know Hampstead is a little out of the way of the major universities, tourist sites, etc., but the pub I refer to at the beginning is a real place there that’s really that old called The Spaniard’s Inn, and with a name like that it was too tempting not to use here.

Tagging interested parties (some of you have explicitly asked to be tagged, while others just indicated they’re interested in reading where this story goes, so if you would not like to be directly tagged, please let me know!): @littlemisspascal @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @whataperfectwasteoftime @toomanystoriessolittletime @oonajaeadira @bunniesofsteel @jazzelsaur @ezrasbirdie @Kiizhikehn-cedar @hopeamarsu @iamskyereads @thosewickedlovelies @theredwritingwitch @cannedsoupsucks @xoxabs88xox @gypsydjarin @girlofchaos @misslolasworld @becauseismellgood @donnaa @sherala007 @grogusmum @dihra-vesa @graphiteprincessa @luxmundee @missredherring @elinedjarin @gingersnappe-9 @tintinn16 @alpaca-swimsuit @fan-of-encouragement @i-love-movies @the-feckless-wonder @feralhotmess @radiowallet @green-socks @brandyllyn @starlightmornings @sergeantbannerbarnes @lavxndr-lilies @gallowsjoker @menshipsandthesea @knittingqueen13 @mostclevermiss @bison-writes @quietpainter @thirstworldproblemss @ktmadden86 @mstgsmy

If you asked to be tagged in this story and I missed you, apologies! Please shoot me a message and I’ll put you on the list.

#pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar fanfiction #Pero Tovar fanfic #Pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #the great wall fic #css1121 #pt1121 #csspt

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cannedsoupsucks · 4 years ago

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I know very little about TLOU and Joel Miller, but your story gave me a very good sense of what life is like in this post apocalyptic world. The danger, the uncertainty, and the hesitantcy to bond with another person.

That's what makes this part was so special. To be considered someone's family is precious, especially in a time like that when bonds can be a liability.

You never knew what to call your relationship with the man, especially when talking to people that weren’t in your immediate circle. Girlfriend seems too outdated. Partner isn’t … that’s not what this is. And we’re not married, so…

“Family.” He squeezed your hand.

At the end of the story I was left understanding how much they love each other and the need to cleave to each other because they would be apart for so long.

One of the things that I enjoy and appreciate about your writing is how you take us inside the character's head. All of the unspoken thoughts and feelings make the characters very relatable because outward actions don't necessarily match what people are thinking/ feeling.

We’ll Feel It All Tonight

Pairing: Joel Miller (TLOU) x Female Reader

Word Count: 16,313 (I’m …. not sorry but I know it’s excessive)

Rating: Not Safe For Work. This is for adults and adults only. (Language, mentions of past violence, sex.) If you’re familiar with the game’s plot and setting, you know what you’re getting into.

Warnings: Joel Miller is his own goddamn warning. BUT: Canon character death talk, past violence, post-apocalyptic setting, injury, heavy angst

THERE ARE MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD FOR THE LAST OF US (and these likely will also be spoilers for the first season of the show. Continue reading at your own risk.)

Summary: The relative safety of Jackson City has allowed you to establish as ‘normal’ a routine as you can imagine two decades after the outbreak that decimated the world’s population. This means living a life that you hadn’t thought possible - especially with someone like Joel Miller.

But to ensure Jackson’s continued safety and stability, lengthy supply runs are necessary each year before the weather turns. This time, you have to sit back and watch Joel leave… which means finding the right way to send him off.

Author’s note: This story has been a long time coming. When Pedro was announced in the role in February, I SWORE I wouldn’t write for the series, even though I’ve loved the games for YEARS. Why? Because Naughty Dog already told an incredible story and I didn’t want to mess with it. But the more I’ve seen of the behind the scenes stuff… I couldn’t hold back anymore. I love this man too much not to explore what could have been/could be for him in Jackson.

Like the masterlist says, this story (and series) largely follows what the game set up. The outbreak took place in September 2013, ‘present’ day is 2035, reader is roughly 6-7 years younger than a 49-50 year old Joel. NO AGE GAP HERE. Joel’s characterization is based on in-game Joel, with some of Pedro’s mannerisms thrown in for good measure. If you have any questions, concerns or thoughts - PLEASE feel free to reach out.

Many, many thanks to @thepoisonofgod for saving my ass with this beautiful banner - and the ones she made for the other parts of this series, too. They’re gorgeous and she is insanely talented and you should check out her other work!

Spotify Playlist; Suggested listening “Tonight, Tonight” by the Smashing Pumpkins

Enjoy.

It was quiet in the house - but that wasn’t a bad thing. You’d gotten used to the silence; there were more than a few hours each day when the streets of Jackson were almost universally quiet, even with the restored electricity. We all got used to it, you reminded yourself as you carefully made your way through the comfortable living room, the crutch beneath your left arm thumping dully against the wooden floor. And we’re still getting used to all of this again.

Keep reading

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal character #pedrostories #joel miller x female reader #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #tlou fic #pedro pascal is joel miller #cssjm #jm1221 #css1121

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cannedsoupsucks · 4 years ago

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I'm so sad for Snow. Hopefully Pero will say the right things so she'll allow him to be a source of comfort.

The Lonely Castle

Chapter 11 - Hallen

Chapter Summary: Pero struggles to understand his new abilities, while Ember is facing several battles on her own.

Author's Note: Much later than I'd intended, but here it is! And as promised, our idiots are reunited at last, but things are bad in many ways now.

Rating: Mature/Explicit 18+ONLY Warnings: cursing, violence, vengeful hatred, blood, descriptions of torture and wounds and death, murders, allusions to possible rape, angst, grief, loss, death of a secondary character. Word Count: 8479 Masterlist (this story) Author’s Masterlist

Scout was breathing fast and hard, his hooves hitting the ground forcefully with each stride, as he relentlessly pushed his body to the brink of what it could do, in order to outrun the beast that followed them through the shadows. Thankfully, both horses were equally fast and proficient runners, and Luna had no trouble keeping up. But they’d never be able to stick to such a punishing pace for several hours, so if the demon didn’t give up on them, they’d likely not manage to get away from it.

Pero had told her about his first ride with Ash, and how she’d been able to achieve tremendous speeds even through dense parts of the forest, so Ember had expected these beasts to be just as quick, since their physique didn’t seem to have been affected by their ‘deaths’. But this one didn’t appear to be gaining on them, despite its superior size and presumably also strength, so perhaps there was some magic involved in their movements as well. It kept off the road as much as it could, still favouring to keep hidden, even in the dark, which seemed odd, but worked to their advantage, as it further slowed the creature down. Rosa, having never managed to catch more than a glimpse of it since their hasty departure, only knew that something dark and unholy was pursuing them, and yet she was impressively unflinching. But the longer they ran, the more Ember started to feel like something was off about the entire situation. The creature couldn’t know who she was, her scent was still masked, so it wasn’t that surprising that it seemed less frenzied in its pursuit, than she’d previously witnessed. But it was as though it wasn’t even trying to attack them. And if so, the only other explanation for its behaviour, was that it must be herding them. Like a shepherd on the heels of his sheep, it was pushing them forwards along the road, driving them towards Hallen, meaning something must be waiting for them there. It was a risk, but she had to test her theory. She held Scout back, forcing him to a stop, and since they were in the lead, that forced Rosa and Luna to do the same. Both horses snorted and stomped, nervously prancing round on the road, unable to stay still with the knowledge that they were under threat.

“Snow, what are you doing?!”

“Just wait!”

“Wait for what?! Getting eaten?!”

The thing circled them once, and then stopped in the middle of the road, to the south of them, and as Luna turned, Rosa got her first real look at a demon, and she suddenly lost her bearings. Her eyes stayed locked on the thing, no matter what the horse did, as though she was enchanted with the horror she witnessed. This demon was different than the other two Ember had had the chance to study more closely, so its element must be something other than fire or whatever the wolf-thing’s had been. It was hard to tell what colour it might be, under the moonlight, but she would’ve guessed dark grey or possibly green, with strange bony… swords, maybe was the closest description, all over its back and down its tail. Perhaps three feet long, and roughly the width of her hand at their widest, although they were wider at the base and narrowing towards the top, but they didn’t appear to be sharp. And it was bigger than the wolf-thing had been. Almost as big as Ash, but then the things on its back made it appear even bigger. It growled at them, and paced back and forth on the road, and when they still didn’t keep going, it started lounging at them, but never closely enough to actually reach them. It was trying to scare them into moving. It might have had the intended effect on the horses, making them rear up and strike out, before backing away a few steps, but Ember knew that it was all for show. She’d seen how they looked when they were really going after an intended prey, and this was a bleak imitation at best.

“Fuck…!”

The spat-out word made Rosa wake up from her trance, and she was immediately panicking.

“What, what’s happening!? What’s going on? Snow, we gotta go!! What are you waiting for?!”

She screamed the questions in rapid succession, all while trying to keep her horse from bolting, but only just succeeding. Most likely because she herself wanted to go, and the animal could sense it. Whereas Scout did turn nervously, but remained much calmer overall.

“Its trying to push us towards Hallen. Which means that whatever’s waiting for us there, is worse than just one demon on our tail.”

“Worse?? How does it get worse than that!?”

“It doesn’t matter right now. We can’t elbow our way past this thing, so our only choice is to keep going. But we’ll keep it slow, so the horses might still have the strength to fight when we get there.”

“Fight?! I can’t fight, I can’t even swing a sword!”

“Doesn’t matter. Swords don’t hurt these things.”

Rosa tried to argue further, but Ember just spurred Scout into a gallop, and worked on trying to get him to take it slow and save his strength. The sun had begun to make the sky shift colour, ever so slightly, to the west, so if they could keep a lower pace, it would be up before they got to the town, meaning the beast would be forced to remain in the woods until nightfall. With a bit of luck, that might be just enough time for her to free her mother and get out of town before dark. Assuming her mother was even there, and not in Crown Hill. If the others were gathering in Hallen, then the woods would be safer than the streets after dusk.

It was somewhat maddening, trying to keep something as fickle as the wind, tamed enough to hold his course steady, as Pero made his way across the sky. The slightest shift in his focus, and he was hurled to the side, or even backwards, or dropped a hundred feet in no time at all. He surmised that it was probably easier having wings that one could actually manoeuvre and feel as they worked with the air, rather than just being pushed around by it. But it was better than walking, at least. It got dark quicker than he would’ve guessed, and the full moon was the only thing that allowed him to keep going. Navigating wasn’t the issue, as he knew which stars to look for, the problem was seeing how high up he was, so that he could avoid mountains, or even just treetops, that would turn all but invisible without the moon’s light. Eventually, some time after midnight, he was forced to give up and rest, as he was in danger of falling asleep mid-air. Landing turned out to be harder than it might seem too, especially when he was barely even aware of what he was doing, and he managed to get himself stuck in the crown of some kind of giant tree, instead of floating to the ground as intended. He wasn’t harmed in the crash, though, and since he wasn’t bothered enough to try and get down, he just found a spot that would hold him secure, in the event that he moved, and fell asleep up there. In the morning, he woke to the very first rays of sunshine, and quickly got up to get going again, but found himself unable to ignore the rumble in his stomach which was trying to remind him that he hadn’t eaten in two days. The satchel Snow had given him still hung in his belt, and he decided to take the time to eat, remembering that without food he’d soon be rendered useless from weakness. He’d made that mistake in the past, and it had cost him more than one bounty. She’d thrown in pieces of bread with the dried meat and fruit, and the smell brought back that memory by the fire, when he’d tried and failed to express how much she meant to him already. He ate it almost reverently, wondering if he’d ever get the chance to taste it again, or if she’d refuse to be with him anymore, once he found her. If she did, he couldn’t deny her that freedom, as he was the cause for her pain. He’d have to let her go, no matter how impossible it would feel. Though not without a fight. Now more than ever, he regretted the months he’d had by her side, without daring to confess his love for her. The time wasted… Scores of leaves were torn from the tree as he conjured the wind once more, and somehow, it was as though he hadn’t learned anything the day before. It seemed just as hard, despite an entire day of practice. And even with the sun to guide him, the terrain confused him, and he kept second guessing himself about his heading. Additionally, he found that it was hard to recognise anything from above. The woods all looked the same, the hills were impossible to judge the height or shape of, and the rivers and lakes could’ve been any one of a thousand he’d seen in his travels. Therefor he wasn’t overly surprised, but seriously annoyed, to see that he’d veered off course at some point, and found himself looking down on his own castle, all of a sudden.

“Ay, hijo de puta…!”

He was about to turn north, when his eyes registered the state of the building, and something compelled him to drop closer. Ash had said that he’d find Snow in Hallen, but… what if? His head said to keep going, but his heart had to know that she hadn’t perished with the ruins. However irrational, he needed the confirmation that he wasn’t lying to himself, even though he’d trusted Ash not to lie to him. He dropped all the way down to the ground, in front of what had been the stairs leading to the main door, but was now merely rubble. The door had already been broken open by Ash when she’d barged in two days before, and the creatures had apparently not been able to undo the sturdy nine-foot-deep walls, but it seemed they’d wrecked everything else. There was debris scattered all over the surrounding snow-covered lawns. He headed for the basement. The last place he’d known his wife to be. The door had been reduced to splinters, and inside there was an assorted mess of wood, stone, broken items made of leather or steel, that had been stored down there, now turned to distorted or torn junk, barely recognisable for what it had once been. They had paid no mind to the food, since these monsters had no need to eat, but they’d managed to ruin most of it anyway. He found some more bread that was still good, and pieces of meat that the cold had kept fresh, so he wrapped it and put it in his satchel, just in case he’d find himself in need of it. Happily, there was no blood or bodies anywhere, and the staircase to the main hall was still intact, so he went upstairs. The dining room and kitchen had been completely destroyed. Nothing had survived the creatures rampage, not a single window or piece of wood, not even the ceiling. But still no sign of Snow. The staircase to the upper floors was filled with rubble, so he stepped through the main door, and let the wind catch him to lift him up into the pathway between the towers, because all three of them had been wrecked, along with the roof of the castle. He could see straight into the bedroom, and what had once been the beds in which he’d had the best night of his life, now half buried and crushed under rubble and snow. Somehow, it felt as though those memories were being picked apart. As though some unknown entity was trying to erase their union, as if it was ugly or unnatural or sinful in some way, when in truth, it had been only beautiful. And that feeling, even though it existed only in his own heart and mind, made him absolutely furious. The ground shook underneath the castle, making the ice on the lake crack open, and water cascade into the air, where a suddenly whipping wind caught it and turned it into snow, and through those simple and natural reactions, Pero could finally feel how he was connected to it all. How his body knew the earth beneath him like the veins of his own blood, how his soul was connected to the water, as though his reflection in its mirroring surface, was actually inside of it somehow. His mind was the wind, trying to go everywhere as quickly as the other elements would allow, and kicking up a storm every time it met resistance. And the fire most assuredly lived within his heart, a quiet glow whenever the remaining elements were still, but a roaring flame as soon as they weren’t. They weren’t powers so much as extensions of his being, that had been linked to the forces of the earth by some unseen string, and now that he understood that, he also realised that managing them wasn’t about controlling them, but about understanding himself. And the one thing he knew most clearly about himself in that moment; was that his heart was in Hallen. He took to the skies again, this time flying straight as an arrow, due northwest, faster even than Ash had been able to push her wings to take her.

Ember and Rosa reached the trading town without being attacked, despite keeping a controlled pace, that saw them enter the settlement well after sunrise, forcing the beast into the shadows long before they reached their destination. Neither woman spoke again for the duration of their journey, taking turns keeping a watchful eye on their pursuer, as they advanced on the town. The horses had settled down once the monster was no longer behind them, and trotted calmly through the streets. But their fur was curly with dried sweat after their sprint in the night, and they’d need to be cleaned to avoid getting chafes or terrible itches that would distract them. Fortunately, Rosa really did have a favourable eye from most everyone in town, it seemed. They were still in the outskirts of the settlement, when people started calling out greetings, using only her first name with no Miss, Mrs, or other designation, even though her status would ordinarily have made such a thing improper. So, when they stopped at an unassuming house about halfway along the streets into the center of town, Ember wasn’t surprised to see her hug the woman that emerged from the cosy-looking structure.

“Hello, Katerina.”

“So good to see you again, Rosa. Is it time?”

“Yes. Will you tend to the horses for us?”

“Of course, my son will be delighted to care for them. He loves horses, but so rarely gets the chance to actually tend to them.”

“Thank you. They belong to Miss Ember now, so make sure they’re fit for sale if she so desires.”

“Certainly.”

Katerina nodded at Ember, who was a bit surprised to hear someone from her old life refer to her by her given name, but quickly smiled and nodded in return, to the kind woman. Rosa was eager to get going though, especially now, when she was even beginning to question her own sanity, after meeting a creature of the dark.

“Are the boats still ready?”

“Everything’s been kept prepared, just as you asked.”

“Good. Then this is goodbye.”

The women hugged once more, holding on to each other for a good long moment.

“Safe travels, my friend. May the winds be kind to you.”

“Thank you for everything, Katerina.”

They parted, and the woman called for her son, a teenage boy who came and took the horses with practiced hands, even though he’d apparently been denied such company with any regularity. Suggesting he was likely the kind of boy that would sneak into stables to pet and groom the animals he so clearly cherished. His smile was radiant at the mere prospect of caring for two such prime specimens. But once he was out of earshot, Ember stepped closer to the woman.

“Listen to me carefully; you need to take the horses and go. Leave Hallen, today. Pack only what provisions you’ll need to survive on the road, and head south. As far as you can, don’t stop at the nearest village or town, keep going until the road ends, do you understand?”

The woman looked befuddled, eyes darting from Ember’s dark and serious ones, to Rosa’s confused but also terrified expression.

“But… why?”

“Because something horrible comes this way. A darkness that will destroy everything in its path, and there’s no stopping it. I know how this sounds, but please believe me. These horses weren’t pushed into such a state by our heels, they were fleeing for their lives. And what was chasing them is already here. It will attack by nightfall. Please… go!”

Katerina looked at Rosa once more, and when she saw that her friend’s expression had shifted from fear to desperation, she realised that something really was wrong, and nodded at Ember, before running back inside her house. Ember didn’t wait to find out if she really was going to pack, she had troubles of her own to tend to.

“Will you be alright now, Rosa? You do seem to have everything figured out.”

“Everything except… Snow… I have so many friends here, and most of them wouldn’t just up and leave their lives for my asking, even if I had the time to go round and warn them. Not that they’d even believe me if I tried to tell them we were chased by… Gods above, what was that thing, anyway?”

“I’m not really sure. I just know it’s evil, and that their kind have their eye set on Hallen right now, for reasons I don’t even dare to speculate. This place is doomed, there’s no saving it, no matter how many doors you might knock on, so just get yourself as far from here as possible.”

The woman sighed unhappily, and looked at her own feet for a few beats.

“Are you still going after your mother?”

“What else can I do? She’s quite possibly all I have. What should I live for, if not her?”

Rosa looked up again, and tilted her head to the side, a peculiar look crossing her face, as though Ember was missing something obvious, but then it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

“Well then, unless they took her up to the fortress at Crown Hill, they’ll be keeping her in the brig in the Constable’s office. Do you know where it is?”

“Yeah, I remember father pointing it out to me when I was here as a kid. He said I should always endeavour to avoid setting foot in there.”

“Wise man indeed.”

“Indeed. Take care of yourself, Rosa.”

“And you, Snow. Thank you for getting me here.”

She darted off towards the harbour, hopefully to never be seen in these parts of the land again, and Ember set off for the heart of the town; the marketplace at the central square, where the Constable’s office would be on full display where it stood, towering over all other buildings surrounding the open area. Thankfully, her cloak was big and heavy enough to effectively conceal her bow and quiver, provided she carried them in her hand, and not on her back, but on the other hand, it was fine enough to also draw unhelpful attention. The streets were fairly lively, courtesy of the mild and sunny weather, and the market was still largely busy during winter, because even though there were no crops to be sold, meat was still a valued commodity, so hunters from all around came to sell or barter their spoils. Pelts too, were highly sought-after goods in the colder months, and the trading of livestock never seized, regardless of season, as animals often fell ill, or just unexpectedly died, needing to be replaced. She wasn’t concerned with the larger population possibly recognising her, as her face wouldn’t be familiar to people there. Also, these traders tended to see the benefit of not being a tell-tale, which was generally bad business. She hadn’t set foot there in a very long time, and it was unlikely that she’d happen to run in to someone from Boden on random. She assumed that her name had been spread far and wide, undoubtedly accompanied by some horrifying tale of deception against the Crown and conspiracies a plenty. But should she need to identify herself, her other name was likely to keep her rather anonymous, as it was something only her own towns-folk had taken to calling her. And she could always use Pero’s last name, since it was technically now hers too, provided he was alive and that they were still together, neither of which she could say with any confidence. What she did worry about was turning a corner and running head-first into Guardsmen. They’d used her father’s services enough times that she’d met scores of them at this point, meaning that if she was unlucky, she might find herself staring at a familiar face, which would surely get her arrested. Something to consider, should she not be able to locate her mother. Because there was every chance whatever jail they’d take Ember to, her mother might be there as well. She made her way through the streets, trying not to rush or draw attention to herself. Until she reached the square, where she perused around, feigning interest in the odd market-stand, fending off admirers of her cloak while stealing unassuming glances at the Constable’s office, now and then. It wasn’t guarded on the outside, and the bottom floor windows were covered with drapes. The Constable himself worked on the second floor, the only building in town to have more than one, and his windows were clear enough that she could detect movement up there, meaning he was likely working today. Slowly moving closer, she examined her options. She could simply barge in, and attempt to rush through the structure in a heedless search that might very well not amount to anything, other than getting herself arrested. She knew nothing of the internal layout of the house, nor where the guards might be. On the other hand, if she waited to try and learn about their routines, or happen to see the majority of them leave for some reason, it might turn out to be too late, as she felt absolutely certain that the demons would attack the town by nightfall. There was no other choice; she’d have to just walk in, and hope that not every single one of them was currently mulling about in there. She moved up close to the north corner of the house, trying to look like she was just resting, leaned against the wall. But just as she’d made up her mind, and started closing in on the front door from the side, someone yelled from across the square.

“Fire! There’s a fire in the harbour!”

A smile spread across her face, as she listened to the town react, and the warning spread through the market, getting louder as it went. Because she knew that it was Rosa, bidding farewell to this part of the world, and probably figuring that Ember could use a distraction of some sort, regardless of what she was up to. She spared a thought of well wishes for the woman, now and forever-more cemented in her heart as a friend, rather than a meaningless childhood relationship. And then the door to the Constables office flew open, and two dozen soldiers poured out into the square, running towards the harbour without so much as a sideways glance, closely followed by the somewhat rotund, and thus much slower, Constable himself. She breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn’t merely charged the building the moment she got to it, as that many Guardsmen would’ve made for an impenetrable wall between her and any prisoner they might be keeping. As soon as she was certain that all attention was aimed elsewhere, she snuck inside and quickly closed the door behind her. Inside it was warm, and stuffy in that way that many people in a small space usually feels. There was a long hallway, with three doors on either side, and one straight ahead on the very end. Most of the doors along the hall stood open, where the men had rushed out, and she could see trays of food, and fireplaces alight in some of them. But she only needed one glance to know that the furthest door was where she needed to go, because there was a lock on that one, unlike all the others. It was just a wooden bar, placed in holders against the door, which opened outwards into the hall, which was lucky. Had it been a steel lock, she might not have been able to get in quickly, or silently. She lifted the heavy bar out of the way, and opened the door, finding herself in a larger room, with four cells, two on each side. And these were steel, with proper locks too. But she only registered that secondarily, because the first thing that came to her mind, was that one of the cells was occupied, and that it was a woman. That was as much as she could make out initially, as the woman was curled up in a corner, her head resting on her knees, and her arms hidden behind them for warmth. This room was furthest from all the fireplaces, and right up against the backwall of the house, where the cold winter air seeped in through the cracks. There was no bed, or even a blanket in any of the cells, just a bucket for collecting bodily excretions, and that was it. She kneeled outside the bars of the occupied cell, right in front of the woman, letting her weapon down on the floor beside her.

“Ethedred? Is that you?”

The woman moved, slowly lifting her head, and Ember nearly screamed out in pain as she barely even recognised her mother, she was so badly beaten. Bruises as black as dead flesh covered the entire left side of her face, and she was swollen and cut over the cheek and forehead. Her arms came into view as she reached towards Ember’s outstretched hands, scarcely believing her eyes, and needing the confirmation of her touch to know that her daughter really was there. Tears streamed freely down Ember’s cheeks as she saw the angry red marks of whiplashes on her arms, having cut through her clothes with how hard they’d been delivered, and she knew without seeing it, that her back would be covered in them as well. She tried not to consider what the tears in her skirts could mean, but her mind went there anyway.

“Oh, mother… what have they done to you?”

She didn’t reply at first, she just kept stroking Ember’s arms and hands, leaning her head against the cold bars, straining her eyes, as if she struggled to see and needed to be close to make her out.

“My baby, you made it. I’ve prayed to the stars every day for you.”

Her voice was frail and broken from screaming, but despite the damage to her face, no doubt full of broken bones, the older woman still managed to smile, and it broke Ember’s heart to see that kind of warmth from her in that situation.

“I’m here to set you free, mama. I just need to figure out this lock…”

She tried to hold back the sobs that pushed at the back of her throat, but didn’t quite succeed, as she attempted to reach for the steel padlock, but her mother wouldn’t let go of her hands.

“No, my darling. You need to go.”

“Absolutely not! I’m not leaving you with these barbarians!”

She tried to break out of her mother’s grasp, but the woman had her in a vice, and she was unwilling to risk further harm to the woman’s starved and frail body.

“Listen to me now, child; I told you the night you left, never to come back, and you shouldn’t have. They only keep me alive to bait you…”

“I know that, and I don’t care! You can’t ask me to abandon you again, not after he-…”

She cut herself off when the pain suddenly, impossibly, doubled inside her chest, and she had to let her head fall, though she was unsure if it was defeat or sorrow that made it so unbearably heavy.

“Pero? Does he still care for you? Has he kept his promise?”

It took more effort than it should, simply to shake her head.

“He… left me…”

Ember lifted her gaze, only now finding her mother in tears, as she tried to put the pieces together.

“I thought he was a good man… I looked into his eyes and I saw a man that was broken, but looking to be made whole. And he already had a favourable eye for you. I thought he would move heaven and earth…”

“He did, mama. He is a good man. What’s happened to us… it’s not his fault, although I tell myself it is, so that I might be able to hate him one day, should he never return.”

“What do you mean by that, Em? What’s happened to you?”

That reminded her that there were two threats bearing down on them.

“There isn’t time, we have to go…”

“In all your years on this earth, I have never seen you frightened to the bone. Not even when I sent you away. You’ve always kept your head, always known how to keep your heart free from the weight of true fear, as well as love. Yet, here you are, trembling. Tell me what haunts you.”

She wanted to tell her mother everything. Every thought, every memory, every moment from the past four months, but most of all, she just wanted to be a little girl again, so that she could once more pull on her mother’s skirts and ask for a hug. Just one more time. But those days were gone and lost, and everything she’d once been able to lean on, was no longer there. Ember was haunted. But not just by darkness; by loneliness as well. All her life she’d been an outcast in her own society, loved and cared for only by three people in all the world, all of whom had been lost. And in her heart, she knew that even though she had her mother’s hands in her own right now, she wouldn’t get to keep them. She willed the tears to stop, and the trembling faded away. A softness found its way to her eyes, as she looked upon her mother, choosing not to see the bruises anymore, but the radiant and stoic and clever woman whom she had been raised by.

“Nothing powerful enough to destroy me. Now, I’m gonna pry this lock open, and you’re gonna let me get you out of here, do you hear me?”

The older woman sighed lightly, lowering her head and shaking it slowly, while Ember pried her hands free and got up to start looking around for something to use to release the spring inside the lock.

“No, sweetheart. My purpose is already fulfilled, and while I am eternally grateful to have been given the chance to see you again, our time together ended that night. My time is passed, and I won’t allow you to perish trying to save what is already lost.”

The way she spoke, with such resolution and conviction, made Ember feel as though she’d missed something. That her mother knew something she didn’t.

“W-what do you mean?”

She returned to the bars, sitting back down on her knees and reaching for Ethedred’s hands once more. But the older woman only took her right one with her left. With the other, she reached into Ember’s coat, and the younger woman realised too late what it was that she was after.

“Mama, no…!”

Her mother found the dagger she’d concealed there and snatched it from her daughter, as quickly as a striking serpent, before letting her go and shuffling herself backwards, out of Ember’s reach.

“No, what are you doing?? Mama… mama, don’t… please.”

“Whatever it is that has you so frightened, know that I will always believe in you. And thank you, my darling, for letting me know that you survived. It gives me the closure I need… so that I can finally let go.”

Without a hint of hesitation, she plunged the blade into the middle of her own stomach, burying it all the way to the hilt.

“No!! Wha-… why…? No, no, no, please…”

The older woman slowly lowered herself onto her side on the floor, showing no trace of pain in her features. Only peace. And there was a small part of Ember which hated her for that.

“Don’t leave me… not you too… please, mother…”

Her breaths slowed, getting increasingly strained, as life drained from her body with every ounce of the blood which poured so effortlessly from around the blade.

“…go… fight… live……… love…”

Her eyes stilled, staring right at her daughter as the light left them. Ember held on to the steel bars as though they could somehow hold her together, a strange desperation keeping her frozen to that spot, and those eyes, already so unnatural. So cold. She was now truly alone, and a darkness of her own was trying to fill her mind with the most horrendous thoughts, even now, only seconds after her mother had left this life. Why even try to hold herself together? What for? There was nothing more to fight for, no reason to do anything at all. Even her own mother had chosen to die rather than take a risk, and have a chance to be with her. She was unwanted, unlovable and horrible, a freak and a monster. This was her fault. Her own lies and deceit had led to all the tragedies of late, and she had none other to blame. When the door to the house suddenly fell open, and soldiers began to walk inside, stopping just inside the threshold as they registered that the door which was supposed to be barred shut, stood open and that there was a trespasser behind it, the darkness inside of her seemed to flip, and suddenly it wasn’t directed at herself anymore. In a single heartbeat, she’d unclasped the cloak, picked up her bow and swung the quiver to her back. Her arrows flew without mercy, burying themselves in brains, necks, lungs and hearts, while she got to her feet and started advancing through the hall, towards the front door. She wanted all of them to die at the skills of her father’s craft, the skills men had decided was only theirs to know, for no reason beyond their own egos, but which had cost her family everything. She wanted to honour Alard Fletcher’s faith in his one and only daughter, by not letting these men get away with their barbaric treatment of his beloved wife. When they gave up trying to get in, she drew her arrows from the five already fallen bodies inside the hall, and stole a sword which she strapped to her belt, while she listened to the remaining forces as they closed ranks in the small open area between the office and the now quiet market. She crossed the threshold and stopped at the top of the two stone steps that led to the door. There were another three bodies strewn around the ground closest to the steps. She couldn’t care less. There were another twenty men staring at her from the half-ass ranks they’d scraped together. It didn’t matter. These men had expended their time upon this earth, the moment they laid hands on her mother. It made no difference if all of them had, or only a few, they’d all known what had been done to the Fletcher’s wife, and therefor they were all equally guilty. There were no bowmen staring back at her. Their mistake. Her arrows felled another eight men before anyone got close enough to pose a threat, at which point she dropped the bow, drew the sword, and despite having no previous training, managed to both evade their strikes, and land several of her own. Perhaps because she wasn’t trying to hit them. At least, not the way that swordsmen usually did. Instead, she danced her way through them, letting the memories of her mother’s lessons flood her mind as she twirled and stepped, swung her arms and twisted her body like a snake, guided by nothing but her own blinding rage and pure instincts. But it only worked for a while, and when there were still five men left to bring down, they finally managed to disarm her. A deep cut to her lower arm made her drop the weapon, and within moments, they had her on her knees in the snow. Loud voices screamed and barked, but if they spoke with words, she never heard a single one. She was waiting. Preparing. How peculiar that the rage could make it so simple to stay calm, and school herself to regain focus and strength. Two men held her by the arms, keeping them stretched out from her sides, while they stood close, so that they could each keep a hand on her shoulder, and because she was on her knees, that put her elbows in the perfect position. She waited until the

remaining three were in front of her, and then she shoved her elbows backwards, as hard as she could, hitting their sensitive groins, prompting them to involuntarily release their grip on her. Once free, she instantly reached for the nearest sword on the ground, swinging it upwards blindly as she felt, more than saw, one of the three in front coming at her. She managed to lodge the sword between his ribs on his right side, and he fell down slowly, staring at her as though she was a witch. Perhaps she actually was. It wouldn’t have surprised her to learn as much, at this point. The remaining four seemed to agree with that assessment, as they nervously glanced at each other, holding their swords out towards her but backing away, while she slowly advanced on them. But eventually they stopped; challenging her. So, she stopped too; inviting them. All four charged as one, but she only managed to bring down three, before the last of them, probably the smallest of them all, shorter even than Ember herself, suddenly had his blade at her throat. Had he been behind her, she could’ve mortally wounded him before he could slice her throat open, but he was in front of her, well out of her reach. Fury burned her stomach and lungs, because against all odds, she’d defeated the entire garrison, only to have one small man stand in the way of her vengeance. His previously uncertain and even frightened expression was replaced by smugness the moment he knew that he’d beaten her, and it only enraged her further.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill you. We burn witches in this town.”

His smile grew as he clearly enjoyed his own wittiness, but it quickly vanished when a powerful gust of wind seemed to fall just over Ember’s shoulder, pushing her a step to the right, while it hit the soldier with tremendous force, sending him hurtling backwards into a market-stand. As though he weighed little more than a leaf, Pero was suddenly floating down from the sky, landing softly in a flurry of snow kicked up by the strange wind, with his back to the mayhem she’d caused, and his eyes firmly holding hers. Her heart swelled at the mere sight of him, and her already heated blood, turned into an excited fire in her abdomen.

“Mi Sueño…”

Oh, god… how had she already forgotten the power of that voice? But then the fury returned as the memories of their last encounter did, and she felt her face harden and something corrosive take hold of her insides. She shifted her focus back to the soldier, whom was just crawling out of the remnants of the stand, no longer armed, or smug. Realising that he was well out of his league now, he took off running across the square, while Ember calmly retrieved her bow, snatched an arrow from a nearby corpse, set it against the string and waited for her target to emerge where she knew he would, in a narrow space between a small tent and a large cart. The arrow landed exactly as she’d envisioned, burying itself behind his right ear, and he was dead even before he crashed to the ground, around two-hundred paces away. Some of the rage settled down, knowing that vengeance had been achieved, but an altogether different anger had awoken at the sight of her partner, and that one wouldn’t be quite so easily quelled.

Pero didn’t know how anything could ever offer greater relief, than seeing his beloved again. Even in her rage she was glorious, formidable and almost unstoppable as she relentlessly pursued her targets, even after they’d thought her defeated. He’d arrived in Hallen just as the blood-curdling screams had erupted at the marketplace, and when he’d carefully landed on the roof of the Constable’s office, he’d been just in time to see Snow as she’d danced her way through the charging garrison, and he’d been too mesmerised to intervene. Even when she was brought to her knees, and he’d been about to break the very ground underneath her enemies, she’d found a way to keep fighting. He had no idea why these Guardsmen had become her quarry, but he didn’t care. He was a trained and experienced killer, and even though he’d opted to pursue a different life after losing William, that was still the person he was. And if he’d been largely indifferent to the lives that had fallen at his blades before, he was entirely unbothered by those that fell in the service of protecting the only thing in the whole world that was dear to him. But he also knew that anyone so consumed with rage wouldn’t take kindly to someone meddling with their fight, even if it was someone that they (hopefully) cared for, so he’d only intervened when she’d already been bested. He’d imagined a dozen different reactions from her, upon seeing him again, but somehow it was still nothing like anything he’d managed to conjure in his mind. More than anything, he was surprised by her silence. Once the last man had been rendered lifeless, she turned her attention to the Constable, whom had been standing pressed against the outside wall of his own office, during the entire altercation, staring in absolute shock at the mayhem which had befallen his vibrant town. And while her movements as she approached him, may have been deceptively calm and controlled, her eyes betrayed the depth of her anger, and her voice even more so.

“Where’s the key?”

The man stared at her as though she was the devil walking among them, but was otherwise completely paralysed, even to the point of speechlessness. Having no patience at the time, Snow punched him hard in the abdomen, and he doubled over before hitting the ground heavily, laying on his side and gasping for air, squirming against the pain, while she rummaged through his pockets until she found what she was looking for. But while she was still leaned over him, Pero could hear her low and dark voice spit a few words into his ear, between gritted teeth.

“Did you lay a hand on her?”

The Constable vehemently shook his head, closing his eyes tightly, and keeping his face turned away from her, as if he thought that he could pretend she wasn’t there if he just couldn’t see her. For whatever reason, she decided to spare the man, and walked into his office instead. Pero followed, drawing her arrows out of the bodies he passed, each one having landed in perfect killing positions, instantly rendering her foes unable to fight, so that she needn’t waste any extra time or energy on making sure they were dead, before proceeding to the next target. She was a frighteningly efficient killer, and he wondered if this perhaps wasn’t the first time that she’d turned her skills against men. He found her in the room furthest from the door, cradling a lifeless body that took him too long to recognise, considering she was the one that had set Snow on the path which had led to their relationship. One of his own daggers sat buried in Ethedred’s chest, and from the overall state of the woman, he could guess the rest, and his heart sank. This brave mother, sacrificing herself to keep her daughter safe, only to end up tortured and used as bait, for the same daughter to be snared and imprisoned and likely tortured too, had chosen to end her life as perhaps the only way to keep Snow from getting herself captured. But her actions had set a fire to her daughter’s heart that would not be lessened, even with vengeance served. Snow would forever feel responsible for this outcome, and it broke Pero’s heart to know that there was nothing he could do to ease her suffering.

“I can carry her for you, Nieve.”

He knew better than to approach her without invitation, so he remained by the door to the cell while he waited for her reply. But it didn’t come. She stayed there, holding her mother to her chest, and huddling herself protectively over the body.

“I’m sorry, my love, but we can’t remain here. The sun is setting, and reinforcements will be here by morning.”

“It’s too late, either way.”

The rage was still there, but layered with grief and longing now too. Her words didn’t make sense to him, though.

“What do you mean by that?”

“The others are gathering here. They’ve been herding people towards town. There won’t be anything left of Hallen by morning.”

Heaps of questions gathered in his thoughts upon hearing that, but he had to ignore them all for now. If her prediction was accurate, they were in danger, and time was running out. He stepped inside, and picked up Ethedred, ignoring Snow’s furious protests as he turned towards the back wall, and used a combination of wind and earth, to shake and blow the wall out of the house. She fell silent with the sheer incredibility of what her eyes were seeing, particularly when he stepped outside and didn’t hit the ground, three feet lower down, but hovered at the same level as the floor, when the wind picked him up at his direction. He let go of Ethedred, and she too remained suspended in the air. He held a hand out to Snow.

“The wind will carry us to safety. Just step out, and I’ll catch you.”

She hesitated, but then people appeared further down the alley behind the house, starting to scream and cause a racket when they saw a man hanging in mid-air. She snatched the cloak from the floor before taking his hand, and stepped outside, gasping involuntarily at the strange sensation, before he wrapped his arms around her, and took all three of them high into the sky, heading out of the city. Perhaps he rightly should care what might happen to Hallen in his absence that night, but he didn’t yet know how to fight an entire army of demons by himself. Not to mention that Snow might chose to ignore any danger and join the fight, even though she couldn’t defeat demons, and he wasn’t willing to risk that by bringing her along, any more than he was prepared to leave her side when he was finally with her again. There was a lot that needed to be cleared up between them, and even though the destruction of an entire town might take place while they did that, it had to be done. Because he’d never be able to focus on fighting with powers he’d only just learned how to tap in to, if his heart was in turmoil. He needed to know, either way, if she was still his. If she was, her love would carry him through any battle, and if she wasn’t, his pain would make him deadlier than ever before. He brought them to a cliff on Dreamer’s Peak, carefully setting Ethedred’s body down on her back, before letting Snow land softly right next to her, while he set himself down some ten paces away. Snow kneeled next to her mother, kissing her forehead and mumbling something to her, before she got up, turned, and came at Pero with eyes turned black with anger, hurt and sadness.

“You have until the full moon rises. One evening to explain what the fuck is going on, and to convince me that you’re still worthy of my heart and my life.”

He didn’t doubt her sincerity for a moment. And he welcomed it, because her words told him that she still loved him, and that she might be able to forgive him. Taking a deep breath, and bracing himself for what he was certain would be a tumultuous conversation, he identified three paths to take, to kick things off, and quickly chose the one he felt was most relevant in that moment.

“Ash is dead. And the last thing she did before she died, was give me control over all four elements, which is why I can fly, shake the very ground you walk on, flood any river or lake I please, and walk through fire without getting burned.”

Her expression didn’t change at all, for a long moment, while she presumably weighed his words and tried to decide if she believed him at all. Pero could hardly breathe as he tensely awaited her judgement. And she made him wait for it alright, but eventually she crossed her arms over her waist, and nodded sharply.

“I’m listening.”

*************** Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

@sarahjkl82-blog @marydjarin @idreamofboobear @agingerindenial @tiffanyleen @hounding-around @tobealostwanderer @deadhumourist @toomanystoriessolittletime @tintinn16 @nolanell @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @dihra-vesa @feminist-violinist @lowlights

#the lonely castle fic #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar fic #pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar x female character #the great wall fanfiction #the great wall #fantasy #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #csspt #pt1121 #css1121

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cannedsoupsucks · 4 years ago

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Oh this is so good! I just want to melt into Boba.

for nights like this

boba fett x f!reader

18+ only, rating: mature, love & intimacy, implied soft adult content ✨

'grasp me tight

and feel you

break my skin;

for nights like this,

I'd burn forever...'

It's the way nightfall in the desert breathes its shade of darkness deep inside the room, falling amidst the chill of sand and stone horizons that makes you lean in closer; a found comfort shared between limbs and hands, slotted over with your Bounty Hunter.

The flat of your palms, glide against his bare skin, tracing all that's cast against his soft and waiting middle; a plush waist welling with the heightened essence of your heat, encased there by a tender want and thrumming sort of stillness.

"Look at me."

He says this, quietly commanding as your pretty mouth falls open, and you stare idly upon him because it's a chance to see him vulnerable, distracted; hips hard and flush in their unfolding, devoid of all that's otherwise made to be hidden.

Leaning into his punishing, slowing rhythm, there you are, entangled together just as his whisper latches onto to the skin beneath your ear.

"Just like this, princess."

You like the way it feels to have his arms and words wrapping themselves tightly there around you, heeding to your pull, and the last remains of tension collapsing there beneath you.

So protective, he's afraid that you'll go when this is over, even when your eyes succumb to tiredly slipping; tinted lovingly by a sensual comfort you've been giving to him, where stolen gasps of air brush past his lips, so emboldened with how you've endlessly captured them.

"Stay with me, please…"

When he hums into your mouth, inviting the eager circle of his tongue inside it, all you can think of in those languid moments is just how much you want something like this; for as long as you possibly can, entwined, no longer lost, hoping.

A protector whose affection here is nothing but a silent keepsake to be held onto, one that will last past this night's enraptured end; a deep surrender of more heartfelt vision committed to his mind; a reminder for his dreams when disappearing loneliness threatens to overcome him.

"You have my word, little one."

Taking kindly to his neck, your hands thread themselves bare around something and nothing there at all; reaching for him amidst a breathless wind of arching; promises made with your touch, infinitely falling away with the covers, from the pliant curves of your form.

It makes sense to him, more than he's ever known; a writhing silhouette to call just his, one he now so swiftly takes over for...

A luminous being who unravels sweetly there with him, marking slanted kisses to his neck where he hopes to come apart long enough, to trace over you with his own…

An impassioned dragging of light he finds each time you step inside a newly drawn out memory; a touch whispered with forever, such an intense and breathtaking luxury.

He can't help getting used to it.

"Let go."

And you do.

… ❤

a/n -- wrote this after watching something last night, & have been so nervous to post 🌸 also inspired by a song I was listening to at the time, bleed together by matt lange. part of the lyrics are at the beginning. would love to know what you think. thanks so much for reading. xo 💫

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #the mandalorian #boba fett smut #boba fett x f!reader #cssbf #bf1121 #css1121

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cannedsoupsucks · 4 years ago

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This is so soft and comforting 💗

Entangled: Young!Ezra x F!ShipCaptain!Reader

A/n: Short little interlude because I miss them. Takes place in the Egret AU. After Fairy Tale of Puggart Bench but can stand alone. Reader is the captain of the Egret. Ezra is junior most crew. Takes place well before the events of Prospect. Super self-indulgent because I am Old and having trouble with various parts of my body deciding to randomly hurt. Also, I’ve been struggling with some insecurity as I age, so yes. Self-indulgence at it’s finest.

Warnings: Sexual language. Implied sex. May-december relationship. Age gap. Body insecurity, age, weight, etc. A little bit of angst and self-doubt but mostly soft. Young!Ez needs his own warning.

“Here?” “Yeah. Right there.” “Right here?” “Oh Kevva–” “Stop squirming,” says Ezra. “I told you to stay still.” “You. Are. A fucking menace.” “Mmmmm-” He hums against that tender place behind your ear. His fingers dig into you. “Kevva, how are you so tight?” Those strong hands, those strong clever fingers press and you cry out, a sound of pleasure and pain. Digging, twisting and then soothing.

Keep reading

#ezra (prospect) x f!reader #css1121 #cssep #ep1121

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cannedsoupsucks · 4 years ago

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I remember reading the previous version and I'm so excited to see it being retooled for Jack! Can you add me to the tag list please?

Jack Daniels: Contractual Obligations (Redux), Prologue

WC: 2622

Other Pieces: This is part of a planned mini-series.

CW: Talk of sex work, but no smut. 18+ only.

CN: If this looks familiar, it is - I'm self-plagerizing a fully-written/half-published piece for a different character. Consider the first iteration a junked car that I'm stripping for parts.

________________

It’s Brooke’s fault that Jack Daniels falls into your orbit.

Brooke is married to Charles, and Charles owns a series of trendy bars across Manhattan and Brooklyn. It’s necessary, the regular dinner parties with Charles and Brooke. Keeps the skids greased, keeps Statemen whiskey featured at a nice markup in those trendy bars. Jack would rather eschew these dinner parties, but he considers it work and puts on his most charming persona accordingly.

Which doesn’t mean he enjoys these dinners. Not at all. Charles knows him as Jack Daniels, senior executive at the Statemen distillery. Converses with him accordingly – boring talk about restaurant margins and rising real estate prices and proposed legislation around foie gras. Of course, Charles has no clue about Jack’s double life as a secret agent with a secret organization that keeps chaos from the door of the country.

Sometimes, though, the business talk falls away, and Jack becomes the preferred topic of conversation.

Tonight, after overelaborate plates of sea bass and tomato foam, Brooke swivels her head and fixes her eyes on Jack. She makes a comment about how it’s nearly impossible to find a spare woman to round out the numbers when Jack comes to dinner.

He turns on the charm, dials up the southern drawl. “Well, darlin’,” he replies. “Guess you’re enough woman for Charles and all of us bachelors.”

It makes her slap him playfully with the back of her hand, an oh, you rascal sort of gesture.

“You need a girlfriend,” she tells him. “A good woman to hold you down.”

Of all of the problems Jack has with women, being held down isn’t one of them. The women who pass through his life are almost all willing to stick around with him. Make an honest man of him, hold him down. Jack always has hope at the beginning of each nascent relationship that this woman will be the one, but it never turns out that way. No one can seem to fill the gaping hole left when his wife and unborn son died, and Jack always ends up cutting those women loose, in the end.

He does it kindly. He’s not a monster, after all. They are all lovely women. But that great gulf of grief….it’s like coastal shelf right in the center of his chest, a chasm of sorrow.

Charles snorts at his wife’s comment. “Finally run through all the available women in the five boroughs, Daniels?”

Jack grins at the comment, and he lets his reputation speak for him. His reputation is half truth, half bullshit. Sure, his bed oftentimes has a woman in it. Just as often that he sleeps alone.

“Maybe you should get yourself a sugar baby,” Charles continues. It earns him a playful slap from his wife, but his face gets a thoughtful cast as he keeps talking.

“No, I’m serious. Think about it. You need someone reliable for Statesmen events. Someone to keep you company. Instead of spending money wining and dining women with short shelf-lives, just invest in a sugar baby.”

It makes Jack’s smile slip. He says nothing. He hates the term sugar baby. It makes him think of…well, sugar babies. Squeaky-voiced barely-legal young women, mincing around in skimpy hot pink clothing, tottering on platform heels, pressing their overinflated fake tits against his arm as he wheels them around Statesmen social functions.

“How does one even find a sugar baby?” ask one of the other women at the table. Her husband supplies the answer (“there’s websites”) which earns him a glare and probably a fight once they get home.

Then the subject shifts onto the boring topic of the mayoral race, and Jack breaths a sigh of relief and counts the passing minutes until he can politely take his leave.

After he says his goodbyes, in the entryway of the home, Jack pauses to pull on his overcoat, to wind his scarf around his neck. A man from the dinner – some coworker of Charles – joins him, pulling on his own winter wear. Jack gives him a nod, receives a nod in return. The man clears his throat after a moment and spoke.

“Don’t go onto those websites,” he says, and it takes Jack a moment to get up to speed.

The man adds, “most of the women on those sites are flat-out grifters” and Jack is yanked back into the painful sugar babies discussion.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jack replies dryly.

The man gives him an appraising look, then sighs and reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his wallet and a business card, and he hands it to Jack.

“I know someone,” he says. “If you’re interested.”

-----

Jack is not interested.

Jack is also not not interested.

A week passes, and then a month. Late one night, he peruses a few websites for sugar babies, and his suspicions are confirmed. They all look outrageously young, and Jack is certain there are women – girls – on the websites lying about their age. It makes him cringe in preemptive shame, and he closes the browser and purges his search history.

It’s another month of Jack playing with that business card. Pulls it out of his wallet, runs his thumb over the edges until they go soft and rounded.

Another month before he breaks down and calls.

It isn’t the sugar baby he calls. The business card belongs to the man from the dinner party, a man named Richard. Jack sets up lunch to get more information. It’s stupid. Maddening, but his interest is piqued and has never waned, even after a few months.

Over lunch in midtown, Jack and Richard exchange awkward small talk. It isn’t until the plates are bussed away and they are each nursing a coffee that the conversation turns to the topic at hand: the someone that Richard knows.

You.

“I’m not even sure if she’s available for a new client,” Richard says as they settle the check. “But if you want her contact information, I can give it to you.

Jack sighs, but then he nods. By the time he is back in his office, he has your phone number securely tucked away in his breast pocket.

-----

It takes another month to finally work up the courage to call you. He takes a mission overseas, and the thought is always in the back of his mind, the weight of your number taunting him. The entire maddening enterprise started in November, at that stupid dinner party. By the time Jack meets you, it is almost spring.

You are polite and frustratingly noncommittal on the phone when he calls. You only stay on the line long enough to get his name and to set up a meeting at a coffee shop. Which is where he finds himself now.

He gets there early. He has to wait. He isn’t nervous, exactly, but his heart does seem to thump a little harder in his chest. His pulse echoes in his inner ear like faraway thunder.

You look so normal that he almost misses you. Jack will come to learn that he has a lot of misconceptions – all rooted in media and his bit of research on the internet – about what you are. For now, the first misconception falls at the sight of you. He assumed you be in something a bit too risqué for a daytime meeting. Dramatic makeup, big hair, whatever.

You’re in dark-wash jeans and a cream-colored sweater, and your makeup is tastefully underdone. Your hair is down, but it’s parted and partially swept back by a silver clip. You look normal. Not young enough to be the girl next door, but maybe the girl next door’s older sister. Maybe a graduate at NYU, or a junior associate in a financial firm downtown. Younger than him, but not teetering on the edge of something statutory.

It’s you though. You zero in on him the moment you enter the coffee shop. You walk over and shake his hand, introduce yourself. He recognizes your voice from the phone call. It’s you.

You seem to sense his disorientation. You give a light laugh and gesture for him to sit down again, and you settle into the chair across from him.

“You seem surprised,” you say. “Expecting something different?”

Jack nods, opens his mouth to reply, but he is interrupted by the waitress. He already has his order in front of him, a double espresso, and he studies you a little closer as you place your own order of a cappuccino.

You are pretty, but not a knock-out. Well, maybe you could be with the right clothes and makeup – the more he studies you, the more you remind him of a blank canvas. The neutral clothing, the neutral makeup. All the women on those sugar baby websites seemed to hew to the same sort of fantasy, but maybe you have a different approach. Maybe you present a neutral option first thing for a reason. Maybe you only take on color and texture once you are beyond this awkward little first meeting.

Maybe he can mold you into what he wants, and that thought makes him sit up a little straighter.

That is the thought at the forefront of his mind as the two of you chat. You do most of the talking, easing him into it carefully. You start with inane small talk about the weather, and then you segue into business.

“How much do you know about this sort of thing?” you ask, and you tilt your head to wait for his answer. You have bright eyes, expressive, and he is suddenly aware that you are studying him as much as he is studying you.

“Almost nothing,” he answers truthfully. “I went on some of the websites – “

“Oh, those,” you break in, waving your hand. “Glorified back pages.” You take a sip of your cappuccino and ask, “What are you looking for, Mr. Daniels?”

An impossible question to answer. He wants a reprieve. He wants not to worry about finding a date to events, finding someone to fuck when he’s keyed up. He wants someone he can date without the stress of taking it to a more serious place. He wants a girlfriend without the stress of said girlfriend pushing for more. Pushing for more than he can give – pushing for his heart, when it’s already been scooped out of his chest years and years ago.

He tells you none of that. He couches it as companionship without the stress of finding and securing it, and you nod at that thoughtfully. You’re silent a long beat after he finishes talking.

“I always ask,” you finally say, “because many men have the wrong idea about these sorts of arrangements.”

“How so?”

Your lips curve into a smile. “Sex, Mr. Daniels. When I ask a man what they are looking for, and they give me a laundry list of sex stuff, I know it’s not a good match.”

Jack raises his eyebrows with a smirk that hides the filament of disappointment that curls in his gut. “So that’s off the table, honey?”

You laugh, the same light chuckle from when you first arrived at the coffee shop. “Of course not. But you’re paying for me, and that includes everything. Some call it the girlfriend experience. Breaking it down to a sordid little bucket list of all the things your wife won’t do is a waste of my talents.”

The phrase your wife makes his stomach turn, and he feels the loss all over again. Feels the wavelet of grief crest, break around him.

“I’m not married,” he says softly.

“Have you ever been married?”

He shakes his head. He lies. You don’t need to know that part of his life. So few people do, and he’s not about to share it with a stranger.

Another long beat of silence stretches out between you, and Jack wonders at the men you meet with in settings like this. Men like him, and men entirely different from him. Married men, bored with their lives, without the courage to really change them. Single men who are just tired and want the so-called ‘girlfriend experience’ for a moment before descending back into the fray.

You finish your drink and push the empty cup aside so that you can sit forward, your forearms on the table and your hands folded in front of you. All business all of a sudden.

“I am currently between situations,” you say matter-of-factly, as if you are a freelance consultant and not, technically, a sex worker. “If you are interested, the minimum is a six-month commitment.” You go on a little, discussing the technicalities, finally naming your price, which makes Jack nearly choke on his own spit.

“That’s ridiculous!” he says. “For that amount of money – “

“For that amount of money, you are free to try and find someone who will be at your beck and call at all hours, all days, for nearly whatever you want.” You smile at him, beatific, like a painting of a saint. “That amount is more than fair for the service I provide.”

“It’s expensive.”

You give a little shrug and sat back in your chair. “I know what I’m worth.”

Jack can afford it, and though you don’t say it, he has the distinct impression that if he doesn’t move quickly, you’ll find another situation with a man who will happily pay your exorbitant fee.

“Let’s say I’m interested,” Jack says. “What next?”

Another smile, another beat of silence as you reach into an inner pocket of your pea coat draped over the back of your chair. You pull out a thick envelope and hand it to him.

“Next step is that you read the contract,” you tell him. “Then we meet again to discuss specific questions. If we both agree then, we sign, you pay, and….” You let the sentence trail off, let Jack’s imagination fill in what comes next.

When Jack pulls out the tri-folded contract, it nearly springs out of his hand from the force it has been stuffed into the envelope. “Jesus,” he mutters as he thumbs through the pages. There is an entire list of hard limits, a section on health concerns….

“That protects both of us, by the way,” you say. “There’s an NDA in there. What happens between us stays between us.”

He nods absentmindedly as he thumbs through the pages. You wait a beat, and then you stand up. You pull on your coat, and you take out your wallet to lay out some money for your coffee. The expression on Jack’s face must have been surprise because you smile and tell him that you aren’t on his payroll yet, and you can pay your own way until then.

“Assuming I decide to put you on my payroll,” he says, and he narrows his eyes a little and sets his jaw in the way he does when he intimidates others. You don’t seem intimidated at all, though. You only hold out your hand and say it was nice to meet him and that you are looking forward to hearing from him. And then you leave.

The second misconception: that mild smile of yours hides a keen ability to read people. Jack won’t know it until later, when you tell him so, but you leave the coffee shop knowing that he will call you the very next day, after he stays up the entire night to read through your contract three times.

In the coffee shop, you see through his flimsy little act of hesitancy. Jack Daniels is absolutely going to sign that contract and put you on his payroll, and you know it the moment you set eyes on him.

~~~Tag List~~~ @bananas-pajamas @rachelxwayne @stardust-fray @massivecolorspygiant @imspillingcoffee @amneris21 @paintballkid711 @mad-girl-without-a-box @bestattempt @rosiefridayrogersunday @strawberrydragon @hoeforthefictional @greeneyedblondie44 @leannawithacapitala @stardust-galaxies @isvvc-pvscvl @mrschiltoncat @danniburgh @stillshelbs @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @tobealostwanderer @nuvoleincielo @knivesareout @frankie-catfish-morales @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @dianilaws

#jack daniels #jack daniels imagine #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #the kingsmen golden circle #cssjwd #css1121 #jwd1121

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