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ragingbookdragon · 3 years

Text

Of Threats And First Meetings PT. 3

Brynjolf x F!Dragonborn

Word Count: 2,260 Warnings: Explicit Language, Mentions of Blood and Wounds

Author’s Note: Holy shit it’s been like...I don’t even know how long since I updated this *insert shrugging emoji* Enjoy! -Thorne

Brynjolf felt like he should’ve known that Gulum-Ei was the one brokering the deals that were tearing the Guild to pieces. The damned argonian couldn’t resist a payout, even if it was the Guild he was backstabbing—it said a lot about honor amongst thieves, and while Brynjolf couldn’t claim to be the most honorable, at least he had some. All things considered, he couldn’t fault Gulum-Ei for doing it, whoever it was that wanted the Guild taken out was no doubt dishing out some serious coin to make it happen.

That being said, their newest member was again tasked with the mission. Brynjolf wasn’t going to voice his opinion out loud, but he knew that she was running herself into the ground. He was sure that she’d not taken a moment of reprieve to simply breathe before throwing herself back into the thick of things. Quite the opposite, she’d taken a couple more jobs from both Vex and Delvin—though Brynjolf was sure she’d only taken them because the two thieves had essentially guilt tripped her. He watched her as Mercer walked off, leaving her to rub at her temples, a heavy sigh falling from her lips.

“Wondering if you’re in over your head, lass?” he inquired, leaning back against the desk as he crossed his arms over his chest.

She snorted and rolled her shoulders. “Only every moment of every day, Brynjolf.” Catching his eyes, she quipped, “Why is it that I’m the one who’s being given the major missions and not the other members of the Guild?”

He mocked a look of deep thought then offered, “You’re not a senior member so you do what we tell you? Her eyes briefly widened before she burst into laughter, the sound making Brynjolf’s stomach flip.

“Oh ho? It’s seniority then?” she leaned close, mirth in her eyes as she questioned, “So when does the newbie get to claim seniority?”

Brynjolf grinned at her. “I’d say a couple years.”

“What!”

“Maybe a few if I’m being completely honest.”

A groan passed her lips. “By that time, you lot will actually be seniors—well, not that you’re young now.”

He almost recoiled at that. Almost. “Did yo—did you just call me old?”

She placed a hand on his bicep, sympathetically replying, “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not exactly a stripling anymore, Brynjolf.”

Blinking, he deadpanned, “I don’t think I’ve ever been called old by a woman before.”

Grinning, she asked, “Tell me, do all the young women you take to bed call you sprightly?” He nodded and she giggled. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Brynjolf.”

She leaned close until her lips brushed his ear, whispering, “When we call you older men sprightly, it’s only so you don’t feel bad about your age.”

Brynjolf turned slightly, catching her gaze, and murmured, “That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, lass.”

Her eyes narrowed as she mused, “So far it’s gotten me out of trouble.” She pulled away and tugged the shawl over her bare shoulders, turning to make her way back to the Flagon.

She stopped a few feet though and glanced over her shoulder. “But if it means I’d be in trouble with you, Brynjolf, I don’t think I’d mind it.” Winking, she left him to flounder with the suggestion of her words.

***

Her side ached with a fury, and the continual prodding of the linen against the wound didn’t help. With each brush against the open wound, it sent a bolt of fire through her nerves, as if she were being stuck with a hot poker. Still though, she focused on returning to the city, knowing that if she could just get home, she’d be able to clean and stitch it up.

Softly moaning, she slipped inside the gate, turning down the narrow alley that led into Honeyside’s garden. Briefly, she brought her free hand up and felt along the wall to lead her. As she neared the garden, movement flashed in her vision and she stopped in her tracks, squinting in the darkness to discern what it was. Someone was bent over one of the barrels in the corner and she growled.

“This is private property. Piss off.”

They stood upright, turning round to face her and when the moonlight illuminated their features beneath the hood, she muttered, “Brynjolf?”

He raised a hand, pushing the hood up slightly, stepping towards her. “Lass? What are you doing here? I thought you were heading to Solitude?”

She shook her head, then winced when a flash of nausea came over her. “No, had to do something’s around here before I did.” A sudden flash of pain simmered in her side and a groan passed her lips, the throbbing threatening to send her to her knees.

“Lass?” he questioned, voice twinged with worry. “Are you alright?” Waving him off, she pulled from the wall, trying to get to the door of Honeyside.

“‘m fine,” she grunted, though her vision began to blur with darkness. “Just gotta…get some rest.”

She’d barely made it two feet when her knees finally gave out, sending her towards the dirt. Just before she hit the ground, strong arms wrapped around her waist, keeping her from kissing the floor, pulling her up.

“Lass!” he yelled, then he cursed, concerned that the guards would come running. “What happened?” he demanded, curling an arm under her legs to pick her up. The jostling made her groan, and she fought the urge to recoil from him when the buckle of his chest armor nudged her side.

“Ngh—steam centurion in Avanchnzel.” She hissed when he started walking, switching her grip to curl her arm around his shoulders, hoping it would steady her. “Caught the backside of the battle—ngh—axe when I was dodging it.”

Brynjolf turned and nudged the door to Honeyside open, bringing her inside.

“When I’m not dying, I’m going to kick your ass for break—sonovabitch!” she gasped when he dropped her on the bed, hurrying towards the kitchen to gather supplies.

He returned and started pulling the laces of her tavern corset undone. Despite the pain, she giggled, “Most men buy me dinner first.” A grin set on his lips as he pulled the last string loose, yanking the cedar-colored corset from around her.

“I’ll treat you to dessert after,” he mused, then looked up at her. “Skirt or straps?”

Her brows furrowed. “Beg pardon?”

“Either I’m lifting your skirt up or I’m pulling your straps down. Make up your mind which decency you’d like to keep,” he countered, and she huffed, reaching up to slip the ringed straps from her shoulders.

“Should’ve known a scoundrel like you was a skirt lifter. Despicable.”

Brynjolf barked a laugh, helping her to roll the gold fabric down. “Please, I haven’t lifted skirts since I was a boy.”

“Mhm.”

“Honest, lass. I’ve grown out of immature acts like that,”’ he explained as the poorly wrapped wound came into sight. It’d soaked crimson in the time she’d travelled back, and he frowned as he untied the knot, gently peeling it back. She started to let out a whimper but grit her teeth and inhaled sharply.

“Sorry lass,” Brynjolf murmured, wiping at the blood. He glanced up, watching as she propped herself up on her elbows, hands clenching into fists.

“Just hurry up and seal it,” she griped, and he passed her a strip of leather. Seeming to understand, she brought it up to her mouth and bit into it, then met his eyes and nodded.

Sighing heavily, he rose from the side of the bed and returned with the hot knife that had been sitting right next to the fire—she could feel the heat when he brought it close to her, kneeling back on the bed.

He met her eyes and she inhaled deeply, giving him a nod of her head. Brynjolf rested his other hand on the side of her ribs a few inches above the wound, effectively bracing himself as well as keeping her still.

Lowering the metal to her, he said, “Try and stay still. I don’t wanna burn you where you’re not wounded.” She barely made a noise of confirmation when the burning metal came into contact with her skin.

Her eyes went wide, and she immediately threw her head back into the bed as a muffled scream escaped her, hands white knuckling the covers of her blanket. A deep pit fell in his stomach at the tears that began to run down her cheeks, but he kept the knife to her for another couple seconds before pulling it back, watching as her chest heaved with each breath. Glancing back at the wound, he knew she needed another go, probably two if he was honest.

“I need to do it again,” Brynjolf murmured and she groaned like a dying animal. “I know lass, but you’re still bleeding.” She sucked in a quick breath through her nose and grunted, muscles tensing underneath his grip as she readied herself once more.

He flipped the knife in his grip and placed it to her side again, and the screech that left her this time, made him wince, but he held it there. After a couple seconds, he pulled the knife away and examined the wound, and when he saw that it wasn’t bleeding anymore, he tossed the knife aside, letting it clatter to the floor.

“Lass? You alright?” his eyes scanned her for any problems, and she turned her head to the side, spitting out the leather strip. Letting out a huff, she brought up a hand, intent to prod the wound, but he caught it. “Don’t touch it yet.” He met her eyes. “Do you have any distilled alcohol?”

Groaning heavily, she nodded. “Downstairs in my…alchemy room.” She swallowed thickly. “There’s a few…health and disease potions too.” Meeting his eyes, she added, “Bring one of each…please.”

Brynjolf nodded and headed down the stairs, coming up a few moments later with two tiny red vials and one large clear bottle. He set them on her nightstand before gently curling his arms underneath her back to shift her over slightly. When there was enough space, he sat beside her and grabbed the glass bottle, uncorked it, and poured some on a spare linen cloth. Brynjolf dabbed the wound, quietly apologizing when she hissed in pain.

When he was finished, he took the fresh wrap and helped her sit up so he could wrap it around her waist. Tying it with a knot, he handed her the two vials, gazing as she downed them both before looking at him with an expression of relief. Suddenly feeling weak, she leaned forward, careful to avoid her wound, and pressed her forehead into Brynjolf’s shoulder. He brought up a hand, softly caressing the bare expanse of her back.

“Thank you, Brynjolf,” she whispered, shivers running up her spin at his touch. “I would’ve been in a perilous state if you hadn’t been around.”

Chuckling, he replied, “I would say anytime, but I don’t wanna have to do this again for a long time, so try to stay safe.”

A snort escaped her, and she turned her head up, resting her cheek on his shoulder, gazing into his eyes. “Why try when this is the treatment?”

His green eyes narrowed as he retorted, “While I’m flattered that you want me as a bedside-nurse, I really don’t wanna do this again.” He brough his other hand up, gently touching her cheek. “I already worry about you. No need to up it.”

“You worry? Does that make me special?” she cooed tiredly, pulling away from him to lay back on the bed.

Brynjolf huffed a laugh and stood, opening the closet beside her bed. “You enjoy teasing me, lass.”

“Is it working?” she asked, watching as he pulled out a simple blue tunic. Shuffling around on the bed, she managed to wiggle the tavern skirt to her calves and when he spun around, Brynjolf’s eyes swept over her body.

“Shame on you for ogling an indecent woman, Brynjolf. What would Lady Mara think?” she tutted, and he grinned at her.

“I’m not sure about Lady Mara, but I certainly know what Lady Dibella would do,” he countered, and she giggled.

“Now who’s teasing?” He handed her the tunic, and she shrugged it on, pulling it down her chest and over her thighs. Brynjolf helped her under the covers, watching as her eyelids began to slip shut. Just to be sure, at least that’s what he told himself, he laid his palm over her forehead, checking for warmth.

Her eyes opened slightly, and he said, “Make sure you change the wrap when you wake up in the morning. Don’t wanna get an infection on the way to Solitude.”

She nodded, letting out a yawn and sunk into her pillow. “Yeah, yeah, I will.”

“Lass,” he warned, and she huffed, a smile spreading on her lips.

“I will, promise.”

Brynjolf gave her a look and pulled his hand away. “I’ll take my leave of you.” As he neared the doors to her patio, she called for him.

“Brynjolf?” he paused and glanced over his shoulder, heart fluttering in his chest as she whispered, “Thank you…for saving me like this.”

He gave her a smile. “Of course, lass. I’ll be here whenever you need me to be.” He pulled the door open, smile growing larger when he heard her sleepily murmur,

“Hope it stays that way.”

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aminiatureworld · 3 years

Text

Steadfast

Characters: Childe, gn!reader

Word Count: 3,241

Warnings: Swearing, Angst

Premise: He’d always assured you that he wouldn’t change, that he was still the man he was before. And yet how different things were, and how much it hurt to see what had come to pass.

In which the reader sees the changes in Childe

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for this request anon! Really from the bottom of my heart thank you. I really liked the concept of this prompt, I feel like it really gave me an opportunity to focus on how relationships change and grow, rather than always writing about new couples, or people just beginning to fall in love, although there is of course that involved. It’s interesting to see how people grow and change, even if it can be a little sad sometimes. Writing this was kind of depressing, I hope that this wasn’t too sad, considering you requested hurt comfort. I might’ve gotten a bit carried away…

Funny story, I actually hate one of the people Childe shares a name with. Look what you did to Cassandra Ajax the Lesser, look what you did… So to make up for this unfortunate coincidence I pronounce the names differently in my mind. Ajax the Lesser is pronounce “A-jack-s” and Childe’s name is pronounced “Ai-axe”.

I decided not to bullet point this, as I feel like it works better in a more “traditional format”, that being said if bullet points are easier to read I can go back and fix that.

When you’d first fallen in love with Ajax it had been before the change.

Back then everything with him had seemed so exciting, like stepping into the sea for the first time. You were a bit afraid, worried that you might be swept away all at once, but another part of you wanted to run straight ahead, to immerse yourself in this new and exciting experience. Wanted to keep going and never look back.

You’d known Ajax since before you could remember. The two of you had grown up in the same small village, where one could hardly take five steps without bumping into someone, and being close in age had made you automatic playmates. Ajax was a brash child, not always easy to get along with, but impossible to pull away from. Even when he knocked you to the ground, or sat on you so you couldn’t move, declaring himself the winner of whatever you’d been playing, you’d still run to meet him the next day, the tears you’d shed utterly forgotten. Childhood friends might’ve been a cliché, but it was truly then that Ajax as a person had begun to stick in your mind.

This only continued throughout the course of your adolescence. Attending the same schools you two were nearly inseparable, causing you merciless teasing from the rest of your classmates. Ajax apparently got the same treatment, resulting in him decking a kid who declared you two were going to get married when you grew up. He’d been suspended for a few days, but never seemed to regret it, and when you’d gone over to his house to ask about it he’d grinned as usual, proclaiming he’d gladly do it again.

Growing up was a difficult process, so many snags and pitfalls, new anxieties, and old ones that you’d never truly worried about before. But it was all perfectly fine with Ajax there. He was always ready to pick you up, and flash you a smile to go along with his help. No wonder you found yourself hopelessly infatuated him, years of trust and affection building up to the newfound feeling of love.

And then Ajax went missing.

You still remembered the terror that shocked your system when his mother visited, tone unnervingly light, asking if you and Ajax weren’t playing some type of game. You’d bolted outside when she’d revealed Ajax had gone missing, running towards the woods that was the only exit to the village where you lived. The adults had quickly caught up to you, but your fears had already grabbed hold, and you found yourself confronted with all you felt for him. You loved Ajax. How did this happen? Love was still so foreign, a word you could throw around but never truly catch. And yet you loved him, you loved him very much. And now he was gone.

They didn’t let you see him initially, saying he was tired, he needed rest, he’d be alright in a few days. Your imagination had run wild, your mind spinning a terrible story. Perhaps he’d been mortally wounded, perhaps he could no longer see, made blind from the snow and the cold. Perhaps he wasn’t really back, and they were simply lying to make you happy. These thoughts chased you, and it was only when you saw him again that your heart settled, even if a part of you whispered that Ajax was altogether changed.

He’d begun to leave the village. Though no one quite knew where he was you certainly knew a lot of brawling was involved. He’d sometimes sneak into your house, in a last ditch effort to keep his parents and the rest of his family from finding out how much he’d truly changed. You’d cried sometimes, seeing him with black eyes and bruising, slashes of red marring his hands, his arms, his face. He didn’t like to see you cry, would start scolding you, as if it was some fault of yours to feel worried, to care for someone who already was growing into a stranger. He always realized his fault though, and after a little while he’d pat the spot next to him. You’d sit down, head sometimes on his shoulder, listening as he spun his tales of greatness into the night, as if he were a knight fighting a great dragon and its army, rather than a troubled new adult with nowhere to turn to in terms of understanding.

When he’d ask you to be his partner you thought you’d never feel unhappy again. You felt like you were on air, kept grounded only by his arms around you, his heart beating steadily against your ear as you nestled against his chest. You could tell he was happy too, and though it amazed you slightly that he should be as in love with you as you were with him, you could only thank the Tsaritsa and every other archon under the stars, thank them for being so generous as to give you all you ever wanted.

It seemed such a funny thought in retrospect, when it was the Tsaritsa herself who was now tearing him away from you.

“Ajax, how could you?!” Your voice felt odd to your ears, somehow too thin, distant, as if someone else was saying it. “You knew, you knew that you’d have to join the Fatui. So why, why in the name of the Seven did you start that fight!”

“They were asking for it!” Ajax’s voice was just as raw, frustration mixed with something unknown. Entitlement perhaps, fear otherwise. “You should’ve heard the things they said about me, about my family. How they’d raised a good for nothing thief, a shithead who knew nothing more than how to swing a sword, and who would one day meet someone bigger than him, and die in the street, given to the rats, utterly forgotten. I had to prove them wrong! It was a matter of honor!”

“It was a matter of ego!” You cried, feeling the ground spin slightly underneath you. “How could you let them goad you like that Ajax, goad you when you knew exactly what was going to happen.” Sitting down you put your head in your hands. The world was shattering around you, and there was no one to blame for it except the one you loved the most.

“My darling, please, I don’t want to fight.” Ajax knelt down in front of you, taking your hands in his as you raised your head to face him.

“You always want to fight…” you replied, voice hoarse, pitched barely above a whisper. “And now you’re leaving, leaving to be part of an organization of cowardliness and deceit. What happened to the adventures you were going to have? What happened to the dragons you were going to slay?”

“I’ll get them yet.” There was amusement in Ajax’s voice, but it was clearly forced, and soon forgotten about. “I promise it’ll be alright, my darling I would never do anything to knowingly hurt you.”

And yet you have, you thought. You’ve run a dagger through my heart, and now your talking to me as if I’m not being destroyed by it. It hurts, it hurts so damn much.

“You’re going away.” You finally replied. “You’re going away to a place that will only destroy you more. And now things will never be the same again. Haven’t you wondered about what will happen to you there? If you’ll ever be allowed to return home? Haven’t you wondered whether or not you’ll ever see your family again? Things will never be the same again Ajax, never. You’ve crossed the chasm, and now you cannot return.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Ajax placed a hand on your cheek. “I promise nothing will change. I will always be myself my darling. This is only a stepping stone, a piece of my journey. I promise, I promise I will always remain as I am. And I’ll never forget about you, nor my family, nor this village. Nothing is going to change. I’ll make sure it won’t. So stop crying my darling; tears never looked good on you anyways.”

And yet, how things have already changed. Still, you said nothing, instead wiping your eyes and pressing your forehead against Ajax’s. His familiar presence was reassuring, and you thought of the years ahead of you, perhaps the eternity ahead of you, when you could no longer rely on him being there. Your eyes welled with tears again, and this time you made no move to stop them. You let yourself cry. If there was anything in the world worth crying about, surely this was one of those things.

There was a new name signed in Ajax’s letters. “Childe” was the first name, “Tartaglia” was the second. They seemed to mar the page somewhat, written in Ajax’s – no, Childe’s – bold, slashing script. You hated the names, hated the memories they stirred up, reminders of all you’d lost in such a small amount of time.

The day you’d found out Childe was to become a Harbinger you’d raged as you’d never raged before. Locking yourself in the small apartment you’d managed to find – having moved out of Morepesok once the memories had become too oppressive – you’d spent most of your time reading the letter over and over and over.

He’d wanted you to attended, writing you were basically his family at this point, and besides, he wanted to show you to the Tsaritsa. Though the line about family filled your heart with no little affection, you’d refused flat out. It would’ve been too painful, seeing the crux of his transformation; the death of Ajax, the birth of Tartaglia. Childe had said nothing to your refusal, but he was clearly worried, and for a while afterwards the letters were more frequent. But even that stopped after a while, and now you savored what little information you could get, the torn pages of last month’s note a testimony to how much you reread them.

You wished that you could somehow end this purgatory you’d found yourself in. Though you’d begun your own career by now, pushing yourself to your limits as you were sure Childe was doing in his, nothing seemed so important as the drama that had comprised your entire life. How long had you known Childe? You could no longer remember. Long ago, so very long ago. Back when the world was simpler, comprised only of candy from one of the big cities, and fighting over the best fishing rod. Tears were shed over particularly brutal games of tag, then forgotten the next day. How odd that world seemed now, something you could never go back to.

Every once in a while you’d be met not by a letter, but by a visit. Those were the best days. The days where you could set all your worries and your unease away. When you could once more press your ear against Childe’s chest and feel the steady beating of his heart. As long as you could do that, maybe it’d be alright.

“How’s my darling?” Childe’s voice carried down the hall of your apartment. You’d dropped the letter you’d been reading, his letter, and ran towards the entrance. Throwing yourself in his arms you wept tears of joy. Childe returned the embrace just as enthusiastically, though his eyes were dry. They’d changed, his eyes, or perhaps you’d just learned to notice the hardness that resided in them. “I’m home.” Childe murmured, eyes closed, expression one of perfect bliss. “Don’t worry beloved, I’m home.”

His presence never left yours the days he came to visit. Always there was an arm slung around your waist, or a chin resting on your shoulder or your head. His presence was as comforting as ever, and you soaked it in gladly. He’d changed. Not that you were surprised by that, of course he’d changed. His confidence was much more calculated, his words now slicked with flattery and deceit. He easily persuaded the fishmonger to give you a discount, and some sweet talk with the waiter at a café you frequented earned you a free lemon loaf. You took it, knowing that he just wanted to treat you, but the sugary confection stuck to the roof of your mouth, which had somehow developed a bitter taste.

You said nothing about it. There was no longer any point in arguing. You two were tied together by all sorts of strings. History, location, youth, love. And yet you’d gone your own separate ways. No more were the dreams of adventuring together. The real world had come along and stolen it away. The Tsaritsa had ripped that future from your grasp, and with it went your happiness.

“Are you happy, my love?” Childe asked late one evening. You were cuddled on the small couch in what comprised your living room. You nestled against Childe, breathing him in. Were you happy? No. But in that moment you weren’t unhappy either. In that moment you could forget it all.

“Do you think that sailors feel lonely?” You asked instead, drawing circles absentmindedly on the palms of Childe’s hands. He wore gloves now, expensive ones, not like the mittens that were popular in Snezhnaya. It was so odd to watch him put them on each morning. How things had changed. “They must be lonely,” you continued now, “for there’s nothing but the ship, the water, and the stars above.”

Childe paused, staring off into the distance. He did that a lot recently. You didn’t begrudge him it. Sometimes, when he was in a frank sort of mood, he admitted that he didn’t like the Fatui’s underhanded nature. Better to fight something head on than attack from the shadows. He’d quickly added on that it was the Tsaritsa’s wish, and surely she must know better than him. But it must’ve been difficult, following a path so different than the one you were born to. Betraying your nature, every day of your life.

“It must be lonely sometimes.” He finally replied, glancing back at you. “But I don’t think they’re lonely, no. The stars may be far away, but they’re steadfast, unchanging. And sailors will always be able to rely on them.” You were silent, considering his views.

“Still... stars are so very cold.”

“Perhaps, but they’re also beautiful, are they not? And like I said, who ever heard of a star changing?” A pause, as it seemed Childe was steadying himself, dipping into unpleasant territory. “I hope I will always be your star, my love. I hope you will always be able to rely on me.”

“I will.” You promised, giving Childe a quick kiss. You meant it, even if you weren’t sure that the metaphor was apt. Childe was forever changing; his mannerisms, his name, his location, his words. Sometimes it seemed as if there was nothing left of Ajax, nothing but a small sliver of light, shivering in the darkness that was fate.

“And I will always remained steadfast in my love for you.” Childe promised in return. “For there is nothing more important to me than family, and you are my family. You are that which I hold closest to my heart, and I’ll never stop loving you. I promise.”

His words were smoother than they had been before, polished by the need to be appealing to those who heard it. But you knew they were true. All throughout your life, throughout the pain, the hardship, the feeling of slowly falling off a cliff, all throughout that the one thing that remained was the love between you and Childe. Even if you had nothing, at least you had that.

“Childe?” He grimaced at the word and you paused. “Ajax,” you began again, “are you happy?”

Childe didn’t reply, instead leaning over to kiss you. You reciprocated it gladly, not truly wanting an answer to your question, although a part of you desperately needed it. Was Childe happy? You couldn’t tell. But despite your newfound hatred for the Tsaritsa, your disdain for the gods which had grown in the years of your hardship, your long abandoned faith, you still prayed to the Seven that Childe was happy. Because he deserved it. Because you loved him.

You tried not to cry when he left, wanting to see him off with a smile and a wave, the way noble men and women would wave to the knights who were on their way to save the kingdom. But always your voice betrayed you, cracking and shaking, trembling violently against the knowledge that you wouldn’t see your loved one again, not for a very long time.

“Be careful.” You whispered, giving Childe one last hug.

“I will.” He assured you, kissing your forehead. “You be careful as well my love, I couldn’t stand it something were to happen to you. If anything happens, think of me, I’ll rush to your side immediately.”

“Don’t forget to write,” you replied, switching the subject so you didn’t have to think about the implications of Childe abandoning the Fatui, what might happen to him if he tried, “your letters are all I have.”

“I hope that’s not true!” Childe said, tone full of false mirth. “I hope you’re happy beloved, I hope you find happiness when I’m gone. Your life ought not to be spent waiting for me.”

“But you’re all I have.” You replied, staring down at the ground. “Everything has changed. My home, my work, my future. Even you’ve changed, you just keep changing and changing, running farther and farther away. But you’re still all I have. And I have to hold on to you, no matter what.”

Childe brought his hand to your cheek, raising your gaze up.

“I’m not changing my darling. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, I’m still Ajax. I’m still the man who wants to spend his life with you, who wants to travel the world with you, fighting monsters, sleeping under the stars at night. I’m still the man who wants to wake up with you every night and go to bed with you every morning. I’ll never run ahead of you, I’ll never leave you behind. Because if I’m all you have then you are what keeps me myself. You are why I can still be Ajax. And that will never change. So don’t despair, and don’t let yourself be swallowed up while I’m gone. Live your life to the fullest, I promise I’ll always be there, waiting for when you need me.”

Childe waved from the ship he’d boarded until it disappeared over the horizon. You waved back, even as your arm ached and your hand fell asleep. “Goodbye.” You whispered to the wind. There was no reply, but then again you weren’t looking for one.

Childe, Ajax, Tartaglia. These names all belonged to the one you loved. He was a whirlwind, a rogue current which had knocked you off your feet, carrying you into uncertainty. And yet you welcomed him, longed for him, loved him with all your soul.

Even if things kept changing, even if the Fatui’s hold on him only grew stronger, you’d still believe in him. He was your star, guiding you through a desolate ocean. Even if he sometimes disappeared behind the clouds, he’d always be there. You had to believe that, had to trust him.

He was your star after all.

Your Childe.

Your Ajax.

#If you really want to feel down look up the lyrics to “Dear You” and have it on as you read #For some reason the Higurashi soundtrack really fits this fic #I realize there’s a lot of crying in this I hope it’s not too much #childe #childe x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #oneshot #my writing

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m3kuroshirt · 2 years

Text

Down the Mountain

Words: 2144

Warnings: mild non-explicit gore, (attempted) horror, dark!Grimmjow

Prompt: some Appalachian based folklore, but nothing specific

Ichigo sucked in a harsh breath in the frigid air, puffing out a steam of smoke-like air in thin wisps as he exhaled. Debating peeking around the fat trunk of the tree he pressed his back against, he heard another snap. He should’ve known better than to wander these woods period.

And he should’ve left before the sun went down.

Swallowing, he knew he was a few miles from town, but deep between the woods were where the best simples were found. If his old man weren’t so busy, he would’ve got them himself.

Damn old man. Though, it was better Ichigo than his sisters. They were smaller, could reach into some small openings in caves better than he could, but he never thought a few herbs were worth it.

Especially when he came out.

Ichigo cursed again—he should’ve brought his axe. Or his gun.

Not that either would save me now, he thought, a bitterness bubbling in the back of his throat.

He’s played this game for too long. Knows the sound of his bootsteps walking through the woods—his woods, he called it. Always walked toward Ichigo. Never away.

The cold air stung his lungs like wasps in his throat. Like burning. Like a fire in the mountain he can’t outrun.

Back pressed up against the rough bark of the oak tree, he gathered himself, and reached down, slowly, to his boot, where he kept a small knife. It wasn’t much, and it wouldn’t do much, but a small prayer was better than none, he figured.

Fingers circled around the small red-wooden handle as a branch snaps somewhere behind him, to the left.

He didn’t know who, or what the man was. Only ever seen fleeting glances of him. Shadows out of the corner of his eye. Phantom touches around his neck, his belly. An invisible claw dragging across his stomach like he was readying to clean a carcass. Gut it, drain it.

Something in him, told Ichigo he wasn’t human. At least, not quite. He’s heard the stories, the warnings. Never go out after sunset into the woods. Return before the sun dies behind the mountain. Always heeded it.

Until now.

Maybe that’s why he’s being pursued.

Ichigo knows these woods like the back of his hand, but so does he, and his hands are bigger, older, if the tales are right.

Ichigo swallows the dryness down in his throat, imagining the man prowling around somewhere far behind him. If he keeps heading east, a straight shot down the mountain, he’ll run into town. But that’s at least three miles away, and luck’s been a real bitch lately, so he doesn’t put much stock in her. Not that he ever did, really.

The fog is slowly starting to build, reflecting off the moonlight making the spaces between trees almost glow.

Another branch breaking, this time closer. Feet slowly kicking through leaves. Followed by a breathy chuckle, deep and rumbling like thunder through the mountain.

“You know I enjoy out little meetups…” a raspy voice starts, and Ichigo shivers. He’s never heard him speak before. Only laugh occasionally as he got closer, and letting Ichigo get away. Like a cat playing with a mouse. Like a one of those rotten hunters, toying with their prey.

Ichigo hates it. Hates this game. He just wants to go home, give the damn bag of plants to his old man, and hug his sisters tight. In the distance, he hears a fox scream; it sounds like a woman in pain. Like his mother, dying, over and over again.

“Maybe I’ll keep you this time.”

The voice is whispered directly into his ear, and he bolts. Long legs winding through the trees as he tries to escape this…thing. The cold air whips around his face, but he barely feels it; the large full moon illuminates his way, even through the thickening fog.

Cackling, a deranged, morbid sound, like wet bones breaking under large feet, follows him as he runs.

Winding through the forest isn’t easy, but it’s manageable. Most of the leaves are gone, underbrush is still there but dying back. His worn flannel, unbuttoned, waves around him, slapping against his shirt, wet with sweat. It isn’t long until it gets stuck in passing brambles, the sudden catch making Ichigo lurch to a stop, head pounding.

He’s still being chased.

He tries to rip it away, but it only gets more caught, some thorny bits catch on the skin of his hand. Instead, Ichigo decides to discard it, and keep running. His father can howl at him later, at least, he hopes he will. Leather bag still slung across his chest flops around him, hits his waist as he moves.

With any luck, maybe the psychopath pursuing him will latch onto his discarded out shirt and leave the rest of him be.

The laughter still echoing after him begs to differ.

“Ichigo,” the voice singsongs, still rough and low.

It’s all around him. It’s nowhere. It’s inside him. He can feel it thrumming through his veins like webs, like vines, bringing him into the dark, wet, earth. The trees keep echoing his name like a prayer, begging him to stop. To keep running. Everything and nothing all at once. It makes him dizzy, nauseated.

He swallows the burning in his throat down to his belly, and clutches the knife still in his hand. A single crow caws in a tree he runs past, unbothered by his frazzled, state, unyielding to the whispering bombarding him.

The familiar feeling of a single, sharp, finger, drags down his spine, almost gentle, not breaking skin, and he pushes faster. Lungs burning, legs aching. Just a little bit further. He saw a brief light of a town window before he ducked behind another rolling hill.

He’s just toying with him now. Playing. This was fun for him.

Three twig snaps in quick succession on the ground close behind him, the sound of claws, long and sharp and thick, dragging down the bark of a gnarled tree. Ichigo turns to try and catch a glimpse, and a branch slaps in his face, the sharp wood cutting above his right eye. He curses, but keeps going, even when blood drips into his eye. It stings and blinds him, and he rubs it away, only for it to drip some more.

Damnit to hell.

In the distance, he hears the chime of a bell and almost stops. Was it from that old church in town? But no one ever went there anymore, and even if…it was too late for that, wasn’t it? It had to be nearing nine or so.

Remembering that rickety old building, cracked white paint and towering steeple, like a great tombstone rising from the ground, he realized it didn’t have a bell.

Legs burning, aching, he wanted to drop.

The nosie got louder, high pitched chiming, ringing over and over, reverberating around in his skull like it was bouncing off either side of him. Like his head was stuck in the middle of it. Stomach churning, his legs faltered as he retched what little he could out of his stomach. Ichigo hadn’t eaten for hours, so it wasn’t like there was anything except stomach bile. His knees dug into the damp ground below, wet leaves plastering themselves to his trembling legs.

“Over so soon?”

There were feet on the ground in front of him when he looked, vision fuzzy and still stinging with blood and sweat. Gritting his teeth, he looked up the body slowly.

The man was tall. Taller than Ichigo. Appearance seemed put together, even though he’d been chasing Ichigo through these woods for what felt like hours. Eyes blacker than coal, but the white of the moonlight reflecting off almost made them look…slightly blue, glowing like two damned souls in the darkness. Skin pale, fingers, long and boney, wrapped around the handle of an old-fashioned lantern, but the glow was…odd.

Something screamed wrong about this man. Eyes were too sharp and black. Fingers too long. His hair, an unnatural color, reaching to his mid-back, draped across his shoulder and tied with a silver ribbon. The lantern flickered against the glass it was trapped between, from red, to yellow, to blue, to white.

Ichigo felt something creep up his back, like a hand tracing the notches of his spine.

One. Two. Three.

The man opened his mouth to speak, his eyes slit to a mock form of compassion.

Four. Five. Six.

“Did you get lost, Ichigo?”

His voice was hypnotizing up close, low and kind of purring. It set Ichigo’s nerves on edge, but his body wanted to relax at the sound.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

“All alone in my woods?”

Ichigo swallowed, and white-knuckled the knife in his fist so hard it hurt. It was the only thing keeping him grounded—that and the sting in his right eye. If there was a next time, he was bringing his gun.

“Would you like me to show you your way home?” The look on his face said he would do everything but.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Ichigo stumbled up on his feet as quick as he could, leaves still clinging to the fabric on his pants. Forcing himself away from the ghostly feeling at his back, he forced himself into the chest of the man in front of him, knife pushing into a strong chest, twisting around. It was a serrated blade, so it would hurt like a bitch.

Ichigo knew his own strength, knew he was strong. Stronger than most, as he forced the knife where he hoped his heart was. If it didn’t kill him, at least it would slow him down. At this point, he’d take what he could get.

The man only laughed as the knife rolled around inside him, throwing his head back, showing long canines, almost fang-like, but doubled. Two knives on top, two knives on bottom. The phantom hand was back, pushing Ichigo further into the chest of this man.

He forced the knife deeper, almost losing it, and pulled out, bringing with it blood as black as a new moon on the blade, dripping down onto the handle.

A growl, beastlike and ravenous, sent a wave of panic through him, as he watched the man bring his teeth down into the flesh of Ichigo’s bicep, biting out a chunk of flesh as he screamed and wrenched himself away, out of his teeth, tearing his skin even more.

“Delicious. I knew you would be,” he said, tongue circling his lips and lapping whatever blood he could get, a few drops dripping off his chin.

Ichigo pushed the knife back into him, forcing it as deep as it could go, and left it buried in his chest as the man stumbled back a little, mouth open in great, gurgling laughter.

Blood trickled down his arm as he began running again, the sound of wet giggling following. Farther away this time, teasing. Almost playful, had he not had some of his arm for a snack. Ichigo didn’t believe for a minute his knife had actually done much harm.

He could see the town at least, as he rounded past a large boulder, still a distance away, but it was within sight now. He was so close.

So close.

“I don’t want the fun to end so soon, Ichigo,” whispering voices between the trees, echoing his name, over and over like a curse. Like praise, sharp and disjointed, digging into his ears.

Something hot dribbled out of his ears, down his neck, as the pain continued to pierce his ears.

The voices receded, laughter lessening; he was almost there, in the valley of the town. He could see the yellow lights flicker and glow.

He could make it.

The edge of the forest was in sight.

A hand at the back of his throat followed him as he sprinted, fast as he was able, his hand clamped over the wound on his bicep, trying to do something about the bleeding. Creeping fingers tightened around him, his throat, making it hard to breathe. Ichigo could feel the long fingers, bone covered in thin skin like they were right there. He knew if he tried to tug them free, they wouldn’t be there.

He didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.

“Only because I let you,” the mans voice whispers, as if he was leaning into Ichigo’s space, covering his back with his own, tall body. Ichigo felt his body heat, his long hair brushing up against his wounded arm and tickling his inflamed skin. A press of something warm on his temple, and Ichigo bolted the rest of the way, past the forest edge, lungs burning and raw, belly twisted around in knots.

“You’re my prey. Remember that.”

And the man, the feeling, laughter, and echoing, was gone.

#grimmichi #grimmichi au #jaegerjaquez grimmjow #kurosaki ichigo #m3kuroshirt #backwardswrites #halloween au

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florencwrites · 3 years

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bleeding grounds 〚technoblade〛

in which undefined love does not always persevere over the perils of war

based on this tiktok

(!) violence, war, mentions of trauma, death, blood (!)

He had always been praised for his nimble feet, his astonishing agile movements. The way he could prance around a field with a dozen armed men and have none of them so much as unsheathe their sword. He was savvy and skilled, one of the most talented knights of the realm, and he knew it so damn well.

She, on the contrary, was blunt and stubborn. She knew how to stand her ground, and God, she would not fucking move. She had always let her foes prance their way to her, allowing them to perceive her as a damsel, as a woman too afraid to move her feet. Nothing was less true, she was bold and fiercely untrained, but for some reason, she always managed to create a pile of seeping corpses to mark off her perimeter.

He had trouble understanding her tactics, he believed them to be foolish and terribly perilous. Not only to her and her enemies, but to himself as well. She was stuck, nailed down, to one singular spot. Naturally, so were his eyes. As he swung around his sword, pushing arrows through hearts left and right, his eyes were never on his own target.

Constantly his mind would be preoccupied with her and her moronic antics, he would dance around her boundaries, trying his very best to keep any rival as far from the edge of her bounds as he could.

She did not see it that way. She saw an arrogant man in heavy armor slaying her corpses right in front of her face, she saw another one of those stupid smug knights believing her not to be worthy of her own battles. And God, she despised him for it. Pushing her to the sidelines of her own wars, pushing his own inferiority complex onto her.

So, naturally, she gave in eventually. She gave in and stepped into the line of fire, ducking under sweeping blades and leaping over soaring arrows; ones that would have never reached her would she have stayed put.

His eyebrows furrowed deeper at every shot that got a little too close to her for his liking, abandoning his own opponent, to instead focus solely on hers. Without a second thought, he curved underneath another overdrawn saber, immediately lifting himself back to his feet, his back pressed to hers as a crowd formed around them. A threatening circle of sharpened blades enclosing on them as they desperately tried fighting them off, one by one.

"I told you to stay put." He hissed through gritted teeth, his sword loudly clanking against his towering opponent.

"You're not my dad, Techno, duck." She ordered in response, immediately pulling his body down with hers as another arrow raced past their heads. He murmured a soft 'thank you' before grunting loudly as someone swung their axe into his side, thankfully protected by his excessively heavy chest plate. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," A heavy pant, "You?"

"Fantastic." Another broad sweep as she slung her sword into some guy's neck, immediately taking the opportunity to exit their deathly little arena, roaming further into the emptying battlefield. She let her eyes wander the lands, seeing several of her friends still fighting off either undead or almost-dead.

He kept in her vicinity, fighting outrageously hastily, trying to free himself from his foes. He followed her traces, killing off as many men as he could while keeping her close. "Stop trying to get yourself killed." Annoyance laced his voice as she pulled into a jog towards her King, George, who was fighting a mere zombified child. He let his head fall over his shoulder to follow her disappearing figure, groaning in utmost agitation as another soldier tried his luck with him.

"Stop trying to protect me." She yelled loudly, however, not in a joking matter, unfortunately. He knew she hated his absolute guts, she always trailed around his compagnons instead. She wanted nothing to do with him, while he wanted everything to do with her. Obviously, he was too arrogant to ever admit this to her, so he stayed quiet. Silently sweating daily to just keep her safe. Techno was not a man destined for love, he was not meant to care for another person as deeply as for himself. However, anytime his eyes laid upon hers, a meek voice in the back of his head would assure him,

"If you can fight your own enemies this easy, sure you could do hers as well."

Slowly but surely, as the sun started setting, the clanking of swords become more and more.. intermittent. Gradually, the silence of the night started taking over as enemy blood seeped into the ground. However, as his kill numbers started to quiet down, the voices in the back of his mind started growing louder. Louder. Louder. Telling him to keep going, to leave no man alive.

But she was no man, she was the one being in this entire realm not even the ghosts in his mind would dare to speak ill of. The one creature even his insanity wouldn't as much as attempt to threaten. His heavy boots carried him to the rest of their meek group, their feeble effort of their twenty-something-men-army. "You're bleeding."

"Not my blood," She spat back at him, utter venom laced through her spaces. "Mind your business."

However, before he could retaliate, Dream spoke up, "If you want to see her tits, you can just ask, Techno."

"And I'd say no," She giggled at her brother's insinuation, and he, in all honesty, had to count to ten in order not to let the voices win. Murder him. Slit his throat.

"Let's go home." George piped up, scrubbing a filthy rag over the blade of his sword. He sheathed his sword with an ear-piercing ring, "They have prepared rooms at the castle, we pull out again at dawn."

The voices echoed again, entirely preparing him for new sacrifices as soon as the first light hit the grounds. Murder everyone. Keep her safe.

The emptied hallways of the castle sounded even more deserted with the echoes of his padded feet pacing through them every few minutes. He roamed the corridors in a fruitless attempt to quiet the voices, to quiet his worrying mind. She had slipped from his eye the second the group had set foot on safe lands, as soon as she carried her slightly limping body through the threshold of the enormous empire. And though he had never been a fan of the kingdom as a whole, it was an ease to his mind, knowing she was safely guarded by hundreds of men and towering walls.

He passed her room for the umpteenth time of the evening, his steps subconsciously slowing as his ears perked at the sound of a whimper. A tiny, soft one, but his animalistic ears had picked it up nonetheless. It was almost muffled like she was trying her utter best not to let out a singular peep.

Her door was cracked open, not more than an inch, but he could not help himself but peek inside. His eyes roamed over the left side of her room, a fauteuil and a dresser, a desk and a mirror and her. She stood in front of the tall mirror, staring at her reflection in complete focus. She was shedding her shirt ever so slowly, which immediately prompted him to avert his gaze and pull back from the door.

However, another hiss sounded. Not necessarily a hiss, more of a sharp breath, loud. His hand slowly found the door handle, slowly pushing the door open a little further, just enough so that she could see his figure standing in the doorway.

Her shirt was pulled up until right below her bra, her delicate fingers tracing a gaping wound on her side; entirely smudged with blood that had, in fact, been hers. Instantly, his mind started playing tricks on him again, whispering malicious words into his ears. You should've known. She's going to die. The door creaked faintly as he pushed himself to stand a little deeper into the room, her eyes on his as she lowered her shirt. "What happened?"

"It's nothing, Techno, go to bed." She barked back immediately, desperately trying to cover the pain that was roaming her tone. He let his hand fall from the handle as she turned to face him entirely, still from the other side of the room. She stood still, awaiting his response, "What did they do to you?"

"It's my own fault." She admitted, embarrassment clear in the way she stood silently, fumbling her fingers. She couldn't help but let out a mocking chuckle, though, "You can tell me 'I told you so'."

"There's no use in telling you that now," He let his lips curl up for but a split second, before remembering the gaping gash in her skin.

She nodded, a blush creeping up her cheeks as he made her way towards her. "Can I?"

"Go ahead," His fingers held the hem of her shirt, gently pulling it up her side to reveal the wound. It was large, but not too deep. He crouched down to his knees, his eyes burning a path on her bruised skin. He let his finger carefully trace the side of the gash, trying to assess whether or not stitches would be necessary. Her skin rose at the contact, slight goosebumps emerging from his feeble touch. She blushed even harder as a shiver ran up her spine, completely oblivious that his body was doing the exact same thing.

She looked down at him through the mirror, her reflection staring down at his face. She let her eyes trace his features, his soft pink skin and white scars, his sharpened teeth, and the blood-stained hair that laid ruffled on his head. It had grown significantly longer in the several days they had spent on the field, the days she had grown to slowly but surely appreciate his, secretly, caring nature. Obviously, though, she did not realize his caring nature only extended to her, that his watchful gaze really only ever allowed itself to cherish her form. "I don't think you should come with us tomorrow."

"Unfortunately, that's not up to you," A soft sigh escaped her lips, her fingers trembling in the slightest where they held up her shirt. He returned a skeptical breath, shooting his eyes to meet hers in their reflection as he spoke, "I'm serious."

She pulled her shirt down over her hips with an annoyed huff, slightly louder as she attempted to hide the underlying hiss. He noticed, of course, she knew he did. He pulled his hands from her body, instantly missing the feeling of her warm skin under his. "Who is it up to then?"

"Anyone but you, really." He rose to his feet, shaking his head in the faintest as his gaze met his feet. Softly clearing his throat, while she added, "Don't tell Dream."

"I will tell Dream." He assured her, to her irritation, "You're hurt."

They stood side-to-side, the front of his arm brushing against her shoulder, as they stared at their reflection. They shared a breath before she broke the silence, "Fine, tell him, I don't care."

"Now, please leave." A spiritless order at best, but an order nonetheless.

"George, if she dies tomorrow, her blood will be on your hands." Disbelief covered his entire face, his tone as monotone and harsh as ever, trying so very hard to mask any remaining emotions he had over her.

"She won't, she said she's fine, right?" He replied with annoyance hinting in his tone, "If she wants to fight, she can fight."

He averted his gaze to meet Dream's, surely he would agree with him. Was he not his sister's keeper?

"She's tougher than she lets on, Techno." The blonde spoke mumbling, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the dimmed fireplace. George was sat on the side of his bed, his elbows leaning on his knees. He met his eyes, a slow nod as if to say 'told you so'.

"You cannot be serious?" His voice roughened as the concern started inevitably seeping through. "Dream, she will die tomorrow."

The masked man shoved himself from the rough stones of the hearth, immediately stalking towards him. Alarmingly close to his face, chests almost touching, his voice dangerously low, "Then that will be on her."

George also rose to his feet minutely, watching the situation in front of him devolve in a threatening pace, "If she wants to fight, she will fight."

And so she did, fight. His words ringing through her head with every step she took out of her normally safe line. She hovered around her own body, careful not to disturb her surroundings. She hissed at any movement she made, anytime she was forced to lift her sword from beside her, an acute flash of searing-white pain overtook her every sense.

And so, she did die.

Ultimately, she would pass out from her seeping wound, fall right into enemy hands. She would fall over and pierce herself on their unsheathed sword. She never had a chance.

She fell to the ground, not with an agonizing shout, but more so a ceasing sigh. She fell to her own ground, the trampled floor of where she had fought the entirety of the, nearly defeated, battle. The blood-soaked dirt she had not allowed herself to leave, constantly replaying his words in her mind, 'Stay put', 'I told you to stay put', 'stay put'.

Agonizing screams did come from the zone of combat, nonetheless, even if they had not been hers. Shouts of terror and anguish as her body fell limp to the earth.

The blood that soaked the fields that day were paid with a price, paid with a price no man had ever paid before.

He had never been the same, not since that day. No longer was the image of her an image that would shield him from his own psychotic phantoms, no longer would he yield from the idea of death.

The blood that soaked the earth that day was no atonement of any sorts, the blood that soaked the earth that day had been in utter and complete vain. It had not been just hers that seeped through the roots of evil underneath the soil, it would end with her brother's as well, but not her brother's alone.

The King would die and the empire, and any that would follow it, would inevitably fall to his hands.

Blood for the blood god.

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bakingandbooks3 · 3 years

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Wick and Flame

Ahhh my beautiful people! I’ve written again:) This time it was a bit more angsty- Nesta confronts Rhys. I was planning on posting weeks ago but recently had to get surgery. Here it is, I hope y’all love it!

TW: Mentions of Sexual Assault and violence...

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Rhysand.”

“It’s High Lord, to you.”

“I never once asked to serve you. I could call you many things but the most prevalent to me is my sister’s assaulter.”

A silence swept over the room.

Feyre had planned a lovely evening for the Inner Circle to regroup after the successful invasion of the Autumn Court- Eris’s coronation. It was safe to say Nesta wasn’t enjoying herself in the slightest, and was enjoying herself significantly less when Rhysand started making innuendos about Nesta’s past and worthlessness.

She was here for her sister and was trying to be more involved for her sake. But, she missed the quiet of the mountains, and Emerie, and the children she read to. And Cassian.

Everything went to hell after Rhysand asked if she convinced Eris by coaxing him into bed. Nesta launched back with how he’s no better of a man than Eris is.

Rhys growled, “That wasn’t what that was-”

“Oh really? Just because you two are happy now you think that erases the things you did to her? The things you-”

“You know nothing Nesta-”

“I know more than you think,” Nesta fumed. “I could tell from the way she talked about it, Under the Mountain, that something had happened to her. And just as I suspected you did it. But, why should I be shocked in the first place? You sexualized my teenage sister the very second you saw her. She was nineteen, Rhysand. Would you deign to tell us about that sick infatuation of yours?”

From across the table, Nesta could see the shadows bloom over the singer and the seer look down at her plate with wide eyes, Morrigan gripping her glass tighter and saw Cassian flicking between both sides. Would he pick her or them? It didn’t matter though, because who she cared about confronting was gritting his teeth and holding the jewel ordained knife like a weapon.

Would he use it on her?

“Say it. You touched her, you touched her. You took my drunk little sister and touched her in front of everyone! Do you know how I know this? Do you know how I had to figure this out? I read it in her body language for months, and then last week when I had to go on a mission for you, when Cassian and I had to risk ourselves for you, when you used him and me as bait for you, I found out from Eris.”

Mor flinched, the name a slap. Oh, maybe Nesta had made a mistake.

“Mor… I apologize for being brash… It wasn’t kind of me. I’d like to continue speaking but if you’re uncomfortable you can leave.”

She shifted, “Anything he says is valuable… I- I think I should say.”

Nesta’s heart broke a bit, she wasn’t quite fond of Mor yet, and her obscene relationship with Cassian did not please Nesta, but she was trying. Nesta was trying.

“And what did that snake tell you, dear sister-in-law? What did he say to poison you further?” The High Lord was shaking now, his wife shell-shocked beside him.

“That snake told me you made her drink till she was sick on your boots, and he told me the things you did to her. All of it. And I refuse to speak any more of it because it is not my story to tell, but just know I have no intention of forgiving you for this any time soon.”

The air seemed a bit thicker, the food colder, and the people gathered around the table duller. Of course, she ruined it.

She always does.

The silence dragged on until the violet-eyed man said the irreversible words, “ And why would I care about the forgiveness of an alcoholic whore?

The impenetrable line had been crossed.

Nesta let the tears well in her eyes as she hiked up her skirt, maintaining as much modesty as one could, and ripped the dagger out of her garter and stabbed it into the high-lords mahogany table.

Everyone at the table jolted. Seven sets of eyes widened at the sight and Elain visibly shuttered.

“You don’t know the slightest thing about me, Rhys.”

The man before her was trying to keep his composure but was lacking. His poor table.

“I was nineteen the first time a man did something similar to me.” Once Nesta saw she had their attention she continued, “When we were little, shortly after Mother died, the three of us were thrown into a life we never asked for. I, being the oldest, was automatically deemed to be the “new” mother, but Cauldron forbid ten-year-old me was slightly lost on the ways to be a mother. I was never the best sister or the most present, you of all people don’t let me forget, Rhys. I tried, I wasn’t great and I wasn’t the most helpful, but I tried. I would steal Feyre’s extra money to get iron bracelets to fend ourselves against people like you, I would take money to repair the ax I used to cut wood, I would spend some on buying cheap daggers to arm myself when I had to experience the ways of the world on my own.”

“And what did you have to experience, Nesta? Abandoning your sister? Making her hunt for you? Doing-”

“I never asked Feyre to do anything!” Nesta raised her voice for the first time. “I never once asked her to go, in fact, I told her not to. I am… grateful for what she did. But that should’ve been our father- no child should have to provide for them self. So, your absolute blessing of a wife never took the daggers I got, never wore the bracelets, and she trekked on. I never took them because in actuality they were hers to use. I felt like she needed more protection than I did.”

Nesta was trembling now, she had never quivered once in front of these people but she needed to- she needed to tell them.

“I went to find a suitor, a man to marry so that there was one less mouth to feed and one less body to take up the bed. I found Thomas, a poor man who I despised but he was willing to wed. His father beat his mother and I knew I was bound for that eventually, but I thought I could take it. After months of courting, he asked for my hand and I said yes. I wasn’t happy, but in the worst of ways, I thought I was helping my sisters by leaving them.

“When Feyre was taken… I had a lot of time to think. And when I wasn’t thinking about her I was thinking about how miserable this life of mine would be. It dawned on me one night that this wasn’t what I deserved. I went to his sham of a house and asked to go our separate ways.”

The room was spinning, Nesta sat down. She breathed and took note of everything she could, the color of her dress, the untouched plate, the napkins.

“It was night, my hair was down and I was just in my nightgown. I remember being cold and tired, I had spent the entire day trying to find a hole in the wall so maybe… It doesn’t matter anymore. Just as quick as I told him no… he had my hair in his hands and had me pushed on a bed.

She paused to breathe a racking breath. “I never cut my hair short because my mother would tell me how beautiful it was, I’m starting to think I should’ve.”

Nesta whispered the last words. Calm down. As her eyes fluttered around the room she kept going, no one stopped her.

“Do you know how easy satin rips? Too easy, but it was cheap and all we could afford… In twenty-eight seconds I had everything ripped from me. My pride, my clothes, the very little that was left of me…”

It was so hard to breathe, so hard.

“I took the candle from his bedside table and burnt it into his back to give me a second to get him off of me. I wasn’t nearly strong enough but I was able to hit him over the head with the candle-holder.”

Nesta stopped. She said enough. You said more than enough. She breathed, one, two.

She gripped the handle of the weapon before her and removed it, strapping it back to her thigh. “This dagger in your beautiful table is what I keep attached to me, I sleep in it even. because the things I left unsaid are worse than you can possibly imagine, and I hope to never endure them again.”

“High-Lord of the Night Court, I do not owe you a thing. I do not owe you my time, breath, or story. Your cousin and wife have had experiences similar to mine, one of them your personal doing. You will not call me a whore. You don’t know the half of my life. You know nothing more than a page in my book and I won’t allow you to write me as your villain.

“Unlike my sister, I didn’t fall in love with the man who wronged me. I’m just tainted by the scars he left behind. If she is happy I will not speak of my disgust for you, but just know I have every damned reason to despise you.”

Nesta pushed her chair away from the table and regained the queen-like frost of hers.

“I’m leaving. Feyre, thank you for the lovely dinner, I’m sorry I ruined it.”

She turned to Rhys.

“As for you, I’ll have you know this whore has better places to be than here. At least the men I gamble with in bars don’t assault women.”

And with her crown of clear flames, Nesta walked away.

taglist: @perseusannabeth @nahthanks @sayosdreams

#cassian #nessian #acotar #nesta #nesta archeron #acomaf #acosf #acowar #nesta x cassian #a court of silver flames #nessian fic

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todisturbtheuniverse · 3 years

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FIC: Adjacent Truths

Rating: M Fandom: Stardew Valley Pairing: Shane/Female Farmer, Shane & Jas Tags: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Friendship, Pre-Relationship Word Count: 1900 Summary: Jas overheard something Shane can't take back, and it's eating him alive. The farmer notices. Also on AO3. Notes: Post-4 Heart Event—a direct sequel of it, if you will. Content warning for suicidal ideation.

When Jas had still been just a baby, Charlotte had told Shane that something changes in your brain after you have a kid. Hormones, chemicals, neurons firing, all fine-tuning, honing in on the sound of the baby's cry, making interpretations on an instinctual level. He'd panicked when Jas had started crying apparently unprovoked in his arms, but Charlotte hadn't even twitched. "She's just hungry," she'd said, with her tired-happy smile.

"She seems mad about it," Shane had said, looking down into the scrunched-up, red face, the tiny mouth open in a hiccuping wail.

"She gets that from Patrick."

But Shane wasn't, had never been, Jas's parent. By the time he'd learned to sort her hungry-crying from her tired-crying and everything else, she'd been nearly out of babyhood.

And there was no easy fix, anyway, for the way he'd made her cry this time.

She avoided him after what she'd overheard. He didn't blame her. She was a smart kid; it was a good time to cut her losses, free herself of any emotional attachment she had to him. Marnie would be a better guardian than he was, anyway. Maybe the ranch wasn’t doing all that great, but no one in the valley was, and they all managed to keep limping along somehow. Once he was gone, they'd probably be just fine, lightened by the absence of his dead weight.

But he kept hearing her. That was his brain's special talent: replaying, over and over again, the bad moments, so that he wouldn't forget how terrible he was. The sound of her sobbing echoed around in his head with the hundreds of other unpleasant things that repeated themselves there: the song he’d been using as a ringtone when he got the call about Patrick and Charlotte; the stuffed pig that Jas wouldn’t let go of that first week, the one that made the most obnoxious oinking sound; the disinterested scratch of the social worker’s pen on paper, changing the course of their lives forever.

“You want to talk about it?” Lydia asked.

Jas still went to the farm with him on Saturdays. She just didn't make conversation during the walk. The first words she spoke were to Archimedes, and then she waded into the woods, heading for the treehouse, silent.

He didn’t talk much, either, but that was how it had always been. Lydia would tell him about whatever project she was working on; she would remind him again that he could come back later for Jas instead of helping; and then, inevitably, they would get to work. Because he still wasn't enough of an ass to pawn his goddaughter off entirely on someone who hardly knew her.

It was a low bar, but it was what he could clear.

“Talk about what,” he said, and swung for the tree again. He was glad that the damn sprinkler system hadn’t had another crisis since last weekend. If Lydia had put him to that kind of fiddly work today, maybe he wouldn't have cleared that bar.

“Whatever it is,” Lydia said. She watched the tree, eyes darting between trunk and canopy, waiting for the moment it began to tip so that she could warn him out of the way. “I can’t read your mind, but obviously something’s been eating you the last few days.”

He swung the axe again. She hadn't traced his mood back to The Incident. Maybe she didn't want to bring it up if she didn't have to, or maybe other people just didn't spend as much time thinking about how much of a loser he was as he thought they did.

Sounded fake.

“I don’t know,” he said. Thud. “Maybe you’re imagining things.”

Lydia was no saint. Sometimes, just like everybody else, she got impatient. Usually it was because of the sprinklers. But those sometimes were rare, and she wasn't taking the bait today, as usual.

“Maybe,” she said amenably, and lapsed into silence again.

After a few more strikes, the tree creaked warningly. “Now,” she said, and they both hustled out of the way of the trunk. It fell slowly at first, then faster, faster, until it hit the ground thunderously right in the space they’d cleared for it.

Lydia was the mastermind, but at least Shane wasn't terrible at brute force labor.

She picked up a second axe; they both positioned themselves along the fallen tree to start chopping. She needed a fair amount of lumber to get that barn built before winter hit. It was hard for him to imagine thinking so far ahead. The farm was just overgrown enough that she could probably collect all the lumber she needed right here, instead of having to buy it. He didn't need to ask if she'd be able to afford it, if it came to that.

“But maybe I’m not,” she said, picking up the conversation after five minutes, like it’d never been dropped. “I mean, you’re cutting up this tree like it’s personally offended you, so there’s a chance. Just saying. I know you think I talk too much, but I’m a good listener.”

Shane took a deep breath. He fully intended to let out a heavy, annoyed sigh, the kind that usually sent anyone who’d dared take an interest scuttling.

But, as happened too often with Lydia, a stream of words came out instead, like he was powerless to stop them. One more thing he couldn't control.

“Take your pick,” he said, and went on dicing up the tree like it deserved the cutting. “Morris is on my ass about saying the catchphrase whenever I spot a customer.” Thwack. “Gus is on my ass about my tab, which is nowhere near as bad as Pam’s, but apparently it’s a problem when you’re not best friends.” Thwack. “Marnie is on my ass about looking for a better job, like there’s a lot of options in Pelican Town.” Thwack. “Jas won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me.”

They'd established a pleasant kind of rhythm. Lydia’s axe fell not far behind his, creating a rhythmic one-two-beat, one-two-beat.

“Jas,” Lydia said after a moment.

His axe fell out of rhythm. “What?”

“You told me to take my pick. I say Jas is the item on that list that’s really bothering you. The other stuff happens all the time.”

It was no use telling her it was just a figure of speech. It was, but at the same time, she was right. All that other stuff was background noise, compared to Jas.

He hated when she was right. Except when he didn't mind. It was always hard to tell which it was until much later, which didn't help a lot with in-the-moment reactions.

He settled for hitting the tree again.

“Why do you think she’s not talking to you?” Lydia asked, taking up the rhythm again behind him.

“You know why.” He said it to warn her off, in case she’d forgotten—but he didn’t think she had. He wasn't that lucky.

“Maybe. But tell me again.”

Lydia didn't believe in hiding things, letting them fester. She was completely fine wearing most of her bruises out in the open, cheerfully admitting that something had gone wrong and she was working on it—again, most of the time. She had a couple secret bruises that he'd poked, accidentally or intentionally.

But he was all secret bruises, or at least, he'd have liked to be. As long as he kept hanging around her, though, she'd keep digging them up to air out. The obvious solution was to stop hanging around her. He wondered, again, why he hadn't done that yet.

“She overheard something she shouldn’t have,” he said, “because someone dumped a canteen of water on me and made a scene.”

Lydia actually laughed, a little breathless, in the middle of her swing. “Oh, I see. It’s my fault.”

She was kind of refreshing, was the thing. Everyone else at The Incident had taken it so damn seriously. Granted, that was exactly two other people—Marnie and Jas—and one of them was seven, so maybe that wasn't surprising. But still. It was nice that someone had heard the thing he said and wasn’t afraid to talk about it.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I panicked,” she admitted. “Not my finest moment. I��m sorry.”

He grunted in acknowledgment. They went back to the beat, one-two, one-two. In the distance, Archimedes barked.

“So she knows you meant it,” Lydia said, after a moment.

His axe hit a little crooked, and the rhythm stuttered again. He looked up at her. She realized he'd stopped, and she stopped, too, returning the look.

It wasn't that she didn't look sad, or worried. It was just that those things seemed secondary to a kind of openness, a thoughtfulness, like she was solving some kind of puzzle. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, or whether he liked it or not.

“Haven’t told her otherwise,” he said.

He expected a lecture. He gave one to himself more or less every hour. Put on a good face for Jas, or Just tell her you were having a bad day and didn’t mean it, or Tell her you’re going to be around for a good, long time, even though you don’t know, even though it might be a lie. The kid had already been through hell. He should've figured out some way, any way, to keep her from going through more by now.

He just couldn't. He didn't know why.

But she didn’t lecture. She said, “You don’t want to lie to her.” As if she understood.

He went back to his wood-chopping. “I don’t know how to lie to her.” He wished he did. That would have made this a lot easier.

But then, if he lied, she wouldn’t see the inevitable coming before it hit, which would make it all the harder for her.

Lydia went back to chopping, too. “I don’t think you need to, for what it’s worth.”

“Yeah? You got an age-appropriate way to explain wanting to die?”

Finally, she hesitated, but only for a one-two beat of the falling axes. “Not really,” she said. “But Jas has already been through a lot. She knows stuff that most kids don’t at her age. So you can tell her adjacent truths.”

“Lotta syllables.”

Finally, she gave an impatient little sigh. “I mean things like—you’re sorry that she had to hear that. That it has nothing to do with her, and doesn’t mean you don’t love her. That things are just hard for you right now.” She breathed heavily on the next swing, more exasperation than effort. “She gets that you’re grieving, too, Shane.”

Trust a person like Lydia to paint it in such nice strokes. Like his best effort, which fell far short of winning any prizes, would be sufficient to a needy little kid.

But maybe...well, saying something could always make things worse, but the idea hadn't come from him. It was a start.

“I’ll plagiarize,” he said. “Thanks.”

It seemed like she was going to let it lie there, but then she spoke up again. “Like I said, I’m a good listener, so. You need an ear, I’m here. Day or night. I mean it.”

She wasn't wrong. She was a good listener. But she had some kind of future ahead of her, still, and he'd poisoned enough people with his failures. It was out in the open now; it didn't need to be rehashed. Next time, he would keep his mouth shut.

#sdv shane #sdv farmer #shane/female farmer #universe writes #depression cw #suicidal ideation cw #friendship #pre-relationship

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katfett · 3 years

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A/Ns: i managed to spend the day writing and this just flowed so damn well. Working on other updates and starting chapters, Roxanne and Beauty will be the next two updates! Thank you for all the love on the first two chapters, I hope you enjoy this one!

This is where the story will start to diverge from canon. I really didn’t like the demise of Helga, so there is no girl, the mess in York that sends Floki overboard - won’t happen.

Also, thank you Punkrocknpearls for looking over for me!

TAGLIST: @peachyboneless @youbloodymadgenius @criminaly-supernatural @heavenly1927 @zuxiezendler @surewhyynot @revolution-starter @punkrocknpearls @oldglitterstory @bloooferladyy

(If you wish to be added, removed - just lemme know)

SUMMARY: She wasn’t meant to be here, she was on holiday in England and the next thing she knew she was in the middle of a war. Nora needs to survive if she ever hopes of finding her way home, but she wasn’t prepared to run into the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. She wasn’t prepared for the adventure and trials coming her way.

CHAPTER THREE

When Harald finally regained full consciousness some hours later, without a splitting headache, he seethed. Halfdan had given him a rundown of what had happened in between, which only angered him more. Seeking out the sons of Ragnar, Harald found them sitting around a table talking amongst themselves quietly. They stopped as he approached.

His face was quite the sight; purple and blue bruises had started to appear across his nose and below his left eye. He looked a mess in the dull light of the torches around the place. “Where is she?”

“Locked up,” Bjorn answered, leaning back in his chair between Ubbe and Sigurd. “Where she should’ve been left in the first place.”

“You’ll give her to me.”

Bjorn’s eyes went to Ivar as the youngest brother chuckled. “Why?”

“Clearly, you couldn’t handle one small woman,” Hvitserk said as Harald followed Bjorn’s gaze. He wanted to sneer at the two brothers who sat side by side. Ivar and Hvitserk were smirking at the older man, unafraid of his reaction to their goading. “She might kill you next time, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

The older man wanted to growl, to shout, but the tenderness of his face prevented it as the smallest of movement hurt.

“I can handle the woman fine, but this,” he said, gesturing to his face, “Doesn’t go unanswered.”

Ubbe folded his arms across his chest, leaning back. “Must sting.”

Halfdan stood quietly behind his older brother, watching the scene unfold but not interjecting.

“I think it’s an improvement,” Ivar remarked, turning to his brothers like Harald wasn’t there.

“As do I.” Hvitserk was chuckling as Ubbe and Sigurd nodded their agreement.

Harald’s fists curled, clenching as he restrained himself from grabbing the youngest son by the scruff of his neck and throwing him to the floor. He leaned against the table in front of Bjorn, staring down the eldest son. “Bjorn give me the woman. I found her.”

Bjorn’s passive expression didn’t change as he motioned with a hand to Ivar. “She’s not mine to hand over.”

In the middle of negotiating with Ecbert, Bjorn had been at an impasse as to how to convince Ivar to agree to the man’s conditions. He’d approached his little brother expecting to be met with a great challenge. When he’d told Ivar that all of them had agreed to Ecbert’s deal but him, Bjorn had held his breathe. Ivar was stubborn, and selfish on the best of days.

“If you want me to agree, you have to give me something.” Ivar had said. Bjorn had asked him what it was he wanted, expecting the worse. “The woman.” It had surprised Bjorn, that was for sure. His little brother wasn’t the type of man to deal with many women beyond thralls and his mother. Margrethe had done something to him, what, he didn’t know but the venom Ivar spat about his brother’s wife led him to believe it had to do with sex. Bjorn didn’t know what he planned for the woman; he didn’t really care if he was honest. It meant he wouldn’t have to work out what to do with her.

Bjorn was grateful he wouldn’t have to argue with Ivar over this. He’d told Ivar the woman was his and then clapped his little brother on the shoulder before walking off to find Halfdan.

Harald’s gaze once again landed on the youngest Ragnarsson. “What would you want with her?”

A heavy silence: tense and uncomfortable settled over the sons of Ragnar as they looked to their little brother. They were privy to what Margrethe had told them of her encounter with Ivar, aside from Bjorn, Sigurd had tormented his little brother over it in Kattegat, but they hadn’t spoken of it to others. Had Margrethe told others?

Ivar’s jaw clenched; the only indication Harald’s words had gotten to him. “That’s my concern, not yours.”

The words held a finality to them as he and Harald stared at one another. Ivar refused to look away.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with her,” Harald growled, leaning closer to Ivar.

Ivar’s mouth twitched a little, and everyone watched as his hand went to the axe resting on the tabletop. Hvitserk stood then, leaning over the table. He didn’t hold the same contempt for his little brother that Sigurd did on occasion, and he knew if Harald kept goading, it would result in the man’s death when Ivar finally snapped. They didn’t need Ivar in a foul mood, and they didn’t need Harald dead.

“Walk away,” Hvitserk said.

Harald looked at Hvitserk, assessing the warning and then grinned. “Very well.”

He smirked at the youngest Ragnarsson who was watching him, his fingers still white knuckled on the axe. Turning, he walked away. Halfdan nodded to them before turning to follow his older brother.

***

Nora woke with a groan. It was still dark; the torches in the room she was hanging above had been extinguished and it was cold. She was grateful she still had her jacket and layers on. She’d been dreaming of everything that had happened, thinking she would now wake up and be in a hospital bed somewhere waking from a coma, or some such. It didn’t happen. She was still in the cage, still hanging above the ground. She shifted a little and winced; her back was going to hate her in the morning.

Pulling her arm back through the bar, she braced herself against them and turned a little. As she did, she saw the pale face watching her from below and froze. The one called Ivar sat in the chair watching her. How long had he been lurking there?

He hadn’t helped her when the others had put her in here. He wasn’t an ally. Glaring at him, she rolled away, presenting him her back as she curled back up. She heard him chuckle below.

She didn’t trust him; he might have taken the time to give her their names and learn hers, but she was still his prisoner. He wasn’t stupid; those eyes were cold, cunning but intelligent. Nora wasn’t going to fall for it, and she was hoping he’d take the hint and leave her alone.

He spoke.

Nora didn’t care what he said, she just wanted to be left alone. Daylight would be a better opportunity to see what she could do about getting out of here. The door of the room creaked. Glancing over her shoulder Nora could make out a single figure. She tensed as the man with the facial tattoos who she’d fought stalked forward. She rolled awkwardly and tried to press herself towards the top of the cage, unsure of what he might do.

Her gaze dropped to where Ivar sat, the glint of metal in his fingers as he watched the man approach.

***

Ivar watched her as she slept. He didn’t know why he’d come back here in the middle of the night; just to watch her sleep. One of her arms was hanging out of the cage between two bars, as she slept curled awkwardly on her belly. She was filthy; her hair was matted, and she had scraps and bruises across her face and hands. He was quiet as he watched her. It perplexed him. When Harald had walked away, his brothers had gone quiet and not really spoken to him. Angry over the slight, Ivar had left their company, not wanting to be reminded of his time with Margrethe. She’d told Sigurd of his failure, and by Harald’s words, she’d told others. He’d promised to kill her if she ever did; now, she was married to his brother, he couldn’t touch her without angering Ubbe.

A soft groan above him told Ivar the sleeping woman was waking up. Nora. He glanced up, leaning back in the chair as she shifted, and his gaze met hers. She glared down at him, not intimidated in the least. She gave him her back and Ivar chuckled a little; she was stubborn, good.

“You snore when you sleep,” he commented, knowing she couldn’t understand him but teasing her all the same. Her back stiffened but she didn’t turn back to him. She huffed above him and he grinned, spinning the knife in his hand effortlessly.

The creak alerted him to someone approaching and he turned his head to see Harald stalking toward him. Grinning, Ivar tightened his grip on the knife in his hand. “Get out.”

“You and I need to talk.” Harald knew better than to put himself in Ivar’s range and so he skirted around the youngest Ragnarsson, his attention going to the woman awake in the cage. He spat in the direction of the cage.

“We don’t,” Ivar replied, cleaning a fingernail with the knife in his hand.

“I found the woman, that makes her mine.” Ivar’s gaze went to where Nora was half crouched in the cage, her eyes on Harald. She looked terrified.

Ivar sighed. “You want her? It’ll cost you your land, your men, everything.”

Harald glowered at him, wincing as pain radiated along his features. She’d done that to him. Ivar was impressed by the damage she’d inflicted on the man; it was no easy feat. Ivar remembered Vik; Harald had murdered the man in broad daylight. It had been sloppy and fueled by an old wound reopened by a woman. He had no interest in seeing the woman above them murdered because he felt slighted.

“I could kill you, boy.”

Ivar sneered at the older man, insulted by the term boy. “I named my terms, Harald, if you don’t want to pay, you don’t want her enough.” Ivar knew Harald would never hand any of what he demanded over.

The man dropped his hand to the axe at his waist. His eyes went from Nora in the cage, to Ivar and back again. He growled, spitting in Ivar’s direction after a moment before he left. Ivar grinned as he watched the warlord stalk out. He’d been anticipating the man’s arrival; knew he’d not keep his distance. The man was too easy to predict.

***

Nora let out the breath she’d been holding throughout the interaction. What had they spoken about? Her? She didn’t want to consider what might have transpired between the two men. The moment the tattooed man’s hand dropped to the axe, Nora tensed, expecting the worst. She was surprised when he spat at the young man before storming out.

Her wide eyes went to Ivar. He was looking right at her. She slowly sunk back down to the bottom of the cage, crossing her legs, never once taking her eyes off the young man. Had he helped her?

After a moment, he nodded at her before climbing from the chair and crawling away.

“Ivar,” she said as he reached the doorway. He paused, glancing at her from over his shoulder. “Thank you.” He couldn’t understand what she said but he seemed to catch on. He didn’t say anything as he turned back and left her.

A guard appeared after a moment, sticking his head in to check that she was there. Thirsty, her stomach grumbling for something, Nora tried to go back to sleep. Tomorrow was a new day, tomorrow she might be free.

***

Halfdan and Bjorn were leaving, returning to the Mediterranean. The next morning, those who were going with him, packed what they’d need. Their discussion in the morning at breakfast was a deciding factor, the army needed to move back north. They couldn’t remain in Wessex surrounded, Ivar’s suggestion that they return to the stronghold of York and capture it was agreed upon, even if Sigurd disliked agreeing with his little brother, he saw the sound reasoning behind it.

York was close to the coast; it would allow them to raid deep into England without any northern interference. Northumbria was kingless, they posed no real threat for the time being.

“How is your little woman, brother?” Ubbe asked, joining Ivar as he watched Floki and Helga fix Fenrir’s harness and that into place and hitch him to the chariot.

Ivar had yet to go see Nora. For the time being, she was safest caged and until he was ready, she would remain there. “Caged.”

Ubbe chuckled, nudging his shoulder where they sat side by side. “What made you really ask Bjorn for her?”

Ivar grimaced at his brother’s probing. Ubbe might be passionate and lead with his heart at times, but he was keen eyed when it came to his brothers. Ivar still didn’t know exactly why he asked Bjorn for the woman. Curiosity was his main reason; she knew nothing of the common languages, but she’d somehow been found here in England, and she was dressed so differently. Her accent was strange.

“Curiosity, as to who she is.” It would be the only answer he would give any of them.

Ubbe hummed, nodding which was usually a sign he didn’t believe what he was hearing, but he didn’t argue with Ivar about it. He knew better, especially so early in the morning.

***

Nora really had to use the bathroom. It was the first thing that woke her up that morning. She was groggy and thirsty but the pressing need to pee, was insane. She lay there, trying to find a comfortable, albeit cramped, position that didn’t press on her bladder. The door opened and in strode Hvitserk, the one whose name she’d butchered so spectacularly the night before. He stopped beneath the cage, reaching up and gripping the bars as he grinned at her. Nora didn’t know what to make of the cheerful young man below her, he was handsome as he grinned up at her, but she was so desperate to pee she just scowled back at him.

“I really need the bathroom,” she said, knowing he couldn’t understand her. She squeezed her legs together hoping he might pick up on what she meant. The slight tilt of his head and frown told her he didn’t.

The door opened again. This time, all the men from last night entered, along with a jittery older man and a blonde woman. Hvitserk turned to them, his fingers still curled in the bars by her feet. Smirking, Nora pushed her boot onto his fingers earning a sharp hiss as he retracted his fingers. Payback for not getting her out so she could use the bathroom. He shook his fingers as he frowned up at her. Nora simply smiled back at him.

Ivar spoke with the jittery man from where he was on the ground, gesturing to her so often. She watched as the one named Ubbe walked over to where the rope holding the cage suspended was tied. A little hopeful, she saw him watching her. He gestured to the bite on his hand. It looked nasty and she grimaced. She only felt a little bad for biting him. Hvitserk moved to help him, and they slowly lowered her cage to the ground. Nora didn’t move as the jittery man bounded forward, a little wary of him as he approached. The woman with him smiled at her.

She looked for Ivar’s face. He was watching her quietly as the older man started to undo the lock on the cage. He nodded at her. “Floki. Helga.” He gave her their names. She slowly nodded.

Floki and Helga. As Floki pulled the cage door open, Nora resisted the urge to bolt through it and try to escape. There were just too many people in here, she wasn’t suicidal. They were letting her out, which was a start. The blonde woman, Helga, crouched by the open door and held her hand out to her. The pressing issue of Nora needing to pee made her compliant. She would behave if it meant she could use the bathroom. How to get that across though, given her failure with Hvitserk.

She uncurled herself and stepped out of the cage. She stood, a little awkward due to the situation and the stiffness in her back and legs from the cramped position she’d been stuck in. The woman smiled at her, holding her hands out to her, not as surprised or curious about her as she expected given the reactions people had to her so far. Maybe Ivar had spoken to them?

Her eyes sought him out as the woman took hold of her arms and pulled her in. It was strange to feel comforted by the way the woman gently coaxed her closer. Ivar was sitting on the chair, speaking quietly with Floki and Ubbe. Bjorn was missing, she noted.

Ivar glanced her way, as though sensing she was looking. He nodded after a moment, reading the silent question in her eyes. The woman said something and then started to guide Nora away. She thought for a moment she could use this to escape but as they left, Hvitserk trailed behind them as well as a large man with shockingly white hair. Ivar wasn’t stupid.

Helga was a kind woman; she didn’t push or shove as she showed Nora into what she assumed was a bathroom. It was a little awkward to have the woman with her, but she really needed to go. As she unzipped and started to shimmy her jeans down her hips, Helga turned her back. Well, at least she was afforded that little bit of privacy.

Hvitserk and the large guard were standing outside when she and Helga finally reappeared. Hvitserk spoke to Helga, though he was looking at Nora. The cheerful expression was gone, and Nora found herself a little intimidated by the serious expression on his face. He wasn’t a large man, size wise, but he was taller than her.

He jerked his head in the direction they hadn’t come from and with the guard on them, they made their way down the hall. Walking out into the open was, blinding. Nora had spent so much time inside the past few days, the daylight was harsh on her unadjusted eyes. People around them were moving, packing things down, and Nora wondered why they were leaving when they had taken the place so easily. Was this a stop on the way to another place?

Helga directed her to a chariot with a young horse hitched to it. The creature snorted as they approached and Nora smiled at it, reaching out as they moved past to brush her hand along its cheek. It whinnied softly at her and she grinned. Hvitserk stopped by the back of the chariot and turned to face her. He grinned at her as he held up rope and a piece of cloth. What?

Nora froze, stopping Helga from pulling her forward near the front of the chariot. Hvitserk spoke to someone over her head and two large arms seized her. She growled and tried to fight as Helga stepped away, looking apologetic. They’d planned this right in front of her and her inability to understand meant she’d let them lull her into a false sense of freedom. Hvitserk stepped forward and bound her hands in front of her. She tried to fight, drawing the attention of those around them as she swore at Hvitserk.

He held up the strip of fabric once she was bound and tried to gag her with it. She tried to bite his hand, but it did little ground as the grip on her tightened and she tried to turn and hit the bastard holding her captive.

Hvitserk wrapped the fabric over her head, surprising her and effectively gagging her. It was bad enough she was hungry and thirsty. They wouldn’t understand sign language in this time, would they? She tried to think back to when she was younger and taught it. She was out of practice, so she’d probably end up confusing her gestures anyway.

Once she was gagged, Hvitserk grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the back of the chariot. He shoved her down into it. Looking up at him, Nora mumbled curses through the gag at him. He grinned at her, nodding before leaning against the side of the chariot, guarding her as they waited for whoever rode this to show up.

Nora should’ve put two and two together. She should’ve realized that Ivar would be the owner of the chariot. His head appeared around the edge of the chariot after a while and Nora huffed, huddled into the front of the chariot, knees drawn up. She refused to acknowledge him, turning her eyes away.

He didn’t acknowledge her either as he pulled himself up into the chariot with a practiced ease. Nora could see him out of the corner of vision, but she didn’t tense, didn’t give any indication she was put off by him so close to her in what little space they had.

He dragged himself up onto the seat, taking the reins. It brought his thigh close to her head as he adjusted his legs beside her. This time, she did look up. He was glancing down at her, those cold blue eyes unreadable as they stared at one another. After a moment, he nodded at her and she turned her eyes to what was going on outside the back of the chariot. Where were they going?

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hookedonapirate · 3 years

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Book Update

If anyone is wondering when Hard To Handle will be coming out, I have some news! So, for those who don't know, Hard To Handle is an original A Helping Hand rewrite featuring Harper and Owen (Killian and Emma) and will be part 2 of the series. And if you haven't guessed yet, part 1 features Audrey and Brady (Elsa and Liam from A Helping Hand) with a Harper and Brady friendship. For those interested in their story, I have a little treat for you below. However, this Sneak peek doesn't show Audrey and Brady meeting yet because I haven't gotten that far.

This is sort of an enemies to lovers story (I say sort of because their "enemy" status in the beginning is too complicated to slap a label on it) that starts off with Harper and Audrey butting heads with their new neighbor, Brady, and him and Audrey exchanging love hate letters. 😉 Then Brady and Audrey form an alliance and break up Harper and Bryce. I promise it's not evil like it sounds because Brady discovers Bryce is cheating on Harper. Remember, Bryce is the Neal of AHH.

This book is a bit darker than book 2 because of the toxic nature of Harper's relationship with Bryce, and because Audrey often pays the price for his shenanigans, but there's still humor and fun in this one.

Anyway, here are the first few chapters. I may post more if anyone's interested ❤️

Chapter One

Brady

There are strange sounds coming from the unit next door.

Laughter maybe?

Yes, definitely laughter.

More like Cackling. From one—make that two—females.

Two loud, annoying females.

Just great.

I take pride in being a fairly simple man who doesn’t need much to be happy. A few things like fishing, enjoying an ice-cold beer and having a few moments of quiet time usually does the trick. Even the sound the can makes whenever I crack open the pull tab of Coors Light is music to my ears. I finally have time to relax after sweating my ass off from all the unpacking I did. I just moved in today and couldn’t stand the idea of tripping over boxes or searching through them every time I needed to use something. I was unable to stop unpacking until every single item in those boxes had a home.

Now I’m able to sit back in my patio chair, prop my feet up on the plastic stool and breathe in the pleasantly cool evening air, enjoy a refreshing, ice-cold beer and some quiet time.

Or at least I was able to until my air of tranquil serenity was so rudely disturbed by my cackling neighbors.

They could at least close their balcony doors, so the entire building doesn’t have to hear them.

I’m already in a foul mood, and the two laughing hyenas aren’t helping. If anything, my mood is worse than it was when I was packing.

They, however, sound like they’re having a grand old time. Doing what exactly, I’m not sure, but it sounds like one of them needed a break from studying and the other one is encouraging her to get drunk and let loose. Which means they’re college students.

Just fucking perfect.

This is exactly why I moved off campus, even though it meant paying rent and enduring a much longer commute to work.

It’s just my luck to get stuck living next to two loud teenagers or early twenty-something-year-olds. I’m around college students all the time, considering I’m an instructor; I don't need to live next to them, too. I learned that very quickly.

Young adults, my ass. More like impudent children.

I feel like the property management should’ve included that minor detail in the apartment listing. Or that not everyone is required to follow their uniform policies.

A peaceful, friendly community? Ha!

The management will definitely be hearing from me about their false advertising.

“Dude, I’m sorry to tell you this, Harp, but your boyfriend’s a fucking loser! Even Elisa said so!”

“He’s just misunderstood!”

“Misunderstood?! Bryce is such a creep!”

“Is not!”

I take a swig of my beer through gritted teeth. I really wish I had a TV right now.

It won’t be delivered until tomorrow, though. Which is very unfortunate and inconvenient at the moment because I need a distraction from reality. Listening to their conversation makes me furious and sad at the same time because it reminds me of me and my brother arguing about his girlfriend. I kept trying to tell Owen she was no good for him, but he wouldn’t listen. I bet this Bryce guy isn’t married, though.

Or maybe he is; I really don’t know.

I need something to take my mind off the overwhelming urge I feel to hop on a plane, fly to Chicago and kick my brother’s ass for being the fucking moron he is. And let me tell you, the urge is very strong right now. Earlier today, Owen told me the woman he’s been seeing is married. They’ve been dating for six months, during which she was lying to him the entire time. I already didn’t like her very much to begin with because she was a controlling bitch—I’m the only one who’s allowed to be a controlling bitch to my brother—and because ever since he started seeing her, I haven't been able to hang out with him very much. Whenever we made plans, he canceled them because Naomi wanted to spend time with him instead. And he was my best friend. Now he tells me she’s married and that he’s still staying with her.

What the actual fuck?

He’s so brainwashed by her, I couldn’t talk a lick sense into that goddamn head of his. Now he wants me to be okay with them staying together while she’s still with her husband?

Fuck that shit.

“Okay listen, if you’re going to talk shit about my boyfriend, we’re going to need more wine.”

“Agreed.”

It becomes silent next door for a few minutes, which makes me sigh in relief. Soon I hear, “Son of a fucking bitch!”

There’s a litany of curses and then, “We need a new corkscrew!”

“But we’re too drunk to drive anywhere!”

Damn, if only I had a corkscrew so they could drink more wine, get drunker and become even louder and more annoying than they already are.

That’s actually not a bad idea, though. If they’re anything like my ex-girlfriend, the quicker they get drunk, the quicker they’ll be ready to sleep. The quicker I’ll finally have my peace and quiet.

I contemplate driving down to the corner store, but what would I even say if I showed up at their door with a corkscrew they didn’t ask for? Oh, hi, I was eavesdropping on your conversation and took it upon myself to go to the store and buy you this corkscrew so you could both drink yourselves into an alcohol-induced coma and I could finally have some peace and quiet?

Nope, I definitely can’t say that.

Chapter Two

Audrey

“Son of a fucking bitch!”

When I rush into the kitchen to see why my roommate’s cussing up a storm, I’m expecting the counter and floor to be covered in wine and shattered glass, even though I didn’t hear any glass break, but Harper’s just holding the corkscrew and staring at the top of the bottle.

“What’s wrong?”

“We need a new corkscrew!” Harper grabs the bottle of wine and points the top of it at me. The cork is still jammed into the neck of the bottle, and the worm of the corkscrew is stuck inside it.

Which is very unfortunate.

She’s been studying her ass off, except for the occasional interruptions from her asshat of a boyfriend, Bryce. She had a really tough time getting him to finally leave so she could study, and she had to literally push him out the door. So I thought Harper could use a break and I could feel saner again by indulging in some wine. But one bottle of wine quickly turned into two. Or rather, it would’ve if not for the end of the corkscrew inside the cork.

Fuck.

“But we can’t drive anywhere,” I point out, considering how tipsy we both are, even though we only went through one bottle between us. But we’re both lightweights.

“Hold on,” she says, picking up her phone from the counter.

I cock my brow. “You do realize Amazon Prime takes two days to ship, right?”

“Yeah, I know, Aud. I’m not that drunk.” After looking at something on her phone for a minute, she leaves the kitchen, returns with one of her tennis shoes and sets the phone down to pick up the wine bottle. She places the bottom of the bottle inside the heel of the shoe, raises her hands above her head and goes to one of the walls in a striking pose.

I rush over and put my hand on her arm to stop her. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“This will push the cork out.”

“But won’t the wine spill all over?”

“Not if I can only push the cork part of the way out and then pull it off the rest of the way.” She hits the shoe against the wall a few times, but the cork doesn’t budge.

“Why don’t we see if any of the neighbors have a corkscrew,” I suggest. “This method doesn’t seem to be working.”

She sighs and drops her arms. “Who do you think would have one?”

“What about Mandy? She’s a wine drinker.”

Harper shakes her head. “She doesn’t get home from the office until late on Mondays. And there’s no way I’m trying mister grumpy pants across the hall. It always seems like he’ll snap at any moment. Plus, once his dog starts yapping, she never shuts up.”

“What about the new guy who just moved in next door?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if he’s an ax murderer?”

“I saw him earlier when he was moving in. He seems harmless enough, and is kind of cute, actually.”

“Yeah, well so was Ted Bundy. And I’d like to stay alive with my head intact, thank you very much.” I haven’t seen the new neighbor yet, but I don’t think going over to a stranger's place while we’re both a little tipsy is the best idea, for several reasons.

She flicks her hand. “Well, you don’t have to go. I will.” She grabs her keys, removes her pepper spray from the attached chain and throws her keys back on the counter before heading toward the door.

“Harp, wait…”

Ignoring my pleas as I follow behind her, she slips into her Nike slides. “I’ll be fine. I got my handy dandy pepper spray,” she says, holding it up.

Before I can talk some sense into her, she’s already dashing out the door and calling out over her shoulder, “If I’m not back in five minutes, call 911!”

I sigh and lean against the door, pressing my ear against it so I can listen for Harper’s screams or any signs of a struggle.

Chapter Three

Brady

When I head inside from the balcony, there’s a knock on the front door. I scratch my head and stride over to answer it, wondering who it could be. I just moved into this apartment today, so I literally don’t know any of my neighbors yet.

I open the door to a skinny blonde with green eyes, long, shimmering hair and soft pink lips. She’s easy on the eyes, but I have a feeling she’s one of the laughing hyenas next door. She’s not as young as I thought she’d be, though. She looks to be around my brother’s age. When I give her a once-over, I notice the pepper spray she’s trying to hide in her fist.

I wince at the sight of it. She doesn’t even have the safety lock on.

I offer a tight-lipped smile. “Hello.”

“HiI’myournextdoorneighbor,” she mumbles, her words slurred together. She’s a little tipsy and has to lean against the doorframe so she doesn’t fall over.

“How can I help you, next-door neighbor?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the pepper spray. The sight of it brings back too many painful memories. Memories I’d rather keep locked away.

“I was wondering if you had a corkscrew my roommate and I could borrow?”

On the balcony, I wanted to strangle the two neighbors who were interrupting my quiet time, but now I feel very protective. She’s obviously drunk, yet stumbling over to a neighbor she doesn’t even know. I mean, I like to consider myself an overall decent human being, or as I’ve been called before, “one of the good guys,” but this woman doesn’t know that. She knows nothing about me, yet she’s over here asking to borrow a corkscrew. And yes, she’s carrying a weapon, but I doubt she knows how to use it properly, and with how tipsy she is, I doubt she’d even be fast enough to use it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Her smile fades, but she looks determined, so I’m hoping she doesn’t go knocking on all her neighbors' doors asking for a corkscrew.

“I could buy you one,” I offer, trying to sound as polite as possible. Which is difficult when I’m irritated.

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Really? You’d do that?”

I cross my arms and give her a stern look. “On one condition.”

She nods excitedly. “Of course, anything.”

I’m so glad I’m a nice guy because this woman seems far too trusting, and I’m afraid of what would’ve happened if I were anything less than a decent human being. “I’ll go and get you a corkscrew if you return to your apartment and keep the noise down for the rest of the night. And maybe close your balcony doors so the entire building can’t overhear your childish conversation.”

I’m thinking this is a very reasonable request. I’m willing to leave the comfort of my apartment to get in my car and go to the corner store to get some women I don’t know a corkscrew, and all they have to do is put a cap on the noise.

But the scowl on her face tells me she doesn’t agree. “First of all,” she raises her index finger, “ruu-uuuuuuude!” She raises another finger. “Secondly, my roommate and I aren’t children. We’re having a stressful week and were finally able to relax and drink some wine when the corkscrew broke. But that’s okay, we’ll figure out how to get the cork off ourselves!” She turns on her heels and starts to head toward her apartment, but spins around again and gets in my space, jabbing a finger at my chest. “And thirdly, we weren’t being that loud!”

I clench my jaw as she storms away and slams the door shut after disappearing inside her apartment. I throw my own door shut, huffing in frustration.

Why couldn’t my neighbors all be sweet old ladies?

So much for having a relaxing evening!

I head back to my balcony when there’s another knock on the door.

“Son of bitch,” I curse under my breath as I march over to the door and yank it open. “What, now?” I ask angrily when I see her standing at my door again.

“I need to borrow a dress shoe.”

I furrow my brows, growing more agitated. “A what?”

She sighs as though I’m the one inconveniencing her. “A dress shoe,” she says impatiently. “Surely you’ve been to a wedding or funeral. You must have one.”

“I do, but why do you—” Before I get the chance to answer, she shoves past me and heads toward my bedroom.

I follow her in there and cross my arms over my chest in the doorway as I watch her go to my closet. “What in the ever-loving hell are you doing?”

“I told you, I need to borrow a dress shoe.”

Seriously?!

The audacity of this woman waltzing into my apartment and taking one of my shoes! “That’s funny because I never said you could borrow one.”

“Wow, your closet is super organized,” she comments as she looks around, easily finding one of my brown dress shoes and grabbing it from the shoe rack.

I’m still standing in the bedroom doorway when she tries to get through. I reach for my shoe, but she steps back and aims her pepper spray at me. I instinctively duck out of the line of fire and lunge forward, grabbing the pepper spray from her hand and twisting the safety lock.

“Wait, please don’t kill me! My roommate’s calling 911 if I’m not back in two minutes!” she cries, shielding herself with her hands.

I sigh in exasperation and extend the pepper spray to her. “I’m not trying to murder you, I was trying to get my shoe back.”

She slowly drops her arms and narrows her eyes as she snatches the spray from my hand. “Then why did you take away my weapon?”

I scoff. “It was a reflex so I didn’t get sprayed in the face since I wasn’t actually attacking you. Do you know how many times I’ve been pepper-sprayed in the face?”

“Why, because you’re a rapist?!” she accuses, stepping away from me and aiming her pepper spray at me again, even though the safety is still on. She probably doesn’t even know that, though.

I sigh in exasperation and raise my hands in surrender. “No, because I was in the Marines. Getting pepper-sprayed was part of my training. It taught me how to use my weapons and equipment.”

She lowers the spray, guilt etched in her features. “Oh, sorry. My roommate said you might be another Ted Bundy, and I don’t want to be raped and murdered.”

“Yeah, because breaking into your neighbor’s apartment and stealing their shoe is a good way to prevent that from happening,” I say, my words laden with sarcasm.

“Well, no, but that’s what the pepper spray was for.”

“It won’t do you any good if you don’t use it properly. You need to have a firm grip and use your thumb to activate it so it can’t be taken out of your hand like I just took it out of yours.”

“Thanks for the tip.” She raises the pepper spray at me again and presses the button to activate it. But it’s still disarmed. Once she realizes her mistake, her eyes widen.

I cock my head to the side and plant my hands on my hips. “Really?”

She offers an apologetic smile, then scurries toward me, ducks under my arm and squeezes past me, darting for the front door. “I’ll bring it right back, I promise!”

I let her go and exhale another deep sigh. What could she possibly need my shoe for anyway? To squash a spider or something? Can’t she use her own Goddamn shoe for that?

Right, she probably doesn’t want to get her precious shoe all gross, so she’s using mine instead. Which means my shoe will be returned with spider guts on the bottom.

Just great.

I go to the balcony and curtly grab my beer so I can head inside and not have to hear every goddamn word of their conversation again.

Pound, pound, pound.

What the hell?

It sounds like they’re banging something against the wall.

My shoe, perhaps?

Pound, pound, pound.

Then I hear a loud pop!

“Yessssss!”

They got the cork out.

“Holy shit, you made a mess!”

“Sorry, but at least we can keep drinking!”

“Woohoo!”

I head inside and close the sliding doors, hoping to go to bed and get some rest. But then there’s another knock on the front door.

“Fucking hell,” I groan as I go over to answer it. It’s probably the blonde neighbor with my shoe, but I’m not sure I want it back.

Sure enough, it’s her.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it.” She hands over my shoe with a small smile and heads back to her apartment.

“You didn’t borrow it, you stole it!” I call after her. But she completely ignores me.

“And sorry I tried to spray you...twice!” Before I can respond, she’s already inside her unit.

I bring the shoe to my nose to get a closer whiff of it. I noticed the smell as soon as she handed it to me. “Hey, why does my shoe smell like wine?!”

But I’m talking to the door at this point.

I shake my head and go back inside, trying to decide if I should try to get the smell out or just toss the pair into the trash. For now, I set it aside and go to the bathroom to get ready for bed, hoping my neighbors will down the bottle, get tired and pass out so I can have a quiet evening.

No such luck.

They turn on the music, and I can hear the pounding bass through the wall and also, “Yeeeeesssss, this is my jam!”

The walls are actually shaking.

Why do the other neighbors put up with this! It’s absurd, really.

They should be evicted.

I contemplate calling the police to make a complaint, but this is New York City; the police have better things to do than respond to non-emergency noise complaints. So I return to my bedroom, strip down to my boxers and toss my clothes into the hamper before slipping into bed. I can still hear the noises coming from the unit next door, but thankfully, I’m a patient man. I’m sure they’ll get tired soon and go to bed. Or at least I hope so.

But an hour passes, and the music still doesn’t cease. I groan and roll over on my stomach, pulling the pillow over my head, wishing I had noise-canceling headphones right now. I’m normally against the idea of something that cancels all sounds, because it also cancels sounds that alert danger. Like if a burglar broke into the apartment or there’s an explosion or gunshot. But right now, I’d do anything to get a good night’s sleep. Between arguing with my brother over the phone into the wee hours of the night yesterday and spending all day moving into my new place and unpacking, I’m completely exhausted. Not to mention I always start my day at five in the morning. My classes don’t start until eight a.m., but I like to get an early start to my day. I got up that early when I was in the Marines, and some habits just never die.

I’m about to get up and go down the hall to ask them to turn down the noise, but I’ve already asked her once and she got offended, so I doubt it will do any good.

Chapter Four

Audrey

I’m immediately regretting the two bottles of Barefoot Harper and imbibed last night. My head is pounding, I’m dehydrated, and I have to be at work in an hour. I take some aspirin, drink a full glass of water before jumping into the shower.

When I leave my bedroom, dressed and ready to go, Harper is shuffling out of her room.

“Morning,” she says groggily, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“Morning, Harp.” I head to the kitchen to make her some coffee. I’m not a coffee drinker myself, I prefer tea, but I know Harper can’t function in the morning without a fresh cup of hot Folgers.

“Why did we drink on a weeknight again?” she groans, taking a seat at the table.

“That’s an excellent question.” I pour water into the pot and place it in the coffeemaker, turning it on.

Harper buries her face in the cradle of her arms on the table as I grab some aspirin and a tall glass, filling it with water. She doesn’t have to work today, but she does have classes. She’s already a registered nurse like me, but she’s going for her master’s degree to open up more job opportunities. And also because she’s an overachiever, when it comes to her career at least. I just wish she were an overachiever when it came to other aspects of her life, like the kind of men she dates. Or maybe Harper was purposefully aiming for Class-A levels of douchebaggery when she started dating Bryce. If that’s the case, then she definitely went above and beyond expectations. And while she is my best friend and roommate, there’s only so much sense I can talk into her. And I'm not willing to let some lowlife scumbag get in between our friendship.

“Here, these will help.”

Harper lifts her head and takes the aspirin and glass. When she pops the pills in her mouth, swallowing them down with a big gulp of water, she already appears to be more human again.

I grab my keys and strap my purse over my shoulder, heading toward the front door.

“Speaking of drinking, are you going to be here Friday night?”

I snort-laugh and turn to look at her, placing my free hand on my hip, knowing exactly where this is going. She’s still recovering from her hangover and already has booze on the brain. “That depends. Is Bryce going to be here?”

When she takes a slow sip of her water, I know what her answer is before she says it out loud. “Well, considering he’s the one who invited a few people over, yes, he’ll be here.”

“Then no, I definitely won’t.” I head for the door, trying to leave again.

“That’s a shame because Bryce has a good-looking friend who thinks you’re gorgeous.”

I spin around, cocking a brow. “Which friend?”

“Treyton. You haven’t met him before, but he saw your pics on Instagram.”

I walk to the table, placing my hands on top of the chair, my key ring dangling from my finger. “How did he find my Instagram account if we’ve never met?”

“Bryce showed it to him.”

What the fuck?

I furrow my brows in confusion. “Okay, why is Bryce showing his friends my Instagram account?”

She smirks. “Because Treyton was asking him if I had any cute, single friends.”

I sigh, not liking the idea of Bryce trying to set his friends up with me. I’ve met some of his guy friends, and neither is one I’d kiss if he were the last man on earth. “Sorry, not interested.”

I remove my hand from the chair and try to leave again.

“Oh, come on, Aud. Give the guy a chance. I mean, I don’t know him that well, but he’s fucking hot.” She picks up her phone from the table and pulls up something before handing it to me across the table. “See for yourself.”

I reluctantly take the device, a heavy sigh leaving my lips. I highly doubt his looks will sway me. Even if is hot, he’s still Bryce’s—

Holy crap.

He’s got those smokey grey eyes, a chiseled jaw and a little smirk on his beautiful face that makes me melt.

Well, fuck.

“So, what do you think?” Harper asks curiously, trying to stifle a smirk as she perches her chin on the back of her joined hands, her elbows resting on the table.

I try not to show how attracted I am to a freaking photo of a guy I’ve never met before, but damn, those eyes are spellbinding, and I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. “Okay, he’s a little cute.”

“A little? Honey, you and I have similar tastes in men, so I know you don’t think he’s just cute.”

“Yeah, that’s true. We usually do, which is why I have no idea how Bryce got your attention. He must have a big dick or something.” I narrow my eyes. “Does he have a big dick? Because that would explain a lot.”

Harper bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, Aud, you know it’s not all about the size! And no, he doesn’t, he’s average, but as much as you hate him, you can’t deny he’s good-looking.”

“Yes, maybe on the outside he’s cute but personality-wise he’s ugly as fuck.”

She sighs in defeat as I hand over her phone. This is just an argument neither of us will ever be able to agree on. Well, until she finally decides to take off those damn rose-colored glasses and sees Bryce as he truly is. But I know it would make Harper happy if I agreed to stay for the party. I know that sometimes she feels out of place considering most of Bryce’s friends are college kids. Normally, she’s the oldest one there, but you could never tell, because she has a baby face and looks at least five years younger than she actually is, so to the other college kids, she's one of them.

“Fine, I’ll be here for the party.”

Harper’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, but if any of his friends grab my ass, I’m leaving.”

She laughs. “Okay.”

The coffee machine beeps, so she gets up from her seat, grabs a mug and creamer and pours the steaming, hot liquid into her cup. She returns to her seat and sips her coffee as I once again try to leave. “Thanks for starting the coffee, Aud.”

“No problem. See you tonight.” I unlock the door, and when I pull it open, I notice a folded up crisp piece of copy paper taped to the outside. I cock my brow and peel it off, unfolding it. I’m expecting it to be from the building management.

But then I read the first line...

To the two hoity-toity princesses,

I immediately suspect it’s from mister grumpy pants across the hall, but the letter is in fancy cursive writing. Who even writes in cursive anymore? Maybe an old lady or mister grumpy pants, I suppose. But he normally doesn’t leave letters. He’ll just knock on the door with his cane and chew us out in person. Harper said the first time he knocked on her door to complain about the noise, he made her cry.

When he tries that shit with me, I give it right back to him and threaten to call the cops on his dog and have her taken to the pound. He tends to leave us alone now. So, I’m surprised he’s resorted to leaving us notes.

Can you kindly tone down your loud music and obnoxious woohooing, laughter and overall commotion that kept me up until 2 a.m.? Some people actually have to work on a Tuesday morning. I, myself, wake at 5 a.m. every single day and am now forced to go to work on three hours of sleep. Luckily the students I teach possess much more class and are at maturity levels you both obviously could never achieve if you actually tried. I know neither of you could possibly understand waking up early for a job or getting your hands dirty, as you’re city girls who probably live on mommy and daddy’s income and never worked a day in your lives, but some people actually have responsibilities and obligations, not just classes they can skip whenever they feel like it. So have a little respect and lower the volume a few notches.

This time you get a warning, but if the noise persists, I will be forced to contact law enforcement. Have a lovely day drinking your Starbucks lattes and trying to get rid of what I hope are nasty hangovers.

Sincerely,

The tired and cranky guy from 8C, thanks to his loud, annoying neighbors

P.S. The blonde who took my brown dress shoe owes me a new pair seeing as it now reeks of Pinot Grigio, thank you very much.

My nostrils flare before I even finish reading the letter. The audacity of this asshole! He doesn’t even know us, hell he hasn’t even met me in person, yet he makes all kinds of false assumptions about us.

I know neither of you could possibly understand waking up early for a job or getting your hands dirty.

What the actual fuck?! Harper and I both wake up at the crack of dawn to go to work at the hospital, and we’re constantly on our feet for at least twelve hours. We only work three days a week, but our jobs are emotionally and physically draining; I mostly use the other four days to sleep, recover, clean the apartment and run errands. So, for someone to say we don’t work or ever get our hands dirty is a blow to the gut. We’re nurses for crying out loud! Getting our hands dirty is part of the job!

Another remark of his that irks me: We’re city girls who probably live on mommy and daddy’s income. My parents would actually laugh out loud if they read this comment. They always tell me how independent I am. Hell, I wouldn’t even allow them to pay for my schooling even though they wanted to; I wanted to do it all on my own, so I had two jobs while I went to college. They also weren’t too happy when I took a job in New York, but they told me if anyone could handle herself in a big city, it was me. Not to mention, Harper had it way worse than me, growing up.

But the fact that this douchebag is so ridiculously wrong about us makes me smile a little. It will feel so goddamn good to make him see the error of his ways.

I’m still carrying the letter with me as I go to my bedroom closet and grab my stationary from the top shelf. I take out a sheet of paper and a pen from the box, replace it on the shelf and return to the kitchen. I hate the idea of using my good paper on this asshole, but if I’m going to stoop to his level and leave a note on his door, I might as well do it with class.

“What’s the note about?” Harper asks with furrowed brows. “I paid the rent just in the nick of time.”

“It’s not from management.” I take the pen and paper to the table and start writing out a letter. “It’s from our friendly neighbor in 8C,” I say sarcastically.

Her eyes widen as she reaches for the letter. “What did he say?”

I look up and hand it to her.

When she reads it over, the sleepiness in her eyes morphs into anger. “What the hell?! Who does he think he is? He doesn’t even know us!”

“Exactly.” I look down again at the paper and continue the sentence I was working on.

I can feel her staring at me as I write. “What are you doing?”

“Replying to him,” I say without taking my eyes off the page.

“What, are we in elementary school?”

“According to him, we are.”

“He’s just a douchebag, you can’t take anything he says seriously.”

I almost laugh. Normally she’s the one wanting revenge when someone wrongs her, and I’m the one having to talk her out of it. “Maybe, but this will teach him not to make assumptions about people.”

After I’m finished, I let her read it before I tape it to his door. I head to work with a smile on my face. This should teach him not to be such a dickhead.

Chapter Five

Brady

Dear self-righteous butthole in 8C,

~~~

Stay tuned for more...

If you would like to be tagged or untagged, please let me know

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#my book #sneak peek #self-promotion #hannah writs

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darthstitch · 4 years

Text

Say Something

(Or I finally grab my ailing old laptop and decide to write a longer version of the prompt: “Thorin keeps telling Bilbo how much he adores him in Khuzdul and Bilbo does’t know”)

1. Dwalin has had a long time to get used to Durin-caused bullshit.

Yes, he’s aware he’s ALSO a Durin. But his Amad was descended from the ruling family of the Broadbeams and he likes to think that he and Balin got the common sense and intelligence that ancient Dwarrow house was known for. Because Mahal only knew that the Durins didn’t have it. At all.

Case in point: Thorin falling furry arse over boots for that Hobbit.

So all right, Thorin showed uncommon good sense in that respect. Bilbo Baggins was a fine cook and the cookies would make any intelligent, self-respecting Dwarf fall on his knees and propose marriage on the spot.

(Okay, Dwalin didn’t, but that was because he took one look at his King and the Hobbit and just knew....)

But did Thorin have to go about the whole business like a complete clotpole?

Hence:

“Mahal’s balls, Thorin, REALLY?” So all right, he was sorry that he’d spewed ale all over poor Kili but the lad should really be better at ducking at dodging at this point.

Thorin’s suspiciously red ears were the real answer but his King had to snarl, “Shut it, Dwalin!”

There had been an argument. Something something Elrond, pointy-ears, not trusting them, better manners.... whatever. Master Baggins was apparently not the meek and mild little creature they had all taken him for and it was quite amusing to watch the wee one stand up to their grumpy stormcloud King.

Who apparently found it appropriate to blurt out, in Khuzdul: “Why are you so confoundedly irritatingly ridiculously ADORABLE, Hobbit?!!”

Master Baggins had no idea what was actually being said, but the Hobbit simply assumed, based from the surly tone, that Thorin was being Disagreeable and Rude. So he simply put his nose up in the air and responded with: “Bless and confound you too, Master Dwarf!” Then followed this up with a magnificently dramatic exit.

He did not see Thorin turn all the way red, nor the way Dwalin reached out to grab him by his collar because his royal Durin cousin was suddenly wobbly at the knees. Look, Thorin was an idiot, but he was still Dwalin’s king AND idiot. Durin-caused bullshit, right?

Also, Bilbo did not see or hear Fili grumpily handing a bag of coins to Kili.

All Kili said in response was: “Told you so, Fee. Absolute goober.”

2. About that bet - Fili and Kili were not stupid.

Yes, they were young. And occasionally made some silly decisions. But that came with the territory and a little silliness added some fun and excitement to one’s life.

But yes, the brothers both observed their uncle falling for their Hobbit.

The nature of the bet was HOW Thorin would go about wooing the Hobbit.

Fili was of the opinion that Thorin would behave in a manner befitting his status as a King and of the House of Durin. In short, Thorin Oakenshield would be every brooding, swoon-worthy, romantic hero in those Dwarrow romances that their Amad adored and that Fili claimed he never read (nope nope nope - never - what are you talking about).

Kili knew better. He knew his Uncle Thorin would be a complete and utter walnut. A total goober over their Hobbit.

And yes, Bilbo had become “their” Hobbit in very short order. The sons of Dis knew how to recognize a true treasure when they found it. So it was easy for them to adopt Bilbo Baggins as part of their family and had no problem telling him so.

Bilbo’s smile, the hugs he bestowed on “you dear, dear lads” and the extra portions of stew with mushrooms that they got for dinner that night, confirmed that it was the right decision. Also, who knew that mushrooms could be so amazingly delicious?

Bilbo giggled, “I’ll make hobbits of you lads yet. Or since you’re still dwarves, hmm... maybe dwobbits would be better?”

“Dwobbits?!!” was the exclamation of nearly every member of the company. Because of course they were listening in, the nosy buggers.

“Dwobbits,” Ori said thoughtfully. “Has a nice ring to it.” And of course, this immediately went into his journal.

“Dwobbits... that would explain much about the Line of Durin,” Balin mused. He twinkled at Thorin, whose ears were once again, that tell-tale shade of red. The erstwhile King of Erebor looked rather gobsmacked, as a matter of fact. “It has been said that Durin’s beloved was not a Dwarf...”

“Maybe all that hair that should’ve been on your face has gone to your feet, Kili, let me check...”

“Oi! Leave off, Fili!”

“If Mahal and Yavanna would bless us with dwobbits, I would pray that they would all have your beautiful curly hair and your adorable, kissable nose...” Thorin muttered absently in Khuzdul, not seeing the collective facepalming and coin-purse exchanging of the Dwarves close enough to hear him.

Bilbo, not understanding of course, frowned at Thorin, even as he absently separated the squabbling boys, gently cuffing them by the ears. “It’s a bit rude to be nattering about in a language one can’t understand.”

“No, Master Hobbit, I’m simply coming up with some suitable way to explain to my sister how I’ve finally tricked some poor unsuspecting soul into adopting this pair of scamps.”

“Oi!”

Bilbo calmly handed Thorin his own stew - with a generous helping of mushrooms - and said, “I’m sure you’ll manage, Your Dwobbit Majesty.”

Bilbo was going to learn Khuzdul eventually. In fact, he was fairly sure that “Irak’Adadith” meant “Hobbit.” Yavanna knew that Kili and Fili used the word to refer to him often enough.

Also, he was quite proud that he DID get all three royal Durins to enjoy mushrooms.

3. Nori and Gloin were sensible Dwarves and thus, they mostly contented themselves by running the various betting pools that had sprung up over the romance (yes, Mahal damn it, it WAS a romance and an EPIC one at that) of their King and Hobbit.

Hilariously, it was Bifur who kept winning most of the bets. It was almost as if the axe in his head granted him some sort of seer-related powers, enough to rival even Oin’s.

And yes, Oin was Gloin’s secret weapon as the canny old healer employed his gifts of selective hearing to gather all the needed information.

“Thorin Oakenshield, WHAT did you just call me? Bunnanunê? If that means ‘halfling’ - might I remind you, I am a HOBBIT and NOT half of anything, you confounded Dwarf!”

“My tiny treasure, eh?” Oin muttered. “He’s getting creative with the endearments.”

“Reminds me of my darling mizim and how I wooed her...” Gloin mused.

“Gloin, EVERYTHING reminds you of your darling wife,” said Nori.

“And so what if it does -- !”

Bifur interrupted the argument with a smug grin and a clear request for money. Yes, he won the bet again.

4. At this point, Bofur decided to start making toys for any future royal dwobbits. Bifur was quite, quite sure that Bilbo and Thorin would end up having a tiny, dark-haired and blue-eyed dwobbit at some point. Maybe there was something to the stories about Hobbits springing up from cabbage patches. Maybe Bifur really was developing Seer abilities.

In any case, “Uncle Bofur” would be happy to spoil any dwobbits with toys, while also aiding and abetting in mischief.

5. Look, Bombur did his part in all these shenanigans. He and Bilbo traded recipes throughout the journey and he was definitely NOT imagining the pink in Bilbo’s cheeks when Bombur gleefully disclosed Thorin’s favorite foods.

He also wasn’t above nudging the odds favorably when Bilbo invariably came up with something new and delicious that Thorin would enjoy. And yes, he was right there when Thorin inadvertently blurted out an utterly twitterpated marriage proposal to Bilbo that the Hobbit had mistaken for a “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Bilbo had said with a sunny smile. He wasn’t quite sure why Dwalin was suddenly at Thorin’s side at that point, but he did give them both second helpings of dinner.

He did chalk up Dwalin’s hand on Thorin’s collar as some sort of Dwarvish shenanigans (really, Dwalin and Thorin sometimes gave Fili and Kili a run for their money when it came to ridiculous mischief).

Bombur just beamed as he caught the money bags coming his way. He was actually second runner up to Bifur when it came to the betting.

6. There was an ongoing argument between Dori and Balin.

Balin was of the opinion that Khuzdul was still their sacred, Mahal-given language, and as such, could not be shared with non-Dwarves.

Dori was of the opinion that Bilbo was a true Dwarf-friend and for Mahal’s sake, SOMEBODY had to do something regarding the truly pathetic pining of their King over his Hobbit. Yes, it was romantic and adorable but really!

Somebody had to take Bilbo aside and get him to realize what Thorin was really saying, so that their poor king could be put out of his misery.

And anyway, the Consort-to-Be of the King Under the Mountain should really learn Khuzdul.

Of course, Balin was merely stalling, because he loved a good argument and he was storing up all these wonderful, wonderful points because he was a good adviser and wanted to aid Thorin in giving any old, conservative, useless, greedy nobles collective apoplexy.

He also knew that he could count on Dori in throwing any potential threats to Bilbo off the Mountain.

7. All right, Ori had enough of this insanity.

Really, he was as avid a Storyteller as Bilbo was and he simply couldn’t end this tale of fighting dragons, regaining Erebor, tricking woodland Elves etc. etc. with: “And our King Under the Mountain was a complete and utter walnut who let his Hobbit go back to his Shire without ever letting him know how much he was loved. The End.”

Yeah, nope!

So Ori waited and watched for his opportunity and Mahal deigned to bless his efforts.

They were all currently engaged in the tedious work that scribes and historians generally left out of the tales, but were still important in rebuilding Erebor. The scene was thus - Ori and Bilbo and Thorin Oakenshield and a pile of paperwork that needed to be worked on.

It was most peculiar how Bilbo turned pink as he watched Thorin Oakenshield pull out a pair of spectacles from his pocket and put them on.

“Is there something on my face, ghivashel?”

Oh. OH.

“Well, yes, there is. Something. On your face.” Bilbo flailed.

“Surely you’ve seen glasses before, amrâlimê,” Thorin teased.

“It is STILL not polite that you keep calling me all these absurd things that you refuse to translate,” Bilbo retorted.

And at that point, Ori was absolutely DONE. “I think I would like a pot of tea. Bilbo?”

Bilbo eagerly took the offered “out” and all but pulled Ori out of the room, both of them ignoring Thorin, who was definitely not pouting. Bilbo did assure the King Under the Mountain that he and Ori would return with tea for him as well. The not-pout was erased with a brilliant smile. Bilbo waved weakly at him even as it was Ori’s turn to drag him away.

As soon as they were safely out of earshot, Bilbo slumped against Ori. “Glasses, Ori. GLASSES.”

“I know, Bilbo.”

“How does he still look so MAJESTIC and HANDSOME in GLASSES? This is most unnecessary, Ori. This is RIDICULOUS. And why am I telling you all this? I’ve gone and lost my mind, that’s it. Mad Baggins, Mad Bilbo Baggins...”

“There, there, Bilbo. If it helps, he feels EXACTLY the same way about you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous - he’s your King and -- “

“ Amrâlimê means ‘my love,’ Bilbo.”

“What.”

“Ghivashel means ‘treasure of all treasures.’ They’re endearments. Words of love. Every last one of them.”

“WHAT.”

Ori smiled. And anyone else who would have seen the smile on the quiet little Scribe of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company would have called it bright as the sun and terrible as the sea.

“I’m going to teach you Khuzdul, Bilbo Baggins.”

8. There was something comforting in confessing his love using his mother-tongue.

Thorin Oakenshield was quite resigned to the fact that he had lost any hope of gaining his One’s affections after the whole debacle with the Arkenstone and the dragon sickness. Yes, apologies were made and yes, the friendship had been mended.

And yet, Thorin was too shamed, too angry at himself to even ask for more. Bilbo had his home in the Shire, his books, his armchair and the memories of his family. There was an acorn in his hobbit’s pockets that deserved to be planted at Bag End.

Bilbo deserved all that, his own happily ever after. Thorin could never be part of that. He didn’t deserve it.

“I wish you would stay with me forever,” Thorin said one day, as he and Bilbo sat together by the hearth in the King’s own private rooms. He smiled as he shaped the words in his language and prepared to give Bilbo some excuse, a chance to banter and tease.

“I want to stay with you forever,” Bilbo suddenly said in near-perfect Khuzdul. “But you have to tell me why, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Oh, Mahal. Mahal have mercy on him.

“Please say something... ghivashel. Amrâlimê.” His darling Hobbit had turned this enchanting shade of pink and suddenly, Thorin found his words, the right words, at long last.

“Because you’ve had my heart all along, Bilbo Baggins.”

Also, kisses had to be done here. Because hearing those words from his Hobbit’s lips meant kisses, kisses that were eagerly returned, that had Hobbit hands twining in his hair and Thorin murmured a heartfelt apology as he saw tears gather in Bilbo’s eyes.

“I love you too, you confounded, ridiculous Dwarf.”

9. Bilbo eventually learned that Fili and Kili had been calling him “Little Uncle” the entire time. He laughed, he cried and then gave the boys extra helpings of pie for dessert.

A certain Dwobbit with curly dark hair and big blue eyes would always love the stuffed plush dragon that his Uncle Bofur made for him. Yep, Bifur won the betting pool again.

No, Fili and Kili absolutely did NOT have furry feet. But yes, they were proud to be Dwobbits of the Line of Durin.

Gloin had to be reminded that the Line of Durin tended to find their Ones in the most unconventional ways. This was the only logical explanation as to why his darling Gimli would eventually end up married to Thranduil’s son, Mahal save them all.

Many, many generations later, it was said among the Dwarves of Erebor that leaving knitted things and flowers at the feet of the statue of Ori, the Scribe of Thorin Oakenshield’s famed Company, would lead to blessings and luck in love.

- end -

#thorin you walnut is the best goddamn tag i’ve ever found - you guys are AMAZING

#bagginshield #thorin oakenshield #bilbo baggins #thorin you goober #fili and kili #dwalin #ori is a BAMF #i crack what i want

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sanktnikolais · 3 years

Text

Weather The Storm

A/N: Second piece from the three-year gap series (my house of stone, your ivy grows) of the trilogy and King of Scars lashkljhas another argument bc they have the trope of reluctant allies to lovers pining idiots and I want to explore that more ohoho

have this mess

Word count: 1996

Zoya's boots crunched in the snow as she tore through the crowd of bustling soldiers in the camp. She ignored the curious stares she got from the First Army men, her mind focused on one thing that was driving her feet faster.

The King is an utter fool.

She grit her teeth as another wave of annoyance hit her, threatening to make her lash out at anyone around. If it weren't for the hushed chatter of a few Grisha from the other side of camp, she wouldn't have known that he was here.

Didn't you hear? The King came along with the First Army to lead the attack in the left flank.

We would have lost the bigger part of the boundary if it weren’t for their surprise attack.

He wouldn't have been recognized if his disguise hadn't faded.

It was actually a good cover, but I would have recognized the redheads among our men.

Her jaw twitched, the wind picking up around her. She breathed deeply and calmed her powers. But the coldness only became worse. Annoyance had already clouded her reason. The wound in her right arm stung, and she was sure it had opened again, but she didn’t bother checking on it.

Zoya should have known he would pull off something like this. If she had, she would have chained him up in his chambers and locked him in there. She figured she had underestimated his stubbornness.

Ahead, the biggest tent that she recognized as the makeshift infirmary loomed, with people coming in and out restlessly. A small part of her worried that the King could be one of the wounded inside, but her irritation told her there was no way he would be there if he just hadn't come. That idiot.

She was almost by the tent flap when a familiar figure emerged from the inside.

"Well, isn't it the Commander?" Tamar was smiling brightly as she approached Zoya, completely unaware of her inner turmoil. Behind her, Tolya came out from the tent as well. They were unharmed, at least, and Zoya felt relieved at that. But unlike his sister, Tolya’s face looked grim at the sight of Zoya.

She appreciated the tall man's ability to read facial expressions.

"I still can't believe—"

"Where is he?" Zoya cut her off, voice low.

Tamar went silent for a moment. Then she sighed, her smile fading. "He insisted," she said, shaking her head. “I would have locked him up if he hadn’t become all too authoritative.”

“Then you should’ve tried harder!” Zoya’s voice rose. Some of the soldiers stopped to listen, and she fought the urge to berate them about being nosy and to mind their own damned business. “Do you realize the danger you let him walk into?”

“Woah, Commander.” Tamar straightened, her sharp eyes narrowing as if she had been challenged to a duel. “Just because you go against him doesn’t mean I would too.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Unlike you, I am loyal to the throne. You could—”

Tamar stopped abruptly, and Zoya’s anger flared. The winds howled atto her will. “Go on. I dare you,” she said. Thunder cracked in the sky despite the snow, making Tamar flinch slightly though she immediately regained composure and set a hand on one of her axes. Zoya knew she would regret this later, so she tried to calm herself down. But something inside her had been ticked, and the rage just overwhelmed everything. “Go on. I could what?”

It was then Tolya stepped forward and got in between them, his towering form almost intimidating Zoya. Almost. “Alright, that’s enough, you two,” he said, his deep voice more gentle than she had expected. He looked at her, then turned to his sister. “Let’s not do this now, or ever, if you may. We’ve all had a rough fortnight, and besides, we have a victory to celebrate.”

A tense silence washed over them, neither of them wanting to back down just yet. But Tolya's words seemed to get to them because their stances slacked, Tamar letting go of her axes and Zoya willed the wind to calm down around them.

The people around them were still watching, so she sent a glare to their way that had them scurrying back to whatever it was they were doing. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Not the time to lose control.

"Where is he?" she asked again. Her voice was much gentler this time, though it took all she could to make it sound like that.

Tolya inclined his head to the side. "There, by the edge of camp near the cliff," he replied. “He went there just now.”

Zoya turned to the direction he was pertaining to. True enough, she could make out a small figure through the still falling snow.

"Let me guess, he wanted to be alone this time?" she said, tone a bit mocking. The King was out in the open, and he didn't even care about the worst case scenario. "Out there in the open? Good saints."

She didn’t let them say anything else as she stomped over her king. The title sounded funny to her, with the way he was acting. He definitely had to live up to his name if he wanted the people to trust him. Or if he wanted her to trust him.

Lantsov was in a First Army soldier’s uniform, the olive drab looking black against the weather. The golden double eagle on his shoulder indicated an officer’s—a Major—rank, and Zoya was left wondering how he had gotten such a high place in the military despite being young.

He was near now, and if he noticed her, he didn’t acknowledge her presence. Zoya was already ready to call him out had he not moved and buried his rifle in the snow in front of him, its stock pointed upwards. She stopped in her tracks. Her eyebrows furrowed as she watched him take off his helmet and put in on the gun, along with a bunch of tags he was holding. There was a long silence, nothing but the sound of the wind could be heard. His head bowed, letting his hand linger on his helmet, and then he was standing straight again, the poise and stance of a well-respected leader.

She eyed him for another moment, noticing the slump on his shoulders as he clutched at the tags on the helmet, and she was left wondering who owned them. Were they his friends? Mere soldiers he wanted to grieve for? The questions lingered in her mind, but she didn’t voice them out.

Another beat passed, and then he trained his eyes forward. “Come to give me an earful, haven’t you, Nazyalensky?” he said, a rueful smile on his lips. If it were some other time, Zoya would have sympathized with him. But now she was just angry. “Worry not, I think I deserve it, anyway.”

Zoya almost laughed. “I am indeed glad you know your mistake, Your Highness,” she said. She considered her next words, but she couldn’t find a way to make it lighter. “You should not have been here.”

Lantsov huffed incredulously, as if he were insulted. “And what, my dear Squaller? Sit back pretty on my throne and watch as my men give their life to the country I have sworn to protect?”

“As much as I hate to break it to you and your ego,” she said, “it is the only way for you to be able to protect Ravka.” She stepped closer to him to emphasize her point. “You have to live.”

“I don’t think watching your people do things for you could be called living.”

“You fool,” Zoya said through gritted teeth. “You’re missing the entire point. You’re the king. If you died in battle, who would have replaced you? Some distant relative who had no care to the throne? A pretender? The Triumvirate?” She shook her head in disbelief. “You’ve chosen us to steer this forsaken country alongside you, so don’t try to make any more reckless decisions that would lead to the nation’s and your own demise.”

Lantsov became silent, a flash of hurt passing over to his face. It was gone in a blink, and Zoya questioned herself if she had just imagined it. His expression became stoic, the usual one he gave when he was wearing the mask of the monarch again, instead of a boy that had too much on his shoulders.

“Sometimes I wonder if you knew how it felt like losing people close to you to this country,” he said. His eyes were hard, grief-stricken, and she realized that he had been through wars too, just like her and countless others. “Maybe then you would realize why I am willing to put my life on the line.”

“We all lost people. And don’t you dare tell me that I do not know how it felt like,” she said. Her aunt’s kind smile flashed before her eyes. She blinked the image away. It wasn’t the right time to grieve, but the pain of losing her rekindled in her chest. “Because I do.” She paused, mustering up her strength to speak. “The only difference is that I don’t let grief consume the logical part of my mind.”

She expected Lantsov to get angry, or leave, or even remove her from her post. But he just smiled ruefully. “No,” he said. “The only difference is that I am a royal and I am not permitted to die. Even if I wanted to save them, I couldn’t. But you could.”

Zoya stilled. The words hit like knives to her heart, and suddenly she was fifteen again, crossing the Fold on her own in hopes to see her aunt again. But she never got to her in time.

She tried to shove the memories away, but it kept flooding. Her aunt and her niece weren’t just the ones who perished in the war barely a year ago. Sergei, mutilated by the Darkling’s nichevo’ya. Harshaw, struck by a bullet to the chest. Fedyor, thrown from the roof of the Little Palace and down to the waiting monsters. Marie. Paja. And countless others. Friends and companions, lying dead in the pool of blood in the hall they had been staying before the attack happened.

She had seen the Second Army on the brink of annihilation. He was aware she had been through the same war, and yet he still asked her if she knew how it felt losing people?

Her eyes stung, fists clenched. Her hands twitched at her sides, ready to summon the winds and even lightning to her will if it meant making her point to the king. But she chose not to. It would only make things worse.

Zoya breathed deeply, letting her anger pass before she spoke again. She hated this. She hated herself. But above all, she hated him because he was right.

She knew to herself she wouldn't have sat back too, waiting until her people made a difference. No, she would be with them and fight alongside them, and try to see the change with her own eyes.

But she wasn't the leader of Ravka, and she never would be. So she would do everything she could to protect its king, even from him himself and his own foolishness.

She straightened then, slipping her own stoical mask on her face. “That may have been the difference, Your Highness, but I am not the one who chose your fate. It was you alone, and you would stand up to it.” She started to turn, wanting nothing more than to get away from him. “And your fate is to live. For Ravka.”

With that, Zoya left the king standing on his own in the cold, the weight of her own words heavy on her shoulders. But she locked them away and continued on. She only did what she knew was right.

For Ravka.

#zoyalai #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #tamar kir bataar #tolya yul bataar #king of scars #my writing #hMMM #zoya being quite temperamental in the start aslfj;la #MORE TENSION #bc i love reluctant allies to lovers ohohoho #zoya canonically said she didn't trust him at first #let's take advantage of that #no softs until the seventh piece i think #HJALSFH #it's just them being insufferable and rough with each other #stay tuned #will write the next one asap ;-;

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bellamyblake · 4 years

Text

The ugly knitted red hat

That’s just some domestic Bellarke in the post season 4 verse where they have their own camp and are cute and sweet and all of that, basically fluff lol

After all these years, despite the peace, he still likes getting up early.

There’s some pleasure in it for him as much as Clarke hates it, to sneak out of the warm cacoon of their bed and put on his socks, then his pants and tie his boots.

He even tugs on the ugly red hat that she knitted for him a month ago when the weather was starting to get cold because she just hated running her fingers through his curls and touching the cold tips of his ears.

The hat was funny, had a weird shape, longer on the back and shorter on the front, she had attempted to make some funny criss cross pattern that O had tried teaching her when they had their “sister bonding time” by the camp fire but Clarke had proven to be a disaster in that as much as she was in the kitchen.

Still, it brought her peace, as she told him one night when he was pulling her head to his chest and kissing the top of her hair. It calmed her anxious hands, helped the tidal waves that thretened to consume her, quiet down.

And he had been proud of her for doing that, he had encouraged it and praised all her attempts-the ugly red hat, the bright green sweater she made for his birthday that had a longer left than right sleeve and barely any collar, the blue and red scarf she made him to keep his throat warm while he was standing guard at night but that barely wrapped once around him.

He loved the imperfection of it all because that’s what they’ve always been-imperfect yet beautiful.

And just like she loved his poor carpenting attempts and kept the three legged chair by the fire place or the sharp-edge chest by the bedside even though they only-half used them, so did he wear his hat and sweater and scarf with pride.

(Miller had the most fun out of it. But even he knew he had to stop teasing his friend when Clarke came by and brought them hot tea or soup before their nightshift at the gates).

So now he tucks on his uneven red hat and throws his jacket on, grabbing his axe from the place by the door and heading outside.

Technically, he knows that he should’ve chopped more woods for the fire a few days ago-fall was progressing and fast, bringing rain and an orange-red leaved path of prettiness to the door of their cabin but with it came harsher winds and colder nights.

Clarke had been pressing herself closer and closer to him every night at first, then started wearing not one but two of his shirts to bed and when last night she shoved her freezing fingers in between his legs, he had yelped, got up and said “That’s it! I’m starting the fire!”

They had been postponing it because there were such warm days that they spend them in the back yard taking care of the last of their tomatoes and beans with nothing but shirts and pants on, even barefoot here and there.

The house and it’s wooden boards would warm up and stay so through the night but yesterday had been the tipping point and though Clarke complained and tried to drag him back down to bed, she had simply melted away once he started the fire yet despite it all she still stole the blanket and left his back bare and somewhat cold.

Which is why maybe now that he picks up his axe and swings at the tree he has figured he’d chop off, he feels his back creak desperately and tug at him, making him hurt.

He ignores it of course as he’s used to the pain.

They’ve had so many injuries in just the past year since they settled down in their eighty acres-he broke a knee just a few months ago, Clarke split her head open last spring, then caught a bad cold with a lasting cough, after which he was stupid enough to go after an angry boar that practically ripped his entire right side apart and left him drowning in a pool of blood.

But every pain dulled, he found out, no matter if physical or emotional.

It took time, it took many tears and many heart breaks and many trembling hands holding each other at night when you woke up screaming and your voice got raw with terror and you could taste death but it passed...and it got duller.

It still hurt.

But it became a part of you, like a bone, like a scar or a bruise that never really faded and kept aching now and then with the changing of the weather.

He gets lost in his thoughts as he puts all his strenght in cutting off the tree-sweat thickles down his back and he throws away his jacket despite the harsh morning wind and the lack of sun.

Clarke would kill him if she saw him, he thinks. It’s a good thing she’s home then, sleeping under the covers.

He stops to catch his breath, leans on his tired knees and the axe-damn, there may be some truth to all of Clarke’s jokes-he was indeed getting older.

He closes his eyes and lets the sharp morning air fill his lungs so hard it stung his cheeks, made the hair on his back rise, his toes curl up-he liked the cold much more than the summer and he was glad it was finally back.

Once his heart goes back to normal he looks up at the sky for just a minute and thinks of his mother for some reason, wonders if she’d like that weather and decides that she will-she was used to the cold of their small living quarters and welcomed it like an old friend she got to say hello to every morning.

He picks up his axe and goes on with his work, using the time to go over the list of friends they’ve lost and asking himself that same question-would they like it out here? In the forest? In their new camp? In the gloomy fall day?

Jasper, he settles, wouldn’t be a big fan of it, he was too skinny so he’d be too cold and Bellamy would probably use Clarke’s ugly scarf to throw over his wanky shoulders.

Maya would enjoy it. She’d never spend much time out so he thinks she’d like the sharpness of the cold as much as he does.

Lincoln may prefer the summer, he thinks, he often did like going around without shirts or shoes, just feeling the earth under him so the chilliness may not be to his taste but he’d probably enjoy the camp fire and even volunteer to help Bellamy with the wood chopping.

They could’ve talked like brothers, Bellamy could’ve exchanged a mythology story for a grounder one and then they’d be stupid boys and compete about who’d carry more wood back home just to be idiots about something and get scolded by Octavia and Clarke.

He sighs, rubs his back that’s now completely wet and keeps on his work, going through his list-Atom, Charlotte, Roma and on and on, names he knew by heart now that he repeated in times of quiet peacefullness like this.

Finally the tree falls and he kneels on his bad leg resting his hand on top and whispering a quiet I’m sorry like he always did when he cut off a tree or killed an animal these days.

He still smiled sadly and rubbed his hand over the creasy bark.

“I knew you’d have taken it off, you stubborn old man!” he hears her angry yet still somewhat sleepy voice coming from behind him interrupting his apology.

He turns with a half smirk, knowing full well that a big one would piss her off even more.

She’s in her oversized home-worn sweat pants that were once upon a time his, a shirt and a sweater knitted by his sister with the picture of a two headed deer.

Her hair is in a messy bun, she has just one glove on her left hand and two cups of something in the other, her cheeks are red from the mix of cold and sleep and her eyes are that deep celurian blue like the ocean that he still hasn’t gotten to see yet but dreams of at least once a week.

And he has this sudden urge to kiss her.

So he drops his axe and strides to her while she keeps on with her speech.

“Do you know how cold it is, Bellamy? Let me tell you, it’s effing keep-your-jacket-on-cold especially when you’re chopping a goddamn tree and sweating your ass off and you go out there and you dare take it off when you know full damn well how sick you can get if you-”

But she doesn’t end her beautiful rant that he knows is provoked by simple love-she loves him and she cares and this is just another way of her saying it like he did when he massaged her feet after a long day in medbay or made her tea every night before bed or helped her braid her hair when she was annoyed but had too much patients to take care of.

All of it was love.

They were love.

He kisses her with all that he has and for a moment he thinks she’ll just pull away and keep scolding him but it must be too much for her to resist because she simply kisses him back and melts into him.

He smells her-in all her sleepy Clarke glory-her lavender shampoo, the pinecone soap, the bearness of sleep on her lips and cheeks.

Her fingers wrap around his neck, tuck at his curls, he smiles a little, groans somewhat but then picks her up which he knows is what she’s been wanting all along and carries them to the fallen tree where he carefully sits them down.

Finally, she pulls away and rests her forehead on his.

“If you think this will work as a distraction you’re goddamn wrong!”

He chuckles and she can’t help but smile too.

“I am a little right.”

“No, you’re not.” she huffs and pulls away, cupping his cheek and moving his sweaty curls from his forehead under his red hat. “You took off your jacket but kept this on?”

He wraps his hand around her wrist and pulls it to his lips, kissing the inside of it with gentleness she still gets surprised by sometimes.

“I’ll always keep it on.”

And she knows he doesn’t mean just the hat.

He means her love in his heart, her hand on his cheek, her lips pressed to his.

“Well you’re still an idiot-” she huffs and puts the cups by their feet before reaching for his jacket “Put this on before your ass froze.”

“What’s that?” he nods at the metalic cups while she settles down next to him and leans on his side, reaching down to pick them back up and hand one of them to his freezing fingers.

“A drink.” she says with a smile “I think we deserve one, wouldn’t you agree?”

He smells the familiar scent of Monty’s moonshine before he even brings it closer to his nose and laughs at her mishivious expression.

Then he reaches and covers her hand with his over his tired fucked up knee.

“We do, princess.” he rubs his thumb over her bony cold fingers desperate to wamr them up “We truly do.”

#bellarke fanfiction #bellarke #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #the 100 #fluff #domestic #canon divergence #my writing

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cheeri0-queeri0 · 4 years

Text

My First Two Loves (WLW version): Chapter 3

Is she gaping? Emma has to be gaping.

“Ava… y-you and… Mason? Are…”

Ava grins rakishly, rubbing a hand along Mason’s back. “Madly in love? Or, well, lust - we haven’t gotten to that other L-word yet.”

Nails. Nails are being driven into her heart.

For his part, Mason looks taken aback by her reaction. “I meant to tell you last night, Emma.”

“You could’ve texted!” A lump is rising in her throat.

Mason scratches the back of his head. “I wanted to tell you in person. I tried to call, but when the line kept dropping, I thought…this is better?”

No. No it is not. It is one million times worse.

“Yeah, you’re right!” Emma forces the words to come out chipper, forces a placid smile. “I… I’m speechless. Congrats, you two.”

Congrats on secretly shattering her heart. But hey, what’s another secret to the now-sure-to-grow pile?

Mason’s shoulders relax, the tension falling from his face as he turns to Ava. “I almost forgot, babe! I got a little something for you.” He reaches over on the hood of Ava’s car where he put a cute little thermos.

Ava tentatively takes it from him, eyes wide in surprise. “Caramel macchiato?”

Mason gives her a shy, crooked smile. “With two shakes of cinnamon.”

Ava’s favorite.

The girl slings her other arm around his neck and rests her head against his cheek. “You remembered! Best boyfriend ever!”

Emma...is going to combust from agony.

“You guys are just so...perfect together,” she grits out, hoping it sounds passably pleasant.

Ava’s eyes find hers, softening just a bit.

Mason lets out a breathy laugh that seems more like a sigh of relief. “See, Ava, I told you she’d be happy for us!”

Ava blinks, breaking her gaze away. “I knew she would be. She is my bestie, after all.” There’s something off about her tone. If she hadn’t told Emma in the car that they were still solid despite Lauren dying to usurp her place, Emma would worry that maybe they weren’t best friends anymore.

Hell, maybe she’s still a little worried. And now for more than the Lauren reason.

“I should leave you alone for some...couple time. Catch you later!” Cue an ungraceful escape.

Mason jogs to catch up. “There’s so many times I tried to call. To tell you.” His voice turns plaintive. “Emma, I just want to double check. Are you okay with this?”

No! I am unequivocally not okay with this! God, how badly Emma wants to shout that at the top of her lungs. If she said it, Mason is exactly the kind of guy who would follow through and break up. He’s good. And that’s the problem.

“Mason. I’m happy for you. And for Ava.”

“...Yeah? Because your happiness means a lot to me.”

And now she has to sell it. “Yeah. I’m stoked. You’re so cute together. I should’ve played matchmaker years ago.” That...might have been overkill. “I just have some things to take care of right now. Talk later, okay?”

Mason nods. It worked. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Emma power-walks away, tears pricking at her eyes as she let her feet take her anywhere else.

After a short time, she rounds a corner, realizing too late that she’s behind the gym near the back parking lot she usually avoided.

And she wasn’t alone.

“Hey there, princess. What brings you to my place of business?” The boy is smarmy, leaning against the brick wall, hair gelled so thickly it wouldn’t move even in a tornado.

Emma stills, confused. “Your...uh, what?”

He frowns, pushing off the wall and wandering closer. “My store. My shop. My livelihood. What you buying?”

Oh. Shit. “I’m not - I’m just trying to get away from some people - ”

The boy comes to a stop too close. “Save it. A sob story won’t get a discount.” He looked her up and down, calculating. Though he definitely didn’t look like someone who was good at math. “Adderall. Has to be. A study buddy. Everyone needs one, right?”

He yanks a plastic bag out of his pocket.

“Oh, no thanks. I appreciate it, but I am not interested.”

His jaw works, clenching and unclenching. “The offer isn’t optional anymore. You saw what I’m selling. You’re part of this.” He takes one more step, his Axe body spray stinging the inside of Emma’s nose. “Now open up that bag and find me two hundred bucks.”

Several thoughts race through Emma’s head. The first, unhelpfully, is two HUNDRED dollars for one bottle of pills? Shortly followed by If I run, will he grab me?

Sensing the direction of her thoughts, the boy huffs. “I don’t like having to hurt people, really.” But he would, hung unspoken in the air.

“Leave her alone, Darren.” The voice is unfamiliar, low, with a rasp to it.

Emma whirls around to the girl stalking toward them. She’s...dangerous looking, leather jacket slung around her broad shoulders, green eyes boring unwaveringly into the aggressive pill-pusher.

The boy - Darren - backs up quickly. “N-Noelle? I didn’t know you were back in town. I’m just trying to run a business, okay?”

Noelle doesn’t speak, just wrenches the bag out of Darren’s hands and flings it onto the roof.

“You bitch!” Darren hesitates, glaring, then turns tail and runs.

The other girl watches him go, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. Up close, she’s taller than Emma, but only just.

It’s like the bubble of nervous energy inside her just bursts, and Emma blurts out, “W-wow, that was...kind of amazing -uh, amazingly stupid!”

Noelle hums, glancing at her. Emma doesn’t miss the way her eyes drift down to her stomach and back. “You gotta fight like with like.”

Emma laughs, a tittering little sound that she hates. She bites her lip, hard. “You’re lucky it didn’t come to a fight.”

The other girl shrugs, unbothered. “I like my chances better than yours.”

Okay...fair.

Noelle sighs, swiping a hand through her bangs to push them out of her chiseled face. “You should get out of here. I can’t spend all day playing guardian angel.”

“Oh.” The comment rubs her the wrong way, but Emma brushes it off. After all, she did call the girl’s heroics stupid. Maybe...maybe there’s a way to make it up to her? “Unless…you’re new, right? Maybe I can repay the favor and show you around?”

Noelle raises a brow. “How do you know I’m new?”

Not an outright rejection, Emma can work with that. She smiles. “I happen to know pretty much everyone here.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“So you’ve been invisible the past four years? I would definitely have remembered you.” The last part comes out without her even thinking it.

Green eyes drop to the ground, expression shuttering off. “I’ve...been away.”

“Like on a trip?”

“Not exactly.”

Emma pauses. She honestly can’t tell what the other girl is thinking. “You...don’t seem to like answering questions.”

Noelle’s lips twist into a humorless smile. “I’m told it’s one of my best character traits.”

Emma’s heart pangs. That’s messed up. “I’m not sure who told you that. It’s...sad. It keeps people away.”

“Sometimes it’s better that way.” Her voice is flat, either matter-of-fact or defeated. Who’s to tell?

“Not always,” Emma shoots back, challenging.

Noelle studies her curiously, weighing her words. She runs her tongue over her lips, then clicks it against her teeth, coming to a decision. “Fine. So, hypothetically, let’s say I take you up on this offer. What are you gonna do? Draw me a map or something?”

Emma snorts. She’s dismal at drawing. “I’d give you a tour. The campus has changed a lot the last few years, and I know all the best new spots. Besides, I’m not letting you get away that easy.”

She means it as a joke, but - she means it as something else, too.

Noelle’s back straightens, and there’s a renewed interest in her gaze. She gives her an easy grin. “I like the sound of that. Alright, I’m in.”

Something in Emma’s chest swoops. She can’t help but beam. “Welcome to Eastridge High tour extraordinaire.”

She takes the other girl around the school, pointing out landmarks important and trivial. Noelle opens up, not by much, but enough that Emma gets a glimpse of who she is underneath all the stoic backtalk. Intuitive, dry humor in spades, and…

And maybe...very, very attractive.

Emma’s only ever really had a crush on Ava, so she’s not totally sure what her type is, but damn. Apparently badasses check a lot of her boxes.

They wind up at the greenhouse, bequeathed by wealthy alum’s generous donation. It’s dubbed the Garden of Truth, the legend going that questions asked near the fountain in the center must be answered truthfully, with a magical limit of one a day.

Noelle chuckles, like legitimately chuckles. “You have to be making that up. Right?”

Emma tuts, kneeling to dip her fingers in the fountain’s water. “One question only, so choose wisely.”

Noelle looks up at all the hanging plants, the vines climbing towards the ceiling. “You first.”

Are you into girls?

“Have you ever been in love?” Close enough, right?

Noelle stiffens. “No,” she says, sharply, then reconsiders. “Maybe. I had feelings for someone I- someone I shouldn’t have.”

No pronouns. No closer to an answer for that, then. There’s silence for a moment, Emma tracing patterns on the water’s surface.

“You looked upset when you showed up at the parking lot today. Why?”

Emma jumps, drenching her sleeve. She stands. “I wasn’t - ”

Noelle sends her a look. “We’re in the Garden of Truth, remember? Be honest.”

Emma takes a deep breath. It might be nice to tell someone, someone with no stake in the fight. “I found out the girl I like is dating my best friend.” She wraps her arms around herself, holding Noelle’s gaze. “N-no one knows that I’m… Don’t tell anyone.” Her voice actually quivers.

Noelle reaches out and puts a hand on Emma’s arm. “I won’t. I’m good at keeping secrets.” She takes her hand back, and Emma immediately misses its warmth. “This girl… Does she know how you feel?”

Emma’s vision clouds with tears. “No.”

Noelle tilts her head, eyes crinkling in sympathy. “Figures. It’s hard to imagine someone turning you down.”

It isn’t hard for Emma - that seems to be all she has been able to imagine. The way Ava’s mouth would hang open, the way she would back away, turn her down. How it would get out, first to the cheer squad and then to the whole school. There’d be whispers, cruel jokes, pity. Everything would change.

They walk back out. Emma spots a few cheerleaders lounging around a picknick table in the courtyard. They wave her over.

Noelle slows, shoving her hands in her light-wash jeans pockets. “Looks like that’s the end of the tour. Bye for now, Cheer Squad.” She walks off before Emma can reply.

“...Bye?”

Her steps felt lighter as she joined the group. Like Noelle had lifted the weight since the Ava-Mason bombshell went off this morning. A distraction, if only for a few minutes.

Ava’s watching her with a somewhat shell-shocked expression. “Emma, I can’t believe you were talking to Noelle Harris!”

To her right, Lauren looks delighted. She twirls a lock of black hair in her manicured fingers, eyes sharp. “Don’t you know who she is?”

Emma searches the team’s faces for a hint, but she can’t find one. “What, is she famous or something?” It’s meant to be sarcastic, but she’s so confused it comes of as genuine.

Toni clears a spot for her, patting the bench. “You’d better sit down. You need to hear the truth about her!”

Taking trepidatious steps, Emma has the sinking feeling she’s gotten herself further into a mess.

#playchoices #choices mftl #mftl

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everlastingcaptainswan · 4 years

Photo

Contractual Attraction (9/?)

Enchanted Forest AU

Summary: The war had raged on for many years, the people of Misthaven would say too many, and there was only one way to end it, only one way to quiet talks of rebellion. Princess Emma of Misthaven would have to marry the enemy, Prince Killian of Montave.

Notes: I’ve been working hard on this story while in quarantine, but for those of you who don’t know I’m a nurse, so work has been crazy to say the least. I hope y’all like the chapter!

Ao3 FF

Chapter Nine: The Truth Hurts

Emma spent the rest of the day in her room not wanting to see anyone. Much to her surprise Killian knocked on her door.

“May I come in?” Emma’s grip on the handle tightened.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea right now.” Confusion spread over Killian’s face.

“Have I upset you? If so, I apologize wholeheartedly,” a blush crossed his cheeks. Killian didn’t want to anger the one ally he had in this castle.

“No, it’s not that. My parents accused us of sleeping together since we shared a bed on the ship and it’s probably for the best if we don’t spend time unsupervised.” Now, it was Emma’s turn to blush. Killian scratched his ear; which Emma had noticed he does when he’s nervous.

“Ah I see. Is your father going to come after me with a sword? Or an axe perhaps.” A teasing tone in his voice.

“No, I set them straight on the matter.” Relief washed over Killian’s face.

“Oh good. Would you care to take a walk with me?” When Emma gave him a surprised look he continued on, “I have something to discuss with you and don’t wish to put your virtue at risk any longer.”

“Oh of course. I’ll give you a proper tour of the castle.” Emma opened the door further and stepped out into the hallway with him. Her door shut behind her and Killian offered her his arm once more. She accepted it and they made their way through the castle Emma telling him facts about various rulers and artwork in the castle.

“Now, I believe you wished to discuss something with me?” Emma prompted him.

“Ah yes, I just got swept away by my lovely tour guide,” Emma rolled her eyes, “I heard there is to be a homecoming ball for you tonight, I wondered if there was any kind of tradition or custom, I should be aware of.”

“Of course, there is a ball tonight, my mother would never pass up the chance. There shouldn’t be anything special about tonight, just a standard ball.” Emma shrugged.

“Never hurts to ask, Misthaven is already so different from home.” Emma squints slightly as they move into the sunshine in the royal garden.

“How so? Tell me about Montave.” Genuine curiosity filled Emma, she had never visited the place, but heard so many rumors about it.

“To start your people, seem to hold all the love and adoration for you in the world. They show it so openly. We walked through the crowds and they reached out for you, and not once did you flinch or turn them away. I must say Montavians are more stoic, while they will be happy the war is over, they would never show their gratitude in such a way.”

“How would they show it?” They reached the center of the garden, idling around the fountain, Emma holding onto everyone of Killian’s words.

“By working harder on their fishing boats, bringing in more fish to the castle at no cost, and I’m sure Liam and Elsa’s child will want for nothing. We have quite a few woodworkers in Montave, that child will have every toy they could desire, and the people will continue to give.”

“It sounds rather generous, your people may not show it in the same way, but they love your family as well.” Emma couldn’t help, but notice how blue his eyes seemed in the sunlight and how the weeks at sea tanned his skin in a handsome way. She hated to admit it, but from time to time a look from him could stop her heart beat even if only for a moment.

“Perhaps, but there are differences between our kingdoms.”

“Couldn’t that be said about every kingdom?” Emma said, curious as to what was going through his head.

“That is true,” he smiled briefly. They finished their tour of the garden and Killian led Emma back to her room. He brought her hand to his lips and faintly brushed them across her hand.

“I’ll see you tonight, Princess.” He dropped her hand and she opened her door.

“You might not, perhaps pirates will whisk me away,” she teased, turning her back on him.

“Good, it would give me an excuse to leave the ball to plan a dashing rescue,” he smirked at her. She rolled her eyes and shut the door behind her. Emma could hear his footsteps echo down the hall. She didn’t have much time until the ball, so she would have to get ready soon. Emma flopped down on her bed, not wanting to face the nobility of Misthaven tonight. A ball couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?

A knock at her door, brought Emma out of her train of thought. Emma opened it to find Ruby with a wolfish grin on her face.

“You are not even remotely ready for a ball, are you?” She chuckled.

“Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?” Emma almost regretted letting her in.

“It’s fun, now have you picked a gown?” Emma flopped back on her bed.

“No, I found out about the ball thirty minutes ago, I don’t even remember what I have in my closet,” she groans.

“You remember, you just don’t want to pick.” Ruby flung open her closet doors and began citing plausible options.

“Mom usually does this with me, why did she send you?” Emma asked, ignoring the dresses. Ruby sighed, she thought it would take longer for Emma to see through the ruse.

“She thought you were upset, and her face would not be the one you would want to see.” Ruby handed her a beautiful, royal blue, silk dress that Emma had forgotten about entirely. Emma took it, knowing it would do the trick for tonight.

“I didn’t think it would be like this.”

“I know, but chin up things will get better. They’re shocked too. Your dad was right; they never envisioned this for you. Let them adjust.”

“I was on my own for weeks not sure of what would happen next and I needed her guidance more than anything. I didn’t think I’d come home to this reception, to her anger, their disappointment.” Emma moved behind the screen in her room and began to change.

“They practically had to drag you into the treaty kicking and screaming and you came back with him arm in arm… Emma. You’re more like your mother than you realize, she lashed out. Give her a moment.” Emma sighed, but said nothing, knowing her aunt was right. Ruby took it as her cue to leave.

Emma continued to get ready for this damned ball, not looking forward to smiling and being polite to the nobility of Misthaven tonight. There was a soft knock on her door.

“Come in.” Emma turned in her chair at her vanity surprised to see her mother. Snow was ready for the ball in a beautiful purple gown with white embroidery, her short hair styled with one of her more simple crowns on her head.

“Ruby mentioned you might want help with your hair.” Snow wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Yeah, um thanks.” Emma felt an uneasy pit in her stomach. Emma watched her mother move closer to her in the mirror. Snow picked up the brush in the vanity next to Emma and began carefully brushing her daughter's hair.

“I’m sorry for how I handled everything.” Emma blinked in shock; she hadn’t expected her mother to apologize just yet.

“It’s okay. I didn’t realize I shocked you so much.”

“It’s not an excuse, I’m your mother. I should’ve handled it better. Even though you’re all grown up I’m supposed to protect you. This whole situation has been difficult because it felt like the opposite of that. You know despite your father and I approaching you about the treaty it didn’t sit well with us. I don’t think either of us slept well while you’re gone.”

“It wasn’t easy. None of it was. I thought he’d be this brute of a man, our enemy. He was the opposite, he’s a gentleman and he’s kind. I’ve been confused since this all began. All I wanted when I came home was to talk to you about everything.” Emma teared up. Snow stopped brushing her hair and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh Emma. I’m sorry, I never thought-” Snow kneeled and tugged her daughter into her arms. Emma relaxed in her mother’s arms, feeling safe and comforted.

“You don’t hate him?” Snow released Emma and she shook her head.

“No, not at all.” Snow began to gather Emma’s hair into a simple, but elegant updo.

“He saved my life on the Snowbell.” Emma watched her mother's surprised expression in the mirror.

“What happened?”

“A chain was falling, and I didn’t hear the warnings and he shoved me out of harm’s way. It would’ve crushed me.” Snow began to put the pins in place in Emma’s hair adding some decorative ones for style.

“He can’t be all bad then, hmm? I’ll make sure your father knows, he looked downright murderous earlier.” Snow smiled softly. Emma glanced at her reflection, turning her head from side to side. Her mother did a great job as usual.

“It’s beautiful, thanks mom.”

“Of course, dear. Now we should get going, wouldn’t want to keep all those guests waiting for too long.” Snow said with the air and elegance of a queen. Emma nodded and placed her tiara on her head.

As they descended down the stairs to the foyer Snow kept glancing at Emma, “Is there something wrong with the dress?”

“What?” Snow blinked rapidly, “Oh no, it’s fine, beautiful. I just noticed that your dress matches your ring.” Emma lifted her hand and examined the ring. She glanced back down at her dress; the color matched the sapphires in the ring.

“It does, I didn’t even notice.” Emma dropped her hand again, “Everyone keeps staring at it, do you not like it?”

“No, it’s elegant and beautiful, but no one expected you to come with an actual ring.”

“Oh, well,” Emma frowned in confusion, not sure what she had expected from Killian. When he gave her the ring, she went along with it. Was she supposed to think the ring had deeper meaning?

At the bottom of the stairs Killian, David, and Leo were waiting for them. Killian got a little glassy eyed, when he saw Emma. He started to wonder if he would ever not be stunned by her beauty. King David was openly ignoring Killian’s presence, which was better than him trying to kill him, so for now it will do. Leo at least made polite conversation with him. Of all the family members, Leo seemed to be handling his presence the best.

David kissed Snow and offered her his arm. Killian did the same for Emma, offering her his arm. He would be a gentleman until the end, but how he wished he could kiss her with the ease and familiarity that David and Snow had. He wished to kiss her at all.

Leo entered first then Killian and Emma led the way followed by David and Snow. Leo, Killian, and Emma stood back while Snow delivered her speech, David at her side.

“No one is more thrilled than our family that the war is over. We have all sacrificed so much, for so many years. Who knew all it would take was a marriage to mend the bridge between our two great kingdoms? We welcome Prince Killian to Misthaven and eagerly await the union between him and Princess Emma. Our main focus will be to our people, to help them recover, to rebuild Misthaven to greatness. To the future King and Queen of Misthaven,” Snow raised her glass. The whole room followed suit. Snow gestured to the dance floor; Emma sighed quietly.

“I believe that’s our que.” She gave him a small smile. Killian held out his hand.

“Will you honor me with a dance?” He smirked at her. Her warm hand slides into his.

“Could I deny my fiancé?” She teased him and the glint in her eye made his heart beat faster. Emma regularly surprised him at every turn. He effortlessly glided her around the dance floor. It was easy with her, as easy as breathing air.

Emma loved and hated how easy it was to dance with him. They simply glided around the dance floor. Emma had never found this ease with any partner before. She found it frustrating because as the days passed, he found almost no fault with Killian. He would never want her in any capacity more than a friendship that had been clear to her. She would have to accept that she wouldn’t have love like her parents did. Many men sacrificed their lives for this war, surely, she could deal with this.

“Is it me or….?” David asked his wife quietly watching Emma and Killian dancing.

“It’s not you, I never expected to send her there and have her come back in love.” Snow sighed and David nodded in agreement.

“Not only that, but he loves her back,” David grumbled, and Snow squeezed his hand reassuringly.

When the dance was over the room cheered and Snow retrieved Emma, claiming she had to talk to a few people. Emma squeezed Killian’s hand as he nodded. He watched her disappear into the crowd. Leo approached Killian and handed him a drink, “come on there’s more of that, you look like you need it.” Killian took a swig of whiskey, not rum he noted.

“Do I?” They make their way to a secluded corner of the room.

“Not really, but trust me it would be cruel to leave you alone with the vultures.”

“Are they as bad as I imagine them to be?” he snorted, gazing around the room.

“Probably not, but they certainly aren’t kind. You’ve been in Misthaven for less than a whole day. You will face them when your feet are more solid on the ground.” Leo shook his head.

“I appreciate that, but why are you being so nice to me? I mean it’s not as though you know me or even remotely like me,” Killian shrugged confused.

“You’re going to marry Emma. The treaty, she worked so hard, she’s given up so much for this damn war. She wouldn’t dare do anything to risk it and well I won’t be the person who will make this hard for her. Anyway, you don’t seem so bad.” Leo shrugged. Killian appreciated his honesty. Maybe Emma’s face won’t be the only friendly one here.

The night went on and a few people were brave enough to approach them. No one dared to say anything to him in Leo’s presence. The dancing started back up again with King David and Queen Snow. Killian spotted Emma a few times and occasionally she gave him a smile or a quick eye roll if she could manage it. After a few more drinks Leo and Killian have a lively conversation.

“There’s something different about Misthaven and I can’t put my finger on it,” Killian shook his head. Leo lifted an eyebrow.

“You haven’t noticed, really?” Killian shook his head again. “Misthaven is a matriarchy.” Killian blinked a few times.

“Excuse me?”

“When the kingdom started, we had a stretch of kings who just started war after war. Finally, a queen took over and peace was able to be maintained for many years. Ever since then the people have been doubtful of any king in power, they trust a woman’s judgement, her ability to keep the peace. Kings haven’t had any real power in centuries. A queen will hold more power than a king ever will. My mother is the first queen to have a war in her reign in over 75 years,” Leo said simply.

“What?” Killian said a little harsher than he meant to, but this changed everything. It definitely caught the attention of a few people, most importantly Ruby, who was engaged in a lively conversation with her wife, Dorothy. Ruby broke away from Dorothy and grabbed Killian’s arm, “Not here. Leo discreetly get Emma, now.” Ruby escorted Killian into a side chamber, before a scene could be made.

Leo found Emma talking to a rather terrible duke that their whole family had the misfortune of knowing. She looked relieved to see her brother.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but our mother needs to see Emma and I immediately.” Leo excused her and the duke nodded solemnly.

“It was lovely to see you again, please send my regards to your wife,” Emma nodded with a polite smile.

“Of course, Your Highness.” The duke bowed slightly. Leo and Emma walked away finally.

“What’s going on?” Emma asked in a hushed tone.

“I might have said something I shouldn’t have to Killian. I’m a little drunk and it slipped out really, but I didn’t realize he didn’t know and well,” Leo huffed as he led them through a rather crowded ballroom.

“What happened?”

“He freaked out, Ruby got to us, quickly, he’s in a side chamber she told me to get you. Emma, I didn’t mean to.” She squeezed his shoulder.

“It’s okay, let’s see the damage.” Leo led the rest of the way in silence, him and Emma smiling at those they passed pretending everything was normal. They silently slipped into the side chamber, hoping no one saw them. Killian was pacing around the small room, anger and tension evident in his every movement. Emma hadn’t seen him like this since Arendelle, even then he wasn’t this angry.

“Were you ever going to tell me or wait until our wedding night?” Killian faced her fully when he realized she had joined them. Rage and fury storming in his eyes, tension in his stance.

“Tell you what?”

“That Misthaven is a matriarchy!” His shouts rung throughout the small room. He had finally figured out that bit of information that she had certainly been avoiding. It never went over well with suitors in the past, she feared he would be the same.

“If you had asked, I would’ve told you,” he scoffed, “I would’ve, but frankly I am surprised you didn’t research more into the kingdom you were marrying into.” She crossed her arms, getting defensive.

“Excuse me?” His eyebrows raised; shock evident on his face. If he thought, she would simply roll over when confronted he had another thing coming. Emma turned to Leo and Ruby, who were still lurking by the door, waiting to see if Emma required their assistance.

“Do you mind giving us a minute?”

“Are you sure? We can stay.” Leo immediately offered. Emma shook her head, “It will already be obvious we aren’t there, go distract them.” Leo sighed, but nodded. Ruby’s hand was already on the door handle; she knew Emma could handle herself just fine. When the door finally clicked shut Emma turned her attention back to Killian.

“You heard me. You had Elsa, she visited here numerous times. She knows. You could’ve asked her a million questions about Misthaven, I’m sure she would’ve told you. So why didn’t you?” The question struck him because he hadn’t thought about it. Since the marriage was first offered, he hadn’t given Misthaven itself that much thought, he was more curious about his future bride.

“That’s not the point here, you should’ve told me. It’s why you didn’t fight when Liam discussed my title because it wouldn’t matter, it wasn’t important to you!” He was lashing out now, she had backed him into a corner.

“Maybe it wasn’t, but titles aren’t everything here. When we marry, we will be partners in every way that matters. You will be king. I cannot change the fact that the people of Misthaven have chosen to place their trust and power with me as their future queen.” Her hands settled on her hips.

“I-that’s not the point. You lied, if nothing more than by omission. I thought we were going to be honest with each other, be partners.” He was backtracking now; he didn’t want to admit he was in the wrong.

“We are. This does not change that. And don’t act like you’re the only innocent party here!” She gritted her teeth, narrowing her eyes at him.

“What does that mean? I have been honest from the beginning.” Anger still rolling off of him in waves.

“We both have secrets, truths that we have hidden. Why do you need your naval ship here? Why do you need a ship at all?” Killian looked as if she just slapped him in the face, his mouth open. He doesn’t have anything to say, he’s shocked that she asked the question. He’s speechless, standing here with his mouth open like a damned fool. He certainly felt like one. Emma’s right they do have their own secrets. This one he couldn’t share with her just yet, Montave was and is still depending on him.

“That’s what I thought. Don’t stand here and throw around accusations if you’re doing the same damn thing. We both have our secrets, but don’t call me a damn liar.” Her harsh words rang in the small room and she exited through a secret passage that took her away from the ballroom and to the gardens. Emma needed a minute to calm down before going back to the ball. She wished she could just leave altogether, but her mother would just drag her back anyway.

Things between her and Killian had been going so well and now… she was just as angry with him as he was with her. She gripped the bannister and took a few deep breaths, she had to get back to the ridiculous ball, she had already been gone for too long. Surely their absence was noted by many.

A throat cleared behind her and she saw Graham standing there, patiently waiting.

“Your mother sent me, she said your absence is soon to be noted, if not already.”

“Of course,” she walked past him, and he grabbed her arm. His eyes staring down into hers so intently.

“Are you alright?” She broke their gaze, looking ahead.

“I’m fine, I just needed some air. You know how I detest balls.” She couldn’t bear to look at him right now when he looked like he would tear apart the world for her.

“Emma, did he hurt you?” Her head snapped to him and she wrenched her arm out of his tight grasp.

“No, he wouldn’t hurt me. Why on earth would you say that?” She asked, surprised.

“Because he is the enemy, we’ve been fighting thirteen long years and I wouldn’t put it past him to hurt you.” Emma can see the tension in his shoulders.

“Why do you care? You’ve hurt me enough for the both of you,” she snapped, tired of him being protective of her. He looked speechless. Emma left him there with his mouth open. She stalked back into the ballroom, throwing a fake smile on her face. A duke asked to dance with her, and she said yes, just to lose herself and her thoughts, if only for a moment.

It was truly a moment because Graham followed her back into the ballroom. He found her and asked to dance with her next, knowing she couldn’t refuse him. She took his hand and they spun into the next song.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered, and she didn’t have to ask to what he was referring to.

“Yes, it is. Graham if you wanted me you should’ve said something before now, but the crown stopped you. Who I am and will be stopped you. You always put protecting the crown ahead of how you felt for me. Now that you can’t have me you lash out at every chance. So, yes, you’re hurting me,” she whispered back, not meeting his eyes. When she was younger, she loved him, but those days were gone, and she had to get the point across that he wasn’t allowed to treat her like this now.

The dance required that he spun her away from him, and she caught a glimpse of his face, the hurt and sorrow she was causing him now was as plain as day. She hated it, but it was necessary. He had to move on from her. He didn’t say anything else and when the dance ended, he stalked away from her. She had to act like everything was alright even though it felt like her world was falling apart around her. First Killian then Graham. She had hoped that her and Killian were getting somewhere and now… now she didn’t know.

Her father came to her rescue and swept her into his arms for the next dance. She released a sigh of relief.

“Everything alright? Do I need to beat up a certain prince?” he teased her.

“No,” she shook her head, “why does this have to be so hard?”

“I don’t know, I wish I could make it easier for you.” He spun her around the dance floor with a sad smile on his face.

“I wish you could too. Is it always like this?” She shook her head.

“Is what like this?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Marriage.” She had a pointed look on her face, she didn’t think she had to spell it out for her father.

“Ah well no. There are good bits too, they often outweigh the bad. Although I married the first bandit girl who hit me over the head, so really you shouldn’t be asking me.” Emma chuckled and he smiled.

“Ah there it is.”

“What?” She cocked her head.

“Your smile, it’s what I was looking for.” At the end of the dance he kissed her forehead. Emma knew at the end of the day her family would always have her back, would be there for her. Maybe they were shocked and angry when she returned, but they are by her side, here for her. As she would be for them in a heartbeat. Everything would work, it would have to in order to keep the peace.

#cs #cs au #cs au fic #cs au ff #Captain Swan #enchanted forest #Enchanted Forest AU #royalty au #cs royalty #Princess!Emma #Prince!Killian #killian jones #emma swan #enemies to lovers #I hate you but I have to marry you

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vikingsarememes · 4 years

Text

His True Wife

previous part ↭ part nine ↭ next part

Main Characters: Ivar the boneless, Reader, Bjorn Ironside.

Characters Mentioned: Thora, Hvitserk Ragnarsson, Brenda the Goat, Original Characters

Summary: Ivar’s fate was decided by his brothers, you are still trying to forgive your husband and try to understand him while doubting if you made the right choice.

Word Count: 1478

A/N: none

warnings: none

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

A week had passed since he returned, you started to remember how life with him was like, how he liked certain things, like the warmth for his legs and the mead by the fireplace, how to look after him when his pain was too much for him to handle, the little things you forced yourself to forget.

He’d learned few tricks to please you at night, he even fixed his fractured cock on his journey, and he made it his task to prove it to you, that’s he’s just like any other man, in his head, he had this image of you and him raising your children in the farm, you didn’t mind though, no, you actually enjoyed it more than you should, considering how everything was going well.

On the evening Bjorn visited without his brothers, his men with him of course but they respected the rules, no bloodshed on your holy ground, they left the weapons at the gate “Y/N, Ivar” he greeted once he entered the hut, you were on Ivar’s lap, the two of you were laughing about something, but that stopped the minute he entered, you were about to sit properly when Ivar stopped you, keeping you closer to him “please, make yourself at home” Ivar greeted, Bjorn took a seat on the empty chair across from yours “we came to a decision, Ivar can live” your husband grinned and kissed you happily “as long as he doesn’t leave the farm’s ground” he added and Ivar’s smile fell “you want me to stay a prisoner?” He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion “we forgave you because we are related by blood Ivar but the people didn’t forget what you did!” Bjorn explained.

“That’s fair” Ivar surprisingly replied, that made you sure he was up to something, you knew Ivar too well to know he wouldn’t just agree without arguing “how’s Hvitserk?” You asked, only earning a glare from Ivar “he’s well, he sent you his greetings, he told me to tell you that he’s moved on and he wishes for one last favor from you” you nodded “of course! Anything!” , “he wishes you to free the slave you sent with him, He said he wants to be joined with her in marriage and asks for your blessings” you felt a stab to your heart, one week ago he told you he wanted you, he kissed you, he begged you to choose him! And now he wants to be married to someone else? That’s just your luck with those Ragnarssons! They’re a heartbreak, they are pain, yet you never seem to stop yourself from getting involved with them. You nodded and faked a smile “of course, tell him he has my blessings”

“Now if you excuse me, I must go if I want to return before the morning, I promised someone that I’d make time for them” he stood up and so did you, Ivar was about to take his crutch but Bjorn motioned him to stay “Y/N can walk me outside herself” you nodded, and the two of you left the cripple by himself.

“Do you regret your decision?” Bjorn asked you as you escorted him, you shrugged “it’s too early for that, he’s been only here for a week” you responded “I regret mine all the time, I should’ve never let Hvitserk convince me to keep him alive, he said it was to return the favors” he explained “is he really getting married?” Bjorn shrugged “sadly... I don’t understand what’s going on in my brother’s head, but I know he longs for you, and I know he wants you protected, he’d visit himself but he saw the way Ivar glared at him, he wouldn’t let you rest, I wished if you chose him instead, you’re a sweet woman and he’s a good man, great even” you smiled when you saw the goats playing in the field, they sent you back to the days when Hvitserk played with them “wait!” You shouted for Bjorn who was now outside of your property.

You went to the little goats and picked up Brenda, then returned to Bjorn, giving her to him, he raised an eyebrow at him “give her to Hvitserk, tell him part of me will always be his and whenever he needs me I’ll be there one way or another, he’ll know what to do with her” Bjorn hugged you and kissed your cheek goodbye then you watched him go away.

A lifetime with Ivar awaits for you and you walked back to your hut very slowly to make sure your freedom last as long as it could, you wondered if you made the right decision with every step that you made, by the time you finally went inside, you realized, if it was any other time, you would’ve chosen Ivar with no hesitation but now, you weren’t so sure and that only meant something, Ivar didn’t have a grip on you anymore.

“Tell me, wife, why are you so concerned about Hvitserk from all of my brothers? Did something happen when I was gone?” his voice, so calm, it frightened you, the way he looked at you was different “a lot happened when you were gone Ivar, believe it or not, life didn’t end, but none of what you think, Hvitserk was ill and I took him in, we looked after each other, we healed each other” you murmured and took a seat, in front of him, he didn’t appreciate the distance “now we get to make your dream come to reality, I’ll spend a lifetime here with you in the farm don’t you like it?” you shook your head no “I know you wouldn’t like it, you never did, you always wanted more”

“And I’m a changed man now, I told you Y/N, you have to trust me” he leaned closer, “well, you broke my trust before, you must earn it back” you stated, he nodded “we have all the time in the world for me to make it up to you wife” you faked a little smile “why did you kill her? Thora?” you couldn’t help but ask, it kept bugging you ever since you’ve learned about it “Y/N! That’s in the past and I don’t wish to speak of it!” he roared.

“The past is the only reason why I’m agreeing to this foolery Ivar! The man I once used to know is the only reason why I’m tolerating this ridiculousness! The husband I once loved is the only reason why I’m convincing myself of your lies, and if you wish for us to continue then I beg you to answer my questions! Ivar I’ve seen what you’re capable of every time I looked at the broken pieces you left, Hvitserk, the people! I’m choosing to ignore them and the least you can do is answer my damned questions!”

“You forgot how to love me, is this what you are trying to say?” he was surprised of your reaction, you were never this angry at him, or were you angry at yourself? It didn’t matter anymore “we have a lifetime together to figure it out now no?” you huffed and leaned back into your chair “fine” he whispered and did the same “she and her family were conspiring to overthrow me as a king, in case you don’t know what that means… they wanted me dead, and I only did what I had to do to survive”, “you took the people’s free will!” you opposed “No! I wanted them to fear me! The minute they realized I can’t run after them with an ax is the minute they decided I’m not a man enough to be a king! They didn’t give me a chance to do good! They hated me the minute they laid their eyes on me because I was cripple, a weak, and I only did what was needed to be done to survive, to ensure a life for my child and you”

“The child you killed” you corrected, he laughed “well, it turned out it wasn’t mine, she lied to me, you’ve always told me she was no good, but I never listened, Y/N, please, it’s time to move on past this, if I’m sentenced to live here, we can either hate each other or love each other, and I swear to you, hating each other is a lot of work and you don’t want to experience it, not with you, you are the only person who ever loved me besides Aslaug! Please Y/N, just let the past stay where it belongs!”

“then give me time Ivar, give me time to forget” you whispered, he nodded “we have enough time for this, I love you, no matter what happens, please remember that, and I wish to spend my life with you”

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Images source: stolen from google images.

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