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timeless-fanfic · 1 month

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Destined Paths, Chapter 4: The Meal of Blessings

Word Count: 2060

Andrew x Reader

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the small city as I finished treating my last patient of the day. The woman had come to me with a persistent cough, and after a quick examination, I provided her with a mixture of herbs that should ease her symptoms. As she left, I packed away my tools and took a deep breath, grateful for the peace and satisfaction that came from helping those in need.

With my work done, I set off for the market to pick up a few things for Miriam. The streets were busy, filled with the familiar sounds of merchants calling out their wares and children playing in the dusty alleys. I moved through the crowd with ease, exchanging friendly greetings with the shopkeepers who had come to know me well over the past few months.

At the market, I selected fresh vegetables, a loaf of bread, and a small piece of meat, knowing that Miriam would appreciate the ingredients for dinner. As I paid the merchant, I caught sight of a few women from the city who waved at me with warm smiles. It was moments like these that reminded me of how much this place had become a home to me.

When I returned to the house, Miriam greeted me at the door with a warm smile, her eyes lighting up as she saw the goods I carried. "Ah, you found everything! Thank you, dear. You always know just what we need."

"It was no trouble," I replied, handing her the basket. "I even managed to get a good price on the meat."

Elias, who had been sitting at the table whittling a small piece of wood, looked up with a mischievous grin. "A good price, eh? Maybe the merchant was trying to impress you. You know, it’s not every day a woman like you comes through the market."

I rolled my eyes, knowing where this conversation was headed. "Elias, not everyone is looking for a husband," I said, my tone playful but firm.

Miriam chuckled as she began unpacking the basket. "She’s right, you know. She doesn’t need a husband. But maybe she could find someone who brings her joy and happiness, someone who might even give her children one day."

"I’m perfectly happy as I am," I said with a smile. "Where I come from, women easily find joy and happiness without men."

Elias leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. "Ah, but there’s a difference between not needing a man and wanting one. Just saying, you might find joy and happiness with the right person."

We continued our lighthearted discussion as the evening unfolded, the warmth of their company filling the small home with a sense of comfort and belonging. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Miriam moved around the kitchen, adding the finishing touches to our dinner. The smell of roasted meat and freshly baked bread filled the air, making my stomach rumble in anticipation.

Just as we were about to sit down to eat, there was a knock at the door. I exchanged a curious glance with Miriam before going to answer it. As I opened the door, I was greeted by the sight of a man with a kind face and a group of men standing behind him. They looked weary, their clothes dusty from travel, but their eyes were bright and full of purpose.

"Hello," the man at the front said kindly, his voice soft but resonant. "We’ve walked a long way today. Might you have a place where we could rest for the night?"

I hesitated, taking in the sight of the group. Something about the man seemed familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it. "Who are you?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"My name is Jesus," he replied simply.

"From where?" I asked, a strange sense of anticipation building in my chest. Could it be…?

Before he could answer, one of the men behind him, a rough-looking fellow, stepped forward. "Why does it matter where we’re from?" he asked impatiently.

"Simon, be patient," another man said gently, placing a hand on Simon’s shoulder. This one was younger, with striking features and a calm demeanor that immediately caught my attention. He smiled at me apologetically, and I couldn’t help but notice how attractive he was.

Jesus nodded at the younger man, then turned back to me. "I’m from Nazareth," he said, and the confirmation sent a wave of shock and awe through me.

For a moment, I could only stare at Him, my mind racing. This was Jesus of Nazareth—the Rabbi, the one I had heard whispers about. Before I could gather my thoughts, Elias appeared beside me, curious about the delay.

"We’re going to let the Rabbi Jesus of Nazareth and His students stay with us for the night," I said, turning to Elias. "Could you ask Miriam to start preparing extra plates?"

Elias’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly nodded and hurried off to relay the message. As Jesus and His disciples began to file into the house, they all expressed their thanks, their voices filled with genuine gratitude.

As Elias returned, I couldn’t resist teasing him a little. "Miriam could use some help getting more food and plates. Your feet work just as well as hers, you know."

Some of the disciples chuckled at my remark, finding humor in the lighthearted banter. Elias shook his head with a grin. "All right, all right, I’m going," he said, heading to the kitchen.

We all sat down together, and before we began the meal, Jesus led us in a prayer. His voice was soothing, filled with a sense of peace that seemed to touch everyone in the room. As we ate, the conversation flowed easily, filled with laughter and shared stories.

Throughout the meal, I found myself catching the eye of the young man who had spoken earlier. He seemed just as curious about me as I was about him, and more than once, our gazes lingered on each other for a moment too long. Each time, I quickly looked away, my cheeks warming despite my best efforts to stay composed.

As the evening wore on, and the meal came to an end, the three of us—Miriam, Elias, and I—began clearing the table and taking the dishes to another room to be washed. Miriam and Elias wasted no time in teasing me about the handsome man who had kept looking at me during the meal.

"He couldn’t take his eyes off you," Miriam said with a knowing smile as she handed me a plate.

Elias nodded, his grin widening. "It’s about time someone noticed our skilled physician for more than just her medical abilities."

I tried to brush off their comments, but the warmth in my cheeks gave me away. "You two are impossible," I muttered, though I couldn’t help but smile.

Unbeknownst to me, in the other room, several of the disciples were teasing Andrew in much the same way. They nudged him playfully, exchanging knowing glances as they spoke in low voices. It seemed that the evening had brought more than just a meal—it had sparked something new, something that left both Andrew and me with much to think about as the night continued.

As the night deepened and the remnants of the meal were cleared away, I busied myself with preparing places for our guests to sleep. Miriam had already started gathering blankets and pillows, and I joined her, making sure that each of the men would have a comfortable spot to rest. The house was small, but with a bit of rearranging, we managed to create enough space for everyone.

After showing some of the disciples where they could wash up, I returned to the main room, my arms full of blankets. As I was laying them out, I noticed Andrew approaching. His steps were quiet, his expression thoughtful as he watched me work.

"Let me help you with that," he offered, reaching for a blanket.

I handed it to him with a small smile. "Thank you."

As we worked together in companionable silence, Andrew spoke again, his voice soft. "Miriam and Elias—they’re very kind. It’s clear they raised you well."

I paused, the blanket I was holding slipping slightly from my grasp. For a moment, I wasn’t sure how to respond. Then, I gently corrected him. "They didn’t raise me. Miriam and Elias are not my parents."

Andrew stopped what he was doing and turned to me, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I’m sorry," he said, genuine regret in his voice. "I just assumed—"

"It’s all right," I interrupted, giving him a reassuring smile. "I can see why you would think that. They’ve been incredibly kind to me, but we’re not related. I come from very far away, and neither of my parents are alive."

Andrew’s expression softened with understanding. "I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories," he said gently. "I’m truly sorry."

I shook my head, trying to convey that it was okay. "You couldn’t have known. My father passed away when I was a young girl. It was a long time ago, but... it still affects me, I suppose."

There was a moment of silence between us, heavy with unspoken emotions. Andrew looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity, as if trying to understand the weight of what I had just shared.

"I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been," he finally said. "Losing a parent at such a young age."

"It was," I admitted quietly. "But it’s part of why I became a physician. I wanted to help people, to make sure others didn’t have to lose someone they loved too soon."

Andrew nodded, a look of admiration in his eyes. "That’s a noble reason. You must be very strong to have come this far on your own."

Before I could respond, we were interrupted by a loud voice from the other room. "Andrew!" It was John, calling out in an exasperated tone. "Where have you gone off to? We need your help over here!"

Andrew sighed, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It seems I’m needed elsewhere," he said, his voice laced with good-natured resignation.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. "It seems so. Thank you for your help."

He nodded, giving me one last glance before turning to leave. "Goodnight," he said softly.

"Goodnight," I replied, watching as he disappeared into the other room.

With the preparations complete, I made my way to my own small room. The night had been long, filled with unexpected encounters and lingering emotions. As I lay down on the bed, I stared up at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts of the day’s events.

But as I lay there, a strange urge came over me. It wasn’t something I could easily ignore, so I slowly got out of bed and knelt on the floor, folding my hands in front of me. I hadn’t prayed like this in years—not since I was a child, when my mother would guide me through the words.

The prayer didn’t come easily. My thoughts stumbled over themselves, awkward and unsure. But I forced myself to continue, to push through the discomfort. I didn’t have the eloquent words that others might, but I spoke from my heart.

I prayed in thanks for Miriam and Elias, for the home they had given me, and for the friendships that had grown between us. I prayed for the strength to continue my work as a physician, to help those in need. And, though it felt strange to say, I prayed for peace—for the kind of peace I hadn’t felt in many, many years.

The words weren’t perfect, and the prayer itself was far from smooth. But as I finished, a strange sense of lightness settled over me, as if a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying had been lifted. I climbed back into bed, feeling a warmth in my chest that I hadn’t felt in a long time. As I closed my eyes, the peace I had prayed for washed over me, lulling me into a deep, restful sleep—the first real peace I had known in years.

#the chosen fanfiction #andrew x reader #the chosen x reader

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northerngoshawk · 9 months

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😡🫦😀 for the fic ask game!

hi hello sorry this is eons late um--

i really don't have a great reason to give on why except school + hyperfixation on Genshin so, uh--

i think this ask was from this ask game? idk but the emojis seem to line up so... yeah. better late than never ig. hahaha....

😡which fic did the characters control the most (like you wrote a whole ass plan AND THEY DECIDED TO FUCK IT UP)?

i'll be honest, there isn't a lot of cases where that happened? almost, if not all, of my fics tended to stay on the path i meant for them to go upon - although it may also have to do with the fact that i don't tend to plan that tediously out anyways hahaha

i think if i had to choose a fic, i would go with a thousand and one lifetimes. it was just meant to be only a few words each section, but then each section kept growing. and growing. and growing. and--

yeah, ig it can't be helped tho. i really, really love the platonic (and potential platonic!) relationships Aang could have with the rest of the cast in ATLA, not to mention that AUs are my bread and butter and i love love LOVE exploring established dynamics in a newfound setting.

🫦what is your biggest regret in one of your fics whether it be something you wish you didn't do, or you wish you did do?

i think one of the things i regret was writing bleeding out (with you to carry me home) in general, mostly because it just... it feels like gratituitous angst. it doesn't really have much of a purpose, other than to produce some kind of angst. maybe it was a fix i needed when i was writing it in the moment, but now, looking back... i just don't think it serves much more of a purpose beyond that.

with that being said, a specific regret i have is writing the platonic zukaang section in there. not because i don't like it or i don't want it there, it's that i feel that it's one of the only redeeming qualities of this fic. it's a pretty nice jewel of writing, and i think it deserves to be in a more... thought-provoking fic, ig? idk.

maybe i'm just being overly harsh to my past self, the same way most of us are to our past writing skills. it's not like i'm gonna delete the fic or anything either, i guess it's just me wondering what could've been.

😀which of your fics did you not think a lot people would like but they did?

hands down The Dishonored Blade. it was an incredibly niche fic that was written just for me, and considering it combined ATLA and League of Legends, i'm still surprised i got the amount of kudos i did.

i think a part of it could have been it was written and published during 2021, when the ATLA fandom craze was still happening and thus a lot of people from both fandoms were present at the time. especially when compared to its sequel The Darkened Path (which was written in 2023), i feel like i would have to attribute most of my kudos to the fandom craze.

either way, i'm still pleasantly surprised at the kudos count and even fans who commented on this piece! there was even a reader who was knowledgable about the League of Legends lore and asked to see a more fleshed out universe of this form. it really warms my heart knowing that even the most niche of fics will find its place somewhere... even if it's not where we initially thought.

#northern answers #ask game answer

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devils-pirate-crew · 1 year

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The trio continue through the Cove, heading for the different side of the docks than Jersey Devil is moored at. Juraj keeps Dawson close to his side, arm still over his shoulder, while Arber pointedly keeps his head up ahead of them, cutting a path through the assorted pirates and settlers of the pirate haven, one hand pointedly resting on the hilt of the cutlass on his waist, a clear try me evident in his position. Nobody tries him, instead opting to get out of the way.

It's not much longer before they walk onto the docks, Dawson looking up to take in the awe-inspiring sight that is Santé in all her glory. He's heard stories of this ship, how she's older than anyone alive, how history lives in her hull, but it's a different thing entirely to see her in person. The ship is probably at least twice as large as Jersey Devil, with four masts and all the livery in red, blue, and white to match. It smells of victory, of conquest at sea. "Wow," he mumbles, absentmindedly scratching at the spots on his left hand, which is already abraded to where small beads of blood are poking out of his skin.

Juraj dips his own hand to move Dawson's forearm, preventing him from making it worse. "She's really something, huh?" he asks, smiling.

"Yeah," Dawson agrees, nodding. "Beautiful..."

As they step on the ship, the Voice's words ring in his ears. You can trust them. They don't lie.

At least, they don't lie on purpose.

"Just about everyone fucked off to the city," Arber grunts, opening up the hatch and blinking down the dark stairs that lead into the belly of Santé. "I think we have this ship to ourselves."

"Nobody's going to steal her?" Dawson asks, furrowing his brow. "If nobody's on?"

Arber merely chuckles, descending by twos. "You need at least, like, thirty sailors to get her out of port. I don't think you could steal her if you wanted to." He shrugs. Juraj finally lets Dawson go, nodding for him to follow Arber; the pilot's mate goes down the stairs, Juraj following.

The first doorway on the left is opened, the distinctive aroma of a ship's canteen hitting Dawson. Arber takes a seat on a bench close to the kitchen area, patting the spot next to him for Dawson, who perches awkwardly, fidgeting with his sleeve. Juraj slips into the kitchen, the loud banging of pots and pans following him.

"Uh, sorry again," Dawson mumbles as Juraj comes out a few minutes later with a bowl of warm soup. He sets it down in front of Dawson as he sits across from the two, then reaches into his side-bag and pulls out a small, fresh loaf of bread, also putting it on the table. "You really don't have to - "

"Kid," Arber smirks, leaning over to ruffle Dawson's hair, "Slaf would probably rather starve than not help someone who needs it. Eat up."

The pilot's mate obediently reaches for the bread, tearing off a small piece of it and dipping it into his soup. "I didn't need - "

This time, he's cut off by Juraj clearing his throat. He looks up to the most deadly glare he's ever seen - even worse than the one Pally had fixed on the gunners when he'd learned they'd shirked their duties to play cards. "You needed it," Juraj states decisively. When Dawson nods in agreement, every speck of discontentment is erased immediately from Juraj's expression, back to sunshine and rainbows. The complete one-eighties are almost terrifying. But the Voices said they're safe. The Voices said they're to be trusted. He can trust them. He is safe.

"So, uh..." Dawson dips another piece of bread in his soup. It's soft and still warm, a luxury at sea. God, he feels even worse about taking advantage of these two like this. "How is it here?"

Arber leans back, resting his hands behind his head, elbows out. "It's great," he admits, smiling. "Captain Suzu's good to us, and there's rarely a trip we make where we don't come out with a profit. Slaf's a great cook, too," he accentuates this with a wink in Juraj's direction.

The cook rolls his eyes good-naturedly, then snaps his attention back to Dawson. "Arber, we should go grab some bandages and salves for his injuries." As Arber opens his mouth, Juraj adds, "Together."

"Don't do anything you might regret," Arber instructs Dawson, standing to follow Juraj, who's already half out the door. "Trust me." He ducks out, footsteps fast to catch his friend in the hallway.

So Dawson's alone, on an unfamiliar ship, with only half a bowl of soup and some fresh bread. He closes his eyes, trying to listen for any Voices that might know what to do or want to know anything. They swirl around him, whispering to each other, probably laughing at how miserable he must look. Dawson reaches up to scratch at his left cheek again, picking at the scabs already beginning to form.

#storyline #d.mercer|91 #j.slafkovsky|20 #a.xhekaj|72

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gobboguy · 7 months

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Chapter 8: The Journey Begins

As Gelbeg and Ionia journeyed westward through the countryside of Farfield, they passed lush farmland dotted with quaint cottages and grazing livestock. Concerned looks from various farmers and countryfolk followed their progress, their whispers mingling with the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. The rhythmic clopping of hooves and the clank of Ionia's armor resonated in the air, accompanied by the soft thud of Gelbeg's booted feet on the dirt path.

Despite the picturesque scenery, Ionia struggled to hide her disgust as she kept her distance from Gelbeg, finding his presence repulsive. Gelbeg, however, seemed amused by her discomfort, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as they continued their journey.

Gelbeg trudged along with a heavy pack slung over his broad shoulders, its weight causing his muscles to strain. The pack, made of rugged leather and stitched together with sturdy twine, bulged with provisions for their journey: dried meat, hard bread, and water skins filled to the brim with fresh water from the nearby stream. His axe, its edge keen and glinting in the sunlight, was strapped securely to the side of the pack, ready for any threat they might encounter on the road.

Meanwhile, Ionia rode atop her horse with a smaller pack strapped to her back, containing her essentials for the journey: a few changes of clothing, a waterskin, and a map of the surrounding area. Her sword, sheathed in its scabbard and resting comfortably against her hip, was her constant companion and source of reassurance. Together, Gelbeg and Ionia carried enough supplies to sustain them on their quest, their determination unwavering as they pressed onward into the unknown.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the green fields of Farfield, Gelbeg and Ionia finally found a suitable spot to make camp. Beneath the comforting shade of towering trees, they unloaded their packs and set to work. Ionia swiftly gathered dry twigs and kindling, expertly arranging them into a makeshift fire pit while Gelbeg prepared their evening meal.

With practiced hands, Gelbeg skewered strips of beef onto a long stick, each piece sizzling as it made contact with the flames. The savory aroma of cooking meat wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the surrounding forest. The crackling of the fire provided a soothing backdrop to their campsite, casting dancing shadows upon the ground as darkness gradually descended.

As the meat slowly cooked over the open flame, Gelbeg and Ionia settled in for the night, their weary bodies finding solace in the warmth of the fire and the promise of a hearty meal. Despite the uncertainties of their journey ahead, in this moment, beneath the starlit sky, they found a sense of peace and camaraderie that strengthened their resolve to continue onwards.

As the fire crackled, an awkward silence enveloped Gelbeg and Ionia, broken only by the occasional snap of burning wood. Ionia's suspicious glances at Gelbeg did not go unnoticed, but he chose to meet her scrutiny with an amused grin rather than addressing it outright.

Finally, breaking the tense quiet, Ionia turned to Gelbeg with a pointed question. "How do you plan to keep up with me?" she asked, gesturing toward her Nag grazing nearby. "I doubt you'll match my pace on foot, especially with the horse to carry me."

Gelbeg's hearty laughter filled the air as he responded confidently, "Orcs are no strangers to long journeys on foot, I assure you. I'll keep up just fine. And if need be," he added with a wink, "the horse could always serve as a tasty addition to our dinner."

Ionia frowned, prodding at the fire with a long stick. "How much longer until we reach this supposed 'holy site' of yours?" she asked, her tone tinged with impatience.

Gelbeg shrugged, his expression grim. "It'll be a few more days at least," he replied, glancing at their dwindling supplies. "We need to make them last."

"It's in the Frozen Spine mountains in Acury," he added, anticipating her next question.

Ionia let out an exasperated huff, her frustration evident. "All this for some foolish superstition," she muttered, casting a disdainful glance at Gelbeg. With a sharp gesture, she spat onto the ground, expressing her contempt for the journey ahead.

Gelbeg, sensing a sensitive topic, ventured cautiously, "Does that mean you don't believe in the gods of Farfield?"

Ionia snorted, tossing a piece of grass into the fire. "At one time, I was an adherent to the Old Dominion," she replied, her voice tinged with bitterness. "But that faith has long been shattered."

"Why?" Gelbeg inquired, intrigued by her revelation.

"After all my praise, after all my faith," she began, her tone heavy with disillusionment, "the Gods consistently rewarded those who didn't deserve it."

Gelbeg pondered her words for a moment before responding, "I can't sympathize. MOG, the Orc God, rewards his people for their devotion."

Ionia's laughter echoed across the campfire, a sharp contrast to the seriousness in Gelbeg's eyes. "Your faith in MOG seems to have blinded you," she jeered, gesturing at their surroundings. "Look at the sorry state of your people. What kind of god would allow such suffering?"

Gelbeg's expression remained steadfast, his voice unwavering. "This crisis," he declared, meeting Ionia's gaze with determination, "is merely a test. MOG has chosen us, the Orcs, as his people. We will endure this trial and emerge stronger on the other side."

Ionia's skepticism lingered in the air like a heavy fog. "So, this MOG of yours, he's been quite generous, hasn't he?" she remarked, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Bestowing strength and intelligence upon you?"

Gelbeg's eyes gleamed with fervor as he affirmed, "Yes, MOG has blessed me with strength and wisdom. He has guided me to lead my people toward a brighter future."

Ionia shook her head incredulously. "All these tales of divine intervention," she scoffed, "it's all the same. Gods claiming to be benevolent while their followers suffer. I've seen enough of it in the Old Dominion."

Gelbeg's conviction remained unshaken. "MOG is different," he insisted. "He listens to our prayers and grants us strength in times of need. Unlike the distant and indifferent deities of the Old Dominion."

Ionia's laughter echoed through the clearing, a bitter sound in the stillness of the night. "Gelbeg, do you truly believe that all gods are so benevolent?" she challenged, her eyes narrowing as she regarded him.

Gelbeg's expression remained resolute, his faith unwavering. "MOG has blessed me with strength and cunning," he affirmed, his voice steady. "He has chosen me to guide our people toward a new destiny."

Ionia shook her head, a mixture of disbelief and disdain flickering across her features. "And what about those who suffer?" she pressed. "Do you believe MOG has forsaken them, or perhaps they were never his chosen in the first place?"

Gelbeg's gaze hardened with resolve. "MOG's wisdom is beyond our mortal understanding," he replied firmly. "But I will do everything in my power to lead our people to a better future, regardless of the challenges we face."

Ionia's voice, edged with curiosity, cut through the silence as she asked Gelbeg, "What's it like being the only Orc out there with intelligence exceeding that of a child's?"

Ionia's question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Gelbeg shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowing as he wrestled with his response. "It's a lonely path," he admitted at last, his voice tinged with melancholy. "But I have faith that one day, all Orcs will share in the knowledge and wisdom that MOG has granted me."

Ionia's laughter was sharp and derisive, cutting through the solemnity of the moment. "You truly believe that, don't you?" she remarked, her tone dripping with scorn. "I hate to break it to you, Gelbeg, but intelligence isn't something that can simply be bestowed upon a race of beings. It's innate, and it's clear to me that the Orcs will never possess it."

"I'm turning in," Ionia announced after a beat, settling her head on her pack, armor clinking softly. She shifted uncomfortably, trying in vain to find a way to sleep in full gear.

"In your armor?" Gelbeg inquired, eyebrows raised.

"I don't want you getting any ideas," Ionia retorted sharply. She stared at him as if he were some ravenous beast waiting to devour her.

Gelbeg chuckled. "Don't flatter yourself. Orcs don't find humans attractive."

Ionia cockily asked Gelbeg, her face betraying her disugst: "What is it that Orcs could possibly find so attractive about their own race?"

Gelbeg paused, considering Ionia's question carefully. "Human females lack the large gut that speaks of strength and vitality," he began, his tone thoughtful. "They lack the muscled arms and legs capable of defending their people, the proud odor that speaks of trials and victories, the large breasts capable of feeding multiple whelps, and the wide hips capable of birthing whole litters. All together, you're quite an ugly example of the human form."

Ionia recoiled, her expression twisting with disgust. "You're nothing but a pig," she spat at Gelbeg before turning away from the fire, seeking solace in the darkness beyond.

Gelbeg's laughter rang out, though devoid of amusement. "You humans will never understand the essence of the Orcs," he muttered to himself. Gazing up at the starry sky, he offered a silent prayer to MOG, seeking guidance from the Orc God to navigate the challenges ahead.

#fantasy #orcs #goblins #literature #gobboguy #songsofpower7

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philliamwrites · 2 years

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SWYAATL 12: Raised by Wolves and Voices

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x fem! Reader

Summary: “Wouldn’t that be something.” Jean sniffs, his breath coming out in white plums. “Erasing events from the past, making stuff never have happened. You’d have to be, like, God or something to do that.” “I don’t know. I get you’d want the unpleasant stuff gone, but it’s what makes you the person you are today, right? Even all the bad stuff, I don’t think I’d want that just taken away from me.” Especially without you knowing.

Notes: [01] || 11 | 13

Words: 8.1k

A/N: guys, thank you so so much for all the interest in the story and the love and the messages you send me. there are no words how much i love you guys, you all deserve an eren to kiss you ❤️❤️

Chapter 12: Raised by Wolves and Voices

“Psst, dude.” Connie’s pointy elbow does a pretty good job drilling a hole into your side. “Take a look.”

“I’m kinda busy here myself,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm, the tips of your fingers stained ink blue. It quickly turns into a fight of who can keep their arm on the table that nobody seems to win. Turns out, Connie is a formidable opponent.

“Just a quick look,” he whispers. “I don’t get what’s wrong with my notes.” He slides a piece of paper over to you, and you need some time to decipher the words.

Supplie Requasition Bread: A bunch Potatos: Around 5 boxes? Milk: Not spoiled Blades: Enough to attack Titans Gas: A good amount

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t get it either.”

At that moment, Shadis passes your table and takes a look at Connie’s requisition paper. “Now, would you all look at Cadet Springer,” he calls, turning to the room. He plucks the paper from the table by one corner with his thumb and index finger as if it was something particularly filthy he spotted under his kitchen sink. “That is what I call unique!”

Connie beams. “Thanks, sir!”

“Uniquely shit!!”

“Oh.”

“Do it again!”

Shadis marches on, sharp eyes searching for his next prey like a hawk. Connie sags against the backrest of his chair, groaning. “Why do I gotta do this stupid stuff? Put me out in the field, that’s where I belong.”

“Even out in the field, you should have a good feeling for the supplies you have on you.” You finish up your concluding statement on Bordieun Field Theory as an Instrument for Military Operations. You’d hoped to have Armin give it a read, but he’s already left for lunch. When you submit the paper to Shadis, he simply acknowledges it with a curt nod and shoos you away like an annoying fly.

“Oh, come on, don’t leave me here,” Connie whines when you pack up your stuff to head over to the canteen where the rest of your corps is already enjoying their break. “I’ll never finish at this rate.”

“You can do it.” You pat his shaved head. “Try to think about it in actual numbers and be specific as you put them down. It’s fine if you do it in your own words.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

You leave him slumped over his work and set out snuggled into your warm military coat, upturning your collar to help against the biting cold. The canteen is on the opposite side of the lesson building, but the frosty cobblestone plaza makes the jog take much longer. One false step will guarantee you bruises nastier than any handed to you during hand-to-hand combat practice.

It’s a busy day on the Main Compound. Many cadets and full-fledged soldiers linger, and you pass a group of third years near the main entrance, their hands all stuffed deep inside the warmth of their coat pockets. They jostle and bump against one another, laughing, stamping their feet against the cold snap, the first gasp of winter having arrived weeks earlier than anticipated. You recognise Sylvia, who salutes in your direction. You tap two fingers against your temple as a reply. It is her last winter as a cadet before she graduates in spring next year. The 104th has only one more year to go, and then you will be full-fledged soldiers as well.

Just one more year until the people you have grown close to all walk the paths to their distinctive futures like the last leaves clinging desperately to their familiar branches, but unable to hold on as the sharp, cold winter wind scatters them to new horizons. Time waits for no one, yet still you wish you could have a little more with the friends you have made.

You duck under the stone archway and join the constant stream of soldiers entering the canteen. It is a wide, high-ceilinged building running all the way to the far back of the compound and housing dozens upon dozens of long, narrow tables and benches. On one side, behind multiple counters spread with different meals, garnishes and a diverse assortment of drinks and juices, kitchen hands and scullions scurry from workplace to workplace, tending to the soldiers standing in line to pile as much food as they can carry on their rectangular tin plates. The vast assortment is exactly why you prefer eating here: hearty cabbage potato stew, freshly baked bread unlike the hardened leftovers you get at your mess hall. The smell of garlicky, grilled leek wafts from one end of the long counter. They might have made a pact with the devil for all the additional seasoning on their hands, seeing as one of the cooks drops a pinch of what looks like dried dill into a huge pot of boiled potatoes in a thick herb cream.

After a quick survey of the room you find your desired table and quickly get into line to fetch your meal. Tray filled to the brim with little plates carrying various dishes, you make your way through the crowd, accidentally bumping into people and dodging flying elbows with swift steps Shadis would be proud of.

They’ve settled at tables at the very far end of the room, the only set where only two benches stand by the tables so whenever cadets seize them, they usually push them together so more people can sit, facing each other. When you are within reach, you give everyone a single, respectful nod, except Eren and Jean. The first gets a small bowl full of pickled radishes, the latter a plate piled to the edges with thickly sliced carrots.

“Comrades,” you say, all haughty, your chin raised when you sit down next to Jean. The look on his face is one of unabashed, utter disgust. Eren’s face is full of contemplation as if he is debating if it’s worth it to reach over the table and slap you.

They both, without a word or another acknowledgement of your benevolence, pass the plates on to Sasha who gives a happy chirp and dives right in. You shake your head, stirring gravy into your mashed potatoes. “Where’s Armin?” you ask.

“The library,” comes from Mikasa. You have learnt she is a person of few words but a whole catalogue of looks. The one she sends Eren now is worth an hour of chiding in itself. “Said he was looking for something for the upcoming Snow Trekking Exam.”

“Aren’t they throwing way too many exams around lately?” says Samuel. He keeps throwing urgent gazes towards the main entrance as if waiting for someone. Everyone seems a little on edge, waiting for the news from the Post Master that letters and packages from friends and relatives have finally arrived. You are eager as well. Maybe this time, Ida and Felix have sent an answer.

“We are getting close to starting our third year,” Reiner says. He is stirring lazily in a big cup of steaming tea, his plate lying forgotten beside him even though he has only finished half of it. “It’s only normal that tasks get harder, that we get more exams. They want to make sure the next batch of soldiers is strong and capable.” His eyes linger on Mikasa for a moment, almost a little thoughtful. It is no secret that she remains the undisputed number one cadet and in whatever military branch she will end up, she will rise in rank quickly.

He then turns his keen eyes on you, and grins. “Have you given it a second thought? It’s the third time you’re in the top ten now. You could hold rank eight with a little more, consistent effort.”

You are spared answering when Armin, his face half-hidden behind thick layers of his wool scarf, emerges from the sea of soldiers and joins you, three thick books slipping from his arms onto the table. You pick one by its corners, pulling it close so you can read the title. Operations in Snow and Extreme Cold.

Eren leans in close to you, oblivious to the fabric of his black sweatshirt hanging dangerously close to his plate. The expression he is wearing is distinctly one of Not in front of my salad. “What’s this?” he asks, frowning.

“It’s a book,” you say, flipping open the first pages to skim through it. “You should pick up one and read it.”

“Or I could just smack you with it.”

“So eloquent.”

The corners of his mouth tug upward, as if he is trying to fight the grin that is trying to break free but he is also aware of how bad his performance is in this battle. For the first time, he looks as if he doesn’t mind losing this particular fight.

Armin takes the book from your reach before Eren can put his words into action and start mauling people with it. Eren leans back, sulking. “I was just looking for some easy reads on snow operations,” Armin says. “It’s the first time we’re really out there and I want to be prepared.”

“Shadis gave us a really long lecture this time,” says Samuel. “I dunno, kinda makes me want to skip it, pretend I got the flu or something.”

“It’ll be dangerous, for sure.” Reiner pushes his remaining meal over to Bertholdt who accepts it without a word and starts munching on a lettuce leaf. It makes him look like a baby goat. “He said we’ll spend every lesson until the exam date going over survival guides, gear check, map reading. Everything to prepare us to survive the worst.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “I don’t get the big deal, it’s like he’s thinking the moment we step out into the cold, we’ll all get lost.”

“Well, the books state that when operations fail it is mostly due to human error,” Armin pipes up, struggling to get out of his sleeve until Mikasa grabs onto one tail and tugs his arm free. “Soldiers underestimating the cold, not taking enough gear with them or unable to start a fire out in the open at fifty degrees below zero.” A sort of excitement settles over him as he recites the books’ contents. “They all state that in operations outside the Walls during winter, more soldiers die from hypothermia than attacks from wild animals or Titans.”

“But we are instructed to stay together, right?” Samuel sits up a little straighter now, more alert. “This isn’t like the previous exams where we have to split up and every group gets their own task?”

“That’s probably next year.” Jean grins. “You know, if you make it through this one.”

He cackles at Samuel’s horrid expression, earning a gentle nudge with his elbow from Marco who is stuffing his cheeks full with potatoes. He looks like a squirrel.

Samuel opens his mouth to answer, but then something from the entrance catches his sight and he half-stands from the bench, staring eagerly. Multiple heads turn around, watching Connie hurry down the aisle towards the table swinging around a handful of letters.

“The mail carriers have finally arrived!” he announces, throwing himself in the free seat and right into Sasha. She half-chokes on a mouthful of radishes.

Immediately, Samuel is on his feet, tray in his head. “Godspeed, comrades,” he dismisses you all, and vanishes towards the kitchen ladies near the kitchen sinks to drop off his empty plates.

Jean and you share a glance, and shoving the plates to the edge of the table, Jean elbows you out of the way. When he stands, he stretches like a cat and spreads his arms wide. “You think Mom sent us some chocolate? It should be that time the vendor from Yalkell visits Trost.”

You finish your meal quickly, wolfing it down like a starved woman. “I hope whatever it is isn’t as bad as your Dad’s try at those vegetable cookies.”

Jean shudders. “Yeah, I don’t think Mom should have left him unsupervised.”

“I don’t even remember the last time I had chocolate,” Marco thinks out loud. “After, you know—,” he begins, throwing a quick, unsure glance at Eren, Mikasa and Armin opposite him, then at you, “—after we lost Wall Maria, chocolate got really, really expensive.”

“I don’t get it,” Eren says. “What’s so special about it?”

You throw him a curious glance over the rim of your cup. “You don’t like it?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never had chocolate before.”

You gasp theatrically, and lean forward to place a hand on his shoulder. You feel him slightly tense under your touch, his muscles turning hard, his skin warm under the fabric. “That is the saddest thing I have ever heard.”

“Do you want me to hit you?”

A small, private smile catches you off-guard and you glance down, hoping he won’t see it.

Rapid foot tapping against the wooden floor, the tell-tale sign of Jean’s impatience, finally drives you out of your seat, surrendering it to Armin who, in his hunger for information, forgot to get food and rushes over to get some.

You follow Jean outside where another wave of cold air closes like a fist around your lungs. The Military Post Office is the last one in a neat row of small, copper brick buildings designated to everything related to civil relations and administration.

The Post Master behind the counter is a wiry and thin man with a thick moustache and a weathered kerchief tied around his neck. He’s missing two teeth at the bottom, and after you finally make it to the front, he greets you with a wet cough, before asking in a gritty voice, “Name, District.”

“Kirschstein and [Last Name],” Jean says. Hands tucked into his coat pockets, he is bobbing up and down on his heels as if he’s hoping he might lift off. “Trost District.”

The Post Master wobbles for a moment, and you share a worried look with Jean. But he manages to stay on his feet, runs a gnarly finger over a long list until he finds your names, then turns around and goes to the back room to fetch your mailings. He returns with two big packages he can barely carry by himself, and drops them unceremoniously onto the counter. A big, wet snuffle is the only goodbye you get as you reach for your respective packages before other cadets behind you push you to the side for their turn.

Your fingers itch to rip the package open, dig through the presents, even though Wîhe Naht is weeks away, and read Ida’s reply. Three more hours to go before you can trek back to your barracks and snuggle up in your bed, share the sweets and toys from Felix with Mina and then hide under your warm blanket for whatever their response holds in store for you as the other girls prepare for bed.

Jean, feeling your agitation, glances at you sideways. “It’s gonna be fine,” he remarks. “Whatever Mom and Dad are saying in their letter, it’s in the past now anyway.”

“I’m aware letting it go would be easier,” you say, balancing the box from carrying it on one side to the other as if you were holding dynamite. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it happened. I just want closure, that’s all.”

“Wouldn’t that be something.” Jean sniffs, his breath coming out in white plums. “Erasing events from the past, making stuff never have happened. You’d have to be, like, God or something to do that.”

“I don’t know. I get you’d want the unpleasant stuff gone, but it’s what makes you the person you are today, right? Even all the bad stuff, I don’t think I’d want that just taken away from me.” Especially without you knowing.

When there’s no answer, you look up at Jean. He’s trying to stifle a yawn—not very discreetly. At the glare you send him, Jean just shrugs. “What. It’s too cold and I’m too tired to engage in a philosophical debate with you. Go ask Armin.”

Back in the classroom, you are only half a step over the threshold when your corpsmates’ heads turn toward you like hungry wolves smelling their prey. You don’t know when it has become tradition to share sweets and candies—at least by those who regularly receive gift packages from their families. Did it start with Mina’s Klippfisch or Hannah’s glacéed walnuts?

You watch as Jean, who has quickly turned it into a lucrative business, bargains with Connie and Franz what duties they would take over for him next week, when an impulse strikes you, sparking you into action like flint igniting a fire.

With your target nowhere in sight, you know one person who can answer the question about his whereabouts. Mikasa is sitting by the window, watching snowflakes whirl past in an angry flurry. She has a thoughtful gaze about her, as if even though the landscape before her is blindingly white, only she can discern the pictures hidden within. Memories, maybe. Her slender fingers play with loose threads of her red scarf. Armin, sitting beside her, is curled over an open book and doesn’t notice you approaching.

“Have you guys seen Eren?” you ask, already knowing that one definitely knows where he is. Mikasa breaks her gaze away from the window, blinking up at you dazedly as if she is waking up from a long dream. Not for the first time, she is considering you with a blank expression. You just don’t know what test you’re currently under and what might happen should you not pass.

“He’s just left the room,” she says, grey eyes darting to the exit. “Do you need something?”

“Nothing important.” You’re already half turned towards your new destination, swiping your hand over their desk and leaving two pieces of chocolate. Mikasa eyes it with a little suspicion, as if she doesn’t understand what it is until she picks it up. A half smile tugs at her lips. You don’t know if you’ve ever really seen her smile at anyone else except Armin and Eren.

You leave her nibbling on the chocolate, quietly trying to rouse Armin from his reading spree to make him eat his piece. The hallway outside is slowly emptying out as the remaining cadets slip into their classrooms. When you find Eren rounding a corner, you break out into a run until there is so much momentum that it is easier to grab him by his arms and swing you both around like a merry-go-round until you finally halt. Disoriented and surprised by the sudden attack, Eren needs a moment to understand what is happening.

“Wha—”

“Close your eyes,” you say.

Eren takes a step back, doubt cutting deep creases into his forehead as if you are trying to sell him Titan body parts. “Why?”

“Just do as you’re told. Trust me.”

His expression says it all. He doesn’t. But he closes his eyes anyway, brows furrowed.

“Open your mouth.”

He opens his eyes.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth.”

Eren does so, but he adds, “If this is another one of your pranks, I’m going to make you eat snow.”

You ignore him and reach for your pocket from where you produce another small piece of chocolate. You place it on Eren’s lips. He flinches, his eyes snapping open and you use his confusion to shove the whole piece inside his mouth, the pads of your fingers brushing his warm lips. The tip of his tongue darts forward, prods against your fingertips, hot and wet, and you hesitate for the break of a second before pulling your hand back as the feeling sends electric shocks from your hand up your arm and down to your belly.

The transformation on his face is instant when he closes his mouth, his jaw working as the chocolate melts on his tongue. It’s an expression you did not expect, and because of it, you throw your head back and laugh out loud.

“Why do you look so confused?” you ask, giving him a light shove.

Red creeps up his face, paints the tips of his ears. He throws an arm over his mouth, trying to hide it. “It’s so … sweet?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be like that.” You almost reach out to tug his arm down by his sleeve, wishing to see more, but Eren has already dropped it, now looking at you as if you are a puzzle he has spent too much time trying to solve and now he is considering throwing it against the wall.

“Why?” he asks.

“Well, there is a lot of sugar in it.”

“No, why are you giving it to me?”

The question catches you off guard, changes the gravity centre a little and uproots your safe foundation. You haven’t really thought about a deeper meaning, just that you wanted to share something you enjoy with him, something you know most people enjoyed, that would bring them happiness. Just like Mikasa and Armin. You wanted, you realise, to share a little happiness with Eren as well.

Which is something you definitely can’t and won’t admit to him out loud.

“You know, gaining favours, having you owe me something.” You shrug, trying to make it look extra nonchalant.

“So, now I owe you something after you almost shoved your fingers inside my mouth.” He crosses his arms in front of his broad chest, and gives you one of those insufferable grins that remind you of every picaresque trickster you have read about in stories—dashing and adventurous, but also daring and dangerous. You realise the part inside you that didn’t want to understand what exactly it is Eren dares you to do grows quieter and quieter, instead replaced by a growing voice that’s a little too eager to accept the challenge head-on.

You mimic his posture, aware of how your crossed arms push out your chest. There isn’t anything subtle about Eren, or the way his eyes drop down like a magnet to its pole. “You say that as if you didn’t like it, Jaeger.”

Eren’s eyes grow dark. He looks at you, his gaze sliding over you in a way that you know is like fingertips stroking over your skin. “I—”

“Hey, if you two squirts have time to stand out here and fuck around, you better be able to recount the whole operation without any mistakes!” Shadis’ voice roars up from the end of the corridor, his sharp, pinprick dots of eyes traverse the whole floor to hit you with a marksman’s precision.

You and Eren duck your heads as if that could spare you from Shadis’ wrath, immediately setting off together, a hasty walk that quickly turns into a race down the hall to see who is faster. Eren only wins because he cheats, his hand reaching down to pull at the harness on your leg only to let it snap back against the back of your thigh.

His laughter disappears as he dives into the classroom first, which is great because that means he doesn’t see your face going up in flames at the quick brush of his fingers against the back of your thigh.

True to his word, Shadis does make you two recount the operation and everything important for its success, which somehow you manage to recite without any problems.

Sadly, that did not prevent the events from nearly taking your life.

The cold punishes arrogance.

That was Shadis’ first lesson, one none of you took too seriously simply because you all, stemming from the southern parts within the Walls where winters are uncomfortable but that is pretty much it, lack the imagination to fully understand what it means to be cold.

“Keep in mind, safety first!” Shadis’ voice howls inside your head, louder than the wind tearing at the naked branches reaching for you like cold, broken fingers as you keep your head down, fighting against the wind trying to sweep you off your feet, eyes glued to Ymir’s boots in front of you. Looking up would hurt too much. The whirling snowflakes striking your skin hurt like pellets. “I’d rather have you maggots fail the objective than be stupid enough to die to hypothermia! Get frostbite and your pathetic little lives are over! Cold winter climate like this is the most difficult climate to manoeuvre! Even when not in combat, you’re still in a fight against the cold. Now out in those woods, the cold won’t be your only enemy. There are wolves, bears. The animals might kill you. But the cold will.”

You’ve checked your gear multiple times, made sure everything is safe inside your trekking back and nothing is missing. The winter coats, long enough to fall past your knees, shield you from the cold, keep you warm as long as you keep moving. You cannot allow one sliver of skin to be exposed to these extreme temperatures or you’ll grow numb immediately, completely freeze in maybe a few minutes. Dead in maybe an hour.

It helps to keep your mind completely fixed on the task. One foot in front of the other, step by step, in the same rhythm that Ymir and the rest march. You’ve completely lost any feeling for the time, and surrounded by this never-ending grey landscape, it could either still be early morning or afternoon already. Which would mean night is approaching and you do not want to be outside when the sun completely vanishes and leaves you in the dark. You can’t imagine how much colder it will be then.

As suddenly as the snowstorm has hit your formation, it dissolves for now. Risking a glance up, you can finally make out the dark, barren stems of trees, still bending in the harsh wind and creaking like old men lamenting their aching backs. Mountains stand tall in the distance, growing taller and taller as you march towards them. Behind them warm huts, burning fireplaces, and warm stews await your arrival. Two more hours, maybe three, and you can finally take off the padded coat and winter boots, the heavy backpack sinking you deeper into the snow with every step.

The cliffs rise higher as you progress, pocked with spots of darkness, like slashes of black paint. As you look more closely, you realise they are caves in the rock. Some look very deep, twisting away into darkness. You imagine bats and creepy-crawling things hiding in the blackness, and shiver.

At last a narrow path cutting through the cliffs leads you to a wide road, nearly completely frozen over. Anytime now, you think, having memorised the map around these areas until you could draw it with your eyes closed. The group begins to slow down, shuffling even closer now that movement ceases and in need of a different source of warmth. You feel Mina pressing up against your side, her gloved hands clutching tightly onto the straps of her backpack. She peeks over at you from under her furred hood, barely managing an exhausted smile. You reach under her hood and give her Rudolph-red nose a squeeze.

At the front, quiet murmur rises, the order passed from the first to the last man. You’d imagine Shadis would have a field trip shouting in a place like this where his voice would echo and grow tenfold, the only downside is that the avalanche following would kill you all swiftly.

Everyone shuffles into one line. You can feel the unrest and anxiety running through the rest like a wave carrying on from person to person. The need to stomp their feet against the creeping needle-fingered cold, the white death slowly advancing and sucking heat from any warm thing. But the narrow mountain pass snaking alongside the cliff’s wall doesn’t allow for two people walking side by side. You imagine freezing to death might be a bit more pleasant than a drop all the way down to the bottom of the mountain and breaking bones. Then again, you’d prefer not to die at all.

With the progress slowed down, you have no choice but to wait for your turn to squeeze alongside the steep cliff to the other side. Were it any other time, you’d enjoy the fantastic outlook over the valley. There’s nothing but mountains and trees as far as the eye can see, a winter wonderland reminding you of all the Wîhe Naht stories your mother used to read to you at night when you were both snuggling into warm comforters and blankets. You try to recount those stories now, of brave Lucia venturing out on a cold, dark, lightless night to find the sun and bring it back to the world, or the stories of Vaeterchen Frost and his granddaughter Schneefloeckchen travelling the lands to deliver presents, to pass time as Mina carefully shimmies along the edge to the other side. Singing songs in your head helps as well—just about anything that occupies you from thinking too much about the cold. What better way to pass time with winter songs.

Schneefloeckchen, Weissroeckchen / wann kommst du geschneit? / Du wohnst in den Wolken / dein Weg ist so weit.

A muffled sneeze interrupts your solo performance. There’s only a handful of cadets left bringing up the rear, comrades you’re able to recognise by their built now rather than seeing their faces after spending almost two years together. Franz glued to Hannah’s side, taking care that she doesn’t slip and fall. Annie, her height giving her away, kicking some frozen ice clumps off the cliff, watching them tumble down, sometimes growing as snow sticks to it. The last one is Eren, all gloomy and sulking like a little child and whenever he raises his head, watchful eyes scanning his surroundings, you don’t miss the feverish look on his face, his cheeks and nose a scarlet red you know has nothing to do with the cold.

No one had missed the argument between him and Mikasa this morning, one Eren ended by storming outside the Mess Hall, ignoring her calls. He wouldn’t be stopped from gathering experience during this mission, not even by the cold turning his voice raw and raspy, his nose runny. You can’t explain how he’s still standing, other than that sheer will power is driving him onward and whoever doubts it gets on Eren’s shit list. Three streaks and you’re out, Eren is not shy handing out punches—physically or verbally. Mikasa was the first to get the brunt of it, banished to the front of the line and as far away from Eren as physically possible just because he couldn’t stand her watching over him like a mother hen.

You felt bad then, watching Mikasa letting Eren stomp off, looking at him with frustration but also fondness—unable to decide if she should respect his wish and let him be alone or follow him to keep him safe. In the end, it was Armin, as usual, who negotiated and kept the peace between them, pulling Mikasa with him and making her his trek buddy.

Now, as you watch Mina reach the pass’ first half and Eren getting ready behind you, you can’t help and plead in Mikasa’s favour.

“You should have listened to Mikasa and stayed back,” you mumble, voice low enough for only him to hear.

Eren’s bad condition is only further proven by the lack of immediate retaliation, the time he needs to take in your words, process them and come up with a strong argument. It is a little like pushing a toddler off his feet and watching him trying to understand what just happened.

Finally, the response you get is the most unconvincing performance you’ve seen, one were it a stage play, you’d demand your money back.

“’M fine,” he slurs, bracing himself against the cliff’s side. He’s taking deep, rattling breaths, his mouth a pale gash in his feverish face. “We’re almost at our destination ‘nyway.”

You take the first careful step, hugging the wall. They always say ‘Don’t look down’ when standing too close to an edge with nothing but space between you and the ground, but that doesn’t work when you have to use ODM gear. Still, something about being in free fall is different than standing close to an edge with nothing but half a foot separating you plunging into your death. There is nothing quite describing this feeling except call of the void.

“You ever think that this isn’t just about you?” you ask him, feeling safer with your back pressed against the wall even though the outlook gives a splendid, stomach churning overview of the valley that has your toes curling. You miss the weight of your ODM gear, the knowledge that no matter if you fall right here, safety is but a click of your hooks and wires away. “Don’t expect any of us to carry you the rest of the way.” Certainly not Annie, his trek buddy. Not because she’s lacking the strength, rather you don’t think she has it in her heart to care about what happens to Eren. Or any of you.

At this point, Eren can barely make any distinguishable words. It sounds something like “Don’ worry ‘bout it,” which is the only signal you get to look to your right and see him sway precariously.

You don’t think. Instinct kicks in, and as he falls forward, you lunge for him, grabbing his backpack. Only that is exactly half the step you shouldn’t have taken.

The last thing you can make out is someone is trying to scream after you, quickly shushed by a firm hand on their mouth—you can only imagine it is Annie’s quick wit and reflex that prevents Hannah’s voice from causing an avalanche going off above their heads.

The fall slams your stomach up to your throat as the world turns into a blurry merry-go-round of white and ice, and the only stable thing is the additional weight of Eren as you hold onto his backpack’s strap for dear life. The first hit is the worst. You land awkwardly on your side, the blanket of snow buffering most of the impact as you tumble and roll further down, kicking up snow and dirt.

Gloved hands clawing into the ice, searching for roots to stop your fall, you try to scramble back up the hill but the snow gives under your feet—and then suddenly there is no ground beneath your feet and you fall again, flailing to find purchase and it is the longest two seconds of your life until your backpack hits the ground and your teeth clack together hard enough you feel it in all your bones.

A moment later, a second thud lands inside a pile of snow beside you.

All you can do is lie on your back like a turtle upturned, kicking and swinging and swaying as you try to scramble to your knees, blinking away fine snow dust from your lashes. Your heart still beats too fast, too hard—too scared from dodging Death’s cold, greedy talons by nothing more than a hairsbreadth. You can still feel him yearning for you in the cold, biting wind that picks up, in the coppery taste filling your mouth after having bitten the inside of your mouth during the fall.

You turn your back to the cliff. A snow-tipped forest stretches before you, illuminated in a haze of dusty gold beneath the late-afternoon sun. And in the distance, more ice-capped mountains rise and fall as far as the eye can see.

But you feel only the cold in your bones and see only the shadows that stretch long and dark beneath the pine trees. This is the south of the Walls, where winter days are not as bad as in the North, yet if you don’t find shelter before the sun sets, you will die.

You scramble to your feet, snow stuck to your coat and backpack weighing you down so much your knees buckle with the additional weight. The heaps of snow surrounding you remain motionless, still. The panic seizing you, freezing you in place for a moment, is colder than the snow before you lunge into the pile, clawing through the icy chunks that immediately freeze and harden as you dig your way through to Eren.

You find his arm first. He’s lost one of his gloves during the fall and you don’t try to push your luck finding it. Unearthing him takes a good amount of strength and time, but at least he is free from his icy coffin. Snow dusts his face, clings to the fur of his hood and his closed lashes like fine diamonds. You tug your glove off with your teeth and put your hand to his cheeks, feeling for his pulse. Despite the cold, his cheeks are still warm, still full of life, and the relief that sparks within you warms you like a small candle’s light.

You free him completely, pull him out and drag him away until he is laid out on the snowy floor, his breaths coming out in soft white plumes. No matter how often you say his name, pat his cheek and beg him to wake up, nothing disturbs Eren’s sleeping beauty slumber.

“You can’t die, all right?” you say to him. To yourself. To no one. “Please don’t. You’re a prick sometimes, but you can’t die, okay?”

There’s no response. You have never known silence this terrifying.

But fear and panic are not the solution. For two years Shadis has beat discipline and order into you with words and you would not allow this to crumble under the face of adversity.

More importantly, you will not leave Eren to be taken by the Grim Reaper.

Shelter. You need shelter, you need a fire. You have to survive this.

Checking your gear, you make sure you didn’t lose anything during your descent. Pulling Eren out of that pile of snow was already hard work. You doubt you’ll make it far if you’d try carrying him and his backpack, so you spend the next five minutes going through everything he has on him.

The contents of his bag are identical to yours: a raincover, additional rope and another survival knife, another pair of waterproof gloves that you quickly switch out with the one Eren’s wearing. You take his water bottle with you and stuff yourself with a sweet oat bar. The rest of his rations—dry crackers, another oat bar, thinly sliced rye bread and hard biscuits—you stuff into your own back for later if he wakes up.

When he wakes up, you correct yourself, chewing on the bar without really tasting anything. You doubt something like a fever and a fall from this height that barely left you with a scratch could kill a public menace like Eren. The world wouldn’t miss out to see how far he’ll go.

Now looking up, it actually does surprise you how unscathed you’ve emerged from the fall. A canopy of barren trees obscures your sight of the top. Protocol says that any loss to the formation is to be diminished. Unfortunately, that means everyone is out for themselves, and those who manage to lose the group have to find their own way back. But not with the sun descending behind the horizon, and Eren still unconscious.

When you’ve steeled yourself for the arduous task, you slide the bag off Eren’s back and throw him over your shoulders, huffing at the additional weight. If you keep following the trail back along the cliff side, you should return to where you’ve earlier seen the caves and find shelter there for the night.

Soon you are in the heart of the woods, surrounded by tall, crowding pines and frost-larches that cast their shadows over you. A hush has settled in the air. It feels as though the forest is alive and watching, the cold creeping steadily past your clothes, under your skin, into your bones. Every step further turns into an excruciating fight to keep Eren upright, his weight pushing you down into the thick blanket of snow.

Darkness has steadily crept in around you, and you have to blink to make out which are the trees and which are the shadows. Time seems to go in circles, and you begin to wonder whether you are going in circles. The unbearable cold is addling your brain; you keep looking to the left and right, imagining the occasional crackle of a branch or crunch of snow. You remember your mother’s stories about never-ending winters where ice spirits dwell to spirit away the last remaining humans locked up inside their tiny huts in hopes for spring to come. Wolves that spring from thin air and hunt in packs. That is exactly why Shadis had told your class to never travel without a light source on you that burns steadily through the night to ward off the creatures lurking in the woods. Now the darkness seems to press against you.

Then, you hear it. The snap-snap-snap of twigs and the rustle of the underbrush, several dozen paces behind you.

Someone—or something—is following you.

Fear pricks at you. You duck behind the nearest tree, and after rebalancing Eren on your back, you still and strain to listen over the hammering of your heart.

There. Rustling and crackling approaches, as though something large is moving through the trees. Holding your breath, you dare a look from behind the tree and feel your legs turn to cotton.

Multiple swift, dark shapes slither by, so close that their musty wet-animal scent wafts past you. They circle you, sniffing the air and letting out deep-throated growls. As they turn their heads to rivet their black, evil eyes on you, your heart sinks. Wolves. A pack of hungry, desperate wolves.

Your mind kicks into action as you press Eren’s body closer to yours. One wrong movement and your life will be over; Eren’s life will be over. Now that they have picked up your scent, they will hunt you until their razor-sharp fangs tear the meat from your bones, squeeze their tongue in to suck out your marrow.

Slowly, painfully aware that you cannot do any rash moves, you lower Eren to the ground first, then your backpack. There is no way you can outrun them. Your hand inches to the survival knife strapped to the belt around your coat, fingers numb and shaking. The wolves crouch, low and snarling. One of them, their leader you assume, stands between you and the rest, a mountain of growling, brindled fur, shoulders hunched forward, lips curled back over snarling teeth.

It snarls again, crouching closer to the ground. Its growl is more than just Look, here is a human in our territory and we can do whatever we please. No, this growl means We have not eaten in days, and now it is time to feast.

The wolf’s lips draw back to show its teeth, and you see its lolling tongue. And then it launches itself forward, jaws gaping, ready to tear. You have barely time to draw your knife as it strikes you square in the chest, and you two go over in a writhing tangle.

Your screams go under the lethal snap of his jaw, its target the soft flesh of your throat where he can easily rip you to shreds. The smell of dirt and wet dog and something far more unpleasant threatens to choke you. The weight of this beast robs you of any chance to fight back. You’d just have to move your arm and bring upon it the sharp edge of your knife to show him your own talons are as sharp—everything inside you screams against this. You hate to see animals suffer, to inflict pain upon the most innocent creatures.

If only the wolf would think so of you as well.

But the wolf is starving, and its mates are starving. It sees you as nothing more than a walking slab of meat. And that is why it has no problem to throw its head back and pierce those razor-sharp fangs right through the fabric of your coat into your arm and tear at your flesh.

❀❀❀

My darling [Name],

I have always known the day would come when you would remember and yet nothing prepares the heart for adversity as great as finding yourself facing the struggle you’ve tried to brace yourself for.

What Jeanie told you is the truth. I still remember reading your mother’s letter, feeling her distraught with every word. I swear I feared my heart would stop beating reading your mother’s recount of the events.

You must have been ten—the age when everything is a mystery and a great adventure. I remember whenever you and Jeanie went outside to play, you wouldn’t come back for hours and when you finally returned you were both covered in dust and grime from head to toe. I assume that is why, on that day, your parents weren’t worried why you were staying out for so long.

But then, your mother wrote, your friend had come over, asking for your whereabouts. That made her wonder, at last. Were you not supposed to be with him? I know he was very dear to you, I remember you talking about him so much, and strangely, I cannot remember his name or face, even though I know I must have met him at some point when visiting you.

Your mother and father immediately set out to ask around the neighbourhood if someone saw you. The result shocked your little community quite. The old veteran living on the outskirts close to the wall, who everyone believed to be blind turned out to have impeccable eyesight. We believe he lured you away, asked you to help him and you have never been someone to turn away from those who need help.

It was your father who found you. The veteran attacked him, scared what would happen to him if everyone knew about his secret. I don’t know how much you saw of it, of what your father had to do to protect you both. We were all grateful he saved you, and yet there is a part of me wondering if taking that old man’s life really was necessary. If it wasn’t possible to resolve things differently. Then again, any parent would make a deal with the Devil, I am sure, to keep their child safe.

The fact that your early life is built upon violence and loss pains me to this day. It must have been such a great shock that you had completely repressed any memory of the events, and had no recollection of ever having been kidnapped and taken away by that monster.

I do wonder though, why you have remembered now of all times—and such strange details as well! Not all is clear to me, there was no need to make your parents go through the pain of remembering all that by asking them too much. But a green wallpaper with golden lilies on it? That doesn’t sound like something you would find in Shiganshina. I did hear that it is a popular interior design choice within the inner Walls though.

But how did you know?

I think that is enough talk of that. Your graduation approaches. It is strange to believe that only two years ago, we last saw each other, and the next time we hopefully will, you and Jeanie will be full-fledged soldiers. You know I have never fully approved of you two going and giving up your young lives to a cause with no end. But I have been young once as well, and I know that nobody wants to be saved from their own ambition.

I am just glad you two have decided to stay within the Walls, and that makes it a little easier to sleep at night.

Until we see each other next time, please enjoy our little presents.

In love, always Ida

A/N: After finishing this I realised there is no way they would have chocolate on the island because they wouldn’t be able to plant cacao. Might go back and edit this, but for now let’s just ignore this.

feel free to head over to my pinned post to find my ko-fi link if you enjoy the story wanna fuel me with some coffee! ♥

Sources of research for this chapter: • London, Jack: To Build a Fire (1902) • Geller, Jacob: Fear of Cold (2022) • Campbell, John W.: Who Goes There? (1938)

taglist: @arisu003, @brooki, @prttyangelbaby, @honeylmnade

#didn't mean to split the chapter but it all would have been too long #next chapter will be so much fun because EMIL #aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #swyaatl

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moralesispunk · 3 years

Text

In his eyes II (Blacksmith Pero Tovar AU)

Pero Tovar x Female Reader

Part 2 of a short Pero Tovar Blacksmith AU

Part 1 here | Masterlist here under Pero | Part 3 here

Summary: after spending some time with Pero, your relationship takes a more personal turn when he comes by your father’s house every week to teach you checkers.

A/N: At the start we get to see some of this from Pero’s POV. I didn’t realise how much I enjoyed writing for Pero until I did part 1 so I hope people enjoy this part as much as the first!

The now empty basket where the bakings so kindly gifted by the bakers daughter had arrived in sat atop Pero’s workshop table for two days before he found confidence in the depth of his body to return it. While he waited, the lily that she had wrapped in the string around the bread had been pressed between the two heaviest books Pero could find. It was something he had watched his mother do whenever she received flowers from his father before he passed. He placed the now flat flower in the front of his notebook and placed that notebook in the safe keepings of his drawer at his bedside, opening it every night to run his fingers over it before going to sleep.

He wasn’t sure what the feeling in his stomach was when he thought of her was. The first time he had laid eyes on her was when he had walked into the village. While most people had stared at him, they looked away when his eyes met theirs. But not her. She held his gaze until he had completed passed by and her soft lips had even began to curl into a smile.

He had seen her every other day since then, eating more bread following his arrival in this village than he had in the rest of his life put together. Her gentle voice would wish him a good day and try to make conversation about the weather or the new pastries her father had baked that morning. While he usually avoided conversations with others because he did not want to entertain them, he avoided talking to her because he was worried that he would scare her off in some way. So instead, he let her talk about how the sun was arriving earlier in the village this year and he would offer a smile when she joked that maybe he brought it from whatever land he had travelled from.

Eventually, when he noticed how she spoke more to him than the others who were customers at the bakery, he began to offer his voice more. The day he learned her name was the day he swore his soul had been tied to hers for eternity. He spent the rest of his day repeating her name on his lips, listening to how it sounded in the different moods he went through as the day went on.

He still could not put a name to the feeling that swirled around his veins every second of every day for her. His stomach felt like it was flipping with every step he took towards the bakery, his heart felt like it had stopped for a moment when their eyes met and his palms would sweat when she first started talking. All these symptoms were usually of a sickness, something deep inside that had to be rid of, but he wanted to feel it more. He went out of his way to talk the long walk home from work to pass by the bakery and catch one final glimpse of her for the day, hoping she would turn and look up at him to make his heart stop.

As he lifted the basket to return to the bakers he walked by the checkers board she had commented on before she left two days before. He picked the board up folding it over and placing the checkers in a small bag to place in the basket as well. He had no one to play with and was not even sure why he brought it on his travels so maybe she and her father could have better use for it.

As he walked towards the bakery thoughts swirled his head of what she would be wearing today and whether her hair would be tied back or loose as she sometimes wore it. When he entered the bakers there was no one at the front of the shop, the only sound being the bell that rang through to the back as he opened the door. The baker walked out from the back, wiping some flour on the front of his apron as he headed towards Pero.

“Ah, Mr Tovar! Thank you again, I don’t think I have had such an easy time of making bread in years.”

Pero just grunted in response, making sure to nod his head so not to appear too rough before the kind man. He handed the basket over to the baker, watching as his eyebrow was cocked at the contents of the basket.

“What is this?”

“Checkers. Your daughter noticed it and you need two people to play,” Pero watched as the baker’s confused expression did not lift, “... and I have no one to play with so you two would have more use of it.”

“I do not know how to play.”

“Oh,” was all Pero could offer in return, heat climbing to his cheeks as he was lost for words more so than usual.

“You are not very good with women are you,” the baker chucked, “well, women like my daughter,” he clarified, both men aware that men who travelled did need their beds warmed like the rest.

“No,” Pero sighed, worried about what the baker was about to say.

If the man warned Pero away from ever talking to his daughter again he would have to respect that but his heart would ache every day. The thought of not getting to see the most beautiful woman he had seen across all the lands or listen to the most wonderful voice as she wished him a good day was already making his heart fall lower into his stomach.

“Well,” the baker interrupted his thoughts, “the bakery does not open on Mondays so you will come and teach her. Do you know where we live?”

Pero shook his head and the baker told him to walk east out of town, through the path in the forest until he reached the cottage. Pero nodded as he listened to the instructions, waiting until the baker had finished before walking out. As he reached the door he turned to thank the man. He did not know why he trusted Pero with his daughter but he had shown him more kindness than most. The baker smiled before turning and heading into the back of the shop.

For the rest of the week Pero thought about Monday. He did not sleep much the night before, something he never usually had trouble with. When he woke the next day the sun had barely risen above the trees. He set the pot of water above the fire, warming it just enough for a bath. He could not remember the last time he had spent this long in a bath but by the time he was changing into his clothes for the day the sun was well into the sky.

The walk to the baker’s house was not long but it was peaceful. It was just outside the village, through a forest path. When he finally reached the house he took three deep breaths, counting them slowly, before he knocked on the door. The baker opened it, welcoming Pero in with a smile.

When he stepped inside, the baker's daughter sat on the floor next to a small table that came to his knee height. It was a warm cottage, not just from the roaring fire than spread heat around the room, but from the personal contents that decorated each shelf. The warm browns and reds of throws and pillows to make the wooden benches softer would make anyone feel at home, even the tall, dark, mysterious man who was entering their home today.

The baker’s daughter was laying out the board, placing checkers on squares. As she looked up, he noticed the way her eyes shimmered from the candles lining the edge of the table. She smiled at him, at first a small, welcoming curve of the lips, before it turned into a wide grin that showed all her teeth. She looked so... pure. Loving. Caring. Innocent. A thousand words swam around his skull as he took her in.

She sat with her legs tucked under her, one hand playing with the hem of her skirt enough to show the soft skin at the bottom of her leg and the other resting on the board.

"Pero, I hope I set it up right I tried to remember how it looked in your workshop."

-------

As the knock finally came to the door the butterflies in your stomach were stalled. Your father walked to the door, opening to reveal Pero at the door. He was still dressed head to toe in all black but his layers less constricting that the ones you had seen him don in the village. The ones he wore now truly showed his proportions to you - his broad shoulders that looked as though they would not be able to fit through the doorway, his large arms from years of hard labour, the way he appeared slightly softer around the middle.

He nodded to your father as he walked in, his fingers rubbing together as he stepped into the house. Despite his dark eyes and hair, his scowl and large frame it felt as though the room got that bit lighter when he walked in.

"Pero, I hope I set it up right I tried to remember how it looked in your workshop."

He looked down at the board, reaching to move two pieces into what must have been their correct spaces.

"Sit," you motioned to a pillow you had placed at the other side of the table.

You had to bite back a laugh at the huff Pero let out when he lowered himself to the ground. You must not have done a good enough job, noticing the way Pero's eyes glared into you a little before he smiled.

"I'm going into the garden, the weeds are coming back. I expect you to make my daughter a checkers genius," your father motioned between you before walking out the door.

"Your father is a kind man," Pero noted after your father had moved to the garden.

"He is," you smiled, “would you like a drink?”

Pero nodded and you lifted the jug next to you on the table to pour two glasses and handing him one.

"You are kind too," he added after taking a sip.

"And so are you."

Pero shook his head, "I am not."

His eyes that had not moved from your face since he walked in suddenly found whatever was on the ground more interesting. You frowned, moving closer to the table.

"You have been nothing but kind to me."

"You do not know me. What I have done before I came here," his voice quiet.

"And you do not know me other than the girl who sells you bread. I can see you're a good man, Pero, in your eyes."

Pero did not know why you had so much faith in him, he certainly did not deserve it. He looked up at you again and stopped himself from telling you that you were wrong, that he was a horrible man who had done horrible things when he saw the softness in your eyes. Maybe he could be kind for you.

"So, how do you play?"

"You will play black to go first and I will play white. You must try to move all your pieces to my side of the board..."

He explained the game as you went, taking his time in telling you how to move around the board so you would win the first game. He never got frustrated at the questions you asked and did not care when you asked him to repeat the rules for the sixth time. As he told you to make the final move, making you the winner, he smiled, a true smile that took over his face as you laughed and cheered.

"Okay, okay. Will we play again? This time don't let me win," you laughed.

Pero chuckled, setting up the board again but still letting you go first.

"So, what did you do before you came to the village?" you asked after a while.

You watched while Pero's forearm tightened as he reached for the piece in front of him. He turned to look out the window, looking for your father before answering.

"He cannot hear us. Even if he could, he is not a naive man," you reassured.

"I sold my sword. To Kings and Lords or whoever had coins to spare. I travelled a lot of lands and fought a lot of men... and beasts."

"I bet you have a lot of stories. A lot more than everyone in this village put together."

"Probably. But for another time because I," Pero moved one final piece, "win."

You both laughed, leaning back to hold yourselves up with your palms resting on the ground behind you. The room was a lot darker than when he had came earlier today, the light from the sun almost non-existent and the fire lighting up his face perfectly. The red and amber glow that covered his face showed it perfectly. His jaw and nose were sharp as if carved from the strongest stone, softened slightly by the lines that surrounded his eyes while he smiled.

"You will come back to play then?"

"Yes, but you should practice so I do not feel so bad winning next time," he teased.

Pero stood from the table, the few hours you had spent sitting opposite one another meaning you had forgotten just how large he was until he towered over you. You tried to stand and join him but the pins and needles running up your legs made that difficult.

Pero reached a hand out, letting you hold onto it as you stood. His hand surrounded yours easily, the rough skin contrasting the gentle hold. You held onto it for a moment longer while you spoke.

"Thank you for teaching me," you whispered.

"Thank you for letting me," Pero lifted your hand placing a kiss to the back of your knuckles before dropping your hand again.

Your eyes remained on one another for a moment until your father entered the house again.

"Ah, Mr Tovar. How did my daughter do?"

"A natural," he turned, winking at you outside of your father's view.

"Will you be back? Next week?"

Pero nodded turning to wish you goodbye as he walked by your father who held the door open for him. As Pero walked out your father headed to the kitchen to start dinner and you moved to the window.

Pero stalked the path, each step powerful and calculated as he walked away. When he was outside of your garden, walking on the forest path he turned back to your house, catching your eye. He smiled, lifting a hand to wave. You waved back, unable to stop the childish grin on your face that did not come off until Pero must have been home.

Pero came every Monday for a few weeks, teaching you new tricks and manoeuvres to better win. You learned more about him as the weeks went on. He told you about his home land, his family and even some stories from his travels. You would see each other in between Mondays with you stopping by the workshop to say hello on the way to the bakers and he would drop in for his bread as usual, you wrapping some extra sweet pastries in along with them.

You waited by the doorstep for him to come today. You could make his walk out as his body emerged from the trees. His usual dark clothing made the flowers in his hand stand out even more. You stood from the step as you approached, flattening your skirts until he stopped in front of you, lifting the flowers to hand them to you.

“I saw these and - I- I thought of you.”

“They’re- they’re beautiful, Pero. Thank you,” you smiled as you lifted to smell the flowers, “the weather is lovely today, will we play outside?”

You and Pero played your games outside today, not talking too much other than sharing a story of your past every so often. The sun shone down on the garden, the smell of the pollen and sound of birds surrounding you both. When the sun finally started to lower and you packed the board away, your father called you both into the house.

“Pero,” you smiled as your father used his first name, something Pero had requested he do after you had watched him tense every time he called him by Mr Tovar, “I am away from the village next week, I have to visit my brother. Would you be so kind to check in on my daughter while I am gone?”

Pero’s mouth opened for a moment before he forced it shut again. You turned to look at him and as his eyes fell on your face he nodded before voicing an agreement to your father.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I leave in two days.”

And with that the conversation was done and Pero began to leave once again. As you watched him go this week, your mind spun faster than it ever had before. You imagined the next time he would walk down this path would be to visit you alone in this house.

Pero was a gentleman and he respected your father but you knew as much as Pero that your father did not have any unreasonable expectations about what would happen when he was gone, otherwise he would have asked the butcher or the farmer, people you had known since a child.

He walked away a little slower than usual this week, turning more than once to wave goodbye. You couldn’t stop the way your heart was beating faster in your chest with this goodbye, looking forward to the next time you would see his face as he walked up the path.

Permanent tag list // @phoenixhalliwell @asta-lily @hb8301 @princess76179

Pero tag list // @bonktime @justpedropascal @coldlilheart @shadowolf993 @stylelovechild @frostsoldier @idreamofboobear

Excited for a part 3 where Pero and the baker’s daughter get some one-on-one time...

#pero Tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar #pero tovar fic #pero tovar fanfic #pero tovar fanfiction #headcannon #the great wall #pedro pascal #din djarin x reader #frankie morales x reader #marcus moreno x reader #oberyn martell x reader

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glitter-garbage · 3 years

Text

15. — twilight

Shadowgast, 800+ words, gen, modern au, fae au.

Sent by @kiwifluid (hope you like it!)

(one word writing prompts: send me one and a pairing if you like. I might fill them some day!)

---

Essek stared at the green expanse before him, eyes narrowing instinctively. The sun, lowering steadily in the sky, but still a good half hour away from the horizon, made his eyes water even as he shielded them with his hand.

He stood silently surveying the valley, then looked back down at his phone. He had no service, not this deep into the reserve known as the Savalirwood, but his GPS still worked, and the coordinates he had marked on his map blinked steadily in the small screen.

According to his app, he had arrived. He knew the application was right, too. All around him the woods had been wintry, but this small valley remained verdant and warm, unnaturally so.

Essek rolled his shoulders, feeling the heaviness of his large backpack pulling down on his back. This was definitely not something he did, hiking, camping, and the like. His feet ached and his muscles were sore, but he had arrived.

If someone had told him three months ago that he would be searching for fairies in the middle of nowhere, by himself, he would have laughed in their faces and gone back to his thesis. But then, he remembered that face, pale and freckled and terribly hurt, searching for anyone that would listen, asking for help in the translucent reflections of windows, screens, and glasses of his home.

His heart ached, and Essek straightened himself, walking down the valley in search of the rocks he knew had to be around.

The first time he had seen the man was during Halloween, which made sense he supposed, now that he knew such things as the Feywild existed. Essek had refused to join his friends at their party, claiming that he needed to study, when in fact he just wanted to stay at home by himself for a bit. He had grown to care for the ragtag group deeply, but still, a little peace and quiet was what he needed sometimes.

He had looked out of the window just as the sun was setting and nearly fell backward. Looking back at him was a man with features so symmetrical and perfect, Essek was unsure if he was attracted or frightened of him. His hair was fiery red, wild, and falling in messy curls around his face. His eyes were so blue that they looked like two stars right there, on his living room window. But his expression was one of pain, and his face sported bruises and scratches, and before Essek could scream, the man spoke to him in a broken, but calm voice.

“I need your help. Please. Can you hear me?”

He had learned a lot since then. After the initial shock, his new fae friend told him about magic, and his realm, where he was being kept by the cruel King of the Autumn Court. Essek had been skeptical, of course, but if the strange reflection coming to life wasn't proof enough, Caleb had brought small globes of light tumbling from the strange world across the glass to Essek's own living room.

They were there, real and bright as day. Just a cheap trick, Caleb had said, something he could still do even if depleted.

Essek wanted to know everything about it.

But, in all honesty, he felt drawn not only to the magical knowledge that Caleb shared with him but by the brightness of those blue eyes. Everytime they talked, the fae looked as if Essek had lifted a burden from him, so it wasn't long before it became a daily thing, to wait until dusk came so he could spend a few moments talking to the fae and devising a plan to get him out. It wouldn’t be hard for him, according to Caleb.

“The King is not expecting anyone from the material plane, the defenses where I am held are made for the fair folk. Follow the rules we talked about, and you will be alright.”

The last day before Essek set off on his quest, Caleb had placed his hand on the glass, and Essek, struck by sudden emotion, placed his own on top of Caleb’s. He was sure he felt heat seeping from the glass, even though the weather was freezing, and touching the window should feel anything but warm.

“I will get you out of there.”

The man smiled sadly, “I understand it is a lot to ask. Ah, I will not fault you if you decide this isn't worth the trouble.”

“I would be lying if I said that our paths crossing hasn't shaken me to the core,” said Essek, trying to ignore the rising heat on his neck, "I will be there, Caleb."

“I will owe you if you save me. I will be... yours for the rest of your life. It is a lot to consider.”

Essek examined his tired eyes and shook his head, “I will give you my full name. You will have me, too. That way, we stand on equal ground.”

Caleb’s eyes had widened in surprise before he opened in a bright smile. Essek’s heart thumped in his chest.

“Then godspeed, my friend.”

---

Something caught Essek’s eyes, and he forced his mind back to the present. There, in a large patch of grass, he saw thirteen rocks arranged in a circle. He looked at his phone. Only 10 minutes to go.

With steady hands, Essek reached for a few things inside his pack. A silver necklace, with a pendant in the form of an eye, made of iron, that he put around his neck. A glass bottle filled with milk, and a brown bag with honey bread he had bought before entering the woods. The last item was the one meant to bring him to his destination, a piece of amber he held firmly in his sweaty palm. Something to tether him to Caleb.

Essek’s drow eyes filled with tears once more as he tried to ignore the burn of the lowering sun. He counted to ten before stepping into the circle.

Twilight came, and Essek was gone.

---

#fghsdfkj i have no idea why i made this a fae thing #anyway #hope you like it #critical role fanfiction #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #writing prompt #critrole

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mxvladdy · 3 years

Note

Oof, my little heart couldn't hold all of the feels you elicited with "Worth", so good. You were very thorough

Can I request a NSFW continuation later that afternoon?

Maybe a bit of praise kink since his little Giglio needs reassurance? (Also, 👀 demon daddy dick in a tiny human can't be easy)

A/N: *ears perk up* How did you know all of my weaknesses?

Pairing: Diavolo x GN! Reader

Warnings: Little bit of size kink, little bit of daddy kink, smut (18+)

Word Count: 4.6k (there is a lot leading up to it lol)

You decide to take the rest of your meal to Diavolo’s private solarium. While his inner chambers were comfortable enough. If you were going to take the day to yourselves you didn’t want to spend all of it in the bedroom. No matter how tempting the idea was. Dia takes you through the maze of corridors and hidden doors, both of you still in your night things, unkempt but happy to be so. Normally Diavolo wouldn’t be caught dead outside of a pressed suit or his uniform, but this was a treat for both of you after all. So now he strolled through his kingdom in nothing but a pair of sleep pants and sleepers, you nestled comfortably in his arms grasping a basket of leftover food and drink tucked in your lap. No stuffy clothes today or polite word play, just layed back pleasures.

Artificial sunlight greets you as he pushes the large glass door open to his garden with his shoulder. The warmth of it cuts through the thin fabric of your sleepwear, chasing away the last vestiges of drowsiness that clung to you. You unfurl in his arms, stretching out like the plants around you. Smiling up into the sun you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. The breeze circling around you was sweet with the smell of blooming spring flowers and crisp creek water.

The first time Diavolo invited you into his secret garden you were in awe. He boasted proudly to you that he had designed it and planted the gardens himself back in his younger years before his duties took up almost all his time. It was a wild place. The plants growing free and unmolested by controlling hands or others' judgment of what beauty was. It reflected the unique characteristics of the Prince beautifully. To be given access to this place was an honor. Not even the brothers knew of this area. His personal beach was a place he didn’t mind sharing with his closest companions, but the gardens? The gardens were just his. Only he and Barbatos knew of it. Until you came along.

“Where shall we sit mio giglio?” His gold eyes sweep his grounds before looking down at you with a tender smile. “By the willows? They are in bloom, or perhaps the lake.” He nods his chin to the south following a clean well maintained brick path. Both of these places were your favorite places to relax after school.

You look down at the basket in your lap in thought. “No. How about the veranda by the hedge garden?” That was his favorite place to lounge.

He hums in delight, agreeing readily. “Wonderful! The cosmos should be in bloom by now.” He turns to the north traipsing through soft overgrown grass and sprouts of spongy moss. He didn’t have a path for this area.

“You can just make them bloom whenever, right?” You ask.

“And where would be the fun in that?” He shoots you a wink. “Magic doesn’t need to be used for everything you know.”

You huff. “Says the guy that can do magic.” He laughs but doesn’t disagree. The sound of a babbling brook grows louder and louder as you both venture further into the heart of his garden. The trees and bushes tickle your body as he walks through the grove of overgrown branches and vines to the most secluded part. Breaching one more dense shrubbery you arrive. He lets you down with a tender kiss before going about collecting the discarded floor cushions and blankets scattered about the patio. He works in silence creating a semi-circle of puff by the edge of the deck. You let him work placing the basket by the little nest forming and go to lean over the low railing separating you from a short drop down to the flowing waters traveling underneath you. The air was cooler here from the freshwater. It gives you goosebumps up your bare legs. “Careful,” Dia calls to you, looking up from his work. “The wood is slick there.”

You nod showing him that both of your hands were on the railing as you venture over to the bright blue and yellow flowers pushing their way through the gaps in the wood. They sway innocently up at you. Their petals are soft and forgiving under the pads of your fingers. They looked like human plants, but you were certain. “Everything here is safe for you to explore.”

Turning to your prince you laugh. His large body now splayed out over the nest he had just finished. His body faces away from you towards the unlit fire pit. He looks at you upside down, his head draping over a large bolster pillow. “Oh? Does that include you?” You match his teasing smile stopping inches away from his outstretched hands. He scoffs in frustration, making grabby hands at your thighs to make you join him.

“Of course tesoro. This day is for us… for you. If you so desire.” His voice is calm and light but his eyes are predatory.

“I do like that idea.” You inch closer bending down to trace a finger over his bare chest. You follow the swirling marks of his heritage up his chest and arms to his parted lips. “I do have some ideas…” You trail off feeling claw-tipped fingers circling your calves and travel up to your inner thighs. The tips of which brush dangerously close to the edges of your underwear.

Diavolo beams. “Dia!” You yelp in shock as he takes your knees out from under you. You tumble forward into his warm body and pillows. His laugh is jovial and bright, way too pleased with his little stunt. Straightening yourself out on his chest you match his gentle rolling laugh with your own breathless one.

“Mio Giglio.” He comes up to kiss the laugh lines curling around your lips. “Cosa c’é che non va?” He hugs you closer. You laugh accepting his affections. “Such a beauty.” He marvels. “Even with the dried drool.” He swipes at the corner of your mouth before you could protest.

“Hey!” You wiggle in his embrace elbowing his stomach in jest. “I do not!” You rub your warming face just to make sure. “Though, you would too if you slept like the dead. Mister toss and turn all night.” Dia chortles.

“I do not know that colloquialism.” He raises a red brow. You can see the excitement lighting up in his eyes at the thought of learning something new, something entirely human. “You do not reek of death.” He sniffles obnoxiously for comedic effect. “You smell alive and wholly mine. Though the latter is fading.” He nips your shoulder. “Has it been that long since we have lain together?” Your silence as you thought was enough of an answer for him.

“Apologies-” He growls. “I have neglected you more than I thought. Shall we rectify that?” Two warm hands grasp your bottom grinding you down slowly on the growing hardness between his legs. You groan letting him set a slow leisurely grind to your hips. You rock for a while capturing his lips with yours. His kisses leave you breathless. “May I?” You don’t know what he was asking for but whatever it was you knew it was going to be good.

With your eager nod of encouragement, Dia flops back down onto his back and holds you firm to his chest. With his eyes on yours, he slides forward till his shaggy head disappears underneath the hem of your sleepshirt. His hot breath dampens the skin of your inner thigh. You squirm feeling a definitely inhuman tongue trailing up to your center, tasting the salt forming there. Relax my flower, let me in. His voice echoes deep within your head. Its low thrumming helps your body relax under his skilled mouth and hands. Your eyes close, more than ready for Diavolo to consume you in the best possible way. His purr trails up your spine while his face nuzzles deeper into the fabric of your damp underwear.

Then your stomach rumbles-loudly.

“Ha!Ha!” In a flash, Diavolo pops out from beneath your legs. His fangs glistening while he laughs. “My darling, have I now neglected one of your base needs?”

“You’re neglecting me now~” You try to grab his shoulders to continue, fighting like mad not to glow even hotter with embarrassment as your stomach roars again. He laughs louder. It booms out ricocheting off the wooden floor.

“Come now. I will claim you soon enough beloved. First, let us sate your other hunger.” Righting your clothes he nestles you in beside him reaching over for the basket. He chuckles, not letting your pouting get to him. He swats your ass teasingly making you squeak. “Coffee or tea?” He rubs the spot he just hit and pulls out two large insulated carafes.”

You eye him. “When did you plan this?” He smiles, serving you up a plate of goodies and a cup of coffee.

“This morning when Barbatos came to rouse me for my morning meetings.” He pops a piece of smoked meat in his mouth and looks out into the sunlit garden. “I suggested instead of getting my uniform ready, perhaps he would kindly bring some warm drinks and extra pillows to the solarium before leaving us to our own devices.” He leans back into the tufted blankets and pillows. “I thought some “air” would be good for-err...me. To clear my head a little before- you know.” His cheeks pinken.

“You’re hungover.” You snort into your toast. It wasn’t a question and he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he goes to pour himself a large cup of black coffee.

“I thought by the time you woke up it would pass.” He shrugs. “But I believe the fresh air and sun wouldn’t hurt either,” Diavolo pauses in thought before continuing. “Plus, I always wanted to fuck you out here.”

You choke. “You could have just said so.” You poke his leg.

“And ruin the surprise?” He pokes you back.

You eat your fill of the basket, topping each piece of the crusty pieces of bread you pull out with soft cheeses and savory prosciutto, sprinkling the tops of each with pine nuts and a drizzle of honey. All the while Diavolo sips at his coffee deep in thought. You catch his eyes several times while you eat, his eyes following the trail of your tongue as you try in vain to clean the sticky residue left from the sweet syrup on your fingers. The last time you catch him you offer him a tacky finger, getting dangerously close to his stubbly cheek. “Want some?”

The prince chuckles, tilting his head away. He grabs your wrist gently. “What a mess, my little human.” He licks one of your fingers, sucking the tip for a moment before releasing you. You pull your hand back, scrunching your nose up in distaste.

“I didn’t expect you to actually lick them!” He laughs, pulling a napkin out for you. You take it and wipe your hands.

“Please, you act like I haven’t tasted all of you before.” His playful gaze flashes hungrily over you for a moment. He takes your empty plates from you and places them to the side. “Come here piccolo giglio I believe we had some unfinished business, no?” You clamber up his lap spreading your legs wide to straddle him. Diavolo chuffs, the sound rattling your chest. “Shall I start where I left off?” He rucks your shirt up higher revealing inch after inch of soft skin till it bundles one your waist. His callous fingers skirt over your underwear to tug at the waistband.

Dia pulls you in for a searing kiss, teeth grazing over your lips and tongue. You follow his pace, his kisses languid. Before long he begins to lead your hips in a slow grind over his covered dick. His hands rolling your hips in time with his kisses. The slow tempo doesn’t last long. While he may have the patience of the saints you most certainly didn’t.

He grins into your kiss when he feels you huff in annoyance. Your hands come up to cup his cheeks in warning. “Stop teasing me.” You separate from him with a whimper. He grins taking a thick finger to the seam of your underwear.

“Is it not the devil’s job to tempt?” His gold eyes flash in warning before the world turns upside down. You land on your back, the cushions catching your tumble. Your shout of surprise turns into a high pitch whine of pleasure as Dia’s head buries itself between your splayed legs. His tongue follows the line his finger had just traced earlier. “Getting to indulge my sweetheart in a paradise like this? I am upset that I had not thought of this sooner.” He whispers to himself. He pauses, pushing away to look at you. The air around him grows thick. “Tell Daddy what you need.” You shiver, breath catching at the sharp drop in his tone. His jovial teasing was gone, replaced with a tone of authority that makes your toes curl. His hot whisper caresses your ear and your mind goes blank.

What did you want? What did you want first? You wanted his fingers stroking you to completion, his lips kissing every cry that spilled from your lips. You wanted his solid body covering yours rocking deep inside of you. You wanted him to erase every fear and anxiety that the court had instilled in you. “You.” It was all you could manage to say, but it was enough for him. Pushing you onto your back he grabs your hips and pulls them into the air, throwing your legs around his broad shoulders. You wiggle your shoulders deeper into the pillows grinning up at Diavolo as you squeeze your thighs around his ears. Groaning in satisfaction, he leans forward. Your underwear doesn’t last long now that he has you where he wants you. The soft fabric tearing in his haste to remove them, the tattered remains of the cotton thrown off into the bushes to be forgotten. There is no preamble anymore. His tongue laps broad patterns across your entrance.

“D…” You arch your back upwards, grinding yourself onto his face. “Dia.” Diavolo rumbles back, squeezing your quacking thighs to comfort you. He pulls you closer still, eyes locking with yours to watch your reaction as he circles your hole. He waits there playing with you until he sees something he liked in your expression. When he sees whatever it was that he was looking for he strikes, sinking his tongue deep, groaning with you at the feel of tight muscles relaxing around his intrusion. You cover your mouth trying hard to muffle your sounds in the silent garden around you. Even if you were alone, just the thought that you could be overheard sent a shudder through you. You could hear your heart hammering in your ears as the demon slowly worked you open. You wail, forgetting your previous attempts to be silent when you felt a large finger join his tongue.

He rubs against you slowly twisting and pulling his finger and tongue in mind numbing patterns to bump along your sides till you choke. He hums sucking noisily in triumph. Bringing his hands up, he spread your cheeks further apart burying deeper. “Dia-please.” You pull at his hair unsure if you were asking for more or less. You could feel a fire starting in your toes, static clouding your mind.

He pulls off, lips glistening with slick. “Say it properly.” He nips your leg in warning. You bite your bottom lip, worrying it between your blunt teeth. Your eyes blur with tears of frustration. You were so close… a finger toys with you pressing in on the edges of your entrance waiting.

“Daddy-please.” Your reward was instantaneous, his fingers thrust in, curling up to mimic the motions his tongue had done just before. He curls over the top of you covering you with his warm body. His lips brush against your temple and mouth to distract you from another finger slipping in alongside his forefinger.

“So good for me, so good, my little human.” Diavolo moans against your mouth before his tongue pushes past your lips once more. You tremble in the cage of his arms, soft mews falling from your open lips while he stretches you. It hurts, just a little sting, but it reminds you just how distant you two have been of late. Gripping onto his arms you struggle to take him. Even with your prince doing his best to distract you from the discomfort you feel it was a lot. He whispers praises into your sweaty skin while he peppers your shoulder with kisses. “Easy love, think you can handle one more.” Gods you were already overwhelmed, but still so greedy for more. You knew what to come would be even more. You nod. Anything to hurry him up.

He rewards you with a hard kiss before slipping in a third finger, his thumb coming up to rub soothing circles into your skin. You cry out in a daze. The rough pads of his fingers catch on your walls pulling strained notes from you with each stroke. He pumps in slow sporadic patterns just skirting over the areas that drive you crazy. He coos to you, singing your praises while his eyes linger on how your body clings to him each time he tries to pull out. But soon the burn disappears altogether and is replaced by the nagging pressure on your shoulders. The position leaning up against his kneeling form begins to agitate your neck and back.

Squirming in his attentive hold you tap his bicep in rapid succession. He stops immediately feeling your sign and pulls away. “Speak to me.” He looks you over. His tone turns soft once more, his domineering demeanor vanishes quickly. “Is this too much?”

Shaking your head you plant the balls of your feet into his shoulders and push him away. He moves away so you lay sprawling out in the cushions. Your body thanks you, popping and groaning as you stretch out. “No, no it’s perfect. I just need to change positions. I’m not as big and strong as you.” You wink. He chuckles sitting back onto your haunches to give you a moment to center yourself. He can only keep his hands to himself for a moment before they are on you again. He rubs up your ankles and knees, messaging any tense muscles he feels until you are melting, your body warming up again to the idea of him on you. “There,” You sigh popping your neck. “Now, where were we, Daddy.” You wrap your legs around his strong waist coming up to your elbows to tug at the waistband of his pants.

Hand around his thick cock you stroke up toying your thumb over his head. Diavolo grunts going rigid at the feel of your wondering fingers. Harsh words in his native tongue fall from his lips. He covers your slowly moving hand with his own to guide you just how he likes. “Gods, I miss this. How long has it been since the last time we have had time to indulge like this?” He watches your hand through half-lidded eyes, the gold of his irises molten.

“Too long.” You agree. You lean back and close your eyes enjoying the feel of him in your hand. “Did you?”

“Basket, left hand side.” He nods at the discarded wicker basket.

You give him an appreciative squeeze and lean over to rummage through the forgotten food. “Thought of everything, huh?”

“I promised to be attentive today, did I not? I always want to treat my little human right.” He twists his hand over yours upping the tempo of your strokes till he is hissing around gritted fangs. “I-was hoping at least.” He breaks his gaze from your joined hands. His cheeks tint pink beneath his dark skin.

You crane your neck up to kiss the strained expression from his face. You feel him vibrating beneath your touch, ready to spring. “Let me prep you?” You ask while reaching for the bottle you placed between your thighs to warm it.

“I don’t need much.” He admits moving away. “You drive me crazy.” He groans hearing you pop the cap and feel the slightly warm drizzle down his cock. Your hand returns with a smoother glide, faster this time. Your other traveling down to squeeze his balls. He gasps, losing control of his steel restraint for a moment to grab your shoulders. He arches into your ministrations groaning in great detail just what he was going to do to you into the cool air of the back garden. His blood is boiling in his veins when he finally pushes your hands away to lay you down.

“How do you want me?” You finally strip your sleep shirt away excitedly.

“Just like this for now.” He growls lifting your leg up and back over his shoulder while he wraps the other around his hip locking it down in his strong grip. “I need to see you.” He squeezes your hip lovingly. “Lay back.” You drop baring yourself fully for his perusal. Your arms spread up and over your head to wrap themselves in the rumpled blankets.

He thanks you with a light kiss to your ankle before lining himself up with your entrance. His breathing grows heavy, deep chuffs emerging again in his excitement. He can taste your eagerness mixing with his in the air. He teases you, playing his head against you, pushing in only enough to breach you before pulling out again. He plays with you like this till your mewling, your blunt little nails leaving tiny crescent shaped indentations in the tawny skin of his arms. The sharp little sting of your nails trying to break through his thick skin along with the feel of your body clenching around him in a futile effort to suck him in is finally enough for him. Setting his hips thrusts forward.

He steals the cry escaping from your mouth with a kiss. The smooth feel of his tongue and teeth pull your senses in twain scrambling your brain as he stretches you open more than his fingers ever could. You should remember the feel of him. After all the times you two have spent together he still takes your breath away.

The stretch was immense as always, your legs shaking in his hold despite your best effort to stay still. Another inch slips in and you yelp. Your hands fly up instinctively out and press against his tense abdomen to halt him. “I-a moment.” You are both shaking for different reasons while you will your body to relax, your muscles squeezing him to the point of discomfort. He waits halfway in and breathes deeply through his nose. Diavolo hunches over you, careful not to jostle you. Resting his head on your shoulder he whispers words of praise to you in languages lost since lost to mortal ears. His lips trace nonsensical patterns into your shoulder and chest. You melt bit by bit into his words and skillful caresses till you are relaxed and pliant.

You nod when ready, your body screaming for a release. His reaction is instantaneous, hips curling to push in with vigor. By the time his hips are flush with yours, you are on the verge again. “Dia, God-” Your words were cut off after a hard thrust from him.

He laughs breathlessly into your shoulder. “God? In my gardens? Such blasphemy…” His claws emerge, the black and gold tips rip into the cushions around you. “You would call for another in my presence? Must I remind you who warms your bed?” You bob your head eagerly, your heart leaping into your throat at the look he gives you.

He starts up again, his rhythm steady and solid, much like the man himself. The sound of skin slapping skin slowly begins filling the space between you. Diavolo is silent as he moves against you, his hands unable to find a permanent place to land. They roam your body, squeezing your hips and ass before traveling up to your pert nipples. His mouth follows his hands licking the valley between your pectorals and lavishing your neck with fresh blemishes the colors of the flowers around you. You love the solid weight on him pinning you to his front, but the tempo was too soft for his words.

“Thought you were going to leave your mark on me? Make sure I never utter another being's name from my lips again.” You pant tugging at his hair sharply pulling a deep grunt from him. “Make me yours Dia- you promised.” Your words did the trick. He grabs your hips once more, nearly folding you in half to sink deeper inside. You howl, the stretch of him pushing your borders brings you closer and closer to that sweet precipice. The devil bearing down on you was just what you needed.

The heat of him on top of you is dizzying, making your headlight and fuzzy. You can feel the small compacted muscles of his abdomen and stomach stretch and twitch with each smooth thrust of his hips into yours. Too soon for his liking, the fire building in his gut began to unravel. “Ah-mia dolcezza. Somo vicino.” The prince grounds out into your heaving chest. While you didn’t understand the words, the raw desperation in them sends a carnal shiver down your spine. You begin to beg, voice high and breathless as his thrusts quicken.

You lock your free leg around his waist while your hands drift down to touch yourself. He slaps your hand away only to replace them with his own strong fingers. His fingers sever the thin tether keeping you from coming and you tip. Dia’s own roar of completion was all but muted white noise in your ear. You gasp looking up blindly through a sweaty curtain of red hair as Dia twitches and spills deep within you. He falls atop of you crushing you into him, but you couldn’t give less of a damn. He was a safe space in this realm. He was your safe space. His purs melting on top of you as you massage his scalp comfortingly. The two of you bask in silence for the moment. “I can’t feel my legs.” You admit finally feeling a tingle starting in your toes and calves.

“In a good way?” His voice is muffled by the pillows by your head. You hum.

“Very- and you?” He chuffs, raising onto shaking arms, and slips out of you. He watches his seed trickle out lazily. He rumbles in pride as your body tries to keep it all inside. Already the smell of his claim was covering your natural clean scent.

“At ease and wonderful.” He flops to his side scooping you up to cradle you against his chest. His arm comes around your middle while his chin rests on the top of your head. Exhausted, you relax in his arms, eyes already too heavy to stay open. Soon he hears your breathing even out becoming deep and steady in your slumber. Diavolo smiles to himself looking out to the creek. He’ll let you rest, for now, already he could feel himself stirring once more his instincts to coat you in his scent pushing him into overdrive. He was far from sated. Hopefully, you felt the same.

#obey me request #obey me diavolo #obey me smut #hope you enjoy

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fictive-fodder · 3 years

Text

||Painting : XIII : Epilogue||

The first time you came to Hogwarts you were 18, freshly graduated from a different school, and about to start a 6 month long artist residency. Not only did you learn how to paint portraits that move, but you also became close friends with the marauders. You would have never guessed that 15 years later you’d return to Hogwarts, commissioned to paint each faculty member’s portrait, and be reunited with Remus Lupin as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Read this on A03 here!

||Word Count 1.7K ||

Story Chapters-

PART I - PART II - PART III - PART IV - PART V - PART VI - PART VII - PART VIII - PART IX - PART X - PART XI - PART XII - PART XIII -

Request Chapters-

PART I - PART II -

You winced as Aberforth crashed through the door to his room. “Those DAMN wolves-” he growled, wiping his brow.

“What happened?” you asked, pulling your brush away from Ariana’s portrait. You had just finished the first layers of her underpainting. A rush of concern gathered in her eyes, causing the hair on your arms and neck to raise.

“Other night I saw them out there- prowling- wanting my bloody goats. But they can’t have them!” Aberforth slurred, his face red. You swallowed thickly.

“Have you had trouble with wolves before?”

“Many years ago… twelve years or so- there was one or two that always tried to get close enough.”

You wiped the excess paint from your brush onto a rag, looking between Aberforth and Ariana’s portrait.

“Well go on!” Aberforth snapped, “I’m spent.”

You jumped and nodded. “Right!” you replied quickly, ducking out of Aberforth’s way as you passed him. “Have a good night, Aber-”

He closed the door as soon as you stepped through.

You slipped through the dark bar, moving past the sharp table corners and to the exit with practiced familiarity. The lights were lit in the cabin. You walked up the path, smiling to yourself. As you got near you could smell butter and garlic in the air, the soft clatter of tableware rang in your ears as you approached the door.

Sirius had finally gained some weight, in large thanks to the vault’s worth of chocolate bars Remus had purchased from Honeydukes. When he saw you walking through the door a frown flickered over his face.

“What’d he do this time?” he asked, a wry smile on his lips as he placed a glass pitcher of water on the table.

“You two need to be more careful.” You called out, shrugging off your apron and setting down your paints. “He’s paranoid you’ll eat his goats.”

If Remus knew you could see him in the kitchen, he probably would not have smiled as triumphantly as he allowed himself to.

“It’s the little joys in life.” Sirius hummed, grinning back at Remus.

Remus gestured for you to sit at the table as he brought over the last of your summer vegetables, baked with salted butter and fresh thyme, warm bread, balsamic vinegar and olive oil. He kissed the top of your head as he took a seat beside you, and then immediately slapped Sirius’ wrist as Sirius tried to pick a particularly good looking carrot from the dish with his fingers.

“A fork, Padfoot, please.”

“Incredible.” Sirius said, leaning back into his chair. “We’ve been playing house all summer and I still haven’t learned my manners.”

“So,” you chuckled, grabbing a piece of bread, “Where are you two trying next?”

“Alfannyah.” Remus spoke through a large bite of food.

“Remus!” Sirius exclaimed, mocking offense. “Chew your food before you speak, my boy!”

“Excuse me-” Remus cleared his throat, glancing darkly at Sirius, “Albania. Everything we’ve been able to gather points to a forest there. Muggles think it’s haunted, wizards have avoided it for a coincidental amount of time…”

“If we can’t find Peter- a bloke who didn’t even know how to stop a broom at seventeen years of age- before Peter can sort out where Voldemort is then we lost long ago.” Sirius joked, though his voice was bitter.

You reached over the table and squeezed Sirius’ hand.

“You’ve gotten used to apparating here?” you asked, pouring yourself some water.

“We’ve practiced over and over.” Remus reassured, Sirius nodded.

You looked over at the moon chart you’d drawn out and pinned to the wall. “Okay. You’ll have three weeks… And in the meantime I’ll continue to get Grimmauld Place sorted. I managed to get the front door open, though your old house elf keeps trying to barricade the entrance. And when I crawled inside a painting started to scream at me.”

“Please,” Sirius groaned, “I’d all but forgotten about that.”

“Oh yes, your dear mother.” Remus recalled, rolling his eyes as he took a large bite of bread.

“If you can’t get that painting unstuck from the wall, no one can.” Sirius moaned, “I don’t care if we have to blast the wall down. She’s got to go.”

Your interest was piqued. “I’ll do my best.” You said, eyebrows raised. There was a long pause in conversation as the three of you enjoyed your supper.

“We’ve really got a shot at this.” Remus said, sounding confident but also a little surprised.

Sirius nodded eagerly. “Thanks to you.” he said, kicking you under the table.

You shook your head dismissively.

“Yes-” Remus and Sirius both said fiercely in unison.

“I’m halfway to whole.” Sirius said, his voice warm and uneven. “Because of you.”

“And I’m…” Remus started, and paused. He shook his head. You tilted your head, looking at him attentively. Remus met your gaze, his eyes brightened by the golden light of the table candles. Uncertain expressions flickered over his face before he sighed in surrender, and smiled at you in complete and total adoration.

-X-

When you were first told that you were magic, the world opened up before you, brightly, blinding and overwhelming, an abyss of limitless potential. You were relieved that you hadn’t been wrong, that your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you when your childhood drawings came to life.

You were grateful that you had already begun making art and used to staring at a blank canvas, used to looking at nothingness and only feeling excitement and curiosity over what could be. That sensibility that could only come from understanding how art was made. To create shapes that you willed emotion into, all in the hopes to communicate, to tell a story that would capture hearts. Before you knew magic you were an artist. A maker. You, unlike most, looked into nothingness and were not intimidated.

You had learned how to stay vulnerable, how to make changes and grow, all for your craft’s sake. You met your best and worst qualities every time you put pen to paper, brush to linen.

Not only did you know how to welcome newness, you knew how to build much from it.

And that was why you were holding down carrow spiders in your kitchen, quickly and cleanly slicing through them with a copper knife. You were getting faster at this, better at preserving all of the ichor you could press out of their abdomen.

You put the last two carrow spiders back in their terrarium, boiled your glass jars with water that bathed in last month's full moon, and mixed the carrow ichor with vinegar and myrrh, sealing the jar tightly so it could pickle.

That’s why you knew just how much Mercury and sulfur to mix with aloevera and cow's milk. how to combine them, grate it all down with mortar and pestle until it turned black.

You were warned it was difficult and expensive to make. You were told any mistake rendered the Wolfsbane ineffective, even dangerous. But why would that have stopped you? You, who had crushed earth with linseed since you could hold a brush? You, who had lain eyes on the most complex paintings, and layer by layer, achieved their likeness?

If it was ineffective, then you and Remus were where you had been if you hadn’t tried, and that was already manageable. How discouraging could making wolfsbane be, when the prize was the health and safety of the person you loved? No level of difficulty would deter you. It was a small thing when compared to seeing Remus healthy. Compared to a new scar, or bruise, being exceptional and odd. Difficulty versus your love was no metric at all.

The first time you mixed a skin tone you had assumed you would forever understand how to replicate the result. But that was untrue. Every person had their uniqueness, an undertone, different chroma under different light. Some colors had to be tinted with paint made from crushed bones while others had to be flushed with red pigment made of coastal rocks from the Italian south.

To others, this would seem unsolvable. To you, it was a step that you had taken hundreds of times and intended to take a hundred times more.

You learned with time which paints were naturally transparent, which were opaque, and how to cause them to change into the other. You learned how to brighten, how to trick the eye to see depth, see light, You didn't falter when stepping back from a canvas, and notice that you had gone wrong, over brightened, over complicated. You pushed on. You added layers, you wiped layers away, you spoke to your hands, filled with skill, until it would all bend to your will, and fall into place.

You had been so surprised to see how such thinking could be applied to potion making. Every time you carefully harvested Aconite from your garden it had its own character. Every forage for giant moonwort came with its own challenges.

“My god-“ People would gasp, looking at the paintings you had made, “I can hardly draw at all, you have so much talent!”

And you would thank them and smile, because you knew that the only thing more fickle than magic was talent itself. They hadn’t seen the sketches you erased, the master copies you had fixated upon, the paintings you abandoned. They hadn’t seen the time taken from others, as you focused inwardly, and heard laughing from other rooms. They haven’t seen the toil, felt the sore knuckles, experienced eyes bleary and unfocused from staring at a fixed point for too long. For layers and layers, as you found your way and went on.

Talent would not have made you a painter, brought you to Hogwarts twice over, or made a life for yourself. Your skill did. And that was partly why, even though you were not Damocles Belby, or Severus Snape, Remus was experiencing for the first time in his adult life what it felt like to be well rested. What it felt like to not wake up, muscles torn and blood bruised, to fresh, contaminated scars. It was why, for the first time, he began to think of the month ahead, then the year, and then the decade.

-X-

#remus lupin fan fiction #marauders era fanfiction #remus lupin/reader #remus lupin x you #prizoner of azkaban #remus lupin #sirius black fan fiction #sirius black x reader

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

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Murder, He Wrote

Part 6.

Summary: Ransom and you attend a wake for his great-nanna Wanetta, with the rest of his family. The knives are out, and they’re sharp…

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So here it is, the penultimate chapter to this series! One more to go post this, plus an epilogue. I can’t believe it’s almost over…

Word Count: 9.5k (oops)

READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 5

You'd managed to get through Christmas fairly well. The days leading up, Ransom had been a little suspiciously sneaky but you didn't give it a second thought, really. Things between you and your captor were more than amicable, they were pleasant. But, despite the cohabitation and this new found demeanour in him, Ransom wasn't above reminding you that you were still under his eye. And under his eye you were indeed, all day long. He watched you as you read, as you cooked, as you wrote in your journal. Oddly, not once showing interest in your musings but working away on his own.

Christmas morning, the two of you had spent a few lazy hours in bed, Ransom waking you with kisses over your bare skin, stripped down and tired from the evening before where he worked you over until you couldn't move, crying out his name near midnight, his breathless, tired voice telling you 'Merry Christmas' before he slept. After an easy egg and toast breakfast, the two of you were sitting around the lounge, the fire burning, the tree lit, soft music played in the background, watching a fresh layer of snow falling outside. You were reading Dickens' holiday classic, aloud while Ransom sat next to you, idling running a long index finger over your neck in slow and soft, up and down strokes, listening to you. Suddenly he'd stopped and removed the book from your hands.

"I have something for you," he said, a slight eagerness to his tone. He slipped away for a brief moment, pulling a box, intricately wrapped, clearly not by himself, from under the tree. You'd never noticed it there, not once and you wondered when he'd put it there or if he'd hidden it in the very spot this whole time.

The red leather box sat heavy in your hand as you read the gold inscription on the top. With an unsteady breath, you lifted the hinged lid and hitched your breath at what sat inside. A white gold necklace, with two interlocking rings in a signature Cartier design glistened back at you. The screw motifs which were set in ideal oval shaped rings studded with diamonds that twinkled in the light sat snuggly inside against black velvet.

You were stunned. The gesture far too expensive and in your mind inappropriate. But you also thought it was absolutely gorgeous, and you wondered how he'd come up with such an expensive idea. You'd not mentioned anything of the sort in your time together, in fact, you hadn't had jewellery on bar your ball studs in your ears now.

You looked up from the delicate piece and your eyes met expectant ones. "It's beautiful," you spoke softly. "Thank you."

"Let me put it on you," he sat next you whilst taking the box from your hands. He gently pulled it away from the box and unclasped it, settling it around your neck as you moved your hair out of the way, thin tendrils framing your face. Your robe slipped off your shoulder and you felt his soft lips against your skin, down your neck and along your shoulder. "Let me see you," he spoke softly.

You turned in his direction and you saw the way he admired the way the piece sat across your chest, the silk robe you were wearing over your barely-there nightgown gaping open. As his eyes blatantly roved down between the valley of your breasts your own flicked across his casual, lazy-Christmas morning form, his broad chest and shoulders clad in a white thermal, sweats hung low on his hips.

"Perfect," he whispered, leaning towards you.

You were not a bought woman, no; you were his victim, his roommate, his co-habitant, his lover, his partner, his... Oh for Christ's sake you could go on with the labels that did or didn't make sense, were mutual or not, had or didn't carry the weight of a proper explanation. Right now, you were going through the motions and emotions.

"I like it, a lot, thank you again," you replied as his lips grew closer to yours. "I've never had such an expensive gift before."

His lips ghosted over yours, "There's plenty more where that came from, Sweetheart."

The implication of his words had hit you like a freight train as you realised just how many more ‘occasions’ he was planning on the pair of you spending together. New Year, Easter, Spring Break, your birthday, his birthday, summer, Memorial Day. It sparked so many conflicting opinions within you that you were glad of the distraction when he moved, his fingers delicate as he undid the ties of your robe and led you down on the rug before his lips had traced a path down your body and soon he’d had you crying his name, sheer bliss coursing through your veins.

Later that day, you'd made dinner for him, a reminder of how Christmas used to be when Wanetta and his Grandmother shared the festivities. After the quiet meal, he had expected you to join him for a shower, no doubt as pay back for him going down on you earlier. When you'd respectfully declined stating you needed to wash the dishes, he sneered and sulked off. You'd made sure that when he was gone long enough, you were able to get things set up for your gift. Now was the time to show Ransom how gifts of meaning and purpose were to be given and hopefully received. Not that it was going to make a blind bit of difference to your situation, not in the grand scheme of things anyway. You'd finished cleaning and putting everything away and headed into the lounge where you stoked the fire and then made your way back into the kitchen for your supplies. The hot cocoa burning hot, the slices of bread, tongs and a small serving of butter, complete with freshly blended cinnamon sugar. You knew he would come find you when you were not waiting in the bedroom for him. If Ransom Drysdale was anything, it was a creature of expectation and habit. You'd heard him coming down the stairs, that one spot with a creak carrying his footfall. You straightened up your things, setting up the tongs and tray of treats nicely before covering them with a cloth napkin, standing between the coffee table and the fireplace, and waited on baited breath for the tirade you thought was coming. He had turned the corner, his face stern with evident hard lines, his bare chest on display, hair still wet from the shower. You could smell him as he entered the doorway, that scent that you'd soon come to realize made you heady and needy. You waved him over, a hunt of excitement to your tone, "come on, come sit." “I don’t want to sit, Sweetheart, I want you like I had you before dinner. Crying my name with you under me.” He stood just inside the doorway, with his arms folded across his chest, sweats hung low on his hips. He wore no shirt just to entice you, but you weren't giving in so easily. "I'll say your name as many times as you want, but first, I need to give you my gift." You chose then to look at him with big eyes, sincere yet seductive.

It was a stare off between the two of you, he not budging and you popping your hip out to one side as you folded your arms over your chest. He had his fun, now you wanted to enjoy something and gift giving brought you joy.

Like a child told to apologize for hitting another, he hung his head and sulked over. You could tell it pained him to obey your request. But you again saw through his facade. You knew this meant far more to him than anything he'd ever received.

But he'd never tell you that. Not that you thought anyway. “Oh stop being so you, Ransom, for just five minutes.” You snorted exasperatedly at his petulant nature. “It’s Christmas.” With a roll of his eyes that would make any toddler jealous, he took to his knees sitting on his heels. With a smirk, you joined him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, "Merry Christmas, Ransom." You pulled the napkin off the tray revealing the contents of your gift. His eyes moved over the tray, first seeing the mugs of cocoa, topped with whipped cream that was beginning to melt into the warm liquid. The tongs, the bread, the small pinch bowls of cinnamon sugar and the soft butter. With his mind occupied, you managed to grab a throw and wrap it around the two of you. He blinked, and you could see that he was fighting the smirk that was threatening to cross his handsome face. “Toast?” He finally asked and you nodded, smiling. "I couldn't go get you something, not that it mattered, so this was the next best thing." A flicker of something darkened his face, and for a moment you thought you saw regret flash in his eyes, just like the day he had marked your face but as soon as it had appeared it was gone. "Just enjoy it, even if you can't say anything about it, just...." you shrugged, "remember." That night, after the toast with cinnamon butter and cocoa from scratch were shared, he had his way with you, delightfully slow, once more by the fire, you again crying out his name and he yours, over and over again. By the time he finished, you were both boneless and breathless, his body covering yours until he rolled over and the two of you slept by the fire, wrapped up in each other's arms, the heavy throw around your naked bodies.

Christmas had been nice. Maybe, somewhat enjoyable, you'd admitted to yourself. Of course, the wrench of not seeing your family had weighed like a stone in your gut, compounded by the fact that thanks to the lie you’d been forced to tell Blanc, they thought this was your choice. That you were staying away from them because you wanted to, when nothing could be further from the truth. You missed your mom and dad goofing around over presents, still trying to tell your now well grown-up sister and you Santa had been. You ached for the usual family politics that manifested when your uncles and aunts descended for dinner. You longed for your sister to be complaining about how fat she was going to get…

"We have to go," Ransom’s deep baritone caught you completely off guard, making you jump as you stood staring out of the large French windows over the garden from the master suite.

“Oh, okay,” you nodded, taking a deep breath to centre yourself, your heart racing at the speed of light from your fright. You took a glance at yourself in the mirror above the fireplace and found yourself wishing you’d done a better job at covering up the ugly scab and green bruising on your face.

You followed Ransom in his tan coat, pin striped slacks and a black cashmere sweater as he strode from the room. You felt nervous, anxious, scared. This was the first time you were leaving the house in two months. He led you to the garage where you started walking to the SUV he'd taken you in but he stopped you short, calling out to you, "not this time, Sweetheart." He stood at the passenger door to his vintage BMW. You swallowed and walked towards the door he was holding open for you. Wordlessly, you sank into the passenger seat and reached for your belt. Pulling it across your lap, you adjusted the pencil skirt and blouse you'd tucked into so as not to wrinkle it, your soft black peacoat bluky in your seat. The car roared to life, throbbing beneath you, the hum of the engine might, in other circumstances, have excited you. But now, the only thing filling you was dread. The first time you’re out of your "castle", and it's to go to a wake, for Wanetta Thrombey.

Go figure. ***** The silence in the car was stifling. Every so often Ransom stole a glance at Y/N to find her simply staring out of the window, at one stage reaching up to wipe her eye. He didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t an idiot. Over Christmas he’d caught her numerous time completely zoned out, as if she was somewhere else, just like she had been moments before they had left. And whilst she’d done her best to keep her tears and attitude at bay, she’d been clipped with him a number of times which he’d simply let slide and instead of reminding her about her attitude, he’d pressed her to tell him what was wrong. She’d quietly admitted that she missed her family, something Ransom simply couldn’t understand, so in the spirit of their recent candid openness, he’d asked her bluntly why she needed them so much when he gave her everything she could possibly ever want. At that she had snorted, and taken great pains to explain to him that just because he failed to understand something didn’t make it any less valid of a feeling to someone else and then she’d deftly changed the subject, and he’d allowed the conversation to steer elsewhere.

And now, the first time she’d been anywhere but the inside of his house and strictly the garden for months, they were headed to spend time with his shit-head family. The irony was staggering when you considered it. He eased his beloved beemer onto the main road and pushed his foot down on the gas, weaving himself in and out of the light traffic obnoxiously fast. But he wasn’t known for his patience, he had somewhere to be and in his mind; the faster he got there the faster he could leave, keen to spend as little time with his family as possible. About halfway into the journey, Ransom felt that familiar cold feeling in his stomach as he pulled off the freeway and on to one of the smaller roads. He could drive this journey with his eyes closed but it was the first time he’d been back to the mansion since... well, since IT had all gone down. The more he thought about it, the more agitated he could feel himself getting, his hands gripping the steering wheel of the car with a force that made his knuckles white. He was jolted however, with the feeling of a hand on his arm and his head turned slightly to see Y/N looking at him. She didn’t say anything, and no sooner had he registered her touch she moved her hand dropping it back into her lap, eyes focussed downwards as his turned back to the road. He swallowed, that familiar and uncomfortable feeling of remorse once more washing over him. Despite everything he had done to her, she was still voluntarily lending him comfort.

Ten minutes later, he swung up the tree-lined driveway, his heart pounding in his chest. His jaw set hard as the mansion came into view, and low and behold his mother, standing on the front steps, a cigarette between her fingers as she exasperatedly texted on her phone. A meek voice came from the seat beside him, "its going to be okay." But he couldn't decipher if she were talking to him or herself. He cut the engine, his hands still on the wheel as he sighed and hung his head, before he turned to her. “I don’t need to warn you about trying anything do I?” He asked, ignoring her effort to placate him. "No," she replied quietly. “Good.” He reached out and gently gripped her chin between his thumb and finger, pressing as soft kiss to her lips, the action as much for him as it was for the benefit of his mother who was watching the pair of them. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” He gracefully unfolded himself from the driver’s side, shutting the door behind him and strode to the front of his car, waiting for Y/N to catch up. Her face was set, an expression he’d seen countless times before when she’d been fearful and acting under duress. He watched as she took a deep breath and drew back her shoulders whilst he reached for her hand. Obediently, she took it and together they strode towards the large wooden door, his mother watching them as they approached "You're late," Linda scoffed.

He paid her no mind and pulled Y/N along his side. “I’m sure Nanna won’t mind too much, you know, on account of her being dead.” He retorted sardonically.

You stood by his side, your eyes watching Linda and she turned her attention to you, her eyes narrowing a little, a strange expression on her features, almost as if she was sussing you out. But, as her eyes flicked to your injured cheek before they darted to Ransom who still had a possessive grip around your hand you realised with horror it wasn’t you she was suspicious of. It was the bruise on your face, more so how it had gotten there.

You cleared your throat. “Funny thing,” you gestured to it and her eyes snapped to yours, “too much Scotch and I tripped. Face first into the corner of my vanity."

Okay, so it wasn’t a complete lie…but you still felt sick to your stomach at how quickly you’d jumped to his defence.

“Sure.” Linda arched an eyebrow.

“What exactly are you getting at, Mother?” Ransom looked at her, his jaw set and Linda rolled her eyes, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Nothing really, I just find it extremely odd that you get an interview with this girl to clear your name and she ends up in your bed, only after she’s done a complete hatchet job on all of us first.” She dropped her cigarette end to the floor before she looked at him shrewdly.

“For which she published an apology.” Ransom’s voice was flat and carried an undertone of annoyance to which Linda paid no attention.

“Because you’re really the type to forgive and forget so easily.” She scoffed as Ransom gave a dramatic sigh as his mother continued, her head now turning to you. “You know, I could hardly believe it when Blanc told us you were with him, and then I saw you with my own eyes and now here you are again…“

“What do you mean, when Blanc told you?” Ransom frowned as his hand contracted almost painfully around yours, a warning no doubt to remain silent. His mother had hit the nail on the head, proving that she knew her son a lot better than you, and no doubt he, had bothered to give her credit for.

“Her disappearance was all over the news, more so because they’d linked it to that god-awful cretin of an actor, Lucas Lee.” She turned back to look at him. “But, no sooner had they done that he was cleared thanks to a cast-iron alibi and low and behold, a few weeks later Blanc turns up.” Linda raised her brows, her gaze fixed on Ransom. “I told him where to find you-“

“Gee, thanks.” Ransom drawled and she glared at him, before he rolled his eyes and gestured with his hand for her to continue.

“And obviously he did as he came back a day or so later, saying that to his surprise you-“ her eyes flicked to yours then and you swallowed “-were seemingly there, of your own accord.”

“I erm,” you fumbled on your words and felt Ransom let go of your hand, his palm warm as it now rested between your shoulder blades. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for another lie, one that this time you’d spun before and you shrugged, licking your lips. “I'll tell you the same thing I told him. I came to realize that despite my scathing feature, Ransom intrigued me. I wanted to get to know him more. One thing led to another and I figured if we kept our relationship quiet for a while, I'd save myself the spit on my face from my family and people like you.”

“People like me?” Linda arched a brow, her lips quirking up at one side. “

“I didn’t mean…” You shook your head, quickly taking a deep breath. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“A tad, but I’ve had worse.” Linda’s eyes twinkled with something that looked like amusement as she reached into her pocket for her packet of cigarettes. “But, what I don’t understand is, why let your family believe you were missing, dead even?”

“I, well, I was under a lot of pressure at work, and everything just got too much and needed to escape, from everything. Ransom told me to stay with him for a while to get some head space and I didn’t mean to cause anyone any hurt or upset and-“

You stopped dead as you felt Ransom curl his hand round the back of your neck, giving a squeeze in warning. You were rambling.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Sweetheart,” his voice was softly spoken as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “it’s none of her business.”

Linda looked at you for a moment, before she turned to her son and shrugged, popping another cigarette into her mouth. “I’ve long since given up trying to understand anything you did.”

“Well, like the judge said,” Ransom moved, his hand now on the base of your spine as he turned and guided you to the large door of the house, “not of sound mind.”

In the spacious drawing room, the rest of the family was gathered around. There were no others at the wake, Wanetta having outlived everyone she knew. You knew Ransom would offer no introductions, but that wasn’t an issue, you knew everyone anyway from your extensive research into this fucked up family. The fire burned in the background, and Ransom’s father, Richard, lounged in an arm-chair, a young woman who you presumed to be the au-pair Ransom talked about with disdain, perched on his lap. Walt was perched in another arm-chair, his wife Donna stood behind him, clutching a half drunk glass of wine, their son Jacob absent from the room. Marta and Meg were perched on the couch with Joni flitting about, a crunch from a carrot stick heard from across the room. You walked in and immediately felt the daggers in your skin as all eyes turned towards you. The knives were out and you swallowed, adjusting your sleeve, feeling Ransom's presence behind you.

“Here…” you felt Ransom’s hands gently pulling on the shoulders of your coat and he slipped it from your body, gently pressing another kiss to your cheek. You turned to look at him, offering him a small smile before he moved to hang the coat up on the stand at the far side of the room.

“Y/N, right?” Marta was the first one to speak as she stood up, and you nodded, not bothering to ask how she knew your name. It was a given she’d have read the article, and it was also a given thanks to the conversation moment’s ago with Linda, that the rest of the family had also been briefed on the fact you were ‘with’ Ransom. What clearly hadn’t’ been anticipated from the not-so-covert surprised glances that were being shared, was that he would have brought you today. “Can I get you a drink?” She continued and you smiled.

“Please, erm, a wine would be great.”

“Red or white?”

“She prefers white.” Ransom spoke and Marta’s eyes darted to his. You instantly felt his entire body language stiffen and you turned to him, the distaste evident on his face, his entire aura radiating utter disdain and bitterness.

Marta simply took a deep breath, her expression flat, but her eyes fierce as they remained in a silent stand-off.

“Can’t she speak for herself?” Meg scoffed and Ransom pulled his eyes away from Marta, turning his glare to his cousin.

“Is explaining what a lady prefers to drink considered sexist as well now or…”

“He’s right,” You jumped in quickly, smiling at Marta. “White is great, thanks.”

Marta nodded.

“Hugh?” She looked at Ransom and you blinked at the use of that name and then realised, of course, she’d once upon a time been the help. That said, you knew she was saying it simply because she wanted to, not that her status required it and there was an amused look on Ransom’s face as he turned to her.

“Beer.”

You rolled your eyes to yourself at his lack of manners, but from the expression on Marta’s face she’d been expecting it, and to be honest, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t been. Her lips curled into a sarcastic grin as she turned and headed out.

“You should try it, Donna. It’s got camomile and lavender in. I swear by it.” Your ears then picking up on a conversation between Walt, Donna and Joni and you turned your head towards them, Ransom’s arm curled round your waist, hand resting heavy on your hip. Joni bit down on the carrot stick she was holding with a flourish of her hands. “It’s my favourite thing FLAM have done.”

"You know, I'm surprised you didn't go under given you're no longer receiving Dad's money.” Walt interjected and Joni rolled her eyes.

“Shows how much attention you pay, Walt. When I released that new line of bath-bombs and candles, sales, like literally, went through the roof.”

“Bath-bombs?” Walt frowned.

“Yeah, they’re like little cakes if you will of dried soap and fragranced that you drop into a-“

“I know what they are.” Walt rolled his eyes as Marta appeared, handing you your drink which you took with a thanks. “I was commenting on the fact you said you’d launched a new line.”

“Oh, yeah.” Joni munched her carrot stick some more. “I got the idea from Gwyneth Paltrow when she released that candle scented like her vagina.” At that you choked on your drink and hastily avoided looking at anyone in the room as various groans and loud protests from the males hit your ears.

At that point Linda walked back into the room and sat down in a chair not far from where you were sat and she smoothed down her trousers before she peered up at Ransom.

“How’s the book coming along?” She asked, peering from over the top of her wine glass as she sipped from it.

“Fine.” Ransoms shrugged. “Few little blocks here and there but I’ll work through them. Granddad always told me sometimes it pays to take a step back and pause, ideas often come when you’re not expecting them.”

Linda smiled, and you were pleased to see that, for once, it appeared genuine, as if she was actually looking at her son with something more than ambivalence. And then, the moment was ruined as Meg burst out laughing.

“You’re writing a book? What’s it called? ‘Ransom’s Guide To Being An Asshole’?” She snorted and Ransom took a deep breath.

“Eat shit.”

“Original.” Meg replied drily rolling her eyes, “you know, I'm jealous of all the people that haven't met you.” She stated as her eyes turned to you. “Seriously, what the fuck do you see in him? Why on earth anyone would ever want to be in the same room with him, let alone share his bed is completely beyond me.”

“Tell me, Meg, when was the last time you got laid?” Ransom turned to her, a smirk on his face. “And your dildo doesn’t count.” “Fuck you, you fucking prick.” Meg seethed before she turned to look at you, her face angry. “You know, it must be serious if he’s bringing you here; he normally just keeps his fuck buddies on speed dial.”

“And throws the money on the mattress.” Walt mumbled.

At that, Ransom tensed and he turned his face towards his Uncle, his nostrils flaring. But before he had time to answer back, Richard let out a derisive snort and Ransom instead turned his head to his father.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Ransom shot back, “Tell me, how much do you pay the barely legal whore sat on your lap?”

“You little shit.” Richard spat as the poor woman in question shifted uncomfortably, her mouth falling open as the insult Ransom had shot at her registered.

You stood stock still, a warm and uncomfortable feeling washing over you as the family continued to bicker. You could feel a headache coming; this was becoming too much for you to cope with.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Linda groaned, almost lazily from her spot on the chair. “Is it too much to ask that one of our family deaths goes by without starting another feud?”

"Oh that's rich, coming from you!” Richard, turned to her. Linda met her ex-husband’s glare with a completely blank expression on her face, before she scoffed.

“Why are you wearing those ridiculous glasses?” She demanded, referring to the spectacles that adorned Richard’s face, the style being something you would attribute to Harry Potter.

“So I can see.”

“You never needed glasses in the entire thirty-four years we were married.” She scoffed.

“I did.” Richard shrugged, a snarky grin curling at one side of his mouth and you instantly recognised that expression as being one Ransom sported a lot. “Just preferred it when I couldn’t see your face.”

Linda’s mouth dropped open and you felt yourself bristle as you took a breath.

“Are you actually gonna let your dad say that to your mom?” You glanced up at Ransom. His head turned slowly towards you and the expression of anger on his face at being called out made your blood run cold. You recoiled a little and your eyes immediately darted to the floor.

“Sorry.” You whispered.

"This is fun," Jacob snickered as he, from out of nowhere, waltzed into the room and took a seat in the corner of the bay window, never once looking up from his phone. “Ransom once more manages to spark an argument.”

“Y/N meet Jacob, the poster child for the pro-choice movement.” Ransom gestured to the teenager in front of you who merely rolled his eyes as both Walt and Donna began to yell and hurl insults back at Ransom.

“Says the guy whose birth certificate is an apology letter from the condom factory.” The teen mumbled back.

“Ooh, good one, which one of your alt-right, KKK loving buddies did you learn that from?” Ransom quipped, and in a quick change of decorum, the room erupted with slander and jabs being shouted and tossed about, most of the commotion being pointed at Ransom.

It was a cacophony of noise and sound, which infiltrated your head, making your brain buzz and crackle like the wick of a dynamite stick and it was too much. After months of quiet with no one to listen or talk to bar Ransom, it was overwhelming and you felt sick.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need some air.” You mumbled, seizing the chance, as he was distracted.

You made your way into the hallway where you stood, your back leaning against the dark wooden panelling, taking huge gasps of air. Your chest hurt, your head was spinning and your legs burned but those deep breaths didn’t help. Your hand slapped against your chest, hoping to ebb the sting. Soon, lightheaded, and with a slight spin to the space around you, you felt a cool hand on your shoulder through your blouse. Your head turned and you saw a sweet pair of eyes looking at you with worry.

“Let’s get you some real air, come on,” it was Marta, coming to your aide.

She took you outside, to a covered patio, with wicker furniture and heating lamps. The rush of cold air hit your flushed skin and a different sting erupted through your lungs as the bite of winter’s breath filled you.

“Here.” The young woman handed you a tartan blanket, which you took with a grateful look, still not quite able to form any words. She helped you sit down on one of the chairs and made sure the blanket was snug around your shoulders as she took a seat opposite you.

“They’re a little overwhelming, but you get used to it,” she rubbed a small hand up and down your back.

You just looked at her, your eyes watering as you came down from your panic. You had no desire to get used to it, to any of it, but as per anything in this fucked up situation, you were no doubt going to have to, like it or not.

The breaths you took became longer, deeper, the peak of panic now steadying out leaving you feeling shaky and exposed.

“I’m sorry, that was…”

“You don’t have to apologise. With what’s happening inside, this is normal.” Marta softly smiled with a chuckle. “I’d be worried if they weren’t screaming at each other.”

“Can I ask you something?” You looked at her, speaking softly.

“Of course.” She replied, just as hushed.

“Why did you do it? Have everyone over? You don’t owe them anything.”

The former nurse rubbed her palms on her pants, “well, it’s what Wanetta wanted. She sorta came with the house and it was her last wish, for the family to come together. I think she thought after everything that happened something might have changed?” Marta shook her head at the audacity of the sound of it. “She didn’t say much more, but Allan had given me her will and that’s all it read. Things would remain the same but she wanted them here after she was cremated, for a final goodbye.”

“I admire her optimism.” You stated flatly and Marta laughed before she gave a heavy sigh, a sad smile on her face.

“Well, she loved them, not that any of them cared, not in years. The only one I ever noticed take mind of her out of want and not duty was Ransom.” She kept her eyes on yours as she spoke, genuine care coming from the sound of her. “But that was before…when he…with Harlan.”

You glanced away, not totally surprised but still a little shocked so to speak that someone else had noticed there was a little shred of humanity buried underneath all his asshole bravado. You leaned forward on your thighs, elbows resting there as your hands wrung together, a nervous habit you’d recently developed.

“Can I ask YOU something?” Marta wondered. You nodded, your stomach knotting, hoping I wasn’t what you suddenly thought it could be. “You’ve spent time with Ransom. I read your article and your apology. Do you believe all of this? The not of sound mind?” Her eyes were sorrowful but held a glare of contempt at the circumstance.

“Uh…” you started but the opening of the patio door caught both of your attentions and the man in question stepped outside, your coat in his hands.

“I was worried,” he stated, opening your coat for you as you automatically stood to receive the gesture. You had no doubt his worry was genuine, but whether it was for you or what you may or may not have revealed was another question.

“I needed some air,” you admitted, “Marta came to my rescue.”

“One man alone can be pretty dumb sometimes, but for real bona fide stupidity there ain't nothing can beat teamwork.” Ransom quipped in reference to the chaos of the family being together, chaos he narcissistically enjoyed partaking in.

You looked up at those daring blue eyes, “Mark Twain.”

He quirked a brow in agreement before his eyes flicked to Marta and then back to you. “Was I interrupting something, Sweetheart?”

There it was, that warning tone in his voice. You were on thin ice. You stuffed your hands into your peacoat pocket and shook your head.

“No.” You cleared your throat as you held his gaze. “Like I said, I just needed some air.”

As he stood there, his eyes searching hers he took a deep breath as she gazed back up at him, fear simmering within those deep globes. Ransom reached out, pulling her to him, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “As long as that’s all it was.”

Recognising his comment for what it was, half concern and half warning, she nodded against his chest. Without so much as another glance at Marta, he turned, his arm looped possessively over her shoulders as he led her back inside. He walked slowly down the hallway, stooping slightly to speak into her ear. “From now on, you don’t leave my sight, you got that?”

“Yeah, okay.” She whispered and nodded.

“Good girl,” he smiled, tipping her face up with on finger under her chin, planting a soft kiss on her lips.

*****

The next hour or so passed reasonably uneventfully. Ransom was careful to keep as much distance between him, Y/N and the rest of the assholes in the room as possible. When the buffet was served, he watched as she picked at the plate of food she had selected, not eating a terrible amount. She’d gone in on herself again, and he found himself a little disappointed if truth be told.

“We’ll leave soon.” He turned to her and she looked at him, “you’ve behaved today, I’m impressed.”

At that she rolled her eyes. “Is going back to that fucking house supposed to be a reward or something?”

At that Ransom felt a surge of anger and he glared at her, the nerve in his jaw twitching. “Don’t push me, sweetheart.” His voice was low, and a growl but to his surprise, instead of recoiling at his outward hostility and warning she simply sat up straight, her shoulders squaring and met him with a filthy look of her own.

“Fuck you.” She spat.

“Oh we already played that game.” His lip curled back in a snarl. “Several times.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Walt leaned forward a little to pick up something off one of the plates on the table by Ransom and he took a breath, his eyes still trained on Y/N before he turned to his uncle.

“Are you not dead yet?”

“Do you have to talk to everyone like that?” Joni sighed. “God, Ransom.”

“Well I thought the guys who bust his leg might have caught up with him by now, no such luck.” Ransom shrugged.

“Listen here you little shit,” Walt leaned over the table, but no sooner had he done that he suddenly began coughing on whatever food he had in his mouth.

“I’m listening.” Ransom quipped as Walt continued to splutter, Donna hastily hitting him on the back.

Jacob, who wasn’t even looking at the table, too engrossed in his phone, then spoke. “What did you eat, Dad? Wasn’t anything he gave you was it? I mean he did kill Grandpa so I wouldn’t put it past him to poison you either.”

A deadly silence spread across the room as Ransom took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on his cousin, his hand clenching into fists. Besides him, Y/N let out a shaky breath and her head turned to look at him but he didn’t meet her eyes. Instead he leaned back in his chair and when he spoke next, his voice was icy.

“Not of sound mind.”

“Yeah, we heard. Loaf of bullshit if you ask me, but then again an expensive lawyer can get you off most things these days.” Walt snarled.

“Enough!” Linda yelled, her hand smacking on the table. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Besides him, Y/N had begun to tremble, and Ransom glanced at her to see she was taking deep breaths, her chest heaving, face stony as she stared at the wall opposite, where a picture of his Nanna Wanetta was hung.

“Oh shut up Linda!” Walt turned to her. “Everyone here knows he’s guilty as sin, even you! Why the fuck he’s even here is beyond me. And as for you...” He turned to Y/N and she gave a start, her eyes flicking to him. “You might as well quit while you’re ahead as there ain’t no gold to be digging for. She got it all.” He pointed his fork at Marta and then that was it. Y/N let out a hell of frustration, standing up that quickly her chair tumbled to the ground behind her, the plate clattering to the floor by her feet.

“You think I’m with him for his money?” He glared at Walt, the entire room silent as all eyes focussed on her. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea. I’m with him because I have-“

At that Ransom’s hand shot out and curled round her wrist, his grip tight in warning and she jerked away from him, glaring down at him with a fire in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“The whole lot of you are fucked in the head.” She tapped her temple with her forefinger. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my entire life. You’re nothing but a bunch of self-entitled, narcissistic assholes. After everything you've been through, you can’t even find it in your cold dead hearts to come together honour a member of your family that died without reducing the entire event to some kind of sick, twisted game of one-upmanship. Each and every one of you are all about yourselves, and what you can do to out accomplish the other. As far as I’m concerned each one of you can fuck off and die. You disgust me."

She took a deep breath, running her hands over her face before she turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

Ransom blinked, watched her leave, a slam of the door behind her. He stood there for a brief moment, processing what had just happened. He looked back to his family with a smug shrug and at that he headed quickly after Y/N, his mother's obnoxious and loudly over dramatic gasp bouncing off his back as he too slammed the front door.

****

It was your turn to stand there and act like a petulant child as you leaned against the hood of the Beemer, cares and all fucks be damned. You were tired, you were angry and God damn down right fed up with this entire family and their bullshit. You didn't even make eye contact with him as Ransom as he approached the car. You simply moved to your door, slipped in as he did and waited for him to start the car. You felt his eyes in him, heard him open his mouth to say something but rather he just took in a breath and started the engine. You sat there, your arms crossed over your chest, knees at an angle, pointed towards your door, away from him.

A rumble of a chuckle escaped his chest, "Oh Sweetheart, that was really something."

"Just drive," you spat out, turning your head to him in annoyance. Now he didn't find you amusing, this new air of confidence about you. He cleared his throat and looked at you with a stern gaze.

"Careful, Y/N," he warned, pulling around the drive to the long road before the main. You didn't care. You raised your brows as if you were silently emphasizing your demand, it was not a request, even in the slightest.

The bare trees and snow covered ground began flying by your window, clearly Ransom laying the pedal to the floor as you shook your head.

"What the hell was even the point of going today? It was blatantly obvious that they didn’t want you there, and you didn’t want to be there. If you wanted to mourn Wanetta, we could have done it from the confines of the prison you like to keep me in. Or was this just another shitty way for you to torture me? Huh? Was that amusing to you, Hugh, making me spend an afternoon with your fucked up family, whom you hate, when you’re keeping me from mine? God, you really are a twisted son of a bitch.”

Your tirade set his skin on fire, you could see the tinge of red flushing his skin as he white knuckled the wheel, his hand on the gear shift squeezing the hell out of it as you spoke. Then very quickly you felt your body lurch forward as he slammed on the breaks. "What the fuck did you just say?"

“What, are you deaf?” You blazed. “I asked why we were there? I mean I thought we were going to pay respects to your Great-Nanna, because stupid me actually believed that you felt something, you know, some kind of sorrow that she was gone, and I actually felt sorry for you at first when we got in there, and they were unloading all their vile little opinions and digging in at you and-“

"Now you listen to me you little bitch," he spat, cutting you off. "I didn’t ask for, nor do I need your pity. I don’t care what my family say to me, or think about me. And I certainly don’t care what they think or say about you”

“Oh my god, you are…” You shook your head, looking out of the window, taking a deep breath. “This isn’t pity, Ransom.”

“No, because that’s what it sounds like.” He seethed, his hands curling round the steering wheel.

“Of course it does.” You scoffed. “Because that’s probably all you’ve ever felt towards anyone else isn’t it? Pity, because they’re never going to be as good as you, or have the things you have. Well you might be rich in money terms but fuck, in everything else you’re a pauper. Have you ever truly empathised with someone? Like have even once fully understood what someone else feels? Their sorrow, their happiness, their joy?”

“What the fuck are you getting at?”

You sighed, considering your options. You knew what you wanted to tell him-that the fact he wasn’t loved as a child left him incapable of the simple emotions normal people met, but he was calling you out. And now, it was play it soft or rip it off like a band-aid…

And despite the feeling of foreboding washing over you, you chose the latter. You were tired of playing his mind games, tired of this whole situation. And whatever fucked up punishment he was going to inflict on you, well, it couldn’t be worse than anything he’d already done, you’d take it.

“You don't know how to be happy, or how to love Ransom, because you've never seen it. You've never experienced it. You just breeze through life thinking you can take what you want when you want, and it doesn't work like that.”

“You’re starting to really piss me off. If I wanted a therapy session, I’d pay for one.” He snarled, “Shut the fuck up.”

“See, this is what I mean!” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You just asked me to elaborate, so I did, and know because I’m saying something that you don’t like or don’t wanna hear, you’re resorting to being an asshole. Every time I think I’m getting through to you, I…” You fell silent, swallowing as he glared at you, nostrils flaring and you took a deep sigh, knowing that this was pointless. “You know what, forget it. I shouldn’t-“

“No, you clearly got something to say, so go on. Say it.”

“What, so you can punish me when we get back for pissing you off some more?”

At that his face faltered and he took a deep breath, hanging his head. When he raised it again to look at you, his face was softer and he looked out of the windscreen, licking his lips. “I’m not…gonna punish you, okay.”

“How do I know?” You whispered, shaking your head. “How can I trust that you’re not just gonna lock me back in that damned basement and come down when you want to fuck me and-“ “Because I’m not!” His voice rose. “I don’t want you down there anymore. So I’ll ask again, you think you know so much about how to love,” he framed the word with his fingers, "then tell me what you think it means.”

“Fine, you wanna know…I’ll tell you. It's going on dates, it’s fun, its surprising, it’s feeling like you can’t breathe if the person you are in love with leaves you. It’s not about owning them or breaking them or how much you buy a person or throwing money at them, it’s showing them you know how they are, that you understand what they appreciate and what they need and what they want, a lot of times without being told.” You took a deep breath, watching his face, his expression never faltering. “Love is something that can't always be explained. It's that feeling of family, of having your person. Someone your heart and soul changes for, grows with. Love is a mother's hug or kiss goodnight, a father's ball landing in your mitt with a joyful laugh and smile. Love isn't forced or taken. It's given and received. It's...."

"Fresh hot cocoa on a rainy day when you have nothing left in a world that hates you,” he spoke softly, and when you realized what he'd said it stopped your thoughts cold. Did that mean what you thought it meant? That he loved you?

You were lost for words, but before you could protest and tell him he was wrong, he sighed and looked at you.

“You asked me before why I brought you today. That’s why. Because they hate me. And you make me feel fucking safe around those pieces of shit.” Your breath caught in your throat whilst your mind raced for how to respond. The tension and suspense filled the air about the two of you. You stared at him, his eyes soft, expectant, darting over your features with a bouncing worry. The reaction time between his words and your next move was merely a minute but you had quickly found a way to capitalize on this moment. You threw your belt off and kicked your heels off in the process, moving over the gear shift and the centre console into his lap, the center seam of your skirt tearing as you straddled him. "Wha...." his words were cut off by your lips on his, your palms over his softly shaven face, fingertips sliding into the hair behind his ears. Immediately, your tongue slipped deep inside his mouth, lolling around with his. His hands found your waist and gave you a squeeze. You came to your knees as best you could in the small space and continued to kiss him while trying to inch your skirt higher. He'd guessed what you were trying to do and you felt his hands move from your waist to the tops of your thighs, fingers trailing down quickly to the hem of your skirt, lifting it to above the curve of your ass where it bunched. He didn’t ask or question your sudden burst of confidence or seeming desire, just as you’d banked on, instead he was quite happy to go with it, as usual always ready to fuck you any which way he could. Your hands trailed over the soft material of his sweater and down to the end of it, where it met the top of his slacks. You lifted the clothing slightly to ghost over his skin causing him to flinch before your finger tips found the button and zip of his flies. That maddeningly smug smirk spread across his face and your lips crashed back to his, a furious clash of teeth and tongue, your hands still fumbling with his pants. He was half hard before you even got him free, no doubt from the heated exchange the two of you had to get to here. As you palmed his girth in your hand, your brain switched from playing him to wanton need, a basic primal instinct of desperation to release the toxic stress your body held. His big hand and thick fingers trailed over your hip, your ass, down your thigh and finally cupped your heat and a deep ferrral growl emitted from his chest as he'd realized you'd worn nothing under that skirt. He dipped two fingers inside you straight away and you cried out, "fuck" as your body bent back away from him, keening at the feeling. “Fuck, baby, you’ve had nothing on under here all day?” His fingers curled inside of you and you groaned, your head rolling back as your hips pushed forward, thrusting against his hand. You couldn't use your words, you looked down at him with your pupils blown and your bottom lip between your teeth. You gave him a squeeze instead and he quickly lurched you into the steering wheel with his chest, his fingers falling away and both hands tearing your blouse open, buttons flying that will never be found. His nose tucked between the valley of your breasts and he inhaled between your fleshy mounds, his tongue dipping against the underside of your thin bra. His hands each palming an ass cheek and squeezing so hard, it delightfully stung. With what little space the two of you had to move, Ransom pulled you down into his lap, the need to feel you wrapped around him dangerously feral. It took no time for that single motion to get his head then every inch of his shaft deep inside you. "Fuck, you feel so fucking good," he ground out. He didn't care the mess she would make or the way he'd cum so hard he'd leak out of her, no, he wanted to fuck her senseless and that's exactly what he'd do. His heels cemented themselves into the footwell of the car as his hips jutted upward, her body curling in on him. “Harder, please Ransom.” Her voice croaked as she begged him and with a growl that was animalistic his hips picked up their pace as he rutted up into her quickly and harshly. His mouth devoured the tops of her breasts, nipping at her nipples through the material of the lace that covered them while her fingers scratched at the back of his neck, tugging at his hair. In contrast to the cold winter conditions outside, the air inside his beloved car was now hot, fast steaming up the windows, drops of condensation trickling down towards the door sill a perfect mirror image of the sweat that was now sliding down the hollow of her throat and beading on his brow. He could feel her walls begin to squeeze him tighter and tighter with each thrust. His hands curled round her hips, pulling her down onto him as he leaned back, raising his ass off the seat slightly, spearing up into her as deep as he could. "Ransom," you started to shake senselessly, you were crashing fast and hard and there was no slowing down. "Fuck, baby, just like that," you'd heard him say over the blood that rushed to your ears, deafening you, as you came, gripping him like a vice. Your body gave way as your hands sought purchase to ground yourself from entirely collapsing, finding the lapel of his camel coat, white knuckling it with one hand while the other slapped against the damp window which felt like melting ice against your heated palm. A noise burst from your mouth, a half scream, half choked wail, a sound you weren’t sure you’d ever made before and you opened your eyes to see Ransom’s icy blue’s locked onto yours, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth. His voracious pace continued until the end when he came with a primal growl, his hips raising off the seat far enough to jolt your head against the roof of the car. You felt him fill you, the warmth of his seed settling deep inside, and then some. The air was heavy with the sound of panting as the pair of you came down from the intensity of the moment, The both of you desperately trying to breathe despite the humidity. Your hands curled over Ransom's shoulders as he sagged back in the seat, his hands smoothing up the outside of your thighs. You swallowed hard as his eyes focused on yours. You leaned forward and kissed him slowly, softly, his mouth and body languidly responding. Pulling back slightly, you kept your forehead pressed to his, and took a deep breath before you went straight in for the kill, the reason you’d instigated this entire fuck, to capitalise once more on a seeming chink in his armour. "You said you feel safe with me." He stilled underneath you, his hands gentle as they now rest on your hips and his eyes locked onto yours, widening as he realised his admission. "Do you want me to feel safe with you? To trust you?" You continued, not giving him a moment to deny it. He nodded slowly in reply. "Prove it," you stated. "How?" His voice was croaky as he cleared his throat, a slight frown furrowed his brow. "I want to see my family again." He looked at you, and you kept your eyes locked on his, a challenge to him to make good on his word, gambling on him actually wanting you to trust him as he had taken great pains to demonstrate through various means over the past few weeks. This was it, the moment where you would find out exactly what he truly wanted- someone to love and trust him, or someone to fear and obey him. He let out a slow breath through his nose and his eyes flicked over your shoulder before they returned to yours and he gave you an almost imperceptible nod. But a nod nonetheless. “Okay.”

**** Part 7

#murder he wrote #dark ransom drysdale #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale fic #knives out #chris evans #chris evans characters #reader insert #dark fic

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aressss1 · 3 years

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Sweet Nothings

(God!Technoblade x Male!Reader)

Read Me on AO3!

~~~~~~

You were very content with your life in this tiny village. Business was at its peak, and you were well known amongst the people. You had your regulars that came in daily, and you even had found an apprentice to help you out around the shop. Niki, was a great apprentice, learning how to bake and tend to the bakery on her own. The eagerness in her actions made you confident that she would be just fine taking care of the place in your stead, when you needed a break once in a while.

One early morning, when the world was still dark, you walked the cobblestone streets to your bakery. The warm glow of the over hanging lanterns washed over your form. There was a cold nip to the air as you walked. Letting your eyes wander, your eyes spot the decorations overhead. Festival decorations, for a festival made in celebration of the era of peace among your lands, and for the blood god.

Today was Niki’s first day alone in the bakery. Your job today was to set up a booth and run it for the festival. You had the perfect spot to entice travelers from across the world to eat your delicious baked goods. Town square was the perfect place, but you… had scored the place closest to the entrance of the town square to set up your booth. The area that had gotten the most foot traffic in festivals. You were excited for what could come of this. Your bakery could very well thrive off this one day alone!

The bakery before you was already lit up. You smirked knowing that your apprentice had beaten you to the punch. You twisted the doorknob and walked in whistling a familiar tune, signifying to Niki that you weren’t some stranger just walking in.

“Morning boss!” Niki leaned out from behind the doorway of the kitchen as she said it. “You’re looking really handsome today!” Her eyes sparkled and you smirked. The garb you had chosen for the festival cost you a pretty penny, but it was worth it.

“Well, a man has gotta look his best for his business don’t you think?” You ran your fingers through your hair, before putting your chef’s hat on. “How many goods have you made so far this morning my dear?”

The beginning of the morning went by smoothly. You had set up your booth while Niki had made quadruple the amount of baked goods that you normally made on a regular day. Festivals were good for business and you didn’t want to keep the people waiting. Now… You wished the middle of the day went just as smooth.

More foot traffic meant more problems… Thieves taking from your stock, people touching everything they didn’t intend to buy, people who weren’t satisfied being rude, and so much more. You had your hands full with everything. By the end of the festival when lanterns were sent into the sky to celebrate the blood god keeping peace across the land, you were out of breath. Your booth had seen it’s last customer of the day, and your head was still reeling. But that didn’t stop you from lighting your own lantern. You let it go as you still stood next to your booth, unaware of the fact that eyes lingered over you, as you closed your eyes uttering your thanks to the very blood god who watched you with curious eyes.

His eyes spotted your lantern ascending into the sky, he didn’t make himself known to you, He scanned over you once more before he followed the lantern’s light, awaiting the moment that it would come down. When it did, he looked at your handiwork adorning the material. Drawings and script told a story of your gratitude, that, without the peace that he had given, you would be a broken man with no passion in life. This peace gave you enough to stand on so you could pave your way into a successful business.

A slight smile pulled at his lips, a mortal had piqued his interest, there was definitely more he wanted to know about you. He would rest now and make himself known to you later. He held onto your lantern, keeping it for himself.

Days passed, and you struggled with the volume of customers who had come in. So each day you adjusted your inventory, to keep up with your customers. There were times when you could breath in between bursts of people. You could cry at the success from the booth just days before.

On one of your breaks, you sat down on a stool to help ease the discomfort in your back. You had been on your feet the entire day and you needed this break. You reveled in the silence and peace, you closed your eyes, letting out a little sigh. When the door opened, and you heard the bell sound off, signifying a customer, you gave off a small, tired grunt.

“Welcome to my bakery, how may I help you-” When you opened your eyes all the air left your lungs, and you couldn’t say any more. In front of you, stood a very tall man, with long pink hair, a golden crown that reminded you more of a circlet gilded his head. His ears were pointed and downturned, making it obvious he wasn’t human. His eyes rivalled the gold that sat atop his head. Deep purple to black armor hugged his body and a royal red cloak spilled from around his shoulders.

His eyes studied your face, and you felt a blush redden your cheeks. He moved around your bakery in the most graceful way you had ever seen anyone move and you fought to regain your composure.

“Make yourself at home, take a look around and if you need anything you can just ask.” You bowed your head to offer your respect to him. When his eyes searched over you once more you cleared your throat. Was this guy a soldier? A commander? His aura was one that suggested he was a man of power. Even so, this guy didn’t know what to get… His eyes wandered around looking at all the pastries and other baked goods, it was obvious he was having trouble deciding on what to get.

“Would you like a sample?” You offered, you almost shrunk at the man’s gaze, but you didn’t let yourself falter you held out a cupcake for him to take, and when he took it, you felt your heartbeat in your ears. When he hesitantly took a bite, you visibly relaxed when he gave you a smile, crumbs falling from his lip.

“I’ll take some more of these.” His deep voice shook you to your very core. Strangely, as much as this guy was intimidating… He was alluring, and you packaged up more cupcakes for him, giving him an extra one, because he was a first-time customer. Or… At least you told yourself that.

“Thank you very much! Here is your order and should you come back you will be welcomed with open arms!” You told him your name as he held his hand out with his payment. When he dropped it into your hand your eyes widened and in the palm of your hand were three gold pieces. Your heart dropped and when you looked back up, he was gone. You charged mere copper for your goods, not gold??? You were dumbfounded.

Months had passed, and the mysterious stranger came in each and every day. Ordering and trying new things from you. He had become a constant in your life, and you found yourself growing closer to him. You found out his name was Techno, and he was a war hero. You could tell he was leaving bits and pieces from you, but you figured if he wanted you to know he would tell you.

One night you locked up your bakery, and you were just about to head home. Your steps echoing off the cobblestone path once more. You looked up to see Techno, knelt down in front of someone, holding out a loaf of bread out to a straggler down on his luck. You had sold Techno that bread earlier. You couldn’t help but feel the smile tug on your lips. Techno stood tall after the straggler thanked him profusely, his eyes finding yours. You felt your heartbeat faster, as he towered over you.

“You have brought beauty into this world and it’s a crime not to share it.” Techno cocked his head at you, his hand resting on your cheek. “I would like to see more of the beauty you create.” He drops his hand from your face, holding it out for you to take.

You sigh happily, intertwining your fingers with his, happy to follow him wherever he would lead you. He led you to a place where you could see every star, away from the village. Foliage surrounded you and it was a nice change of pace rather than the buildings around you.

Techno looked at you, as you marveled at the scenery before you. He basked in your presence; you were such a breath of fresh air opposed to every other mortal around. He watched you make your way to a nearby stream, kneeling letting the cool water flow through your fingers. Techno summoned forth your lantern. When you stood and faced him again, you were shocked at the lantern in his hands.

“How did you get that?” You felt heat rise up to your cheeks.

“It tells a beautiful story.” He ignored your question, “Of a man, who was cast out based on his preferences… Going on a hard-earned journey to make a bakery. Determined to be successful, while hiding who you truly are, is… Tragic.” Techno cupped your cheek, his eyes boring into yours. “I do not wish to take credit for your hard work because I slaughter those who wish to upset the peace.”

Your eyes widened; the blood god was real… And he was standing before you, gazing at you with a fond expression. This beautiful man before you stroked your cheek with his thumb, and you felt your tears coming forth. You were scared, scared to tell Niki of your preferences, in fear she would abandon you. If any of your patrons knew, your business would be ruined…

“This world is filled with cruelty.” His words caused shivers to go up your spine. “I… want to shield you from that cruelty.” He leaned closer and closer to you, his lips just barely grazing yours. “If you’ll have me.” He barely whispered, but you heard him loud and clear. You threw your arms around his shoulders, standing on your tip toes to push your lips against his. That was when your tears spilled forth.

The two of you, melted into each other, the moon above shone down on you. Before too long this towering blood god cradled you in his arms, your head resting on his chest plate. You thought you were content with your life before… What you had before couldn’t compare to what you had now. Technoblade the Blood God had fallen for a mortal, and no one could take you away from him.

#technoblade x reader #technoblade/reader #c!techno x reader #techno fanfic #c!techno #god!techno #male!reader #fluff #mcyt x reader

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sunniebabe99 · 2 years

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Splintered Hearts - 2

warnings: none

words: 1,802

Summary- Eva finally meets Obi-wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker from Padme's many stories. Padme makes it known that she could do without the extra protection even though everyone else disagrees.

“Goodmorning, I have your breakfast, and please remember to actually eat it this time, the cook made your favorite” Eva said to her. The food had gone from hot to warm just because Typho wanted to test it for poison.

“Goodmorning, I will eat but I still have much to do. I need to get ready for this vote and then there are other matter’s concerning Naboo and-” She listed but Eva set the tray down at the small coffee table and then gave her a look.

“I know you have much to do but you can't go working on nothing, come on,” Eva said. It often was like pulling teeth just to get Padme to eat a full meal now that she was Senator. Padme got up and stretched her arms to the sky letting out a sigh before going to the coffee table and sitting down in the chair near it. She took a piece of toasted bread and jam and then began to eat.

“Happy?” She said and looked at Eva. The Handmaiden nodded and went to grab the hairbrush at Padme’s vanity. She stood behind her and started to gently brush her hair. It was quiet for a while as Padme ate and Eva brushed small tangles out of her hair.

“Master Kenobi is going to arrive today…I don't even think I will be leaving the building at all today, there is so much paperwork to be done,” she grumbled and finished her toast. She then reached down, grabbing her tea and sipping it as she stared at nothing, completely lost in her thoughts.

“Even here you can still be attacked Padme, this is for the best. Just please let them protect you,” Eva said and stopped her brushing to put a hand on her friend's shoulder. Padme moved her hand up to Eva’s and sighed. She still wasn't happy about it but could hear Eva’s worry seeping out of her voice.

“I need to get ready…could you call Dorme to help please?” She asked Eva.

“Of course.”

Eva then left Padme to her own devices to fetch Dorme. Padme looked at the rest of the food on the tray and made a small disgusted face at it then got up. Walking away from it and went to the refresher that was connected to her bedroom.

Soon with Dorme’s help, Padme was ready and moving around the apartment. Speaking about different plans and also about the vote for the military creation act. It was far too late to even try to sway the voters. Padme was in a small conference with Captian Typho and Dorme. Eva sat with them at listened.

“If anything happens to me before the vote you must make sure that Jar Jar makes it to the Senate to cast the vote, it is important and I don't want you both arguing that nothing will happen. It could happen and what we need is a plan B just in case things go sideways for me” Padme said to her loyal guards. Dorme looked slightly upset at the possibility of Padme dying. But nodded either way. All three of them knew it was wiser to have a plan than to go in with just the hope that she wouldn't be killed.

Minutes later there was a sound of Jar Jar cheering and greeting people at the door that was down the hall. Eva turned to look, spotting Jar Jar emerge from the hallway with two Jedi. so that must be Master Kenobi… Eva thought to herself as she looked at the much older man, she then took a look at the younger Jedi who seemed to be sweating up a storm. Looking nervous as ever.

“Lookie Lookie Senator!” Jar Jar said as Padme got up from her seat. She looked over and smiled at the sight of the two Jedi. The older one walked up to her and gave her a slight bow.

“It is a pleasure to see you again my lady,” He said with a fond smile. Padme merely glanced at the younger man before responding to Kenobi and taking his hand in hers. “It has been far too long Master Kenobi, I am so glad our paths have crossed again…” she said before letting go of his hand.

“But I must warn you that I think your presence here is unnecessary,” she said and Eva stifled a groan before rubbing her eyes.

“I am sure the Council has their reasons,” Master Kenobi said to her. Eva stood by and watched the scene. Padme took a look at the other man and then seemed to do a double take. A smile spread on her face as she recognized the boy.

“Ani? My! Have you grown!” She gushed and Eva’s eyebrows raised up in surprise. That is Ani!? She thought to herself, she couldn't help but notice a small smile appear on the older Jedi’s face as if he was trying to stop himself from laughing. She wondered what could be so funny. From all of Padme’s stories, she would have thought Anakin to be smaller and not as tall. How old was he again? She looked at Anakin and the young padawan felt the handmaiden's eyes scanning him. It did not help how nervous he felt as Padme greeted him.

“So have you..uh grown more beautiful. I mean and um…much shorter for a senator, I mean” He said. Eva bit her tongue and struggled not to snicker at the boy’s response. She knew he was probably trying to be smooth.

Padme laughed and shook her head as Master Kenobi looked at Anakin with disapproval. “Oh Ani…you will always be that little boy I met on Tatooine,” Padme said and Eva cheered slightly on the inside. Yes. friend-zoned! She thought. She then felt a pair of eyes on her and saw Master Kenobi staring. She locked eyes with him before breaking it and moving over to Padme more.

“Oh, I almost forgot, this is Eva she is one of my handmaidens and guards,” Padme introduced the young woman to the two men.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Eva,” Master Kenobi said and Eva nodded. Feeling rather shy now as his piercing blue eyes looked at her.

“Thank you for coming here on such short notice Master Jedi. My lady was reluctant for your protection but I am rather relieved to see you” She said and Padme shook her head.

“I just don't think I need two Jedi to guard me when their manpower can be used elsewhere” Padme defended.

Eva gave her a look and it was looking to be the start of an argument until Master Kenobi cut in.

“We have more than enough Jedi to cover the galaxy, for now, we are assigned to protect you, my lady,” Master Kenobi said. Padme looked uneasy about it as she lead them to the sofas in the sitting room. She sat down and gestured for Eva to sit. She went and sat down next to Padme. The Jedi went and sat on the couch opposite the women.

“I promise you, our presence will be invisible” Kenobi added as he looked at Padme.

Captain Typho came into the room and stood behind the couch Padme and Eva were sitting on.

“I am very grateful you are here Master Kenobi, This situation is more dangerous than the senator will admit,” he said and his words earned a sharp look from Padme.

“I don't need more security I need answers! I want to know who is trying to kill me” Padme said and Eva looked at her with slight worry.

“You will never know anything if you are dead from not having protection when you need it Pad- uh My lady,” Eva said, stumbling a bit over her words but it gained no reaction from the others. Maybe a bit of curiosity from the Jedi.

“She is right, but we are also not here for an investigation, we are here to protect you,” Master Kenobi said with a frown.

“We will find out who is trying to kill you Padme, I promise you” Anakin spoke up, and the look Master Kenobi gave him made Eva’s stomach flip. She would not want to be on the receiving end of that dirty look.

“We will not exceed our mandate, my young padawan learner,” Master Kenobi said to Anakin who looked back at him with no shame.

“I meant with the interest of protecting her of course master,” Anakin said, Eva could feel Master Kenobi’s frustration coming off in waves. She shifted in her seat as she and Padme watched the Master and Apprentice argue.

Eva felt like she shouldn't even be looking as the two stared at each other haughtily.

“We will not go through this again Anakin, You will pay attention to my lead,” Kenobi said sternly.

“Why?” Anakin said and everyone could feel the tension in the air as Master Kenobi’s eyes narrowed at Anakin.

“What?”

Eva felt uncomfortable as she watched, feeling a small tug at her long bell sleeve. Padme was tugging on her and moved her hand to hers under the mess of fabric of their gowns.

The gesture made her heart beat a little faster. But she quickly stopped her wild thoughts with rational ones. She is your friend, she always holds your hand, Eva….Just never in public like this.

As the two argued Eva gently held Padme’s hand, feeling the woman rub the back of her hand with her thumb.

“If I may…” Eva spoke up and the two Jedi looked at her before they could argue more.

“For now, it would be of best interest to Senator Amidala if we first focus on her protection and then the investigation,” Eva finished and Anakin didn't look all too happy about that suggestion but Master Kenobi couldn't agree more.

“Senator Amidala’s protection is above the investigation I agree,” He said before Padme moved her hand away from Eva’s and sat up more.

“Well maybe just by your presence the mysteries surrounding this threat will be revealed,” she said and then stood up.

“If you will excuse me, I will retire…Eva...” she said and looked to Eva and then nodded her head to the bedroom door. Eva nodded and looked at the Jedi.

“Thank you, Master Jedi, I will return shortly,” she said and Kenobi nodded. Anakin watched her leave into Padme’s room and then watched the door close.

“If you can follow me I can show you the perimeters and the plans I have made with Senator Amidala,” Captian Typho said to the Jedi.

The two got up and followed the captain but Anakin couldn't help but feel distracted as he thought about Padme, and how different that handmaiden was.

#padme x reader #Padme x OC #Splintered Hearts #fanfiction #starwars fanfiction

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lambden · 3 years

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What better way to break in a new blog than by immediately posting fic? In honour of Nightmare of the Wolf, here’s some Vesemir and Filavandrel!

(read on AO3)

M, 2.9K words, no warnings, Vesemir recognizes Jaskier’s lute when he arrives at Kaer Morhen

Vesemir has been expecting this day for decades. It’s rare for witchers to meet a trusted companion out on the Path, and even rarer to find one who wishes to travel alongside them. But the reputation of witchers has changed in recent years, for better or worse. Their focus is no longer on maintaining the traditional practices of their schools, but on protection— of other witchers, and of helpless commoners. Perhaps the humans can sense that change.

More curiously, the folklore surrounding witchers has changed. Vesemir very badly wants to meet the man who has done so much to change the narrative, but years pass and all Geralt brings home every winter are stories. The younger witchers entertain (and tease) him but no one ever asks where the bard goes during the cold months that Geralt spends at Kaer Morhen. Perhaps even Geralt doesn’t know.

Finally, after hundreds of stories of Geralt-and-Dandelion, Vesemir receives a letter one autumn before he himself has even considered the journey home. His chest warms as he reads Geralt’s careful penmanship, noting how the ink blots at the start of each new sentence. The paper and wax are fine, suggesting that Jaskier used his academic connections to perhaps land Geralt a few contracts near Oxenfurt. Geralt’s lettering may be nearly flawless but his message is stilted, reminding Vesemir of when his pups were nervous children. Does Jaskier really make him act this awkward? Their relationship must be serious, then.

I am hoping you will welcome my guest with open arms, or I fear he may freeze over the coming months. Vesemir looks for a signature but there is none, save a very fancy G at the bottom. No returning address has been provided either, and while he could easily pen a missive to Oxenfurt, it’s probably best not to respond. Each day Nilfgaard only grows stronger, and crueler. Perhaps Jaskier has been caught up in their hunger for power. Vesemir folds the letter up and hides it in his saddlebag.

When the frost begins creeping in, the oldest Wolf begins his trek up the mountain. He’s almost always the first one to arrive; Coën had beaten him to it once and apologized for weeks, and Vesemir would do anything to avoid that again. And if he makes an effort to arrive early this year so that he can make the Keep look as important as it is, well… nobody needs to know.

It takes a week and a half before Geralt arrives, Jaskier in tow. Vesemir spends the time flushing out a bat infestation and dealing with the most perishable of his spoils from the past year. The White Wolf seems to bring the cold with him most years but Vesemir, cognizant of Jaskier’s inferior body, made sure to set out enough furs in advance. As soon as he hears Roach’s hooves approaching he starts a roaring fire, and when the inner doors of Kaer Morhen burst open, Vesemir is ready to make a great first impression.

Upon seeing him, Geralt smiles right away, crossing the room to greet him. Vesemir looks him over; no obvious new scars, no missing body parts. Must have been an uneventful year, but… Geralt is here, safe and alive, so Vesemir allows himself some private, selfish, unwitcherly joy. It’s the sort of thing Deglan would have lectured him for. He finds he doesn’t care.

“I got your letter,” he tells Geralt, who nods solemnly. “I thought it best not to reply. Is Nilfgaard on your trail?”

“Our trail,” Geralt sighs, stepping aside so that Vesemir can meet his companion. “Vesemir, this is Jaskier.”

The bard, dwarfed by a large fur coat, moves forward so that Vesemir can properly scrutinize him. He certainly doesn’t look his age, but Vesemir knows he’s travelled as far as any witcher has gone, and seen sights no human should really have witnessed. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you, Jaskier. I was wondering when Geralt was finally going to bring you along for the winter!” That makes Jaskier perk up, and Vesemir chuckles. “I promise that no harm will come to you here.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “Geralt doesn’t like sharing much about the other witchers, but I’m sure you must have a wealth of stories for me to hear!” Sure enough, Geralt frowns. “And I don’t know how much help I’ll be with hunting or gathering, but I would be happy to regale you on the coldest nights—”

And before Vesemir can read into that unfortunate phrasing, Jaskier shrugs off his fur coat to produce a lute. He must have been wearing it strapped around his front on the journey through the mountains, not wanting to condemn such a fine instrument to being jostled around in Roach’s saddlebags. Vesemir squints at the red-brown wood and the golden details under the strings. They almost look like a particular elven design.

Oh. Vesemir’s realization nearly bowls him over. Geralt and Jaskier stare at him, respectively concerned and curious, but Vesemir can’t take his eyes off the lute. “My apologies, I… I forgot something in my chamber. Make yourselves at home, and… I’ll leave you to it.” He leaves without any further explanation, hastening to his quarters and abandoning the pair of them to their own devices. He can still feel their gazes drilling into his back but he suddenly feels weaker than usual.

---

“I heard there was a witcher skulking around this forest,” the spy says. Vesemir is almost relieved to hear them speak; he’s been glancing over his shoulder for nearly an hour now to try and reveal an invisible pursuer. He should’ve known he was right. Just because the spy doesn’t lumber like a human or reek of magic like a monster doesn’t mean he won’t be in trouble.

He stops in the middle of the path, still facing forward. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the second he turns, a very unfriendly knife is going to introduce itself to his ribcage. Or perhaps an arrow, although he hasn’t heard the sound of anything and he’s been listening very closely.

His pursuer approaches. Fuck, they’re light on their feet. If Vesemir was just an average bandit, he’d be done for. He braces himself for an attack, balling his hands up into fists at his sides. The stranger continues, tone still pleasant enough, “Why not stay in town? A warm bed must beat trudging through mud in the early hours of the morning trying to find ground. I’ll give you some advice, witcher; there’s no dry ground. You’re heading towards a swamp.”

“They wouldn’t let me stay in town,” Vesemir admits, already grumpy. He whirls around and sees the stranger; a lean man, just slightly shorter than him. The long hood of their cloak casts a dark shadow over their face, blocking them from view. “If you’re here to rob me, I hate to disappoint, but you’ve followed me all this way for nothing.”

He holds up his empty coinpurse; not to prove himself, just to complain. The stranger titters, a lovely, high-pitched sound like glass clinking against glass, like chimes. Like birdsong. Vesemir’s eyes narrow. “That’s a shame,” they say. “You do love coin.”

There’s something disturbingly familiar about the words. Vesemir decides to gamble with his own life, stalking forward until he’s face to face with the stranger. Up close, his scent is even stronger. Frowning, Vesemir is about to reveal the man’s identity when he does it himself, pushing his hood back. His hair is tied up in complex braids unlike any Vesemir has ever seen, only a few loose strands hanging down over his forehead. But it would take more than a lifetime for Vesemir to forget that face.

“Fil,” he declares, delighted, and doesn’t think twice before crashing into the elf. Filavandrel laughs again and though it makes Vesemir feel a little silly, the sound still fills his heart with joy. He embraces his friend tightly, clinging to him for so long that both their boots sink down into the flooded dark soil of the forest. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s like I told you.” The elf pats the back of Vesemir’s neck, unwittingly sending a shiver down his spine. Vesemir’s grip tightens. “My scouts said I might find a witcher lost in the woods.”

“I’m not lost,” Vesemir grunts, finally pulling away. “I just… don’t know where I’m going.”

“Come to my camp,” suggests Filavandrel. As if he even had to ask.

Unsurprisingly, elves make their camps much differently than witchers do. When they arrive Vesemir doesn’t immediately see any sort of bedroll, and then he feels embarrassed for looking. He never feels this way around anyone else; he can make bawdy jokes with Sven or blatantly hit on Luka, but in the company of Filavandrel aén Fidháil, shame bursts through him so easily.

Maybe he just has a thing for pretty blondes who he leaves behind.

Except Fil is here, smiling indulgently as Vesemir gapes like a fool. “It’s nice,” he finally manages to say. “Want me to set a fire?”

“A campfire, sure. Not a big one,” Filavandrel teases. Swallowing, Vesemir turns to a firepit that the elf must have fashioned himself. He takes a bundle of wood that’s already been cut and easily ignites it, all the while trying to figure out why his heart is pounding so damn loud. Thank fuck that Filavandrel isn’t a witcher.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. You?”

“I was going to have some bread, and go hunting in the morning.” There’s a small noise and when Vesemir turns to look, his friend is holding out a large chunk of bread. It doesn’t even look that stale. Vesemir sees that Filavandrel has taken a much smaller piece for himself and growls about it, but the elf snatches the smaller piece away before Vesemir can lunge for it. “I don’t want to hear any self-sacrificial bullshit about how witchers don’t need to eat. Take the damn bread, Ves.”

“... Fine,” Vesemir relents, cowed. He accepts the bread, fingertips accidentally brushing over Filavandrel’s when he takes it. It’s fucking delicious, melting in his mouth almost instantly. Seeds and herbs have been baked into it too, and Vesemir savours every bite, moaning. “You should quit being a professional elf and start a new life as a baker, fuck.”

“I can do both. It’s an old recipe, needs a stone oven. And what does being a professional elf even mean?” Filavandrel reaches up to shove him, except they aren’t very far away from each other so the push nearly knocks Vesemir off his balance. Before he can tip over onto the grass Filavandrel grabs him by the collar of his gambeson and tugs him back, and, well. Vesemir may be a witcher, but parts of him are still human.

Neither of them has to say a word; he opens for Filavandrel like he’s been thinking of nothing but this since the second they laid eyes on each other. Honestly, he sort of has. Fil runs a hand over the shaved part of his head, pressing his palm against the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Vesemir moans, chasing the taste of something sweet and acidic and magic. It certainly isn’t the fucking bread.

Afterwards they lie together by the smoldering remains of the fire, both too spent to clean themselves or dress. Vesemir glances over at the cinders and thinks about making an exit soon. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to stay with Filavandrel. He’s comfortable here, especially right now, and his friend always makes his heart feel lighter. But the Path calls to him; lying here without his weapons or armour, Vesemir can nearly hear Deglan’s scolding. And that thought is enough to ruin anyone’s afterglow.

Before he can move, Filavandrel sits up, arching his back. Vesemir turns to watch him, nearly salivating at how he looks in the low firelight. His hair is radiant, and his skin isn’t nearly flushed enough. He’s beautiful. Ethereal. Selfishly, Vesemir wishes that he’d left more marks.

Fil climbs to his feet and crosses the campsite to retrieve something out of reach. Vesemir cranes his neck to try and peek, and Filavandrel laughs kindly at him. “I was just thinking that something’s missing.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Vesemir says, lowering his head back down onto the ground. “I should have kissed you more.”

The elf pauses at that before finally demanding, “Kiss me later.” A note resounds through the air, clear and beautiful; then a chord, and another. Very soon their little clearing feels more like a fairy circle than a campground as Filavandrel plays music.

He finally walks into view, still naked, still beautiful. Now holding a lute. Vesemir tries to sit up so that he can properly see the performance but Filavandrel is faster, moving over him and then sitting atop his stomach, resting his back against Vesemir’s thighs. He plays the entire time, fingers moving adeptly over the instrument.

It’s a beautiful lute, probably made of some holy dark red wood. The golden design etched into it is mesmerizing, and the strings could have been plucked from the mane of a unicorn. Vesemir hardly spares it any attention, too wrapped up in the sight of a naked Filavandrel straddling him and singing.

He’ll only realize decades later that the elf was probably trying to court him.

Someone knocks on the door to his chambers and Vesemir jumps to his feet, caught off-guard by the sound that plucked him from his memories. He finds Jaskier waiting outside his room, toying idly with the sleeves of his doublet. Vesemir shakes his head, holding the door open for Jaskier even as he apologizes. “I’m sorry for running out earlier. I meant to give you a tour of the Keep, hopefully Geralt will have stepped up in my absence, but I am sorry—”

“No— please,” Jaskier interrupts. Once more he pulls his lute from around himself, holding it out to Vesemir. “I just… Your countenance changed dramatically upon seeing this, so…”

Fuck. “Yes,” Vesemir sighs, staring at the lute. Jaskier has managed to keep it in good condition after all this time. “I… Filavandrel and I are old friends.”

The bard’s eyes bulge out of his head but he enters Vesemir’s chambers, heading straight to the desk to perch on the edge of the chair. Vesemir finds another chair for himself, moving its previous occupant— a stack of books— onto the floor. In his defence, he hadn’t expected the tour of Kaer Morhen to begin in his personal chambers.

“He didn’t mention knowing any other witchers,” Jaskier hums. “How did you meet him?”

“You’re sure you want to know? It’s sort of a long story.” The bard just nods, eager and polite. Instantly Vesemir can see why Geralt likes him. “Alright,” he obliges, reaching for the bottle of wine on the desk. They’re going to need it. “We met long before you would have been born…”

---

South of Kaedwen, the seasons are more aligned than any other part of the Continent. The winters are crisp, the summers lazy. Filavandrel likes to spend his summers here, where the canopy of trees is thick enough to provide shade but thin enough to provide colour. Everything is verdant, the flowers calling to him as he passes each one. When he was a child he had longed to visit towns and experience human delights like festivals but now he knows better. The elves live off the land well enough anyway.

Some of the younger people in his company these days have that same yearning, and some of them even manage it. One elf who resembles Toruviel always runs off to see some different show, take in some new performance. If Filavandrel thought that she could get away with it, he would pay for her to attend Oxenfurt— she’s very good. And the upside of her risking her life just to listen to music is that she’s got a very good memory, and she always brings the songs back home.

Today she’s singing some new ode to a witcher; not that bigoted anthem of lies that the bastard warbler from Posada somehow spread through the Continent, thank the Gods. This one seems to revolve more around making the right choice, and how a real hero does good deeds not for coin or his own profit, but just to be good. Filavandrel thinks about the few witchers that he’s had the misfortune of contacting over the years, and under his breath he scoffs.

Cheesy chorus aside, the lyrics seem to have some merit. The first verse is all about some terrible monster that was taking young girls, transforming them into half-beasts. The hero witcher’s judgement fails him and he blames himself for years, even losing a lover in the process. Filavandrel scowls; despite his own experiences with witches, he doesn’t want to listen to a song written by yet another prejudiced bard.

Then the third verse lands. The witcher grows old and wise and has children of his own, and he regrets his inaction and he tries to reach out to contact his lover. But at that point his lover, who devoted his life to protecting those in danger, was too busy being King of the Silver Towers. Filavandrel stops dead in his tracks as he realizes which witcher this must have been inspired by.

The elven king huffs, starting to compose a route in his head. He thinks a trip up north is long overdue.

#vesemir #filavandrel #nightmare of the wolf #the witcher nightmare of the wolf #geraskier fic #my writing #hey did anyone else see young vesemir talking to his friend fil in the bath and think we were gonna get a Bath Scene Part Two: The Remix?

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