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imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl · 4 years

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Unexpected Places (Pt. 05 of 11)

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless X Reader/Bjorn X Reader

Word count: 2.5 K

Summary: As a princess, you've lived in a golden cage all your life, always a piece on someone else's game. But everything changed when the Norsemen came crushing down on Wessex, like waves in a violent storm. Their king spared your life and decided to take you with him to his kingdom, in what felt more like a rescue than a kidnapping. There, you were not only confronted with a completely different culture and lifestyle, but also with two of his sons. The oldest one has his eyes set on you, but it's the youngest one, Ivar, who gets who claimed your attention since the first sight. And he seems to have an unnamed interest in you. Of course you hoped whatever that was would pass, but when unexpected feelings start to flow a different way, things begin to change.

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{Vikings Masterlist}

The Crippled And The Blind

The loud voices, laughter, and yells are echoing through the house. Ragnar is with a group of wanderers that just stopped by. He seems to be getting along with them since they're all very friendly and brought good things to trade. You have no intention of interrupting the conversation, so you stay on the inside. You make your way to the hanging table, sitting on it as usual. You're still softly swinging when you hear Ivar's unmistakable footsteps, and a small smile comes to your lips. You do try to push it back, but when he comes to your sight, it's still there, in full display.

“Won't you join the party?” He asks, coming to stand next to you by the table, his free hand holding on the chains.

“No. If I show up out there, Ragnar will introduce me as an England princess and I wouldn't want to steal all the attention he's been getting.” You answer in a sassy tone, shrugging your shoulders. “What about you? I bet they'd love to meet Ivar the Boneless.”

His smile only gets bigger, and a chuckle leaves his lips. Things with Ivar have been... Different. In the last weeks, you've been chatting a lot, more and more every day. But you're keeping a distance. The stories about Ivar reached your ears quickly, and you know he's dangerous. Still, it's getting hard to see that side of him when he's been treating you so... Kindly. It got people talking too. Hvitserk said Ivar is surprising him, acting like that. But you try not to overthink, and just take one day after the other and see how it happens. So far, you're enjoying your talking.

“Let the old man have it.” He mutters, pushing the wood and making you swing again. “I was planning on taking a walk on the beach.” Speaking slow, he smirks at you. “Wanna join me?”

Biting your lower lip, you nod, jumping to the ground. “Why not?”

You both go through one of the doors on the back, and you realize Ivar can keep a fast pace despite the clutch. The cold wind makes you brace yourself by the time you reach the sand, and you lightly rub your arms.

“Should've brought a warm cloak.” He mutters, glancing at you.

“I'm alright.” Pulling a strand of hair away from your face, you stop by a small boat. “What's the reason for this?”

“Reason?”

“Yeah.” Leaning your back against the boat, you shrug your shoulders. “You never invited me for anything like this.”

“Maybe it was because I never thought you'd accept.” Sighing, he sits on the sand, resting the clutch on his legs.

“And why would you think that?” Looking down at him, you cross your arms. “I thought we were somehow friends by now.” You're still unsure of where exactly you are with Ivar. With Hvitserk, it was almost instantly, and you've been good friends since day one. Ubbe took longer, but you have a nice relationship with him as well, even though you're not as close as you are with Hvitserk. But Ivar... It's different, you're still not quite sure why. “Or have I misread things?”

“I like to think we are friends, princess.” When you finally look at him, those blue eyes are already set on you.

With your cheeks burning, your heart starts beating faster, drumming on your ears. “We are.” You assure him, taking a deep breath and settling down beside him, looking at the ocean. The waves are strong today, loudly crashing on the sand.

“Good.” He bumps his shoulder against yours. “Not many women want to... Hang around with me.”

His statement makes you pinch your eyebrows together. “Why?” You can't imagine a reason for any girl not want to... What? Be around Ivar? Or maybe have some attention from him. Of course you can only speak for yourself, but the Vikings must be mesmerized by his strength. By the stories they tell about him. And on top of that, you're not blind. Ivar is handsome, very handsome. Any woman would love to get his eyes set on her.

“Isn't it obvious?” Ivar gestures at his legs and only then this ‘obvious’ come to your mind.

“Oh.” Staring at the metal clothed legs, you shake your head lightly. It never really got to you. It's not that you haven't noticed, but it never played an important part in your judgment of him.

“Bad news, princess. I'm a crippled.” He sing songs, his voice a lot darker.

Furrowing your eyebrows, you push your legs up, hugging your knees. “I know you're a crippled. But being honest, I don't see the problem.” It isn't hard to guess this affects him. Mostly being a Viking. You know he wishes he could rush through the battlefield, fighting, riding a strong horse. But he can't. It probably kills him inside.

“Then I'm the crippled and you're the blind.” He suddenly snaps, and when you look at him, he's shaking his head no. “Don't be stupid. Every woman here wants an Ubbe. Or a Bjorn. Standing tall and strong, well experienced by the many wars they–”

“You're tall.” Cutting him off, you elbow him. “And I know you can fight. People aren't terrified of you for no reason. So drop it, you're not less of a Viking just because you can't walk as other people can.”

He chuckles, and when his eyes meet yours, you suddenly notice the proximity. You're not that close, but you were never this close... “Are you joking?”

“No.” You honestly answer, smiling. “I get that people look at you and see the legs first. But I didn't. I...” Will you really tell him this? You've been lying and hiding so many things from people while on Wessex, and here, you want to do the exact opposite. You want to speak the truth, whatever the truth is because nobody will curse you for it. And maybe, it'll make Ivar feel better. “Actually, the first thing I noticed were your eyes.”

“Really?” Furrowing his eyebrows, you can tell he's not very convinced.

“Really.” You simply say.

“You're pretty stupid then.” Ivar bursts out, but, as much as you feel a little offended at first, you're quick to get the mocking tone behind it. “You see a crippled and the thing that gets your attention is the eye color.”

“I'll ignore the insult.” Nodding to yourself, you bite back a laugh, looking at the ocean again. “But if that's your opinion, I'll accept it.”

“You're both.”

“Both?”

“Both pretty and stupid.”

“I...” It takes a few seconds to process what he just said. You're still staring at the horizon, not brave enough to face those eyes, strong and bright, burning through your skin. Your cheeks are burning again, so you look down at your hands, hoping the hair that falls will hide your blushing face. “It goes both ways.” Taking a deep breath, you stand up, dusting off the sand from your dress. “You're as stupid as you're handsome.” Sustaining his stare for a while, watching as his face light up and a smile comes to his lips, you turn your back at him, walking away. You hear a giggle, but decide to ignore it.

“I didn't know you could be sassy.” Ivar raises his voice to make himself heard through the growing distance you're putting in between the two of you.

“You don't know me, dear.” Turning around and walking backward, you smile. “What? Do you think chatting during the meals is enough? You have no idea who I am.”

“Who knows? Maybe we can change that.”

“Maybe.” Shrugging your shoulders, you give your back at him and leave the beach.

The next hours you spend with Aslaug, as she complains about the wanderers. They're nothing like this other man who came by years ago, she says. They're too loud for her taste, too rude. And, since it's a Viking complaining about those things, she might be right. But, despite all that, she still attends to the feast Ragnar insisted on giving. You already know that people here don't really need a reason to cook insane amounts of food and invite everyone over to eat and dance and party until the sun is about to rise again. So you join them.

The celebration has been going on for quite a while now, a few hours went by since you showed up. You already ate, so now, drinking from a horn, you stand beside Helga next to the table where her husband happily tells some people his stories. “He keeps staring,” Helga mutters as you take another sip from your drink.

“Who?”

“Bjorn.”

“Oh.” Trying to be discreet, you take a look where he's seated, slightly nodding at him when your eyes meet. “Since the horse incident, we haven't been speaking much.”

“Aslaug told me an interesting story,” Helga smirks, and you furrow your eyebrows at her. “Hvitserk and Ivar. She said you have a... Curious relationship with both of them and she has no idea who you like.”

“Hvitserk is just a friend.” You speak fast, almost choking on your drink. “We've been friends since I got here basically, but that's it.”

She raises an eyebrow, her eyes moving from you to Ivar. That's when you notice you know exactly where he is. “You explained your relationship with one of them... What about the other?”

That makes you restless because you feel like giving the same answer you gave about Hvitserk isn't completely true. But how exactly can you explain it? “Ivar and I are... Friends... Not as close as Hvitserk, Uhm... We're actually just starting to–”

“I haven't noticed this one yet.” A raspy, strong voice says, and your attention is taken by the three men who came to stand behind you.

“She's a pretty one.” The taller, with dirty blonde hair, says. Stepping back, you stand next to Helga.

“More than pretty.” The third one, with a heavy accent, adds. “Are you a servant?”

“No, I–”

“Of course she isn't. Look at her dress.” The first one, with a braided beard, cuts you off before you can say anything, coming closer and forcing you and Helga to give a step back. His eyes are evil as they travel through your body, up and down. “Her jewels...” His hand comes to touch your necklace, and the other, the blond, moves to your side, pulling the skirt of your dress.

“She's under Aslaug's protection,” Helga speaks up, pulling you to the side a little. But by the way the man smiles, it doesn't seem like they care.

“Is she?” The blond asks, but it doesn't sound like he wants an answer.

You're about to say something, anything when another figure comes from behind you. Your heart starts pounding, but you're relieved when you recognize Bjorn. He stands between you, Helga, and those men. “My friends, why don't you join me for a drink?” He says, a hand behind his back gesturing for you to leave.

Helga takes your hand and pulls you away, back to the table where you were seated before. “Don't go anywhere alone tonight.” She whispers in your ear right before walking away.

“What was that?” You're quick to feel the change in the atmosphere, and, looking around, you notice everyone you know is gone, and Ubbe is the only one on the table. “Where is–”

“C'mon.” He quickly says and gets up, and you follow him inside. Everyone is here, and they stop talking when they lay eyes on you.

“Is there a problem?” You're quick to find Ivar, and, the moment you lock eyes with him, you can see how fast his expression changes. From anger to relief. Things turned upside down quickly, and you have no idea what happened.

“The problem is that they are wanderers. They don't fear or respect our rules.” The Queen says, eyeing Ragnar with anger. “I want them gone tomorrow.”

“They will be gone.” He assures, arms crossed.

Still trying to follow, you run a hand through your hair. “Did they do something?”

“No, but they'll try.” It's Bjorn who answers, coming to join you.

Alright, nobody here wants to be clear about it, so what's the point? “I'll go back to the feast so you can solve whatever problem–”

“Those three men were eyeing you all evening.” Bjorn interrupts. “They came to me asking who you were and where you're sleeping. Then they approached you like that. Do you really need me to explain in detail what exactly they'll try to do to you?”

This makes you stop breathing. “I'll keep the door locked then.” You mutter in a low voice, looking down and moving to the hanging table to get something to drink.

“No, you can't be there tonight. Nor alone.” Aslaug speaks as you find the two jars on the table are empty.

“She can stay with me tonight.” Bjorn is quick to offer, and your eyes go wide.

“Can't I stay with Ivar?” The words come out so damn fast it takes your slow brain a while to process what just happened. It was almost involuntary, as if there was something else inside you, like a force of nature, pushing those words out. “O-or Hvitserk?” You add after seconds of silence, a little lower, feeling as your cheeks burn.

Bjorn laughs, exchanging glances with Ragnar. “Ivar can't protect you.” He sounds disgusted, mocking, a hand gesturing at where his younger brother is.

You shouldn't have said that. You're sure Aslaug would arrange for you to move to another room, or maybe even sharing her chambers tonight. But no, you had to make things weird.

“Nobody will hurt her.” When you hear Ivar's reply, your attention turns to him. His eyes are on his brother, who stands a few feet away from you. You've never seen Ivar so angry, not even when you first got here, when he hated you for being a Christian living among them. But now... It's different, it's... Fury.

“Alright. Enough, both of you.” Aslaug stands up, a putting her cup down. “(Y/N), you stay with Ivar or Hvitserk tonight. Ragnar, go tell those disgusting men I want them gone by the morning.” Without saying anything, Ragnar leaves.

Not sure what to do next, you stand by the table, a hand holding the chains. It feels like everyone is expecting something, you're not sure what. You keep staring at Aslaug, who looks like is trying to tell you something you just can't understand.

“I think it's obvious you'll stay with Ivar so I'll just go,” Hvitserk mumbles as he walks by you, giving you a look that makes you want to throw a shield at him. Is he even allowed to have fun at a moment like this? Another obvious thing is that he'll never let it go, until the end of times, Hvitserk will tease you about this night.

“Well...” Ivar says, as he takes his clutch and gets up to his feet. “I think that's it.” You can tell he's ignoring Bjorn because that one can't stop staring. Ivar is playing with his brother, but, when he's near you, it doesn't look like he's playing anymore. Maybe he just got reminded of the reason why this is happening in the first place, and so did you. It's your safety that's at risk here. “C'mon then.” He says in a lower voice, and you nod, starting to follow him.

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birdybirp · 4 years

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Dye Together

Based on a conversation in a Discord days ago. Copia loses a bet and goes to Fae for help.

Totally SFW, just cutting for length.

Once a year, the Church of Emeritus holds a charity drive. It’s a chance for the higher ups to rub elbows with benefactors and get fatter checks to fund the church for another year and beyond. Each parish had their own week of fundraising festivities, but the main abbey went all out. Events, parties, auctions. It was like a small carnival had taken up residency in the church’s walls and everything was bustling with activity.

While everyone else was having fun, though, Fae was stuck in her workshop.

Papa II had acquired a painting to use as an auction piece for the final gala held on the last night of the drive: Arthur Fischer’s Satyr Satisfies Nymph, confirmed to be the original. Fae did not understand how he got his hands on it, but she was now in charge of restoring damage that it had sustained since its creation in 1900.

Not only did she have the stress of restoring an original historical painting, Fae had also been painstakingly restoring a tongue inside a woman’s vagina for the last two hours. But that was fine. Everything was fine. She’s a professional, and it’s no big deal.

She covered all the windows in her workshop just to be on the safe side.

Fae was trying very hard to focus on the colors and not the content of the painting, blaring music from her workshops’s speakers to keep her mind from wandering too much. She had to get this done by the next evening. If she got distracted by her own embarrassment, she wouldn’t get done in time.

“Excuse me, Sister?”

“Ack!” Fae jumped at the voice that shouted over her music. The sudden movement caused her brushes and stool to topple onto the cement flooring with loud clatters. She steadied herself to see Cardinal Copia standing in her doorway. She had forgotten to lock her door.

Flushing the same red as her hair, Fae turned her easel away from the Cardinal’s eyes and scrambled to grab the remote off her table and turned off the music.

“Cardinal, hello!” Fae tried her best to sound chipper and not like she was so nervous that she was short of breath.

“I apologize,” Copia murmured, also looking a little embarrassed. “I knocked, but I don’t think you heard.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. I shouldn’t be playing my music so loudly.” There was a pregnant pause between them, both of them shifting back and forth on their feet anxiously.

“Do you need something?” Fae prompted.

“Ah, yes,” Copia pulled himself together and his voice shifted to the more proper tone he used during mass.

“I require your assistance for something, Sister.” Copia started.

“Of course, how can I help?” Fae agreed immediately. She would say yes to almost any request within reason, but that was especially true if the cardinal asked her.

“Well, you see,” nervousness crept back into his voice. “You’re aware of the charity event, yes?” Fae nodded. “You dye your hair, correct?”

Fae blinked at him. Her fire engine red hair was the farthest thing from natural, so the question didn’t even need to be asked.

“Uh, yes,” Fae nodded, seeing he was pausing for an answer.

“The upper clergy always offer silly rewards for certain fundraising milestones,” Copia explained. “This year I agreed to, uh, dye my hair for the gala if we raised a certain amount by a certain time and it appears we have done just that.” Copia trailed off and coughed awkwardly.

“And...?” Fae prompted, feeling like she knew where the conversation was going but didn’t want to assume.

“And I was wondering if you would be able to... help?”

“Help dye your hair?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ve never done it before and I’d rather not pay to have it done because I’ll want to change it back as soon as possible.” He glimpsed the easel just to Fae’s right. “But if you’re busy with work, I don’t want you to trouble yourself.”

“Oh, no, no trouble at all.” Fae insisted. “The layers I just painted need to dry, anyway.” A lie, but she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity for quality time with Copia. They had been speaking more often lately, and she had found herself looking forward to time she could spend with him. In a purely platonic way, she assured herself.

“Thank you,” Copia was relieved. “I would ask the ghouls to help, but I’d much rather be in the hands of someone I completely trust.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Fae smiled and ignored the way his words made her heart feel. She righted her stool and sat down, gesturing for Copia to sit in another chair across from her. ‘So, what’s the plan?” she asked.

“Plan?” Copia echoed her, confused.

“Yeah, what color are you dying it? Do you want to bleach it first?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it...” Copia muttered, fingers anxiously tapping on the table in front of him.

“So you don’t have anything?” Fae asked, and he shook his head. She glanced at the clock on her workshop wall. It was getting late and a lot of places would be closed. “Do you want to do this tonight?” If they could postpone until the morning, they’d be able to pick something up.

“My schedule is entirely filled tomorrow, right up until the gala, I’m afraid.” Copia sighed. “I’d need to get it done tonight or I’ll never hear the end of it.” He was clearly annoyed that he even had to do this and wanted it over with as soon as possible.

‘Well, uh,” Fae thought quickly. “I have bleach and the dye I use? Would that work?”

“I suppose it would,” Copia looked over Fae’s hair and shrugged. “They didn’t say what color I had to have it, just that it had to be something unnatural.”

“Uh, okay!” Fae tried to keep her peppy tone even though the conversation felt like some kind of weird business deal. “It will take a few hours,” Copia’s eyes widened a little. “But if you need to do work or something, you could bring it to my room and work on it there while I do your hair?” Fae offered.

“Or we could just do it in my room?” Copia suggested.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea.” Fae could imagine her leaving a mess of red all over Copia’s bathroom and towels. “I don’t want to ruin anything of yours, so my room would be better I think.”

“All right,” Copia acquiesced. “I will meet you there once I gather my things.” He stood and made for the door before stopping. “I realize I have no idea where your room even is,” Copia laughed awkwardly.

“Oh,” Fae stood and approached him. “Then I can help you with your things and then take you there, yeah?”

“That would be very kind of you, Sister.”

-----

Fae walked with Copia through the crowded halls, carrying some books and papers. Copia had more papers as well as some pens and other miscellaneous things from his office. Though there was a sea of people meandering around, Fae darted easily through them, giving a polite little “excuse me” to every person she passed. She was so fleet-footed that she left Copia in the dust.

“Uh, Sister Fae!” He called after her. She stopped and turned, surprised that he was so far behind her. She waited for him to catch up and then made sure to stay right beside him. It was obviously too slow for her liking, but she was trying to be polite.

As they got closer, Fae tried to think of what the state of her room was when she left that morning. Did she leave her dirty clothing scattered around again? When was the last time she cleaned? She was now regretting her decision to insist on going to her room.

When they arrived at Fae’s small room, the first thing that struck Copia were the plants. Bright, healthy plants covered the room, and some hung from the ceiling. The walls were covered in paintings and crafts, including one large framed painting of a sunny landscape to make up for the lack of windows. It reminded Copia of stories his mother used to tell him of green witches that lived in the woods.

“Bathroom’s this way,” Fae rushed Copia through the room before he could look too closely at anything. She set his books down on the counter, next to three more plants, and darted back into the room to get him a chair and something to write on. Copia stood awkwardly in the center of the bathroom while Fae busied herself getting everything ready.

Before he was a cardinal, he had lived in a similar room. The tiny bathroom he remembered living in was sterile, white, and cold. But Fae had decorated the entire room with lights, plants, paintings, and a lot of other knickknacks that looked handmade. It felt homey.

Fae returned to the bathroom, wearing some old clothing that she used to dye her hair in. The old tshirt and leggings were covered in bleach and hair dye residue. She had also put on a headband to push her bangs back and out of the way.

“Okay, uh,” Fae stammered. She was only used to doing this on herself and wasn’t sure where to start. She ushered Copia into the chair and tied an old, stained towel around his shoulders. “You just work and I’ll take care of everything.” She assured him, even though in the back of her mind she was terrified of ruining his hair.

Copia arranged his things as best he could on the tiny tray Fae had brought in for him while she started to mix the bleach together in a little plastic bowl.

“That smells toxic,” Copia wrinkled his nose at the smell of the fumes. “Is all that necessary?”

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry,” Fae grimaced. “But your hair’s too dark. The red won’t show up otherwise.” Copia sighed and gestured for her to continue.

Fae worked in sections quickly over Copia’s hair as he wrote, trying to get the bleach in as quickly as possible. Once his hair was coated, she put a shower cap over his head.

“Okay, that just needs to sit for a minute,” she explained. “It might itch, but that’s normal. If it really hurts, let me know and we can wash it out.” Copia nodded, somehow able to get himself invested in his work. Fae stood around awkwardly, not sure what to do for the fifteen minutes of processing time. She ended up grabbing a book and sitting on the edge of her tub, trying not to feel weird about having an upper clergy member hanging out in her bathroom.

After about five minutes, Copia started to squirm. Fae glanced up from her book and quirked her eyebrow.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“It feels like there are ants crawling over my head.” Copia huffed. He went to scratch at his exposed sideburn and Fae stopped him.

“Yeah, that’ll happen,” Fae said. “Are you too uncomfortable? Want to stop?”

“No, it’s fine.” Copia brushed her off. He tried to focus on his work again, but got frustrated when he couldn’t ignore the tingling on his scalp. “This is terrible.” Fae tried not to laugh at his childish comment. “How often do you do this?” He looked to Fae.

“Every 5 or 6 weeks.” She shrugged.

“Why would you put yourself through this so often?” Copia questioned, looking at her like she was crazy.

“I have my reasons.” She shrugged again, and Copia’s brow furrowed. He’d spoken with Fae many times, and she’d never dodged a question. She always spoke candidly and honestly, which is something he admired about her. He didn’t understand why a question about her hair would make her clam up like that.

“What is your natural hair color, anyway?” Copia realized he had never seen her roots grow out. She must have gone through great pains to hide it.

“I’ll tell you later.” She avoided another question, and Copia felt like he had accidentally brushed a nerve. “I need to watch that bleach out.” Her smile returned, slightly duller than usual.

It took a little arranging given the tiny space, but Fae got Copia’s head under her bathtub faucet and washed his hair. Copia watched her face above him, her soft features hardening a little as she focused.

“Thank you,” Copia said over the rushing water.

“Hm?” Fae stopped and looked at him.

“You were working on the painting for the auction, yes?” Fae avoided his eyes and shrugged. “You were busy and didn’t have to do this. So, thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fae smiled as she turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his head, cheeks turning pink. “I needed a break, and this sounded more fun.”

Fae helped Copia back into the chair and turned on her hair dryer. As soon as it was dry, Fae started to pour the red dye into another small bowl. While she did, Copia got a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

“Seven hells, I don’t even look like myself,” His hair and sideburns were platinum blonde. It felt like he was looking like a stranger in the mirror with the same eyes and mustache.

“It’s... different,” Fae laughed. “But not the final product, so don’t worry.” She moved him back to the chair and started panting on the bright red dye.

“I regret every agreeing to this stupid thing in the first place.” Copia grumbled. When Fae laughed, he flushed. “Sorry, Sister, even if this isn’t a very professional situation, I am still a superior and should speak as such.” He had an image to uphold, and grumbling over such a silly thing wasn’t part of it.

“You’re fine, Cardinal.” Fae smiled, and Copia could hear it in her voice. “I won’t mind you being a little informal in situations like this. It’s nice to see you with your hair down, so to speak.” Copia chuckled, and Fae did too. “But why did you sign yourself up for this?” Fae asked, curious.

“I didn’t think it would happen,” Copia shrugged and then quickly caught the towel that tried to slip from his shoulders. “I transferred here last year from a much smaller parish. They had forced me to attach my name to similar things, but we’d never raise enough money. I didn’t realize how good Papa III is at fundraising.” He sighed.

“You could still have said no if you really didn’t want to do this,” Fae’s brow furrowed.

“Ah, but then I’d be some stick in the mud,” Copia folded his arms. “I’m working under Nihil to become the next Papa, you know, and I’m trying to endear myself to everyone to transition smoother. Everyone liked Papa III so much because he was “fun.” He was and is more of a pain if you ask me, but I also want to look like I can also be... I don’t know. Fun? Entertaining?”

“I think you can find out how to do that in your own way, though,” Fae said, finishing up his hair and sitting back on the edge of the tub to let the dye process. “If you try too hard to be like the last Papa, people will notice. You need to be you. I think people will find you entertaining, still. You don’t have to dye your hair crazy colors and do backflips or something.” Copia looked at her incredulously, surprised at her candor. “I mean, I think the ship has sailed on that first one, but for the future, you know?” She smiled playfully, and he gave a small smile in return.

“I’m not so sure plain old Copia will win over any hearts, but thank you for saying that.”

Fae thought of telling him about all the Sisters who swooned over him. It saddened her to think he was blind to that. But she bit her tongue. It wasn’t her place to say. That, and she was afraid he would ask her if she was one of those Sisters. She didn’t want to answer that.

“You never told me what your hair color actually is,” Copia said, and Fae blinked.

“It’s nothing special, really,” Fae looked away from him. She wanted to avoid the subject again, but realized how strange it seemed to get upset about the color of her hair. “It’s the same color as that platinum that your hair was.”

“That blonde? Naturally?” Fae nodded shyly. “I didn’t think that light of a blonde could be natural.” He muttered and Fae rubbed the back of her head.

“I guess it can,” She laughed awkwardly. “Here, let me show you.” She stood and went into the bedroom, coming back with a framed photo of a young Fae and her grandma. She was maybe seven in the picture and looked angelic with her blue-grey eyes and long platinum blonde hair.

“I’ll be damned...” Copia muttered as he looked at the picture. “It’s a beautiful color on you. Why did you change it?”

“It’s a little complicated,” Fae’s face turned a darker red and she still wouldn’t look at him.

“I won’t pressure you, Sister. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine.” Fae took the picture back from Copia and focused on it as she spoke. “How much have I told you about my family?” They spoke often, but only small amounts of her past had snuck into conversations.

“Not much,” Copia said, thinking. “I know your grandmother raised you, but that’s about it.”

“Well,” Fae chewed her lip, trying to decide the appropriate amount of information. She sat down on the floor against the wall as she thought.

“I don’t know what my mom looks like,” she started. “Neither did my grandma, really. She dropped me off on Dad’s doorstep when I was a few months old. He hadn’t seen my mom in months and didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Copia said politely, unsure about what this had to do with Fae’s hair.

“It’s fine,” She shrugged. “It’s in the past. I never got to ask my dad what she looked like, but he told my grandma she had the most gorgeous long blonde hair.”

“Oh,” Copia muttered, putting pieces together.

“I had long hair until I was around 13 or 14.” Fae explained. “It reminded me of how I’d never know who my mom was, you know? So one day I cut it all off and dyed it. Grandma understood and didn’t make me change it.”

The air was heavy with the seriousness of the conversation, and that feeling made Fae anxious.

“Your hair should be ready now.” She said, not entirely sure if they had waited long enough, but wanting the conversation to end.

Fae rinsed and blowdried Copia’s hair again, then they both stood and looked at him in the mirror.

“I look like a tomato.” He muttered and Fae bit back a laugh.

“It’ll match your red suit.” Fae offered. “It could look like an intentional choice.”

“I was going to wear my red suit, yes.” Copia straightened and crossed his arms. “But I don’t think I want to look like a walking strawberry.”

“Hey don’t be mean,” Fae nudged him playfully. “I have the same hair color, you know.”

“But it looks good on you,” Copia protested. “Old men should not have hair like this.”

“You look fine,” Fae insisted. “I like your natural hair better, but you still look good.” Copia gave a small grunt in disagreement.

“How long until I can change it back?” he asked.

“A few days.” Fae said, and Copia sighed.

“I’m sure you can call a salon and get it taken care of the day after the gala or something.” Fae tried to make him feel a little better and he appreciated her trying.

“Actually,” Copia glanced at Fae through the mirror and away again. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind doing this again?” He asked timidly.

“You want me to...?” Fae turned her head to him and Copia turned away from her. “I’m hardly a professional, Cardinal.” she protested.

“Yes, I know.” He started gathering up his supplies to give him an excuse to avoid eye contact. “I just missed out on these types of things as a teen. Spent all my time studying, not doing the normal rebellious teen things. So this was... nice.”

“Oh,” Fae flushed, surprised that he’d had a good enough experience to want to do it again.

“That is, if you want to and are available. I don’t want you to put yourself out just for me.” Copia had organized all of his things into neat piles and now looked at Fae anxiously.

“I’m sure I could find the time, Cardinal.” Fae smiled and Copia’s shoulders relaxed.

“Thank you, Sister.” Copia picked up his things and gave her a polite little nod. “I have taken up enough of your time for one evening, though, I think. Thank you again.”

“Happy to help, Cardinal.” She smiled.

“Let me know if there is anything I can do to repay you,” he said over his shoulder as he headed to the door.

“Save me a dance at the gala tomorrow night,” Fae teased as she opened the door for him. Copia stopped mid-stride and stared at her.

“I would have done that anyway,” He said and headed out the door into the hall.

“C-Cardinal, I was joking! You don’t have to do that!” Fae’s face burned as she called after him.

“See you tomorrow night, Sister.” Copia said over his shoulder.

Fae stood in her doorway, dumbfounded and blushing, until she noticed everyone in the busy corridor was staring at her. Her face was scalding hot as she backed into her room and shut the door behind her.

#oneshot #oneshot fic #oc #original character #copia #cardinal copia x oc #cardinal copia #cardinal copia x original character #ghost #the band ghost #ghost bc #I'll probably post this on AO3 too but hey here it is #no one asked for this but here it is anyway

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punkandsnacks · 4 years

Text

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Four; Acquaintances.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: Nothing much to trigger in this chapter - just as the title suggests, a swooning moment or two perhaps-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

The sky remained hard. Resolutely letting snow sift from the thick great heavens, like icing sugar drifting down. The ground also continued to be frosty hard and scattered with patches of hidden silvery ice.

No sooner than the sun had risen over the tumbling flat frosty vista of Hampshire hills and frost crusted meadows, than Iris is up, and going about her daily chores all in the life of a gently bred - yet unwed- daughter, of fairly considerable means.

She takes food parcels to the poor. Calls on sick relatives or companions for tea. Pays calls. Fetched supplies for cook from the butchers or the grocers, or the fishmongers in town.

When one of the maids is ill, or is suffering a passing heartbreak until the next suitor comes along, Iris is the one to step into the void and fulfil their tasks. She collects the eggs from the chickens at the farm, or makes the ailing girl a hot milk posset or a cup of hot chocolate to cheer them.

It seemed like every other week their maids, Meg and Julia, seemed to go getting their hearts broken. Some farm hand. Or the boy from the butchers shop. The milliners son, or the strong handsome one who works in the drapers shop. As ever; Iris steps into the fray when - another - devastating crisis comes their way. She helps cook in the kitchen with supper. Or she helps out with idle cleaning around the house. Or see’s to the chores on the farm.

This morning is no different. Meg took to her bed with an ailing heart of the most acute kind. For the boy she fancies had become engaged to another girl. Iris brings her a cup of chocolate after breakfast and lends her a handkerchief and a shoulder so she can have a good long cry about it.

So household tasks fall onto her today. Fetching in what cook needed from market for supper. Even though she’d have liked to have spent a morning reading her book, or helping Julia get on top of the household washing. She’s wanted to take down the parlour curtains and give them a good scrub, for weeks now.

Or today she had ideally wanted to lend Flora and Posy a hand in drying some flowers, and french lavender and roses. For perfumes and bathing oils. They had to use their home grown stock from the gardens carefully. It was a long winter. And the convenience of summer blooms are far off yet. Dried flowers cost a pretty penny up the market.

Her duties are endless. She’s got calls to pay. Off to the butchers to buy sweet meats and game for the jugged hare cook is making tonight. She needs to buy beeswax candles and salt, and some more soaps.

And Posy and Flora are allowed to purchase two new ribbons each. They’ll walk into the village with her. No doubt nattering all the way there about what colours they want. And all the way back that they should’ve chosen different ones.

Iris steps outside in her wintry best and her cracked leather boots. Two pairs of wool stockings this time. Her navy blue wool pelisse over a thick white cotton dress. For good measure, she puts a bonnet on to keep her ears warm, and wraps a gold embroidered shawl around her shoulders.

Posy and Flora are trussed up as if they’re off to go personally meet the Prince Regent. Flora is in her gold pelisse with her pink dress under. And Posy had her powder blue coat over her mint green dress. They’re both wearing bonnets that they made up themselves. Their hats staggering under the weight of ribbons and cloth and trims and flounces.

Iris’s was far simpler - No fuss. No trims. A gold straw bonnet with grey ribbon tied under her chin.

Iris has to chide Posy, when they step out of doors, for forgetting to wear her gloves. She insists she hasn’t a decent pair and slips back into the house to go up to Iris’s room to conveniently borrow her grey rabbit fur lined gloves. Making her elder sister roll her eyes. The plot was clear.

They had a heavy basket each to carry. Some old granary loaves, soused herring, and some jars of Jam from their kitchens to go to the poor. They’re not even at the end of the drive and Flora is whinging about the weight of her basket. Iris heaves a sigh and grabs it off her.

She trudges behind them. Both arms carrying heavy baskets.

Her and Posy link arms, giggling, walking along merrily, animated and discussing last nights ball. Or, more accurately; making sport of the people who’d attended.

“Did you see that awful Lavender gown Jane Penwell had on?”

“I thought it suited her very ill indeed.”

“And did you hear about Lawrence Fisher? Apparently he’s now to be courting Lucy Miller.”

“I cannot stand her. Last night she was so boastful about the lace trim on her dress. She’s vile. And I haven’t had any new lace on my dress for over a year! Not since last summer. I’m sure she does it deliberately, just to vex me.”

“You are far prettier than Lucy Miller. She has ten million freckles and no conversation at all. She’s a pale ugly little thing.” Posy’s insisting fiercely to her younger sister.

Iris is amused by the sheer frailty of their worries.

“And besides, Mama said she had a letter from Mrs Thornby today, and apparently Lord Ren and Iris were the talk of the ball all night, last eve.” Flora says cheekily.

Turning over her shoulder to scrutinise her sister with a smug grin that flashes her straight little row of teeth.

Iris rolled her eyes. Strongly suspecting that as of now, her and Lord Ren would be gossiped about in front parlours for weeks. This was a sleepy country village with little amusement and not much variety to sustain it.

Mama’s and girls of the Ton would fall on the new shred of tittle-tattle like wolves.

“He left the ball last night without talking to any other girl, mama said.” Posy explains.

“The poor man probably didn’t have time enough to get through all the desperate Hampshire girls, eagerly throwing themselves at him to make an acquaintance.” Iris thinks aloud.

They walk up Westwell’s frosted drive and out onto the snowy lanes that cut through quaint countryside and woods.

The golden sun is in its early rising, striping ribbons of thick satin gold through the trees. The ruddy browns and ash greys and ochre coppery rusts of the Turner-esque English countryside. Of fields and hedgerows and treetops. The grass is no longer green. It’s a musty white. And that same cloying powder clings onto the dead taupe leaves and branches of every tree. The air is bitter to breathe in.

Iris takes a deep lungful of it, and its like a chest full of sharp pins. Needling at her lips and her neck. She should’ve thought to employ a wool scarf. As it is she can only tuck her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Tucking the heavy baskets into to dig deeper into her elbows. The frost numbs her feet, and sneaks up her skirts and snatched cruelly at her legs.

She clenched her numb fingers, scrunching and unscrunching them up in her much too thin gloves.

Posy and Flora continue their giggling and swapping tidbits of gossip about Lord Ren.

“You know he didn’t even dance with anyone!”

“A great sin, I’m sure. Punishable by death.” Iris thinks to herself under her breath.

“He probably didn’t have time-“ Posy remarks.

“Or he doesn’t know how.” Flora supposed.

“A man that lofty, of course he can dance. Maybe he prefers not too.”

“Maybe he has a false leg, or, or a war wound!”

Iris rather wishes her ears were purely ornamental by this point.

Give me a pair of vestigial ears anytime you wish. She idly prays. Turning her eyes skywards.

“Maybe he’s shy-“ Flora squeaks. Posy clasps her hand over her mouth and laughs so loudly it startles the chaffinches out the trees.

“I don’t think he can afford to blend into the wallpaper with a stature like that.” Flora grins.

“His shoulders were twice the width of me.” Posy says dreamily.

“Did he have soft lips Iris? For you must’ve felt them through your gloves... Were they heavenly?” Flora demands to know. Both sisters walking in step alongside her now.

She side eyes them. “That is not a proper thing to discuss. And well you know it Flora Jane Ashton.” Iris insists. Concealing her secrets to herself.

She wasn’t telling her sisters how her whole body burst into shivers popping and skipping up her spine. How his touch made her skin feel like it was dancing of its own accord. Free from her body. She shivered yet she was blushing hot.

His lips were the softest, sweetest things that had ever come into contact with her body.

Her whole arm felt dizzy afterwards. It wasn’t possible. But that’s how it felt. Hours after she was still rubbing the patch where his lips had lain on her satin gloves.

When she got home after the ball, she peeled her glove off and looked at her hand.

It still looked ordinary. Her skin wasn’t red or marked - but it felt like it should be. It felt as if something utterly astounding had happened to her.

The memory of his eyes gazing their arrow-striking glare into her own haunted her head all night long. Swam behind her closed eyelids in her sleep. Those opulent piercing eyes.

“We won’t tell a soul.” Posy promises

“Oh, look. Here is the Barton’s cottage. Flora pass me the ointment for Mr Barton.” Iris demands.

Seeing the little boxy cottage coming into view. Roof thick with iced thatch. Walls butter yellow. With fat pink sickly rose vines creeping up the walls. Iris sees the chimney is smoking. They must be home keeping warm on this frigid morning. Acrid woodsmoke from the house drifts across the woods.

They deliver the ointment into Mrs Barton’s hand. Along with some jam, a loaf, and pickled goods to see them through the wintry cold week. They were a frail elderly couple after all. And Iris likes helping people. She always had. Her mother always insisted she’d been cursed with an unshakable vein of kindness.

Which often meant as a child she was forever taking in birds wounded falling out their nests in the gardens. Leaving carrots out for the wild rabbits. Seeds for the birds. Feed for the little monk-jack deers. She shared all her dolls as a girl. Forever saw to caring for the people and creatures which surround her. She visits the infirm with medicine. Reads to the lonely old matrons who’d lost all the grandchildren of their own.

Now she’s grown that inclination hasn’t left her. She likes making sure none of the infirm elderly, or the more impoverished friends of her acquaintance suffer through the bitter cold climes. They never have to struggle alone. Iris is a balm to the hurting. She gives what she can. And is a friend to everyone kind enough to recognise it.

Before long, the trio of ladies dispense their generosity upon those who need it. Giving what sustenance and leftovers they can spare. It’s not much really- when all is said and done. But it’s helping in any little way possible. And that’s what matters.

They come eventually into Pembleton high street. The every busy and jagged row of higgledy Tudor houses. Separated by a lane of sticky brown mud where horses hooves and carts churn up the dirt. Carts and stalls line the streets. Modest shopfronts sell their wares. The air is full up of woodsmoke and the scent of roasting nuts from the brazier on the stand nearby.

Iris loses Posy and Flora very quickly to the haberdashers, where the ribbons hang from great silken trails in racks from the ceiling. Every colour Imaginable.

She sees them fussing over Belgian lace and leaves them be. She steps into the butchers for Cooks desired hare and sweet meats. She buys the candles, salt and the paper wrapped little cakes of soaps from Mr Milton’s shop next door.

She crosses the street to the grocers. Fills her basket with green leeks, onions, potatoes and carrots. She tucks everything in her basket, around the poor lamented hare with its fur still on, and covers it with a patterned linen cloth.

She has a shilling spare- she wanders over to Mr. Greeley. The proud proprietor of the roasted nuts stall. She buys a bag of warm, buttery sweet chestnuts.

Hides them from Posy and Flora. This was her one little indulgence for today. She sneaks one of the hot things onto her tongue and savours it.

She strides back up the line of shop windows. Looking and listening to the clack and bustle of the street behind her. Clopping hooves, rattling carts, ponies and traps clunking along the high street. Friends and acquaintances stopped to gossip and chat in the street. Young and old. Of every walk of life.

She looks in the drapers window. The reflection off the glass, showed her a watery image of a gaggle of matronly mamas stood behind her across the street, loudly gossiping in her direction. Pointing and gesturing toward her.

She rolls her eyes in huffing annoyance.

She wasn’t enjoying being the inconstant centre of attention. Open to such censure and fascination in odes to the Hearst’s ball last night.

Also in odes to the mysterious new stranger to these shores, too. The dark, dashing, and taciturn Lord Ren.

Every wet-behind-the-ears girl in all of Hampshire was busy envisioning their swirled initials joined with his in their embroidery. A big handsome stranger from far off lands. It was the precursor to the stuff of romance from drippy novels. A harbinger of a great love story.

Maybe not hers. Lord Ren may have kissed her hand and called her handsome. But so have countless other rich suitors, and then two months later them and their pretty blonde heiress of ten thousand pounds, are lavishly married and installed in a house in Brunswick square. She’s sure he’ll eventually find some far more moneyed girl to march into matrimony.

It won’t be her- not her turn to pick out her wedding clothes. It never is.

She lets the whispers and doubts about her, flourish from unimportant mouths.

She never cared for the savagery of society. She won’t start being missish about it all, now. It won’t serve her any purpose-

She can only hope the next scandal or engagement or elopement, or any other source of fascination to the bored inhabitants of this county, comes flooding in quick to snatch away all unhealthy - and rather undue - interest in her.

She waits outside the haberdashers for her pair of silly sisters. They eventually come out. Comparing their new ribbons with each other’s. Flora has a pink, Posy has some frothy white lace.

Posy hands Iris a teal silk ribbon. “For your hair. It would become you so well. And it will go with your eyes.” She insists.

Iris smiles. Wrapping the long length of satin around her grey glove. It was very pretty.

“Pray how did you afford this?” Iris narrows her eyes in smiling suspicion at the pair of them.

“I saved up my allowance.” Posy insists plainly. Iris continues her look. She tilts her chin down a notch. Let’s her eyes harden to steel. Arched her muddy shaped brows.

“...And the haberdasher’s son is so very obliging.” Flora beams. The younger Ashton’s giggle together knowingly.

Iris sighs again. Strongly suspecting she could safely boast that she had two of the silliest siblings in the entire country. Hell, in the entire British Empire.

“Let’s take our leave shall we...” Iris says. Slowly heading away. Down the street in the opposite direction they came. It took them home down on the woodland path.

She picks up her pristine white skirts and steps over the mud. Baskets heavy with her goods now thunking against her hip as they walk. One filled with meat. The other with candles and potatoes and other luxuries for supper.

Posy and Flora trail behind her. Discussing how best to use their ribbons. On bonnets or around the waistline of their favourite dresses. Iris drowns them out and listens to the crunch of her feet on the frost. The silver wisp of her breath as its whisked away up into the reach of the sky. She likes how sun glimmers off frost like sparkles and diamonds and gems. Like something fine and rich.

They just come across a curve in the lane. Leading through an open meadow full of frosted grass and withered wildflowers. When a thundering sound gallops into being, hitting the hard ground in succession from beyond the bend.

Iris looks up, attention captured swiftly by the beast of a large rider atop a colossal shimmering black horse, moving quick towards where they are walking along the quiet little lane. The peace shattered by the horses hooves pounding the earth.

A great hulking beast of a man sits astride it. Who indeed almost matches the brutally-enormous muscled intensity of the creature he rides.

Lord Ren.

Iris startled and went to move aside. But he sees them and is already slowing the horse. She draws a deep breath and watches as he tugs the reins to reel in his galloping mount. Reducing to a canter, a trot and then to a slow stop. Hooves churning up frost and spitting wet and crushed muddy grass, under its enormous stomping treads.

The sun in fiercely shining behind him. So Iris can only make out the silhouette at first. There’s no mistaking that singular body for another man. The primal size and bulk of him is unmistakable.

But then he shifts forwards on his horse as it stops. Lumbering towards them all. And that winter sun shines amber over his shoulder and she’s met with the full face of the handsome man she became acquainted with yesterday. His breath and that of his horses turn to silver smoke in the cold air

He passes the strops of its black reins into one gloved leather hand. His attire not much changed since yesterday. Still all black. The shining calf riding boots. The breeches that sit entirely too snug to the sturdy trunks of his legs and hips. The tailored black wool coat. White shirt tied with an elaborately knotted wine coloured cravat. Diamond pin studded central into the tie of the cloth.

His hair is free and rumpled by the wind. Desirable and untamed. Wild. He wears no top hat on his head like most gentlemen of civility did, when out riding.

Something about that lack of full dress she admires. Maybe he likes to feel the wind tangle his hair. The suns kiss his pale skin. The wind stinging at his cheeks. Likes galloping across the terrain at full speed on his mammoth sized beast of a horse.

“Good morning ladies.” He nods to them all. Still seated on his horse.

“Miss Ashton.” He smiles directly down at Iris as his horse shifts and stomps and nibbles the dewy wet grass below.

She ducks her head and curtseys. “Good morning. Your Lordship.” She says politely. Dwarfed by his horses shadow.

He holds her gaze for a second and smiles. Eyes more opulent charcoal in their shade than ever, this morning. He even had a kiss of pink colour in his cheeks. He looks healthy. Less alabaster pale. She strongly suspects its because of the icy wind stinging his cheeks as he rode.

He unlatched his right boot from the stirrup and smoothly swings himself off the horse. Grips the pommel at the front of the black saddle and swings himself down. Feet land to earth with a crunching thud. Frost and grass crushed underfoot.

His long wool riding coat flaps at his knees. Billowing open at his chest to show just his white shirt beneath it. Such thin layers. He must’ve been freezing.

“If I may be so bold, Miss Ashton, allow me to see you along to your intended destination?” He asks kindly. One big hand patting the solid flank of his horses shoulder when it huffs at his dismounting.

Iris’s cheeks go flaming red. She’s sure of it. Throat dry she manages to answer.

“Oh. Forgive my impertinence Lord Ren. But I don’t wish to take you out of your way. Only we are heading in the opposite direction to your path.”

“With your permission. I should like to walk with you. I’ve done a sufficient amount of riding for this morning.” He tells her.

Iris smiles. Flattered that he’d rearrange his ride, just to see her safely home. Just to walk with her for a moment or two.

Posy digs a sharp elbow into Flora’s ribs. Which jolts the youngest into speaking. “Iris. We were just going up the lane here to call on Charlotte Morris.”

Iris gazes pointedly at Flora with a piercing state that could’ve rivalled a dressmakers needle. “How remiss of you not to bring it up until now...” Iris glares a little.

“Should you mind?” Posy asks. Fluttering her lashes.

“Of course not.” Iris says flatly. “Mind the hour home and do for heavens sake be sensible.”

“We are the very vision of sensibility.” Flora beams.

Iris quirks a wry brow at the both of them. Teeth grit.

The two most transparent pests on the planet. Their plot was clear as day- One of sneaking away and leaving their elder sister unchaperoned and alone with him.

They turn away giggling and make for the little lane opposite. Gabbling and whispering all the way. Loud giggles follow them like fluttering birdsong.

When she turns back to Lord Ren he looks slightly amused. She blushes.

“I feel I ought offer an apology, your lordship. They are- most puerile and trying at times.” Iris offers as she shifts to step nearer to where he is.

He smiles gently. “They are young girls who fancy themselves cunning, I wager. No apology is necessary for that.” He declares affably. Patting his horses neck.

He brings the big horse around. Holding the gathered reins in his left hand. He leads his gigantic horse around with a click of his tongue and some soft words in urging Bavarian. The big creature follows his lead. She moves and alters the heavy baskets on her arms.

He sees this. Kylo frowns at the heavy weights at both her elbows. She shouldn’t be tasked with fetching and carrying like a damned pack horse. He extends a hand. “Allow me, Miss Ashton.”

“Oh, no it’s- I couldn’t.” By the time her protestations die on her lips. He has one basket in one hand, the other, he tied the handle to a saddle bag strap on his horse. Lays it rest against the saddle.

She’s mortified that a Lord offers to carry her basket for her.

“That’s truly a magnificent horse. I’ve never seen the like before.” She says. The steeds eyes glitter as if it knows it’s being discussed. “What’s his name?” She asks rummaging in her basket he holds. Hand slipped under the cloth.

“Erland.” Kylo says. The horses ears twitch.

“Erland. A majestic name. For a majestic beast.” She smiles at him.

She steps up to the horse and strokes her gloved hand down the flat bone between his eyes, leading down to his snout. Scents of hay and oats and animal sweat pour musky off his coat.

“He’s a lovely animal.” She says. Stroking his solid flank.

“Percheron. He’s a French draft horse. His breed originated in the Huisne valley in western France.” Lord Ren tells her.

“Bred for use as war horses, and pulling stagecoaches. This one has a fair mount of Arabian blood in him too. Makes him far too proud and headstrong.” He announces. Erland flicks his swishing tail at his owner. Snorting at him.

“I bought him with me from Bavaria. He’s the best riding horse I’ve had for a while. Stubborn temperament.” He offers. He watches her stroke his head. Touch the soft spot behind his ears.

“You like animals, Miss Ashton.” He states.

Most girls, as far as he’s aware, deigned horses as smelly, ugly creatures, whose only purpose was beneath them. Or to pull their carriages. She seemed to like this big equine creature very much.

“I do. Especially ones who are as beautiful as him.”

“Careful. Or else that flattery will shoot right to his ego.” He warns lightly.

She smiles.

Erland’s hairy velveteen muzzle cheekily nudges at her shoulder for more affection. He clearly likes her touch. Kylo tugs on his reins and frowns at him.

“Benehmen Sie sich.” Kylo rumbles in a firm Bavarian command at his horse. Calling him back. Telling him to be good. Rubbing his stocky shoulder. The round strong bones of him and the hot silk of his coat underneath his gloved palm.

She smiles. Lets the carrot she fetched from her basket, sit in the flat cradle of her gloved palm. She offers it to Erland, who snuffles it up and crunches on it. Breaking the frail vegetables skin with his big teeth. Munching it all down. Nuzzles her for more when he’s done.

He snorts when Kylo speaks up. “Anymore and you’ll get fat. You great beast.” He assures his horse in that soft foreign dialect. Shoving his snout into Miss Ashton’s hand for yet more treats. Erland’s head was so big and his power so strong, he could’ve very realistically knocked her over with one push.

She steps back and takes her place alongside a Lord Ren so they can continue in their walk. He’s a busy man. She doesn’t wish to hold him up. They fall into step easy. Her on Kylo’s left, Erland in his big lumbering enormity on Kylo’s right. His master has his right hand holding his stallions reins. The other easily carries her basket for her.

“Did you enjoy your introduction into Hampshire society, Your lordship?” Iris can’t help but ask him with mirth creeping into her voice and on her smile.

He turns his head to look at her. “The sheer amount of handsome and accomplished young ladies hereabouts is staggering.” He comments with dry humour. “I wonder if this isn’t the most accomplished county in all of England.” He states.

Iris finds herself smiling. Every desperate mother worth her salt last night would be crowing her daughters praise to high heaven. Enough to induce the possibility that her very accomplished, pretty and upstanding daughter might have a chance at landing him.

“Mothers can be so very domineering when the subject of marriage arises.” Iris promises. Looking down to step over a particularly frosty puddle.

Kylo looks across at her. Watches her profile. Along the curve of her nose and the swell of her smiling lips. It occurred to him then, that she didn’t know of her beauty. She was not aware of its potency. He could sense it; this was a girl who overlooked her own worth and highly underestimated her attractiveness.

With her pebble-ash eyes shining in the marigold sun like that, sparkling as if made of moonstone gems, and her rosy smile so unguarded and free. She didn’t see her beauty then. Not the way he could. Didn’t see it lay in the kiss of pink in her cheeks or the merriment of her face. On the geniality of her laugh and smiles.

“I know I shouldn’t comment on such things. But I do feel so dearly for every new suitor who comes to this village. Every Mama and every daughter must veritably drown poor men with their female offspring.”

Kylo raises one brow. “Rest assured. I’m not a man so inclined to favour polite safe conversation.” He promises her. He doesn’t tiptoe around propriety.

“And I will admit I lost count of the young ladies I was introduced too last eve. My ears were quite ringing with names and sickly smiles by the end of the evening.” He confesses.

She smiles wide again. Looks across. “I do sometimes wish that the people here could look beyond the scope of their own ignorance. To look beyond the defining goal of matrimony.” She confesses.

“Why should a woman’s worth be tied onto who she weds? Can she not be her own person and find a man to suit that.” She avows. Letting her stalwart brain run away with her rather passionate mouth.

“That’s very forward thinking of you.” Kylo says to her with a kind smile. Her face falls. She’s inspired insult with that comment.

She’s flushing with embarrassment.

“Mother would faint if she heard me confess that to you. Do forgive me, for the impertinence of my tongue.” She begs. Face wrinkling into a worried frown.

“You have a mind. Miss Ashton.” Kylo says. “It’s entitled to make itself known.”

“I’m a gently bred, unmarried, woman. And the eldest daughter, Lord Ren. My mind should be silent at all times. And possessed only, night and day, by thoughts and longing for matrimony.” She says. Quoting one of her mother’s rants.

“Well. You have my word. I’m most blessedly glad it’s not.” He says. Turning to look deep into her eyes.

She seems curiously confused. “You are?”

“Indeed.” He answers plainly.

“It means you are the one woman in this entire county with whom I can conduct a refreshing conversation. One that doesn’t revolve around reminding me again and again, that I’m a rich man who desperately needs a wife.” He offers.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Iris says laughing. “Not often I happen find someone on the same page as myself.”

“English men may find your so called ‘impertinence’ intolerable, Miss Ashton. For they were raised to know no better. But I am not a English man. Where I came from, it is applauded that a woman might speak her mind and have judgements and executions of her own.” He supplies.

“Our way of life here must seem so strange and strict to an outsider.” She dares. The defining pinnacle of English country society was its savage nature, after all.

“I don’t see much of the society in Bavaria.” He explains. “I see to the welfare of tenants on my land. I go hunting every season to pass the time. I’m afraid I rarely indulge in attending parties and balls.” He tells.

“A castle must be an incredible home.” She guesses.

“Even so- it can be very limiting being confined to it in the cold dark winters. Very little company. Little to entertain. I found myself wanting a change of scene. I had looked for some land opportunity’s to enclose in over here. When Hellford became available. It seemed a good opportunity to travel. Sink my teeth into a new venture.” He smarts. Eyes darkly roaming over her face with that handsome smile.

She nods. “I quite understand.” Erland clops alongside them in the misty morning sunshine. Snorting breaths silver and wispy still in the biting air.

“What are the winters like in Bavaria?” She enquires.

He smiles. “Beautiful. But bitter.” He explains. “The snow can be deep. As tall as me some days when it falls.” She smiles at his description.

“The castle stands out of a tall pine forest. A lake and a river to the east. One of the biggest woods in the country. Full of wolves, boars, and deer. It’s quite a wilderness in its own right.”

“Goodness- wolves. Isn’t that terribly dangerous?” She frets.

Not as much as me. He thinks. Matter of fact, when he steps foot in that forest, he is the most bloodthirsty dangerous animal in it.

“The beasts respect the boundary of my castle. I respect the forest is theirs. It’s a symbiotic relationship.” He tells her.

“Surrounded by wolves. You must feel very at home here too, then.” She jokes.

He laughs. “There’s something familiar I grant. Though the wolves back home don’t don lace caps and thrust all their daughters at me.”

She laughs at his remark. And suddenly, she goes spinning off course. Her worn boots slipping on a sneaky patch of frost and ice. No grip to their soles in this devilish cold. A yelp leaves her mouth as she skids. Blood flashing flushing hot and terrible suddenly. The shock of slipping stabbing at her stomach.

He acts quick. He lets go of Erland’s reins and steps that big form forwards and snatched one arm out to grab her. Slips back around her waist, cups the back of her hip, and yanks her tight to him to stop her falling.

She gasps and trembles as her vision spins, to be quickly halted by a sheer wall of cold, dark clad muscle. She barely registers where she is now.

Because she’s pressed right up into Lord Ren’s redoubtably firm chest. Her palms crushed flat on his lapels. His arm seizing her back and cupping her onto him to stop her slipping. She can feel under her coat how her breasts are crushed flat to him. Can feel his breathing heaving up and down, much like her own.

A shaky gasp leaves her mouth as she looks up, peering past the peak of her bonnet with flaming cheeks. Realising that they are slanted very close together. His face is right there, and he’s gazing down at her.

She’s in his arms. Buried into his chest. And it feels incredible. Such musculature and sheer masculine mass under her palms. Her head swims. He’s dizzying. Hypnotising.

Eyes as dark as burnt-ember molasses flecked with gold, and his lips look so invitingly pink ripe and soft- she curses at herself for that treacherous thought and her blush rises more. His wool coat and cologne nearly smacks her in the nose as she almost collided into his pectorals.

Kylo can hear her fluttering heartbeat. Like a racing preys pulse beating wild. Frail and fast, like a baby birds. A huge drift of her fragrance absolutely drowns him, pulls him under. Clary sage, French lavender and peppermint. Sweet and calming. Addictive. He wants to lean down and taste the salt of it off her neck...

It seems an eternity passes before he speaks.

“Are you hurt?” He asks. Making sure she didn’t turn one of her ankles. Or damage the bone

“T-Thankyou. I’m, I’m well.” She gasps. “I’m so sorry- I” She explains moving her hands down off his chest. He nearly swept her up off her feet. Now only her tiptoes brush the icy ground. The only part of her barely rooted to earth. Lost in those eyes.

Domineering, commanding, brutal, eyes. Eyes that had seen this world ten times over. But never gazed upon anything comparable to her-

Erland brings them both back down to earth. Snorting and fussing. Swishing his tail and nudging his nose at his masters shoulder.

Sense swims back through the fog of attraction and the heady bloom of lust. Kylo unleashes her back and her hip from his hold.

Quite liking the feel of her he accidentally - and literally - caught underneath her coat. The plump of her thighs and the shapely flesh of her hip and her bottom. There’s doubtless a figure to rival Venus herself, under this shapeless coat and thin dress. She slowly drags her hands off his chest and steps back. Avoiding the ice beneath her toes. Her gloves rasp on his fine wool coat.

“You fell. Miss Ashton. No need to be sorry for such a thing.” He tells her.

“You’ve a steady hand, Lord Ren.” She compliments. Thanking him further. He still held her basket in the arm that had not reached out to catch her. He looked as if he barely had to flex out an arm to catch her. Just twisted his body. His reflexes were sharp and cunning. As strong as he was.

He reached out and retook Erland’s reins.

They continue walking carefully along the little lane. For Westwell is just beyond the tree line now. It saddens her that she’ll be home soon.

Back to her daily chores. Back to scrubbing curtains, and helping cook roll pastry and mediating the silly shouting screeching arguments that Posy and Flora have over who gets to take turns to wear their favourite bonnet

She reflects how restoring it is to talk to someone so fully - without having to watch or guard her tongue. It’s even more enlightening to talk to someone such as him. Someone who, like her, feels like an outsider. Never fully fits in. And harbouring no desire too.

She feels her heart sink, morbid mournful and grey settling in her ribs, when they come to the meagre gateway along the short drive to Westwell. The twin stone pillars signifying the gateway were old and crusted with frosted moss.

Kylo calls Erland to halt. She pats the wonderful beasts strong shoulder in goodbye. He rubs the great velvet plain of black his forehead at her. Kylo untied her basket and handed it to her.

“I’d have no hesitation in seeing you to the door directly. But I fear your mother might see fault with our being left unchaperoned.” He disclosed. Giving her back the groaning full wicker basket with a clever grin.

She shivers when their hands brush. If she had any doubts in her attraction, that betraying little Judas of a tingle that thrashed her body, made her realise otherwise.

She likes him-

“Astute observation, your lordship. I Thankyou for your discretion.” She blushes. Hooking the baskets back on her arms. Adjusting the shawl where it had slipped down from her shoulders.

She looks down into her basket, and smiles. “A token of gratitude.” She explains before handing over the still warmed bag of chestnuts across to him.

He cradled them in his leather gloved hand. Appreciative of the gift. He rarely ate food. There wasn’t much need for it and it wasn’t the manna that’s sustained him. He had little joy in any human sustenance - apart from humans themselves.

When he did eat food, it was red meat that was still rare, juicy, and dripping blood. And he only drank sharp deep red wine.

He reaches over and took her hand. Once again dropping Erland’s reins. He took her dainty hand and brought it up and bows to kiss her palm.

He’s tired of satin and calfskin under his lips. He rather wanted to grasp a taste of her skin. Soon.

“Always a pleasure, Miss Ashton. I hope the experience of your company repeats itself shortly.” He compliments.

She smiles, apples of her cheeks creasing dimples with her widened smile. She nods politely and curtseys. “Your Lordship.” She curtseys gently. Bonnet tipping forwards. Criminally covering that beautiful face of hers.

She turns and he watches her walk up the pale lane to home. Sun striping through the trees onto her bleached linen white skirts. Bleached by sunshine. And softly scented of fresh cotton and French lavender.

Miss Ashton is made up of good intentions and possesses a giving heart as pure as gold. Pure. That’s his little dove all over-

He looks down in his hand and weighs the small bag of nuts she’d gifted him. He lifts it to his nose and inhales their scent. Buttery, sweet, burnt and acrid.

He tips his eyes back up to watch her. Thought creases up his brow. He’ll never know how it is to have such a virtue as a kind heart.

She was made up of honour and purity and softness. Doves feathers, lavender and rose petals. And he is made of cruelty. Of war and broken glass and shards of steel. He was made between ash and snow and a landscape soaking swimming festering in blood.

There’s no kindness in him. No mercy. Barely any love in him either.

He cares little for humans. After he was turned. That’s just how he became. They became meaningless specs of nothing to him. She has no idea what he is- who he is- he’s sent entire scores and countries of men shrieking to their deaths and writhing in agony into hell, cursing his name on their lips.

And here she was handing him this little harmless gift, like he wasn’t one of the most fearsome beasts put on this earth.

She’s not far away when she turns back - just as he’s about to mount Erland to ride back to Hellford Park once more. He tucks her meaningful present into his coat pocket.

“Erland... Is that a Bavarian name?” She turns and asks curiously. A kind frown on the lintels of her eyebrows. She tilts her head curiously. Her grey eyes glitter innocently off the sun like honey poured onto slate.

She’s so innocent. And it strikes him so deeply right then. How much he admires that.

He hoists himself into the saddle using the pommel. Feet slipping in the stirrups. Hips resting back onto the cantle behind him.

“It is a Norse name.” He calls to her. Erland is whinnying excitedly. Stomping his hooves to get out to the open fields and get his blood pumping. Kylo can feel the excitement shivering through his stocky legs.

“What does it mean?” She seeks.

“In old Nordic tongue, I believe it means ‘Outsider.’” He tells her.

She smiles. “Well. I trust you both know you have atleast one friend in this Hampshire county.” She smiles.

“Good day, Lord Ren.” She beams brightly. She turns away and she’s already missing the gaze of those melting cocoa eyes appraising her warmly.

Her skin still thrashes from the memory of his touch. All over her skin is alive with the memory of that strength of his. His chest under her hands she’s never felt the like- he was as cold and solid as marble. Some Greek god manifested out of carved stone and come to life.

He turns Erland back onto the snowy road. Clicks his tongue and urges him to run with a sharp dig of his shoe into his side. He feels the ice and the wind sting his skin for all the ride home.

He thinks about her parting gift and her touch against his body for the rest of the day - truly he does. It’s moved him.

He hasn’t been moved so much by another being in all of his years.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

#kylo ren #kylo ren oc #vampire!kylo #vampire au #very wolves and doves #Iris vibes 🕊#Lord Ren vibes 🐺#Draegan vibes 🥀#vampirelovestory #vampire #demon #ao3 fanfic #lovestory #angst #slowest of slow burn #slow burn

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lunarhold · 5 years

Text

─ pairing: rob lucci/reader ─ au: witch ─ warnings: smut, very mild blood & violence ─ words: 12.8k

─ summary: a stranger washes up on shore, and suddenly you find yourself with company. you aren’t sure you’ll survive for a year.

─ a/n: i wrote this in present tense, which i’ve never done before, so i’m hoping it’s decent. also, this didn’t go in the direction i wanted it to, but i just don’t have the motivation to edit it 600x, so this is pretty much pwp

It’s been a few days since the island’s been back in the Grand Line-- or that’s where you always assume it to be-- and it’s been raining the entire time. You’ve spent much of your time sitting by the window, curled up under a blanket watching the waves roll across the sand.

The horizon is a blank, empty sea in shades of grey. Half of you hopes someone will show up this time, the other half tells you you want the peace maintained.

It’s later in the day, the sun starting to set in the distance, when the magic of the island ripples, an alert that a living creature has landed on the shore. You set off immediately, allowing the island to lead you further down the beach. It’s several minutes before you finally get there and you’re soaked and chilled to the bone when you do. A cursory scan of the beach reveals nothing, and for a moment you think they’ve moved on already. But upon a second, slower inspection, you spy something.

In the water, sprawled on a piece of ragged driftwood, is a man.

As you wander up to him, you fear he might already be dead. The waxy, water-logged paleness of his skin makes him look like a corpse, and it takes a moment for you to finally make out the faint rise and fall of his chest. His breathing is rapid, uneven, and shallow and you worry he won’t make it through the next ten minutes, let alone the night.

As you set about preparing to move him, a soft, unfamiliar cooing sounds in your ears, just before a pigeon settles on your shoulder.

“We don’t have pigeons here,” you ponder aloud, pausing in your ministrations for a moment to examine the bird. “Did you come with him?” you ask, gesturing to the unconscious man.

In an unsettling imitation of a human, he cocks his head and nods.

You hum once before turning back to your strange new patient. It takes only a few minutes and a wave of your hand to get him into the house. It’s already expanded inside, a new room appearing adjoining the living room without your input into it.

Settling your guest in bed, you begin to gather the items necessary to heal his wounds. Other than the massive scar on his back, his injuries are minimal. At worst, he had been battered by the sea, sustaining multiple contusions and numerous cuts and scratches. He was one lucky bastard to have avoided any broken bones.

Throughout the entire time you’re treating the man, the pigeon sits upon your shoulder without a peep, and doesn’t seem inclined to give you any information on either himself or his master.

This set off alarm bells in the back of your mind, but you push it down. At worst, you would need to kick him out of your home, still injured and let him fend for himself. It wouldn’t be the first time that you had taken care of an injured person only to have them turn around and attack you. More often than not, you kicked them flat off the island.

The alternative wasn’t something you liked to consider.

As you stare down at the handsome stranger, you hope that isn’t the case this time.

In the days that follow, you keep a watchful eye on your patient, waiting for any sign that he’s going to wake up. After a week, you begin to fret that it isn’t going to happen. His complexion is much healthier, and his breathing is even and steady.

By all accounts, he should be awake by now.

In fact, he should have been awake a week ago.

There’s another problem as well: the island has already jumped from his plane into its own. Looking out the window, towards where the water should be, reveals a thick fog. If one were to step off into that fog, they would simply find themselves on the other side of the island.

This posed a problem of safety, since you don’t know what type of person he is. If he attacked you, defending yourself wouldn’t be enough anymore.

There’s a soft stirring behind you and the pigeon, who’s barely moved from your shoulder since the first day, cooes loudly and takes off, cuffing your face with his feathers in his excitement.

You spin around at the sound of a man’s voice, deep and rich and groggy, saying, “Hattori.”

He’s standing, and it strikes you just how tall he really is. He towers at least a foot over you, giving you a once over that could have made your skin shrivel.

“Who are you and where am I?” His eyes never leave you, liquid silver over cold steel, and you shiver.

“I’m _____. You washed up on my island over a week ago, half-dead,” you say, moving over to your kitchen sink. More than anything, you want to examine his wounds now that he’s moving, but the chill radiating from him tells you not to even think it, let alone mention it.

Instead, you fill a glass of water and hold it out to him. While he had been unconscious, it had been nearly impossible to get him any type of nourishment. You had risked water, but food wasn’t an option. It had come down to small amounts of broth and hope that he would wake before he died of starvation.

His frown deepens, but he takes the cup anyway and almost inhales it, then holds it back out. After he drinks his fill, he pulls on a shirt that you had laid out beside his bed and gives you a curt nod. He doesn’t say anything about food, and you hesitate to offer. The aura he’s giving off is almost terrifying, as if drawing his attention would put you in a crosshair.

“Thank you, but I need to be on my way,” he says as he heads to the door.

“Be my guest,” you say with a shrug, following him at a safe distance out onto the porch. “But I won’t be here when you come back.”

Your words, said in amusement, catch him off guard, and he glares at you with suspicion. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see,” you say, waving your fingers. When he reaches the grass at the foot of the stairs, your house rises to its feet. “There are dangerous animals on the island,” you call as it begins to walk away, swaying from side to side. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

The stranger watches the even stranger house disappear into the woods in stunned silence.

Only when it’s fully disappeared and the sound of creaking wood has ceased does Lucci turn to survey his surroundings. It looked like a typical forest, but there’s something that raises the hair on the back of his neck.

He picks a random direction and begins to walk, knowing he’ll reach shore soon enough.

_____

It takes longer than you expect for him to find you again, though you aren’t sure if it’s because he’s stubborn or because of your ever changing location. Regardless, it’s a few weeks before he shows up again, disgruntled and filthy.

“Well, hello again,” you say from your porch swing. The house eases down to its knees, tucking them underneath the rest of itself until it looks just like a regular house. “Find what you were looking for?” you ask, barely containing the amusement.

He glares at you as he climbs the steps, coming to a stop right in front of you. “Care to explain why I am unable to leave?”

You cock your head to the side, still gently pushing the swing back and forth. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more clear.”

A snarl escapes the man and he leans forward, grabbing the chains in either hand and snatching the swing to a halt. With his lips curled up and his teeth bared, he commands, “Explain, before I decide to set this island alight.” His words, dangerous though they are, are said in such a deep, calm manner that it sends shivers down your spine. It’s clear to you that he can only take so much teasing, and you grow serious, much as you want to have just a little more fun at his expense, you can tell he isn’t joking. “This island only appears in your plane once a year, for approximately seven days. You were unfortunate enough to have washed ashore…” You pause to think for a moment.”...three days before it disappeared back here. You were unconscious for seven in total.”

He curses and pins you with a glare cold enough to freeze water. It’s evident that he’s a man used to getting his way through fear and intimidation. Unfortunately for him, that was going to get him nowhere this time.

“So there’s no way off.”

“Not for another year,” you tell him, letting your eyes travel over the tree line. Like the coast, most of the island was covered in thin wisps of fog, not quite as thick as at the edge. Here, it was always damp and cold. If there was a sun, you had never seen it.

He’s quiet for a moment, watching you with derisive confusion. When you finally look at him again, he frowns. “You said, ‘your plane’. Are you not human?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p’ with a smile. “Your world is no longer my home. I can’t leave this island.”

The man’s frown deepens, but he deigns to sit beside you. His huge frame barely fits on the swing, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “That’s why you kept me here?”

Though he posed it as a question, it sounds like a statement. At first, he had been angry that he was trapped here, but the more he explored, the more he understood that the island was far from normal.

You nod, drawing your legs up underneath you as your companion takes over pushing the swing. You wonder if it’s unconscious, and smile. “That and you would have died had I sent you off. You washed up unconscious, and didn’t wake up for almost a week.” You look over at him, meeting his gaze. “Honestly, I was afraid you might anyway. You didn’t eat anything with me.”

All you get in response is a hum. There’s some curiosity about how he survived, but you feel it might be a bit too rude to ask.

He’s staring out into the woods now and you lapse into silence, allowing him to gather his thoughts. It had been an infinitely long time since anyone had found your island, and no one had ever actually been stuck on it with you. It was a dangerous gamble, given you knew nothing about him. But you would have felt far too guilty sending him off to his death, so you had cast your lot.

Speaking of which…

“What’s your name, by the way? If you’re going to be here for a while, I’m going to need to call you by something.”

He turns around to regard you, and the smile he gives is wolfish, the change in his demeanor enough to give you whiplash.

His eyes glint with danger as he leans in closer. Chills shoot up your spine as his warm breath ghosts over your ear, and they don’t stem from fear.

“Rob Lucci.”

It’s going to be interesting, having him here.

_____

As it turns out, having Lucci around is both a blessing and a curse. He’s strong, far stronger than you, allowing him to take over a lot of the manual labor you had been using magic to complete before. In this way, he avoids being in the house as much as possible, and you begin to wonder if he’s avoiding more than just the house. In his defense though, he tended to get irritable if he sat around too much, so you never say a word about it.

The missing shingles on the roof, the noisy door-hinges, the faucet constantly leaking in the kitchen, all of those are fixed without a word and in record time. Unfortunately, your magic couldn’t make up for your total lack of handiness, and it showed when things broke again after a few weeks. But he took care of it better than you could have dreamed.

His favorite past-time, though, is clearly wood cutting, evidenced by the overflowing pile of logs on the porch. It’s a wonder how he managed to do so much in a single day, but it’s hard to complain about his efficiency. On the other hand…

“There’s no more room on the pile,” he says from behind you.

Next to the window, you had set up a second bird stand for Hattori. You turn from feeding Hattori to look at him, biting your lip as your eyes land on the waistband of his pants and drag slowly up his naked torso. Even in the coolness of the evening, on top of the natural chill of the island, he’s dripping from the exertion of cutting wood. It’s almost impossible to tear your eyes away from the delectable sight, but it’s even harder to meet his eyes when you finally do.

You would swear he did it on purpose.

He’s wearing that predatory grin again as he watches you watch him. There’s something more to it this time though, like he’s daring you to make a move. He’s only been here a week and yet he seems hellbent on breaking you. It’s impossible for you to pinpoint, but ever since he had moved in, you felt like a fire had been lit for him.

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your over enthusiastic heart to calm down. It becomes too hard to think the longer you hold his gaze, so you pick a point just over his shoulder to lock onto. From there, you can see his shoulders rise and fall in laughter as he slips his shirt back on.

“Well, there really isn’t anywhere else to put it,” you say, sounding more hoarse and unsure than you would have liked. He makes you feel like a rabbit, trapped in the den of a wolf and he’s just playing with you before he pounces.

And he was. Lucci was bored, and in the few days he’s been there, he’s come to realize how long it’s been since you’ve had company and therefore how easy it is to rile you up. By the same token, though, something about your shy attraction is appealing to him.

He’s just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“I suppose I’ll just have to find something else to do to occupy myself,” he says, picking up an apple from the table before heading back outside. On the way by, he makes sure to pass as close as he can by you, just shy of brushing against you.

Why did that sound so very much like a threat?

_____

One of your favorite past times is gardening.

While you have a rather large section on the island dedicated to plants grown for consuming, you have another area, attached to the house, that’s reserved for the more delicate plants.

The plants here are what people generally think of when they think of witch’s herbs. Spindly, long vines that hang down from the ceiling and thread through your hair as you walk underneath them, screaming mandrakes that could kill you when fully grown, and prickly, pale, glowing flowers are just a few of the more interesting specimens that reside here. Each of them needs their own special attention, have their own special requirements, and this is where it’s all met.

The air inside is humid, walking into it is like walking into a sauna. Your clothes stick to you the instant that you enter, and you’re quick to shed anything nonessential. In addition to all of that, the room is very heavily magically charged, both due to the plants themselves as well as the magic you constantly sustained to keep the room acceptable to the conditions the plants needed to thrive.

Lucci had yet to be inside this room, and it was the one place you hoped he wouldn’t enter, largely because you didn’t think he would let you past him without teasing you endlessly. Plus the state of your clothes was just asking for trouble from him, and you couldn’t be sure that you had the willpower to resist him.

It was like he was a magnet and, as much as you like to attribute it to the idea that you hadn’t been around anyone in years, you felt it was more than that. No one you had met before had such a strong presence, nor had anyone attracted you as much as he did.

On this particular day, though, it seemed your luck had run out. Previously, he had watched you disappear into the greenhouse with nothing more than a smirk, not even curiosity in his eyes as he headed out the front door.

Today, it seemed, he was curious, or bored, and so when you hear the door open and close somewhere further down the room, you freeze, eyes scanning the dimly lit rows for a sign of the intruder. But you can’t see anyone, and suddenly it feels less like an intrusion and more like a hunt. Where had he gone?

You begin to creep in the opposite direction of the door, since that’s the closest way to the next aisle over. Keeping your ears peeled, you hear...nothing. In fact, you aren’t even sure he was ever actually in the room. Maybe he had simply opened the door, peeked in, and left again.

Your heart beat slows at last, as do your steps, and you look around one last time. Still nothing, so you make your way back to the previous plant you had been tending, losing yourself in it. Several minutes pass, and you’re fully absorbed in your work once more, when a whisper of sound catches your attention a half-second before strong, lithe hands slide over your sides, squeezing lightly before pulling you backwards.

You actually scream out loud, unable to hold it back in your surprise. Heat immediately floods your cheeks, and you fight against Lucci, though the only headway you make is in turning to face him.

He looms over you, a wicked, amused grin on his face as you begin to smack his chest.

At least he’s wearing a shirt, you think faintly as your hand finally lays still over his chest. It flexes underneath your palm as he laughs, sounding far too pleased with himself.

The heat of the room, the scare, and the proximity to him is too much for you, and your head begins to spin. You lean forward, resting your head on his chest and willing it to stop long enough for you to escape.

“Can’t handle me, _____?” he asks, a deadly whisper in your ear.

Your face flushes further, which doesn’t help your head any, and you begin to fear your legs might collapse.

You’re unable to understand his fixation with you. Is he just so bored that he can’t help himself? Is this how he is in his everyday life?

Considering how he acted when he first showed up, cold and intimidating and ready to fight you, you doubt it’s the latter. Then again, it could have just been nerves. You have no idea, not knowing anything about him other than his name.

And that you’re dangerously attracted to him. You open your eyes to look up at him, unable to really focus in your current state, but you catch the glint of his eyes in the dim light. They look almost feral, as if he’s enjoying what’s going on right now and would have no issues giving you anything you desire, if you only ask.

And it was so tempting to take everything he had to offer you.

“Lucci,” you murmur, your fists clenching in his shirt, just before your legs buckle.

He’s quick to catch you, hoisting you up in his arms with a satisfied chuckle, although it wasn’t completely. He enjoyed messing with you, because you’re so easy to rile up. But he’s also aware that the attraction isn’t one sided, though he’s faring better in his own than you are.

You aren’t even aware of what you do to him whenever he catches you staring at him, your eyes widening as he approaches, the small steps back away from him until you can go no further.

Not that you tried too hard to get away; the flicker of hope in your eyes told him that much.

The door creaks as it opens and a rush of cool air clears your head almost immediately. As soon as you begin to struggle, Lucci releases you, keeping an arm around your waist in case you stumble. But you don’t, and push away from him with a glare.

“You’re an ass,” you hiss, weaving around the couch towards your bedroom. You aren’t sure if you’re really mad, or just extremely flustered that you had passed out in his arms, but you know that it’s because of him that it happened, and you aren’t going to let him get away with it.

He laughs behind you, and you can just imagine the smirk he’s wearing. “I don’t recall doing anything but coming in to find you, _____. You’re the one that collapsed. What would you have done if I wasn’t there?”

Well first off, you wouldn’t have gotten flustered and overheated.

But he’s finally slipped, even if he doesn’t realize it. You had recognized the bulge against your back when he had come up and pressed himself against you. His trick had done a good job of scaring you, but it had backfired on him.

You’re sure he can play the game better than you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t play at all.

His eyes narrow, zeroing in on your hips as they sashay back and forth. He’s sure you were doing that on purpose, and wonders if you’ve finally caught on. The door shuts behind you without another word, but he swears he felt a shift in the air, like things are about to get interesting.

And you’ll be sure to lock that damn door behind you from now on.

_____

As it turns out, you don’t have to do a whole lot of anything to entice him further. A new sway to your hips and refusing to give him the time of day is doing wonders to his ego. More than once, he’s come in dripping sweat and wearing his shirt over his shoulder, but you had given him a once over and never looked at him again.

After the first few times, he starts to grow annoyed, and considers the odds that you’ve lost interest.

But he can still catch the flush of your cheeks and the sweat on the back of your neck.

When he ghosts his fingers across your back as he passes behind you, you barely suppress a shiver and arch away. And yet, you hardly glance his way.

He doesn’t like being ignored.

That night, after he gets out of the shower, he decides to push you just a little further, to punish you for your childish antics.

The sound of Lucci’s bedroom door opening catches your attention, and you absentmindedly look up only to nearly choke as he steps out into the living room, sans a shirt and wearing a pair of sweats slung so low on his hips it’s a miracle they’re staying up.

God, had you realized having him around would be so hard on your nerves, you’d have sent him floating back out to sea.

Then again, as you watch him saunter closer, his sharp eyes locking with yours and his lips turning up in a knowing smirk, you probably wouldn’t have. And, being honest with yourself, a larger part of you than you’re willing to acknowledge likes it.

“Feel better?” you ask, and you wince at how brittle your voice sounds in your own ears. It’s a fight to turn away from him, and you keep taking glances from the corner of your eye, watching him approach.

He knows you’re watching— it’s hard to miss the flicker of your eyes as you fight to focus on the dishes— and strolls up behind you, leaning down over your shoulder so his head is right next to yours. He watches your eyes widen and dart to him before back down to the dishes, and the way your mouth tightens at the corners just a little. There isn’t much more of a reaction than that though, at least not until he spoke directly into your ear, just barely above a whisper, “I do now.”

His fingers skim up your sides, tugging the edges up just enough to expose skin before letting it fall again, his hands planting on your hips.

You freeze, closing your eyes and fighting the urge to tilt your head to the side and expose your neck to him. Your breathing deepens, the beat of your heart picking up furiously, but just like that, he moves away with a sadistic, satisfied chuckle.

There’s an almost crushing disappointment when he does, but you don’t say a word, just going back to your dishes as if you were completely unphased. That isn’t to say it isn’t difficult, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he got under your skin.

Based on the way he continues to laugh though, it doesn’t work.

It makes you feel better nonetheless.

_____

One night a few weeks later, you’ve curled up outside on the porch swing with a steaming cup of tea, mulling over the last few weeks.

It’s hard to say for sure, but to you it felt like it might be warmer than the previous day. Of course, there’s just as much chance that it’s wishful thinking. Still you sit, a light blanket thrown over your legs as you watch bats and fireflies flutter in the shadows. It isn’t one of the more exciting ways to pass the time, but it is relaxing, which is something you desperately needed.

More often than not, when Lucci was actually inside, the air around the house shifted. It may have just been reacting to you, because you’re sure anyone could tell you were attracted to him.

But you’re also afraid of him. He hasn’t done anything, besides displaying a freakish strength, and there have been no outward signs of...well, anything. It was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. It was dark and predatory and it made your heart race just thinking about it. The aura around him-- it screamed danger, like you would be a fool to get too close.

And yet, you know you’re already trapped, in more ways than one.

Relief is tempered by disappointment that he spends so much time away. When he’s gone, you almost miss the palpable tension between the two of you, miss the way he would tease you to the point you needed to leave the room. But you don’t know if you could survive that tension all the time.

You’re startled out of your thoughts by the creak of the door opening, Lucci’s already immense shadow growing further in the light spilling out. He doesn’t say a word as he closes it behind him and takes the open seat next to you, immediately beginning a gentle swing. Not that he can help it, those long legs aren’t meant to be curled up underneath him. One leg is carefully crossed over the other, his arm coming to rest along the back of the swing, his fingertips just barely grazing the back of your neck as it passes.

The hairs there raise, followed by the ones on your arms, and you look up at him in wonder.

The smirk is there, that knowing look in his eyes as well, saying I know what I do to you. But you wonder if he’s doing it purely to tease you or if he could possibly want more.

Thinking about it like that makes you nervous, because you aren’t sure if you want more.

You aren’t stupid. He was leaving the first chance he got. You’re already more attached to him than you want to be, the overwhelming tension not doing you any favors whatsoever. You aren’t sure you want the lingering feelings you would have once he left.

“It’s cold out here,” he says, once more breaking you out of your thoughts. It’s a simple observation, but the way he says it makes it sound like it’s detrimental to your health.

Somehow you don’t think it’s the problem here.

Doing your best to appear unconcerned, you shrug, throwing your head back as if to look up at the sky, but all you can see is the porch ceiling. “It’s not that bad. Besides, it’s a great place to think.”

He quirks one of his eyebrows at you, the corners of his lips curling up that little bit more as he asks, “About?”

You. Me. Us. You.

Your face heats up at the thoughts and what could come of them if they slip from your lips. Instead, you shrug again, letting your eyes linger on his for a half-second before they find the darkness behind him. “How you got here. I never did ask, you know. Too busy saving your life and all. So what did happen?”

The smirk flickers and his eyes darken. For a second, you think he might get up and walk away, he looks so angry. But then his face smooths out and he says, “There was a storm. My boat was capsized, destroyed by the waves, I suppose. I don’t recall much after falling into the water. Luck seems to have put me on that piece of wood and carried me to your island.”

You hum, nodding. You had seen the storm clouds quite a ways in the distance that day almost black against the constant grey, but they never reached you, instead heading in the opposite direction.

“That is quite lucky,” you say, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. An awkward silence falls after that, punctuated only by the sound of fluttering wings and the occasional owl hoot. It morphs slowly from awkward to just silent, and that’s comfortable enough for you to drift back into your thoughts, but Lucci breaks it with a question of his own.

“How did you come to be on this island by yourself?” It’s the first time you can remember hearing anything in his voice other than ire or mischief, and it’s surprising the things it did to your stomach.

You grin fondly as you remember the long series of events that had led you here. “I was young, 18 and ready for adventure. I wanted to leave my island and go sailing, to get away from my greedy family, who tried to make me stay and marry into another wealthy family.”

You could still remember the man they picked for you. At the time, he couldn’t have been more repugnant. Simpering and spineless is what you had assumed, bending to his family’s wishes without argument. Looking back on it years later, you had realized that you had simply been pushing off your own insecurities onto a stranger and that there had been nothing wrong with what he had done. Or his face.

As quick as a flash, Lucci’s image, a predatory smile on his face as he loomed over you, filled your head, and you shook it like a dog with water in its ears.

Lucci wore the mirror image of your vision, like he could read your mind. You feel his fingers ghost over your shoulder for just a moment, then it’s gone and you wonder if you had imagined it.

“Anyway,” you continue, trying to put your mind back on track. It would do you no good to lose yourself in fantasies, especially not with the object of them right next to you. “Anyway, I didn’t want to, so one night I snuck out. Stole a boat and sailed off.”

At that, he laughed. It sounded derogatory, like he couldn’t picture you off on your own at that age. You frown and lightly punch his arm. He stops laughing almost immediately and pins you with a look somewhere between intrigued and daring you to do it again.

Instead, you turn your nose up to him and continue your story. He only laughs again.

“I was sailing for almost seven years when I stumbled upon this island. The log pose never pointed to it, but I was curious, so I stopped. The witch at the time, Mirabelle, greeted me. It seemed so strange, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Lucci cuts you off then, asking, “Did you not hear stories about this island from other sailors? Even I heard about something similar. ‘Islands that appear and disappear at will, there one minute and gone the next’. Pirates were always spewing that nonsense. Most never mentioned a witch though.” He leans closer then, pushing a lock of hair from your cheek.

You shiver, locking eyes with him. He doesn’t move back, instead remaining close enough that you can feel his breath ghosting across your cheek. Neither of you move, each trying to wait the other out.

You break first, looking down at your lap and moving back as far as the swing would allow. Breathy and unsure, you carry on, now speaking to your legs. You would swear you hear him huff and, maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you would swear it’s in irritation. “Over the week, we shared stories of our childhood, and I told her about my adventures in the Grand Line. Maybe that was what did it, but on the last day she brought up giving her powers up to me. I had thought she wouldn’t actually want to, that she was just venting. But she brought out a contract and everything. Funnily enough, she left out quite a few of the more important details.”

Even after all these years, you still felt the sting every time you thought about how easily you had been tricked. This time, you’re sure you feel Lucci’s touch on the back of your neck, his fingertips or his knuckles dragging down your spine as if to comfort you.

You ignore it, finishing your story.

“Obviously, I signed it. As soon as I lifted the pen from the paper, she began to laugh, running out towards the shore. I chased after her, trying to stop her from climbing into my boat. I screamed after her, asking her why she was taking it. She turned and looked at me and I’ll never forget how she looked at me.” It was a cross between cold pity and sheer, unadulterated happiness. “‘You won’t need it,’ she said. I tried to follow her, right up until my feet couldn’t touch the bottom, but couldn’t go any further because the current was too strong.”

An arm curls around your shoulders, Lucci’s fingers digging into your shoulder as if that would comfort you, but he refrained from pulling you close, for which you’re grateful. You don’t want his pity. Don’t need it, either.

He’s silent as you stew. It had long since surpassed anger at her trickery, or even anger at your having fallen for it so easily. You had begun to understand shortly after the island returned to its plane what would have driven her to do something so underhanded. “I was upset at first, because she hadn’t told me the full story about what would happen, but honestly, it hasn’t been so bad.”

“Why didn’t you do what she did? It wouldn’t have been hard,” he answers, watching you carefully. All this time, he had thought you were here unwillingly, but the way you’re speaking, it no longer sounded like that was the case.

“Honestly, I thought it would be lonely. And, don’t get me wrong, it is. But there’s no expectations here. I don’t have to defend myself from marauding pirates or Marines. I saw a lot of things I didn’t like in the world and, well…” Your head rolls back, resting on your shoulder to look at him.

In the depths of your eyes, he can see warmth tempered by sadness, happiness tempered by loneliness, and want tempered by wariness.

“Anyway, no one washed up on shore for several years. The island shows up randomly, not always near civilization. I’ve gone a decade without seeing anyone, more than once. It was almost that long before I finally saw someone else, and when he explained that he was on his way back to his family after five years at sea, I realized I didn’t want to leave, or subject someone else to this. I may not always be happy, but I’m content.”

For the third time, silence falls. Punctuating it this time is the warm weight of his arm across your shoulders, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the sweater you’re wearing. Giving into the temptation, you lean over to rest your head on his shoulder. He had long since stopped wearing his suit jacket, leaving him in only his button down. You had thought his shoulder would be hard from the muscles, but relaxed as he is, it isn’t uncomfortable.

His head snaps down to look at you, a ghost of a triumphant smile crossing his face, before his arm wraps tighter, forcing you to press fully against him. You go willingly enough, curling your knees up and allowing them to rest against his thighs. Your fingers grab onto his shirt, crumpling the fabric in your fist as your head tucks against his neck.

Suddenly, you realize just how cold it really is out, wrapped up in the warmth he exudes. A flicker of panic, your brain trying to warn you of the danger of being so close to Lucci, flares up, before it’s washed away by the stronger feeling of comfort it brings.

You’re in serious danger of falling asleep like that when he shifts, his free arm looping under your knees. Before he can get much further, you jerk up, pulling away from him.

You smile, hoping to hide your anxiety from him as you stand up on your own. “Ah, ah, I’m not that far gone,” you say, backing away from him. The further you get from him, the clearer you begin to think, and the more embarrassed you begin to feel for giving into him.

He watches you go with an almost unfathomable expression, his face a blank slate; even his usually sharp eyes are like stone. It makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong, like you should have allowed him to whisk you off your feet. But that was dangerous, especially when you already feel so vulnerable in his presence.

You can only imagine what would happen if you allowed him to get so comfortable handling you like that.

“Goodnight, Lucci,” you say, turning and walking inside, leaving him alone on the porch. Every bone in your body screams at you to go back to him, but you force yourself to continue to your bedroom, shutting the door on your racing heart.

_____

It seemed like every time you took one step forward, something was thrown into your path and you were knocked three backs. This became obvious to you when you found out a rather big secret that Lucci was keeping.

It wasn’t so much the fact that he was hiding it, because it was his to tell, and more what the actual secret entailed. You very much doubted he meant for you to find out at all, let alone the way that you did.

On the night in question, you decided that you wanted to take a walk during the evening, and found yourself a meandering path through the woods to follow. It was one of hundreds, forged by the many animals that called the island home, but you can’t tell the difference between them. You can sense that both predators and prey used to use it regularly, but that lately it had remained empty, and that concerned you.

There were very few animals that posed a threat to you, but they were there. Generally the animals left you alone, but even before now you had sensed something was riling them up. It had been hard to notice because there were more pressing matters to attend to at the time, but you would hazard a guess it had started when Lucci had washed up on shore.

Though you couldn’t be sure because you hadn’t been paying much attention, it was also the only thing that had changed on the island in the last few years.

In any case, you had finally noticed the disruption in the flow of magic around the island, mainly that certain species of animals had become far more aggressive, starting to wander closer and closer to your home. It was unlikely that they would outright attack it, or that they could actually do any damage, but you couldn’t be sure what they would do if they were left unchecked.

You didn’t want to face whatever was causing the upset, just scope it out and determine if the solution would be more involved. Sometimes, the problem turned out to be as simple as an injury, though this time you got the feeling that it was deeper than that.

Based on the way they lurked around and were attacking each other, you imagined something had upset the food chain. The animals and plants each had their own individual auras that you could sense, and the animals had been growing weaker, although so slowly it had been hard to tell it was happening at all. It had become enough of a concern now that you needed to step in and figure something out.

Continuing on as quietly as you can, you allow the many different waves to wash over you, trying to determine which animals are in your vicinity. You know there has to be one nearby, because there’s a complete and total silence around you that only a predator can bring about. Not even the sound of crickets chirping can be heard, no matter how hard you strain to hear.

What you find is a monstrous creature, and as you approach it, sweat beads up on the back of your neck. It’s dangerous to approach one under normal circumstances, but as they’re now riled up, it’s downright stupid.

Taking the time to cast a small invisibility spell, you step out into the edge of a clearing, scoping out the massive mound of brown fur in the center. It isn’t a natural clearing, but rather the animal-- a bear, by the look of it-- has tamped down the foliage and torn down the trees to make room for its massive body.

“Shit,” you whisper, raking your eyes over every inch of its body that you can see. It doesn’t seem to be in distress, no labored breathing or cries of pain, and there aren’t any injuries that you can see. So what can it be?

There’s a snort, then the mound-- indeed a bear-- climbs to its feet and rears up on its hind legs with a snarl loud enough to knock you to your knees. The ground rumbles as it lands again, jarring you further. For the first time, you’re really and truly afraid for your safety, and you scuttle backwards, towards the trees. Even if they can’t stop the beast, they’ll hopefully slow it down enough to allow you to get away. On your own, you had no hope of taking it on, let alone down, so your only option is to run.

You stand up on wobbly legs, only to stumble as the bear begins to charge. The clearing isn’t large at all; it would take only a moment for it to reach you, but you aren’t far from the edge. All you need is that second--

Another snarl, smaller but no less menacing, rings out through the air but you don’t turn to look until you’re in the safety of the trees. Hidden behind the trunk of a large tree, you poke your head out to find a leopard, almost half the size of the bear, with its teeth clamped into the scruff of the other animal. Its claws are raking viciously down its back, its head whipping from side to side, trying to tear chunks of flesh from its larger victim.

A leopard, you think, watching in awe, there are no leopards here.

Cheetahs and tigers, along with a range of smaller feline species like servals and ocelots, but no leopards. You almost fear for the leopard’s safety, given its far smaller stature, but it’s locked down tight on the other animal’s back, relinquishing its hold just long enough to latch on again and maintain its position.

The bear is writhing in pain, screaming as it swipes at the leopard with terrifyingly oversized paws tipped with wicked looking claws. At last, it fell, rolling onto its back and obscuring your view of the cat, and you’re sure it’s been squished.

But then it appears, leaping lightly up onto the bear’s side, making a beeline for its prey’s exposed stomach. Before it can make it, though, the bear is up, roaring again as it stumbles towards the treeline in a clear retreat.

The hairs rose on the back of your neck as you watch the leopard stand in victory in the middle of a puddle of blood, licking its lips like it wanted more. Then it turned to look at you, piercing you with a set of intelligent silver eyes.

Your heart slams into overdrive when you lock eyes with the cat in a moment of recognition. It licked its lips again, taking one silent step towards you, and you turn, booking it through the woods and back towards the safety of your home.

Though you aren’t sure how safe you really are anymore, given that you had let an animal inside already.

What had been a twenty minute walk out there was reduced by half in your mad dash back, and you’re out of breath, holding your side against the raging stitch there when you reach the house. Doubling over on the porch, you wheeze out what turned out to be a laugh. You collapse to your knees, struggling to get a proper breath in between your hysterics and general lack of air. You freeze when the floorboards creak under you, jerking your head up to meet the silver eyes of your guest, the same eyes you had locked gazes with mere minutes before.

“Lucci,” you whisper, acknowledging him with a hoarse voice. He’s notably devoid of any blood, but you’re beyond the ability to process what that means. Your lungs hurt and you don’t have the strength to run again as Lucci comes closer, kneeling down and cupping your chin, but you have managed to get your breathing under control.

“You ran,” he says, amusement evident in both his words and his eyes. They’re narrowed, and seem to hold confusion as well, though you can’t fathom why. “Were you scared?”

Well that was a stupid question. Of course you were.

“My housemate, who is virtually a stranger, turned into a massive leopard without my knowing it could be done, then managed to fend off an even bigger bear all by himself.” You couldn’t even take on those behemoths. You aren’t sure if it was due to their size or the island’s magic or both, but they’re impervious to your attacks. The best you could hope for was to shore up your defenses enough to keep them at bay, although it generally isn’t a problem. “What else should I feel?”

“Gratitude, for one thing. That monster was going to kill you, and you know it. If I hadn’t stepped in, you wouldn’t be here,” he answers. His hands wrap around your upper arms, gently tugging you to your feet. You stumble on legs still trembling from adrenaline and exercise, with Lucci’s arms likely being the only thing keeping you on your feet.

He has a point, you concede as you fall onto the porch swing. It’s chains creak faintly under your sudden weight, but it was in no danger of falling. Like everything else, it’s magically reinforced to remain in place. “I do appreciate it, Lucci,” you say, raking your fingers angrily through your hair. It wasn’t that you were angry at him, or upset at his secret. In fact, you can’t peg what it is that’s upsetting you. “I just...I don’t know. You’ve been here for months and I feel like I know nothing about you, but I’m just supposed to be okay with it. And then it turns out you can transform into an animal. I can’t even do that.”

Although you now at least knew what was upsetting the animals around you. They must have recognized that Lucci was different from them but, unable to discern how, marked him as another predator, and were now trying to figure out a new chain of command.

He knelt down in front of you, and even then still remains at eye level with you. His brows furrow, silver swirling with anger as he glares at you, telling you without words that he’s going to answer no questions, even if you do ask.

You wrench your jaw from his hand, glaring at the wall as you bite your lip against the furious tirade brewing in your chest. Against your will, he turns your head to him again, his face now wiped of all emotions. His thumb grazes over the marks your teeth have left in your lip, eyes lingering just a moment too long before meeting yours. It isn’t going to be so easy to deter you from your anger though, and you open your mouth, teeth clacking as you snap at him.

He chuckles, a low, dangerous sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“And I’m the animal?” he asks, his fingers tightening on your chin, just enough to remind you he’s far stronger than you could ever hope to be. “I have the powers of a Devil Fruit. The Cat Cat Fruit, Leopard Model,” he says, relinquishing his grip to stand.

You thought he was going to leave, leaving you with a dozen new questions, but to your surprise he sits beside you on the swing. You sit up straight, relaxing into the back of the swing and are met once again with the feeling of fingers ghosting across your neck, followed by the warmth of his arm.

You would be a liar if you said finding out he had strange powers didn’t sting a little, but you would be a fool to say you hadn’t known. Of course this man had secrets, he practically oozed secrecy, nevermind that he divulged very little about himself, other than that he worked for the World Government prior to washing ashore on your island. Beyond that, you know nothing about his hobbies, likes or dislikes, or even his favorite color.

Then again, you decide, maybe there wasn’t much more to him than that. Like the poor villagers from your home island, maybe he was all work and no play.

Pushing that aside to work through later, you pull your legs up underneath you. The sweat had cooled on your body, and you were feeling the chill as the sky grew pink.

Quick as a flash, Lucci has a blanket in his hand.

“How did you--? That wasn’t--”

You take the blanket from him, staring at it in confusion. That had been inside. Your heart begins to race in your chest again as you look up from it to him. He’s staring at you with a knowing smirk, waiting for your reaction.

“Is that another power from your Devil Fruit?” you ask, hoping you don’t sound as nervous as you feel. That was two in a day, and you wonder what else he can do.

“No, I learned that from training for the World Government. I can move so fast I seem to disappear. Did you like it?” he asks with a sneer. He knows he’s playing with fire, revealing so much to you in one go, but he’s curious to see just how far he could push you before you cracked.

It’s easy to recognize the game, it’s one of his favorites, and you aren’t about to fall apart and let him win.

“I don’t know if I like it, but it’s certainly interesting.” That sounds weak, even to you, but what else could you say? It’s unlikely that he would answer any questions, even if you knew what to ask, and it’s just as unlikely that you would understand the answer. “About this Devil Fruit, though, can you only turn into a cat?”

Devil Fruits you understood. There was a tree that grew on your home island that produced one. They called it the Whistle Whistle Fruit. It gave a person the power to whistle whatever they wanted at any decibel. You thought it sounded a bit stupid, but the wielder could do some serious damage if they practiced enough.

He shook his head and stood, making his way out into the grass. You watch curiously as Hattori takes off, coming to settle on the back of the swing beside your shoulder.

The hairs raise all over your body, your breath coming out in a rush as Lucci shifts before your eyes, growing taller and sprouting spotted yellow fur all over his body. Just as you expect him to fall down onto all fours, it all seems to stop, and he remained up on his hind legs. Somehow, his clothing remained in one piece, stretched taut over the massive barrel chest he now possessed, as well as the increased muscle mass over the rest of his body.

Your vision begins to spot, darkness closing in at the edges. You curl your hands into fists, digging your nails in as hard as you can to anchor yourself to the pain. You can hear your pulse thrumming in your ears, seconded by a strange, tinny whistling you couldn’t remember hearing before. As quickly as it came on, it passes, leaving your head spinning and your temples throbbing.

Realizing you’ve stopped breathing, you gasp, taking short, heaving breaths in order to clear the lingering tension.

Lucci stands out in the yard still, tail flicking as he watches you struggle to come to terms with the odd sight. He was sure you were going to pass out, watching the sweat bead and fall from your hairline, rolling down and following the curve of your jaw until it fell to your shirt.

But you impress him, managing to force it down until you could breathe freely again.

Even more to his surprise, you stand, making your way down the stairs towards him. He refrains from moving, even though he desperately wants to see how badly it would frighten you.

Moreso, he’s curious to know what you’re going to do. He is in no fear that you would try to hurt him; even if you did, there was nothing you could do that would harm him, and you would be a fool to try.

Your skin is still drained of all color as you watch him, like a deer might watch a wolf it thinks is sleeping but can’t be sure. Your steps are light, careful, ready to flee at a moments notice, and he can hear your pulse pounding away, see the telltale flickering in your neck. With his heightened sense of smell, he can also tell that that fear is mixed deliciously with a heady desire.

Unconsciously, he licks his lips, his pupils narrowing as you come to stand in front of him.

You don’t miss the flick of his tongue, already zeroed in on his every move, even though the more primal part of you knows you couldn’t get away even if you tried. It wouldn’t stop you, though, your fight-or-flight already on high alert. One wrong move, and you would run without thinking, more than likely causing him to chase on instinct. It would become a hunt, and you weren’t sure what the outcome would be.

A shiver shoots up your spine, and you can’t deny that the idea of a more desirable outcome, one ending with you pinned underneath him and entirely at his mercy, is a prominent reason.

Very slowly, you reach out, running just the tips of your fingers down the fur on his muscular arm. It’s smooth and fine, not quite soft but not coarse like you had imagined, and thick enough to delve your fingers into, but not enough to grab a handful. When they meet one of the many spots that littered his fur, you find that it’s thicker than the gold hairs, more coarse, but still not unpleasant to touch.

You frown, running your fingers up and down over the rosette, watching the thick fur fold down and spring back up only for you to push it down again. “The spots feel different.”

It isn’t a question, but Lucci shrugs anyway. The smirk has long since faded, and he’s instead enveloped in watching you examine him. It’s a surreal experience to have someone essentially petting him.

There had never been anyone that he showed this form to that he hadn’t wanted to intimidate or just flat out murder, and so no one had ever been close enough to him to touch him.

The motion startles you from your fixed attention, and you look up, craning your neck back as far as you can in order to see his face. Lucci was tall to begin with, but in this form he had to be at least 12 feet.

In comparison to the rest of his body, his legs are downright scrawny and, in another situation, you might have laughed.

But right now, you feel like you’re standing on a fragile precipice, one that could break at the slightest provocation and send you tumbling down to the gods knew what end. It was the last thing you had ever imagined being shown, especially from someone as secretive as Lucci, but he had seemed so willing to show you, and it would be rude to laugh.

Besides, you were already past it, your eyes roaming over his massive chest and up to his face, roving over a face strangely made up of both human and animal features.

Neither of you say anything for a long moment, your heart still thrumming away far too fast in your chest, Lucci simply waiting for your reaction. Some part of him he doesn’t want to acknowledge hopes you wouldn’t run. The animalistic part he’s more prone to listening to hopes you do, but not for the normal reasons.

He knew, as did you, that if you were to run, he would hunt you down, making a game of it for as long as he felt like it. When he pounced, he would claim you, over and over again until he likely would have to carry you home in his arms.

You reach up again as high as you can, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. He allows you to pull him down, following until he’s kneeling before you. Even at this height, he still towers over you, and you have to lift your arms up above your head to reach his face. As carefully as you had his arm, if not moreso, you trail your fingers through the fur from his forehead to his jaw, finding it soft and downy and pleasant to touch. You’re overcome with the urge to rub your face against it to determine just how soft it was.

Tugging on the piece of shirt you still hold in your fist, you pull him the rest of the way down.

He resists at first, before relaxing in small increments until his face hovers above yours. It doesn’t cross your mind that the position might be uncomfortable for him, and he doesn’t offer a complaint. You register vaguely how his breathing has deepened, his eyes narrowing to half as your nose brushes over his gently. It isn’t wet, but dry and warm. You move on quickly, pressing your cheek to his and allowing the fur to graze your skin. It was just as soft as it had felt against your hands, if not softer.

Your hands slide up, over his shoulders and threading into his hair, relishing how soft the thick, black curls are as well. He doesn’t smell like you thought he would, wearing the same foresty scent of pine and rainwater that he always had. Of their own accord, your arms wrap around his neck, allowing you to press closer to his thick chest.

His hands curl around your sides, almost meeting before lifting you up to stand on your tiptoes, supporting most of that weight with his own strength and clutching you even closer.

“Do you know how dangerous this is?” he asks, squeezing just enough that you can feel his claws press into your skin through your shirt.

His voice is right in your ear, feral with lust he makes no attempt to hide.

It had taken every bit of his willpower not to take you prior to this, but the last thread is stretched to the breaking point. One move, one word from you, and he would claim you.

Your breathing hitches, your back arching up into him, and you curl your nails into his neck as heat flares from your toes up to your face. For one short instant, you really believe he might eat you alive, but then it’s gone, replaced by the distinct need to feel him against every inch of you.

“Lucci,” you moan, so quiet it’s almost a whisper, but his ears flick up in surprise. Fingers tipped with razor sharp claws wind through your hair, so careful not to nick your skin or shave your hair that you hardly realize he’s done it until he’s tugging your head back, exposing your neck to his sandpaper tongue.

It rasps over your pulsepoint, and he feels you tremble in his arms, torn between fear and arousal. Your eyes flutter closed, so you feel rather than see his transformation, and then very human lips latch onto your neck, teeth nipping hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.

You can rapidly feel your body giving up control to him, unable to do anything but gasp and roll your hips. Your chest brushes against his, your nipples hardening at the light contact.

His lips trail up the column of your throat to your ear, nipping gently before asking, “Is this what you want?”

Afraid your voice won’t work, you nod, eyes opening to look up at him. Instead of returning to you, he shook his head, giving you a teasing look.

“I’m going to need a better answer,” he says, the hand not locked in your hair slipping up underneath your shirt and skimming up your back. Desperate frustration fills you, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Lucci, yes, please!”

“Good girl,” he whispers. He’s still on his knees, his human height much more manageable, and he leans away from you enough that he could slide his hand up your front.

A warm, calloused palm splays out across your stomach, pressing gently before it began a slow journey up your ribs. His lips brush yours briefly, not enough to call it a kiss, but it elicited a response all the same. Your lips part, head tilting up to follow him, begging him without words to come back and kiss you properly.

Instead he smirks, and you realize he had been hoping to distract you as his hand finally cups the heavy weight of your tit in his palm.

Against the tender skin of your breast, his hand feels like sandpaper, but he’s so gentle as he rolls your nipple in his fingers that it feels exquisite. Warmth surges in your stomach, settling down at the juncture of your legs. You shiver as your back arches, seeking more.

His teeth meet your ear again before he lifts you up with one arm, still fondling your breast, like your weight means nothing. You can’t find it in yourself to care, instead allowing your fingers to thread through his hair down to his shoulders as his lips claim yours at last, his tongue immediately delving past your already parted lips and claiming your mouth entirely.

He tastes of lingering blood and you shudder at the reminder. Your nails graze his neck on their way to the buttons of his shirt. By feel alone, you pluck them open, revealing delicious olive toned skin inch by inch.

You’re jarred a little as he sits down, and when you open your eyes you find yourself in the living room, settled in his lap on the couch.

He had removed his hand from under your shirt in order to open the front door, and it now found its way back to the hem, pulling it up and over your head.

His eyes rake from your waist up to your face; his eyes meet yours just long enough for him to flash a wicked grin at you before dropping back down to your heaving chest. You lean back, gripping his knees in each hand and tossing your hair over your shoulder, putting yourself on display for him.

He likes that, watching you give yourself up willingly to him. It somehow satisfies the more primal part of him that craves seeing you submit to him in every way, but the look in your eyes says you know exactly what you’re doing.

You’re willing to play his game, if he’s willing to follow the rules.

His fingers wrap in your hair again, his other hand gripping your hip, forcing you to roll down and grind against the bulge in his slacks. Like everything else on him, it was big, and you wanted to see it.

“Patience,” he says, grabbing your hand as it reaches for the button of his pants. He guides you by the hair, forcing your back to bow more so he could wrap soft lips around the nipple of your untouched breast.

You have to clench your hands into fists to keep from reaching up and pulling him closer. You understand that he wants to take it slow, and it does sound appealing, but a part of you also just wants him to fuck you right then and there. It makes it all the more exciting, though, to hold back and let him lead.

His tongue laps languidly at your breast as you grind against him, eyes half closed as he takes his time. He relishes the faint gasps and whines filling the room as he moves to the other one, feeling his cock throb the longer he draws it out. When you begin to squirm, begging him to stop, he pulls away, pressing one last kiss to your raw, hard bud, and releases your hair. “Those shorts need to go.”

You grip the back of the couch and stand as if you were stretching, pushing your breasts against his chest. As you finger the button of your shorts, he pulls his cock out, giving it a few slow pumps as he takes in the view. You undo it and the fly, hooking your fingers in the waist before pushing them down, allowing them to slide down your legs to your knees, revealing your lack of underwear. They bunch at your knees, and you push them the rest of the way down, bending over far more than necessary, so your face comes dangerously close to his leaking erection.

It’s as big as you had imagined, surely bigger than anything you’ve taken before, and you kneel down between his knees, taking it into your hands, Lucci’s breath hitching at the soft touch. Your fingers don’t even meet on the other side, and you can feel a new flood of warmth down your thighs at the realization.

Above you, Lucci smirks, able to smell your arousal peak. He watches you without saying a word as you begin to stroke him, poking your tongue out to lap at the pre leaking from the tip. Your mouth engulfs him a moment later, tongue swirling around his head and slit. It’s all you can take, and he groans at the feel of your mouth tight around him, imagining what your dripping cunt will feel like. His fingers grip your hair, pulling you gently off him and up to your feet.

He relishes the look of confusion and flash of fear, afraid you’ve done something wrong.

He pulls you forward, coaxing you to straddle him as you had before, his cock nestling between your dripping folds. You moan, rocking your hips, covering it in your slick. The friction along your already sensitive clit is driving you dangerously close to the edge, and Lucci lets you continue for only a few moments before he stills you.

“This is your last chance, beauty, to change your mind,” he says, even as his thumb finds your clit and presses hard.

It’s an unexpected roughness, and your hips jerk in response, your pussy spasming around nothing in pleasure. Even had you entertained the notion of stopping before, it would have been swept away in a rush. His eyes are liquid warmth, watching you with an amused smile as you shake your head enthusiastically.

“Lucci, please,” you moan, seeking more of the friction from his thumb. He acquiesces, rubbing softer circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves, gathering the moisture your body produced up. Your body is torn, not wanting to give up the feeling of his finger but craving him inside you.

“I need more than that, _____.” The deep, throaty way he says your name causes you to gasp. One long finger dips down to toy at your entrance. He has no intentions of slipping it inside you, but he’s more than willing to tease you.

It does the trick, your body instantly clenching in anticipation. “I want you inside me now.”

You’re whining and you know it, but you also don’t care, willing to do whatever it takes to get what you want.

Lucci gives you a dark, hungry look, and wraps his hand around his length. “Sit up,” he says, and his words are laced with so much commanding lust that you don’t even think to argue, instead sitting up on your knees and allowing his head to lodge in your dripping hole. Before you can sink down, he grabs under your thighs, keeping you positioned above him. You whine in frustration, tipping your head. He’s almost where you want him, nestled so deep inside your aching cunt you won’t be able to walk straight when he was through.

You whine as his thick tip splits you open, already stretching you to your limit. Inch by agonizing inch, he lowers you, fucking up into you little by little until he’s sure you can take him further. In your heady daze, you hadn’t considered how much it could hurt, taking something so big, especially since he was sure it had been ages since you had been with anyone. Fortunately, Lucci is in full control and aware, willing to restrain himself for your sake. Though he is a self-admitted sadist, that doesn’t extend to this, and he’s by no means a selfish lover. He doesn’t want to hurt you.

At least, not unless you ask.

After several long, agonizing minutes, your hips settle down against his, little sparks of pleasure surging from your clit, trapped between your body and his. Your body trembles in his arms, your cunt spasming helplessly around his throbbing length, the only thing keeping you still being his arms locked around you. You’re cradled to his chest, his lips littering your neck with kisses, struggling against the desire to fuck up into the tight heat around his cock.

“You’re so tight, beauty. You took me so well,” he whispers, licking the shell of your ear.

You’re almost sobbing against his shoulder, nonsensical babbling and begging spilling from your lips, rocking your hips just as much as his arms will allow.

Finally, once you’ve relaxed, he loosens his arms, allowing you free. Instead of the desperate bouncing he expected, you throw your head back, bracing yourself on his knees as you began to roll your hips, taking his cock inside you in deep, slow thrusts over and over. He’s mesmerized, watching the bounce of your breasts, his hands mindlessly gliding up to cup them before running back down your ribs. He can feel the way you twitch underneath his hands, like it tickles, but he’s already past it, one hand on your hip and the other moving down to cup your mound. The feel of his thumb against your clit startles you, your hips stuttering from their rhythm for a moment before they pick up again, faster now as you also sought the pleasure his fingers brought.

You begin to mewl his name, more nonsensical begging falling from your lips in between each call, until your pussy starts to flutter around him.

His arm slides around, pulling you up and into his chest, his lips seeking out yours. His tongue slides past your parted lips, swirling around yours and swallowing your cries as you cling to him. Your nails leave jagged red lines across his shoulders as the bouncing of your hips become desperate and out of sync, and Lucci takes over, guiding you back into rhythm. The pounding of your hips and the frantic friction on your clit melds together and with one last cry you collapse into his arms. He eases you through your orgasm with gentle rocks of his hips, punctuated by little moans and gasps as you come down.

His hands caress down your thighs and back up, cupping your ass and forcing your hips to move. You shudder and whine, rolling your hips down to engulf his cock in your heat again and again, allowing him to use you to chase his own release. In your ear he whispers colorful praise, growling how good you feel around him, how much he enjoys feeling you squeeze tight around him.

Your mind is slowly going blank from overstimulation, but you grip his shoulders, digging your nails in and dragging them up and down his back. He tenses when your teeth meet his collarbone, but it quickly passes as you move up his throat.

“Lucci,” you moaned, pressing your lips just underneath his ear. “Oh god, Lucci, you feel so good. I can’t--” You gasp when he rolls his hips up sharply, pressing deep inside you and pinching your clit in the process.

Your whispered, thankful praise and your pussy clenching around him are his undoing and he stills inside you, his hips jerking several times before he relaxes against the back of the couch.

Your arms wind around his neck and you hide your face in his hair, placing lazy kisses along his throat and shoulder before settling your head there. It’s quiet and still, neither of you wanting to break the peace.

Lucci’s hands wander absentmindedly up and down your back, enjoying the way your breath is still uneven, your body still trembling from exertion. You had looked exquisite as you took him, and already his body is stirring at the thought of taking you again, seeing that wild pleasure on your face again. But for now, he lets you rest against him, comfortable with you in his arms. Right now, he could forget that he was a wanted criminal, a murderer, and that, no matter how much he might possibly, maybe want to stay, he’s already cast his lot with another.

Your breathing deepens and evens out, the steady rise and fall of your back lulling him as well, and, more gently than he could ever remember being, he moves you to lay on the couch, grabbing the blanket off the back and joining you a moment later.

He smiles-- an actual smile-- when you curl right up in his arms, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and go back to sleep.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t join you for a very long time.

#rob lucci #rob lucci x reader #one piece #smut #lunariting

194 notes · View notes

erinaceina · 4 years

Text

ScotsSwap 2020

Bombycine

Recipient: Jo (@notasapleasure). I hope I’ve done Jerott justice. It’s been absolute torture not talking to you about writing this <3

Prompt: Philippa and anyone as a BroTP, ‘Take the words 'sharp' 'alone' 'close[near]' 'missed' and give me some Pain :’)’ - it’s mainly alone and pain really, although Jerott has had some close encounters with sharp objects in the recent past. I hope it’s still delicious angst, even if it has wandered a bit off topic.

Setting: St. Mary’s, early autumn 1560.

Characters: Jerott Blyth, Philippa Crawford, Francis Crawford.

Relationships: Philippa + Jerott, Francis + Jerott, Philippa/Francis.

Rating: I’m not sure? References to things that happen to Khaireddin, but nothing explicit.

Summary: Sleep is not kind to Jerott Blyth.

Word Count: 2986.

Note: This is broadly compliant with this and this, mainly so I could squeeze Astraea the cat in there.

Spoilers: Non-specific spoilers for stuff that happens in Checkmate.

*******************************************************

The pain rose up to meet Jerott Blyth, mingled with the waters of the Middle Sea, and he drowned in the scent of spikenard and jasmine, in roiling fumes and obscene kisses and all the stench and horror of battle. Even as he fell, half-blind from the blow to his temple that had swept him overboard and the haze of gunpowder that hung, cloying, over the churning blue-green waters of the Mediterranean, he heard behind him the low, animal noises of the foundering ship.

The pain at shoulder and temple and thigh howled in awful harmony with the tortured screaming of overstressed timber and the crack of snapping lines. Flashes of light filled his failing vision, amber and gold and cornsilk-fair, yet, through them all, he could see glimpses of palm and pomegranate beneath a blistering African sun; the smell of storax and benzoin clung to the aching tissues of his throat and curdled in the saltwater filling his burning nostrils.

Although Mehedia lay more than a hundred and fifty miles distant, set on its strangling neck of land in the shining sea, passing vistas reached him through the sheet of blue water and yellow fire. He thought he could see flashes of gnarled grey-green olive groves and fields touched with the blush of new barley and smell the sun-warmed earth and the fetor of bombyx mori. Even as the roiling waters of the Middle Sea saturated his padded gambeson, drawing him down and down into the currents that eddied and swirled around him, down into the vortex of the foundering ship, he thought he could feel the splintering wood of a burning hut beneath the tips of his blistered fingers. Even as his useless arm hung wavering and limp as storm-wracked kelp and a ribbon of blood like scarlet silk wound through the water around him, he touched the soft, pliant curve of a child’s back and the damp weight of of amber hair tacky with cooling blood.

İpec böceǧi, called the dry, whispery voice of the old woman, and Jerott Blyth flinched. For this wast thou born? What lack is there in Scotland that her sons grow so feeble?

The saltwater again burned in Jerott Blyth’s nostrils and, with the sudden clarity of the sleeper and the man nearing death, he knew that the sea battle and the olive groves alike were the mere conjurings of a mind caught in a drugged stupor. Slitting open stinging eyes against the fetid, poisonous fumes of burning silk cocoons, tasting bitter almonds like charnel flesh on the back of his tongue, he saw with little surprise that he lay beside the discarded body of a fair-haired child on the rough floor of the warehouse belonging to the silk-farmer’s sister in Mehedia. The marks left by the mutes were livid on a face touched also by the griefs of a short life twisted and warped against itself.

The great impulse to live that dwelt within Jerott Blyth’s sturdy flesh took fresh flame, and, even against the will that cringed against it, he drew a dragging, acrid breath and smelt the cloying, indecent reek of the perfume that clung to the boy-child’s cooling flesh.

The cornflower-blue eyes were open and far-seeing beneath their heavy, slack lids as they had not been beneath the merciful bindings of Amiens or in the wreckage of a shattered face on a Northumbrian hillside. The soft, kitten’s mouth, still bearing the last, revolting brush of paint, formed words without breath, as parched as the desert air. İpec böceǧi, for this wast thou born? Is there no failure thou hast not encompassed?

*******************************************************

The gasping breath that woke Jerott Blyth was his own, rasping like poison in his chest, and his outflung arm howled with pain. For a moment, he thought he could feel the raw burns of Mehedia licking its length and he was back in Djerba - the Djerba of some seven years past - with Onophrion Zitwitz’s jellies melting on his tongue and the golden warmth of the North African sun spilling through the latticed windows of his convalescent room. For a moment, he burned again with fever on the boat fleeing the carnage of Djerba with Giovanni Andrea Doria fretting and fuming at the prow and Danny’s hand clasping his own and the utter failure of the Knights of St. John sour in a mouth that cracked and bled. With a blink against the enveloping darkness that admitted neither sunlight nor the deadly fire of an overturned brazier, he recognised the shadow of the bed curtains and the dim glow from the last embers of the fire dying in the hearth. A dint on the pillow by his head suggested the recent warmth of a cat, but he was utterly alone, neither prisoner nor knight.

With a hollow, awful noise, half sob, half laugh, Jerott buried his head in his shaking hands, feeling the trembling weakness in the injured arm and the aching memory of the old burns. It seemed to him that, like the silk moth which has no organs by which it can nourish itself, he lacked in that moment any means to sustain himself, and could merely exist in the labouring of his lungs and the eddying horror of the dream. Khaireddin, who he had failed to save; Marthe, whose death he had caused, however unwitting; Francis, who might have died by that same act of mercy; the boy Diccon, weeping before a father who turned an implacable face to him, the warm light of the afternoon gilding both their pale heads.

Although he had regretted his hasty words as soon as they were spoken - Damn it, Francis, he’s not one of your men to browbeat. Can you not show him half the pity you gave the other? - he felt the previous day’s anger kindle again at the memory of the cool displeasure in Francis’s eyes and the flat, uncompromising line of his mouth, even as his infant son tugged at his silken hose and begged to be held.

Mo cridh is a good little boy now, said the voice of that other child with the pitiless clarity of memory.

With no more conscious thought than the doomed silk moth, Jerott swung his legs over the edge of the bed, groping with chilled toes for the slippers that had been set out for him. Although the day had been warm for Scotland on the cusp of autumn, a decided chill hung in the night air and he shrugged into the borrowed robe, feeling it pull across the shoulders where it was cut for a slighter man.

In the near total darkness, he let his feet and memory guide him through the corridors of St. Mary’s, grateful at least that although the house no longer maintained its martial aspect, Francis’s taste did not yet run to endless trinkets and furbelows to trip the unwary. At the head of the stairs, something sleek and pale regarded him curiously from a ribbon of pale moonlight where a shutter stood ajar, but, before he could do more than peer blearily back, it disappeared into the recesses of a court cupboard made monstrous by the shadows.

Once, on a night such as this, Jerott Blyth might have sought the wine cellar and all its bottled comforts; once, Lymond might have locked it against just such an eventuality. Tonight, however, Jerott wandered through the silent house with no goal in his mind save to put as much space as the night permitted between himself and the fading echoes of his dream. His slippered feet padded softly across the expensive carpets and he recalled with a shudder the carpet painted with red and white in the in the selamlìk like a terrible exchequer counting out life and death - say goodnight to the dark.

Despite his meandering path, Jerott was not overly surprised when he lifted his eyes and found himself in the passageway leading to the great, vaulted kitchen. There would be fresh water there to wash the taste of bitter almonds and smoke from his mouth, thanks to some mechanical contrivance of Lancelot Plummer’s, and the cool of the Scots night under cloud-veiled stars through the door beyond.

He had already stepped through the door when he realised that long room was not empty; the faint glow from the banked hearth was matched by a candle flame and in its light a slim figure moved briskly from table to cupboard. Jerott froze, for a startled moment half-fearing some apparition from his dream, or, worse yet, an encounter with Lymond for which he was ill-prepared, but as the figure turned to greet him, he saw the fall of dark, unbound hair swing out around slender shoulders and recognised his hostess in a robe de chambre belonging, like Jerott’s own borrowed garment, no doubt, to her husband.

‘Jerott!’ Philippa came more fully into the light, her smile warming with more pleasure in the encounter than Jerott thought strictly reasonable for some time after two in the morning. ‘Couldn’t you sleep either?’

‘No,’ Jerott said shortly, and wondered what else he could say, but Philippa seemed unperturbed.

‘She gaue him milke, the slepe fell in his hede,’ she pronounced cheerfully. ‘I was making myself a posset, guaranteed by Kate to knock out half the county - of course, that’s in England. Would you like some?’

About to demur, Jerott was shepherded without delay to a seat at the well-scrubbed board and had an equally well-scrubbed lemon deposited in his nerveless hands. Half-hysterically, he found himself thinking that Djerba might have gone better with Philippa Crawford and not Giovanni Andrea Doria commanding the massed forces of Christendom. Taking the knife presented to him, he set to paring dutiful curls of zest and listened to the surprisingly comforting sounds as Philippa clattered around the kitchen, collecting the milk and cream from the cool slate and the sugar and nutmeg from the spice chest. As she worked, she hummed to herself, a fragment of Salve intemerata virgo, a snatch of a filthy ditty that he had heard on the docks at Leith. In short order, he found himself in possession of a steaming goblet of spiced posset aromatic with lemon and nutmeg and the Crawfords’ good French eau de vie, and being appraised frankly by the appallingly candid brown eyes of Francis’s child-bride.

A child no longer, he conceded with a shade of reluctance, although he could see the ghost of the scrubby and dishevelled adolescent alongside the the elegant courtier in the lines of her face as he squinted against the flickering warmth of the candlelight. A single lock of brown hair fell in disarray across her high brow, but, even in the dim light, it was glossy and well-trimmed, and the thin-fingered hands cupping the second goblet no longer showed the effects of diligent adolescent gnawing.

‘So,’ Philippa said conversationally, pushing a plate of sweetmeats towards him. ‘You saw Diccon’s argument with Francis.’

The posset soured in Jerott’s mouth. ‘Argument? He’s a child. He was crying. God, Philippa!’ Francis’s retort had, as ever, raised an angry and impotent resentment within him only made worse by the recognition that he was over-matched.

‘He’s Francis’s child,’ Philippa corrected gently. ‘He could pick a fight with a fencepost and is as highly strung as a papingo at a fair.’

Jerott subsided sulkily into his chair and eyed a sticky square of something dripping with honey and jewelled with candied nuts.

‘Baklava has many curative properties, but the banishment of nightmares is not one of them.’

As so often with Lymond, the softly spoken words left Jerott feeling as if he had been flensed and scoured raw, but there was a kindness in Philippa’s face that Lymond rarely permitted himself to display, and Jerott consciously relaxed the fingers clenched bitingly tight around the goblet until the ache of the healing wound in his shoulder subsided.

‘What, then? What possible reason could Francis have to treat his own son like that after… after…’

‘After losing Khaireddin? But if Diccon’s offence was no grave matter, neither was Francis’s.’ And in quick, amused words, Philippa sketched the outlines of a scene quite different to that which Jerott had seen - or thought he had seen: the tired, overexcited child; the hand tangled in the cat’s inviting fur until she awarded the barest scratch to her tormentor for this impertinent ambuscade; Francis’s insistence that Diccon should render his apologies to his feline friend before any consoling cuddle; child and cat alike falling asleep in Lymond’s lap even as he himself drowsed in the late sunlight. The light in the cornflower-blue eyes that had been not cold anger but a carefully corralled excess of emotion.

Philippa licked a crumb of honey-soaked semolina from her fingers and continued in a quieter voice, recalling the outspoken, stalwart child that Jerott remembered from the long-ago voyage, the terror and exhilaration alike of playing for Roxelana Sultàn, the dawning fear she had felt in the sultana’s gilded and grilled listening post above the Divan as she saw Jubrael Pasha for the first time. Kuzúm’s whipping and the despair of her wedding night in the French ambassador’s residence and the long journey home.

As if it were drawn out of him like a skein of silk unravelling, Jerott found himself responding in kind, telling the story of his ill-fated foray to Mehedia, the horror that he had found there and the coming horror that he had been unable to prevent. Just a quarter-hour’s difference, just a little more wit to see the danger surrounding him, just a little more strength in his arm… Remembering the obscene travesty of the kiss pressed into the crook of his neck, Jerott looked away, into the shadows that crowded the corners of the kitchen, but Philippa’s fingertips pressed lightly against his own, a benediction of a kind, as cleansing as any priestly absolution. In a flash, he remembered the calm of Francis’s face set against the crispness of his pillow in Amiens, the blind, blank eyes and bloodless visage and quick, expressive features shorn of all emotion.

İpec böceǧi, for this wast thou born?

And - no; they had stood as well as they might against a malicious and terrible will and had found beyond its bounds some place of refuge, though it had driven them over distant lands and wide seas. It had made of them something which none of them had been able to contemplate, both for good and for ill, and, as storm-wrack, they lay upon its farthest shore. If there was grief here in plenty and a lifetime of Graham Reid Malett’s ill works to be unravelled in Scotland, there was no shame in that.

Perhaps he was not formed as the horned worm of India, unable to sustain life even in others.

With a start, Jerott realised that the goblet was empty and cool beneath his fingers, the plate reduced to a scattering of crumbs and the first faint glow of dawn spilling through the high, narrow windows. The cat perched on one end of the long table, glowering at them through narrow green eyes and batting at a scrap of honeyed pastry with a desultory paw. Blinking against the sting of tears, as caustic as any poison, Jerott saw that Philippa’s lids were drooping, her chin propped on one hand and the other laid lightly on the curve of her belly suddenly revealed beneath the fine lawn of her shift where the embroidered silk of her gown had dropped away. ‘You must forgive Francis, you see,’ she said in a voice warm and soft with sleep. ‘It is difficult for him at the moment.’

‘I - yes - there is nothing to forgive,’ Jerott said, and found that he meant it. Perhaps, like the pelican, Francis would sustain these children with the last of his own heart’s blood, as he might have sustained his firstborn, were it not for Gabriel’s schemes, but the stubborn light in Philippa’s drowsy dark eyes suggested that she had decided opinions on the matter. And, with abrupt solicitude, ‘You should go to bed.’

‘A moment longer. Goo to Morpheus; thou knowist hym well.’

Rising to his feet against the protesting ache of his own muscles, he was surprised to find himself swept into a hug comprised half of peacock-embroidered silk and half of flying dark hair that filled his nose with the scent of chypre. Cautiously, he let his own arms close around Philippa and felt a great flood tide of weariness sweep over him, as if all barriers to sleep had been swept away and that welcoming sea rushed in, bearing all before it.

Disentangling himself with only a little difficult involving Philippa’s hair and the carved horn buttons fastening the sleeves of his robe, Jerott padded sleepily from the kitchen, the cat weaving lazy patterns around his bare calves.

*******************************************************

‘Well, yunitsa?’ asked the figure lounging in the entrance to the larder, a sleepy, sardonic smile crooking one corner of his long mouth and pale linen sleeves falling back from his sinewy arms as he brought his hands up to frame her face.

‘Well,’ Philippa confirmed, and pressed a kiss to the scarred wrist. ‘He’ll sleep tonight, at least. And you?’

‘I see Astraea has absented herself, so I suppose we will find ourselves the next targets of the infant’s hair-pulling fervour in far too short a time, but for now my sleep, like justice, requires a witness.’

‘Then let me be witness by sight and by sign.’ Philippa smiled up into his face, smoothing the fingers of one hand through the disordered silk of his yellow hair. ‘Come to bed, Francis. There is nothing more to put right in the world tonight.’

*******************************************************

Notes

The first three paragraphs draw heavily on the description of Jerott’s approach to Mehedia in Pawn in Frankincense, pp. 111-112.

İpec böceǧi - ‘silkworm’ in Turkish (I hope).

‘Like the silk moth which has no organs by which it can nourish itself’ - some version of this is repeated at various places in Pawn in Frankincense and also in Checkmate.

‘Mo cridh is a good little boy now’ - Pawn in Frankincense, p. 445, aka the most distressing line in the entirety of canon (and, let’s face it, there’s plenty of competition).

‘She gaue him milke, the slepe fell in his hede’ - John Lydgate, The Fall of Princes.

‘Goo to Morpheus; thou knowist hym well’ - Geoffrey Chaucer, Book of the Duchess.

#scotswap #lymond fanfic #my fic #philippa somerville #jerott blyth #francis crawford

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in-arlathan · 5 years

Text

Born Wilder

Wow, writing this little something of a fic took way longer than I expected, but I got there in the end. I really needed to get this story out of my system to get my fanfiction mojo flowing again.

This one-shot features my Elenara Lavellan and her companions Varric, Cassandra and Solas in the Hinterlands. After writing Solavellan romance with no specific Lavellan, it’s was so nice to write with one of my OCs again.

Sadly, Elenara and Solas are far away from their relationship in this one, so no sappy romance here, but I enjoyed exploring her thoughts on the Inquisition and being a Dalish among humans before she became Inquisitor. Also, some friendly bonding with Varric at the end, which is always good. Happy reading! :)

Read it on AO3

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“So, Chuckles,” Varric said, “is it true you spend most of your time in the Fade?”

“As much as is possible, yes,” Solas answered with a curious side-glance. “The Fade contains a wealth of knowledge for those who know where to look.”

The dwarf scoffed. “I don't know how you dream, let alone wander around in there. Especially when the shit that comes out of the Fade generally seems... pretty cranky.”

“So are humans, but we continue to interact with them…,” Solas replied with a smile tugging at his lips. “When we must.”

“Point taken,” Varric said.

Cassandra made a disgruntled face. “If you gentlemen are quite finished…”

“Come now, seeker…”

Elenara smiled, despite only half-listening to her companions. She was too busy keeping an eye out for rebel mages or rogue templars in the surrounding forest. It hadn’t been long since the party had stumbled in a battle between both sides and she was not keen to repeat that experience just yet.

They had spent the last week traversing the Hinterlands, running errands on behalf of the Inquisition. Every now and then, Solas or Cassandra urged her to call the retreat, get back to Haven and move on to Val Royeaux to speak to the remaining clerics of the Chantry. Elenara, on the other hand, didn’t want to rush the matter. She was rather happy to be out in the wilderness again, even as an envoy of the Inquisition. The rustling leaves and whispering wind reminded her of a time when everything had been much simpler. Before the sky had been torn apart.

If only she could remember what had happened at the conclave…

Elenara squared her shoulders, wiping sweat from her brow with one hand. Dwelling on the matter was no use. Her memories wouldn’t return just because she wanted them to. The only choice she had was to focus on what was before her: the refugees that required her help. She had decided that their lives mattered more than her knowing what had transpired at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And so she hurried through the Hinterlands, doing everything she could to make them feel safe and protected. As if somehow, through her own actions, she could feel safe and protected, too.

Her companions didn’t seem to take much liking to the remote wilderness, though. Varric used any chance he got to complain about the weather, the people, the food, and the lack of proper ale. Even Cassandra, who had been at odds with the dwarf since Elenara met her, seemed to agree with him, but she did not voice her contempt as loudly as he did. Only Solas kept quiet and dismissed any of her questions if he felt ill at ease. “What we accomplish here will one day serve us in our mission to seal the Breach,” he said. “That is more important than my personal comfort.”

“We’re almost there,” Elenara said when they finally exited the woods and the friendly conversation between her companions came to an end. Looking around carefully, she felt a shiver crawl down her spine. Her gaze was fixed on a small hillside by Dwarfson’s Pass where they had set up camp the night before. It was not much, just a few bedrolls arranged around a campfire, plus a chest in which they had stored some of their supplies. Nothing of value or importance that would draw the attention of scavengers or bandits. And yet, Elenara couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“Hurry,” she shouted and started into a run, racing up the hill with her senses on high alert. Behind her, she could hear Varric groan with exhaustion as he tried to keep up with Solas and Cassandra who followed Elenara with relative ease.

“Shit,” was all she said when their camp came into view.

The bedrolls lay scattered and had clearly been searched, and the chest with their supplies was missing. Whoever robbed than even took the bushels of elf root they had hung on a small rag to dry them before transport.

Cassandra, Solas, and Varric reached the camp shortly after, looking around in confusion. The dwarf swore under his breath, as he searched his bedroll. “Those bastards took my notes,” he exclaimed. “I stored them in a small compartment … ah, nevermind.”

“I’m sorry,” Elenara said and meant it.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Varric said with a handwave. “This should teach me not to leave my writing lying about while I run off to kill people.”

“Do any of you have any supplies with you?” Cassandra asked.

Solas checked his backpack, as well as the small bags on his belts. “Sadly, no,” he told the seeker. “I thought I had some bread left, but come to think of it, I must have placed it in the chest with the rest of our supplies.”

“I only have two bottles of dwarven ale from last night,” Varric added after a quick glance into his baggage. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Great!” Cassandra growled. “What a perfect mess. The sun is already setting. It’ll be dark before we have the chance to get to Winter Watch Tower to ask for help.”

“I guess you are correct,” Elenara admitted. “But we don’t need to get to the fortress to sustain ourselves.”

Varric raised an eyebrow at that. “What do you suggest, Lavellan? Lie in wait for some travelers to ask them for help?”

“Creators, no.” Elenara shook her head, slightly amused. “You really don’t spend much time out in the wilds, do you?”

“Not, if I can avoid it,” Varric said.

“Well, I’ll take care of this,” she announced and checked her quiver and bow. She had enough arrows left, and the rope in her backpack would come in handy when making snares. “I suggest you go and search for wood to make a fire with before it’s dark. I’ll be back in no time.”

With that, she turned on her heels and made her way down the hill again. The prospect of being alone in the woods – truly alone – made her feel giddy and foolish like a little girl. Keeper Deshanna wouldn’t have liked it.

She was already half-way down the hill when behind her Solas asked. “Where are you going, lethallin?”

Elenara turned to smile at the apostate. “The wilderness contains a wealth of sustenance for those who know where to look,” she said and spread her arms wide.

***

She returned to the camp with two small nugs as her prey. The dead animals were dangling for a piece of rope she had used to tie them together. She hadn’t even needed her arrows to kill them. All she had done was laying out a few snares in the undergrowth and wait for the creatures to walk into her traps. For an experienced hunter like her, it had been an easy task, as simple as putting on clothes. Still, Cassandra and Varric eyed her suspiciously when she presented the animals to them.

“Our dinner,” she told them and dropped the nugs next to the fire.

Varric stared at her in disbelieve.

“That was remarkably quick,” Cassandra said, brows furrowed. “You’ve been away for what… three hours?”

Elenara made a vague gesture. “Give or take.”

She relieved herself of her backpack, quiver, and bow, and placed all of her belongings on her bedroll. Her companions had used her absence to rearrange the camp and get a decent fire burning. Solas was stoking the embers with a stick, making the flames grow higher while Elenara searched for her hunting knife.

“Nugs are fine and all,” Varric said, nibbling at one of the bottles of dwarven ale he'd carried around with him all day, “but how exactly are we going to eat them?”

Solas let out a soft laugh but didn’t dare look up from the dancing flames.

“Anything on your mind, Chuckles?” Varric growled.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” the apostate said, lips still pursed in a smile.

“Sure.”

Elenara found the hunting knife in her backpack and removed it from the leather sheath she stored it in. The steel blade reflected the light of the campfire as she turned it in her hand, marveling at its beauty. It had been a gift, given to her by her childhood friend Erendir when she had come of age. “It’ll serve you good, wherever you go,” he’d said.

She wondered where he was now. What he might think of her.

I will do everything within my power to keep you and the clan safe, she thought and turned her gaze to the sky. The Breach was only a faint shimmer in the darkness but she could feel it lingering on, waiting for her to return to Haven.

Focus on what is before you, she reminded herself, sat down cross-legged and freed one of the nugs from the rope. Without giving it much thought, she pierced through the skin of the animal with her blade and made a set of cuts. She stripped the skin from the nug with a quick thrust , and Varric made a disgusted sound.

“Andraste’s ass, Lavellan!” he exclaimed, leaning away from her with one hand raised as if he was trying to defend himself against an attacker. “Please tell me, you did not just do that!”

Elenara grinned. She liked Varric, but he had lived behind the walls of Kirkwall for far too long. With his fondness for city living, he could barely manage to endure a bit of rain without complaining. To shock him like this was mildly amusing to her, to say the least.

“Where did you think meat comes from, Varric?” Cassandra asked. When the dwarf didn’t answer, the seeker turned her eyes back to the nug and pressed her lips into a thin line. “Though, I do admit it looks more… invasive than I expected."

“You'll get used to it.” Elenara put a stick through the skinned nug and placed it on the fire, then picked up the second one. “There’s something satisfying about it, too. To know that you brought in the food to sustain yourself.”

“I’d rather bring in more bottles of these, thank you very much,” Varric said, waving around the dwarven ale.

“As a merchant, you certainly enjoy that privilege,” Solas admitted and stopped stoking the fire. He sat down and wrapped his arms around his legs, regarding Varric intently. “You are a successful businessman, are you not? Besides being a well-renowned author, I mean.”

“And here I was, thinking you didn’t mind what’s happening in the real world, Chuckles,” Varric said gleefully. “You continue to surprise me.”

And so the two of them picked up their conversation of Solas’s exploration of the Fade as if no time had passed. Elenara would’ve been happy to listen to them while she waited for the meat to be roasted by the fire. As distant as the elven apostate behaved towards her, she enjoyed Solas’s tales about memories he had found in ancient dreams. But this night, all she could think about was how strange the life of the Dalish must seem to other people if even an experienced adventurer such as Varric was grossed out by something so mundane as preparing the meat for cooking.

Taking care of her food – be it meat or bread or berries – was as natural as breathing to her. It was a necessity when spending your life as a traveler. But that wasn’t the only thing she had learned with her clan. She knew how to weave and knit and sew. Or how to read tracks and take care of the halla in their little pens. She even helped repair the aravels on more than one occasion. And she’d done all of it gladly to serve the Lavellan clan. Such hardship had seemed like a small price to pay if it meant that her family stayed safe and fed, and she’d spent a lot of time practicing and making use of her talents.

With the Inquisition, however, none of these talents seemed to matter anymore. Every morning she awoke in her cabin in Haven, a servant had already made breakfast for her. Before she had time to finish the meal, someone else showed up to bring her new clothing or clean the room for her. She’d known that humans lived very differently compared to the Dalish, and when she joined the Inquisition, she had been sure she could attune to this new lifestyle. And yet, after weeks, it still felt so inherently wrong that she ran off into the forest to hunt on her own at first chance. Out there in the woods, the world had finally made sense to her once more.

Like so many Dalish, she’d been born out in the wilderness. Roaming the vast plains and lush forests of the Free Marches had been second nature to her ever since she had come into this world. And although there had been a time when she had wished she could venture away from the clan to explore some old ruin or seek out education form human scholars, she never truly wanted to leave her old life behind. It was ingrained in her mind and body, her very being. It was who she was.

She only hoped she could go back to the life she lived before when the Breach was sealed.

“Hey, Lavellan,” Varric roared. “Are you still with us?”

Elenara blinked. “Wh–what?”

The dwarf laughed. “You must have been very far away,” he said and tapped a finger to his temple. “I asked you three times if you wanted to share a story with us, but you wouldn’t respond.”

“Oh.” She shifted on her bedroll, trying to push the feeling of embarrassment aside. “Really? I’m sorry. I was… distracted.”

“Yeah, I could see that,“ Varric replied with a roguish grin on his face. “So, do you have a story to share?”

She looked around, taken aback by the dwarf's request. Even Solas and Cassandra seemed interested in what she had to say, which only added to her confusion.

“Why would you care to hear it?” she asked suspiciously.

“We all have something that defines us. Some story we tell ourselves about who we are and who we want to be.” Varric gestured towards Cassandra. “The seeker, for instance, talks about duty all the time, because that is what defines her. Chuckles here can’t shut up about the Veil and the Fade, because that is what defines him.”

Solas narrowed his eyes. “I don’t always talk about the Fade.”

Varric gave the apostate a skeptical look, then turned his attention back to Elenara. “Point is, Lavellan, besides you spying on the conclave and doing your best to seal the Breach, I couldn’t help but notice that we don’t really know much about you.”

“Won’t you be disgusted by the barbaric Dalish customs?” she asked pointedly and nodded towards the nugs that still roasted over the fire.

“You take me far too seriously, Lavellan.” Varric laughed again. “One more reason why we should get better acquainted, don’t you think?”

A faint smile tugged at Elenara’s lips. “There is one story, actually.”

“That’s great.” Varric took a sip from his bottle. “Let’s hear it. The meal won’t be ready for another hour anyway, I guess."

Elenara stretched out on her bedroll, head propped on one hand. “One day, the clan was camped outside of Starkhaven…”

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da #dai #fanfiction #lavellan #female lavellan #female inquisitor #solas #varric #cassandra #in the hinterlands #getting to know each other #a bit of friendship #elenara lavellan

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flutteringphalanges · 5 years

Photo

Mirabile Visue

Summary: Sister Agatha Van Helsing discovers she’s in over her head when a competitive game of chess ultimately results in her becoming pregnant with the child of her worst enemy, Count Dracula. Now tied by a bond deeper than blood, the two must learn to coexist and adapt in a world that could be potentially hostile towards their offspring. Parenthood has never looked so batty.

Characters: Dracula/Sister Agatha Van Helsing

Chapters: 3/6

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Thank you all so much for the wonderful feedback! I can't express enough how much it means to me to know how you guys thought of each chapter! With that in mind, I wanted to briefly mention that for those who want to physically visualize what Sorina looks like now, my personal view is Violet McGraw when she played in "The Haunting of Hill House" or "Doctor Sleep" but a bit younger than that since she is only three at this point in the story. I just feel like the actress could pull off looking like the child of Agatha and Dracula. Okay, enough explaining, onward to the chapter! -Jen

Transylvania, 1900

Dracula's Castle

It was an exciting time by all accounts, particularly being the beginning of a new century as well as the final hundredth year of the 20th. But mostly, it marked the momentous occasion of Sorina's birth. For three years now, the child had thrived and flourished under the diligent care of her parents. A bright, outspoken little thing that had taken the castle by storm. A queen of her own crowning. She was her father's beating heart and her mother's only worldly possession.

But such love came with a cost. Fear. And Sorina, though free to roam the halls of her domain, was never allowed outside of the manor walls. Agatha had even gone so far as insisting on having every window sealed and the entrance ways only accessible by lock and key. Only Dracula ventured from their home to do his "business" and feeding, the mother too turning away from the sun. Even the moon felt at times like a memory. Still, none of that seemed to matter to the former nun. As long as her daughter was safe, she was at peace.

"Papa!"

The vampire hadn't taken but two steps into the main study when something small collided into him. He looked down and smiled as a set of arms wrapped around his leg, the little girl they belonged to burying her face into the fabric of his pants. As he knelt down to give her a proper hug, his gaze met hers and it was as if Agatha was looking back at him. Sure she had his dark hair that fell in wavy locks, but those stormy blue eyes clearly rivaled those of her mother.

"Ah micul mea liliac," he spoke, pulling her close. "What are you doing out of bed? You'll worry your mother if she wakes up and finds you missing."

"Not sleepy," she explained in as great detail as a small child her age could. "Papa, you left."

"So observant for someone so young," he smiled. "As if you don't keep me and your mother on our toes as it is." Dracula chuckled as Sorina looked at him expectantly, much like his wife did when awaiting an explanation for something he may have done wrong. "Well, I suppose you could say I was feeling rather hungry and decided to go farther than usual to…" He had to think of a good word, something easy enough to comprehend. Agatha insisted upon holding back on telling their child his true feeding habits until she was better capable at understanding. "...to find something really tasty." Or someone.

"Why?" Sorina asked innocently, cocking her head.

The vampire blinked, momentarily forgetting that recently Sorina had become quite the interrogator. Everything needed an answer, she was worse than Agatha. Clearly the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

"Well," he thought. "Because I wanted something different."

"Why?" The little girl inquired, as if needing more proof of his whereabouts.

Dracula exhaled, keeping his composure. "You could say your Papa likes to try new things."

Before Sorina could utter another word, a voice echoed down the hallway. Both had barely a moment to react when a nearly out of breath Agatha came into view. The anxiety etched on her face was quickly swept away by a look of relief when her gaze landed on her daughter. She hurried over almost seeming as if she didn't even realize Dracula was there.

"Sorina," she exhaled. "There you are. You simply cannot disappear like that in the middle of the night."

"Sorry, Mama," the young girl apologized, looking down at the ground. "But Papa's home!"

Agatha finally looked at her husband, who in turn gazed back at her with raised eyebrows. "So I see," she commented. "I suppose I can forgive your excitement, but next time do wake me up before you go running about. It's important that I'm awake when you play. I need to have at least some idea where you are."

"You should give her more credit than that, darling," Dracula smiled, lifting his daughter up. "Sorina may be young, but she's wise beyond her years."

The former nun folded her arms and frowned. "Need I remind you of…" she paused, realizing the girl's eyes were on her. She sighed. "I don't wish to discuss this matter in front of her. All things considered, she is just a child."

"I'm a big girl," Sorina cut in proudly. "I'm three!"

The count smiled, taking a moment to push a lock of hair behind his daughter's ear. Agatha's over-protectiveness had a way of showing itself and most certainly he would be reprimanded the minute they were in privacy, but he understood Sorina's desire to explore. It was a characteristic they both shared. Yet he also knew, as a parent, that his wife did pose some good points. Especially when it came to the uncertainty of what vampire traits she had inherited from him. She could sustain on both animal blood and human food as well as sleep outside of a coffin and its soil, but sunlight? Neither parent dared risk if such was deadly to her or not.

"Your mother is right, little one," the count responded. "You must be careful." He looked to Agatha who nodded in approval. "As goes for your mother and me too. Do you promise?"

"Okay," the girl yawned. "I promise."

"That's my girl," he smiled, placing a kiss on her temple. "Let's get you to bed now. I think we could all do with some rest. I don't have to go out for a while so perhaps later we can play? Does that sound good?"

Sorina nodded, not fighting the exhaustion that had finally found her. Adjusting her in his arms, Dracula ascended the staircase, Agatha in tow. His eyes were adjusted well enough to the darkness, but the torches still lit up the long hallway for both Agatha's and Sorina's sake. The door to the young girl's room was already open after her mother's panic of noticing her child was missing. Approaching her bed, the vampire gingerly placed Sorina down before covering her with a blanket.

"Are you going to berate me now?" Dracula asked coolly the second both adults stepped out of the room. "She didn't mean anything by it."

"Of course she didn't," Agatha hissed quietly. "But that doesn't mean you don't under-react when she wanders off like this without either of us knowing. She's a little girl, Dracula."

"Who should be allowed to explore! The manor is safe," he chuckled humorlessly. "I've made sure of it. Not even a fly has managed to sneak in, not to mention you got rid of all of the bodies I had in boxes-"

"Because the last thing we need is for our daughter to be traumatized by some undead creature popping out like a jack-in-a-box toy!" She countered, folding her arms so tightly over her chest that Dracula was surprised they didn't break. "You should be taking this more seriously!"

"I am," he insisted. "Everything you've asked, I've done without question. Everything. At this point, you might as well lock her away in a tower. You aren't the only one whose given up things, Agatha!"

Dracula realized his mistake the moment those words escaped from his lips. The former nun swallowed thickly and, without another word, turned on her heels and stormed off into her room.

"Agatha, wait!" He called after her, reaching her door just as it closed. "Look, I didn't mean-"

"You're right," Agatha's voice sounded muffled from behind the thick wood. "I have asked a lot of you. I'm feeling rather tired, so if you don't mind."

The vampire pinched the brim of his nose and closed his eyes tightly. Debating with his wife was one thing, but actually fighting with her took the fun out of it. Falling in love with Agatha had led him to experiencing new emotions and regretfully one of those had been guilt. It used to be so easy not to feel and yet, though it felt weird to admit it, he wouldn't change a thing.

"I'm sorry," he replied. "The sacrifices you've made will always trump mine. I know you only want what's best for her, and I swear upon everything I do too. You know," he exhaled. "When I came home tonight, she was bombarding me with questions. Reminds me of someone else I know."

He heard a quiet chuckle from the other side of the door. "Funny," she mused. "I could say the same about you when it comes to how hard-headed she is."

The bedroom door opened and for the first time that night, Dracula saw a genuine smile etched on the former nun's face. The vampire pulled her into his arms and held her close, Agatha allowing her eyes to close.

"Dracula?" She asked softly, still in his embrace.

"What business have you been doing exactly? Besides feeding?"

He pulled back, looking into her eyes. "I cannot go into detail now, but when the time comes, I will tell you everything. I must ask only for your trust. I promise everything will make sense in time."

Agatha was silent for a moment. "I trust you," she finally breathed. "Unconditionally."

"Where is Agatha and what have you done with her?" Dracula smirked, kissing the top of her head. He held her close, inhaling her scent. "This will be good for the three of us. Just you wait and see."

XXX

"No, Papa, like this!"

Agatha looked over her book only to see Dracula sitting on the floor, doll in hand, as Sorina demonstrated how to properly make the doll "walk". She smiled, never in a million lifetimes would she have ever pictured the infamous Count Dracula playing dolls with a daughter she shared with him no less. And yet, there he sat, looking as content as one could be.

"Ohh," he said, feigning surprise. "Terribly sorry. Like this?" He made the doll move as his daughter instructed, causing her to giggle. "And how are you today, Ms. Balaur? Going to the market, are we?"

"Oh yes," Sorina stated, bouncing the other doll. "Time for tea!"

"Balaur?" Agatha commented, a confused smile crossing her features. "That's quite a name to come up with, Sorina."

"Papa picked it," her daughter replied.

"Must've heard it somewhere," Dracula shrugged. "Was on my mind at the time."

"Papa, play," Sorina insisted. "Tea time!"

Agatha continued to eye her husband intently before returning to her book. It was on Atlantis, some lost city theorized to have existed that now lay in the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. Dracula had purchased it for her knowing her love for anything remotely supernatural or myth based. That's how she became intent on tracking him down. The reality of that had turned out much different than she planned.

Suddenly, there came a knock at the front entrance. Before Agatha even had a moment to set her book down, Dracula already had Sorina in his arms. He stood there, glowering at the direction of the sound when the banging came again. Only this time, it was much louder.

"Dracula, take Sorina upstairs." Agatha said calmly.

"Agatha," Dracula said, clearly displeased with her idea. "Ignore it."

"It's daytime," the former nun stated. "Go upstairs."

"Papa," Sorina asked, looking at her father. "What's wrong?"

"Go now," Agatha urged. "I'll be fine."

The vampire continued to eye the door before letting out a heavy sigh of defeat. He knew he couldn't win against Agatha. Holding his daughter closer, he met his wife's unblinking gaze.

"Go," she repeated. "I'll call out if something's wrong."

She waited until both were up the stairs and out of her sight before venturing towards the doors. As she passed by the fireplace, she carefully grabbed the iron rod that was the poker. At least she could have some form of a weapon. Locating the key, her hands slightly trembled as she began to undo the locks. However, it wasn't out of fear. No, it was excitement. Rarely, had Agatha seen the outside, much less the sun. Caring for Sorina had seen to that. So when she had finally unlocked the door, pushing it just open enough to see who was knocking, Agatha couldn't help the sharp inhale of delight when the warm rays hit her face.

"Miss?"

A gruff voice tugged the former nun back to reality. Agatha nearly jumped in surprise at the man who stood before her. An older fellow who, when noticing he'd caught her gaze, removed his cap from his balding head.

"My apologies, Miss," he cleared his throat. "I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Gellert. Gellert Bartok? You must be Count Dracula's wife."

"I am," Agatha said hesitantly. "Is there a matter I can assist you with? My husband isn't feeling well at the moment. I can handle any business matters of his."

"Right. Of course," Gellert said with a half smile. "Sorry for coming over so unexpectedly. Usually I come at night, as he requested? A few times a month, I'm sure he's told you."

"I'm aware," she nodded.

"We had an incident with some hogs. Something got 'em during the night? I wanted to talk to your husband about getting more. I brought what I could with me." He motioned to a rather small barrel by his feet. "I can carry it in for you."

"That's quite alright," Agatha said briskly. "I can handle-"

"I must insist," the farmer smiled, nudging the door to open wider with his foot. "I'm not going to make a lady like yourself carry something so heavy."

Agatha had never felt as tense as she did the moment the entrance way closed behind her. The stranger, to her at least, completely unaware of his surroundings strode over to the table and placed the barrel down. He looked around the room and whistled.

"I've never stepped foot in this place," he commented. "Always just dropped everything off or met your husband outside. This is quite the establishment. Never seen anything like it."

"I'm quite particular when it comes to decor."

Much to Agatha's horror, she recognized that voice all too well. She turned and with wide eyes stared at Dracula, who had now decided to join them.

"Count Dracula," the farmer smiled nervously. "Your wife told me you were ill."

"I'm feeling better," Dracula replied simply. "Might I inquire why you are standing in my dining room?"

"Oh," Gellert said, scratching the back of his neck. "I was just informing your wife that we had issues on the farm with the hogs. Something killed off a good many of them. I wanted to ask if you would be so generous as to perhaps provide-"

"Yes, yes, of course," Dracula waved dismissively. "Let us discuss the matter in a different room. Voices echo and my daughter is trying to sleep." He looked to Agatha. "Darling, would you mind retrieving some wine for our guest? Surely this won't take long, but I want to be a good host," he smiled at the farmer. "If you'd follow me."

Unbeknownst to either parent, Sorina watched from the shadows as her mother and father followed the strange man down one of the corridors. She'd never seen another person before, only heard about them in her story books. The young girl looked back over her shoulder at her bedroom. Surely her parents wouldn't be too cross. Besides, she'd recognize that scent anywhere. The one that wafted from the barrel on the table.

Quietly, she made her way down the steps and into the dining room. With ease, she climbed up a chair before kneeling in front of her prize. It was a little difficult, but with surprising strength considering her age, Sorina managed to get the top off. Her eyes sparked as the aroma of the crimson liquid filled her nose. With no means of properly drinking it, Sorina, much like a kid and a cookie jar, scooped out a palm full and began to slurp.

"What in God's name-"

Gellert looked on in horror as the young girl turned to face them, her tiny fangs and blood smeared mouth giving away that she was far from a normal child. But before he could react, Dracula shoved him hard against the wall, a yelp of pain escaping the man. Sorina began to cry, snapping Agatha out of her stunned state brought on by the situation.

"Take her upstairs," Dracula growled, his own features beginning to morph, his words mirroring Agatha's from before. "You don't want her to see this."

The woman didn't need to be told twice as she scooped her distressed child up and quickly ascended the steps. She could hear the man pleading with the vampire as she ran into Sorina's room and knocked the door closed with her hip.

"Sorry, Mama," the girl cried. "Sorry!"

"It's okay," Agatha soothed, her own voice shaking. She held Sorina close, pressing her face into her daughter's hair. "It's okay."

Time seemed to move slowly as Agatha sat in the dark room hugging Sorina tightly to her. It was only when the sound of familiar footsteps grew closer and the door open, did she see Dracula standing before her.

"Papa!" Sorina cried out, running into the arms of her father.

He picked her up and held her close before his eyes met those of his wife.

"Agatha," he said quietly. "I think it's time for me to tell you about England."

#Dracula #agatha van helsing #Dracula x Agatha #dragatha #Dracula on Netflix #Mirabile Visu

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per-ineptia-ad-astra · 5 years

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starhearth: episode five

Second Month of Spring, Day 5-6

Early in the morning, while the last of the rain from the day before is still petering out, the explorer who promised to trade us some cricket golems returns.

[ID: A screenshot of a notification box titled ‘The explorer returns!’ The text inside the box reads, “The explorer returns!--I’m back! It looks like you’ve made me the 5 Wooden Window Frame I asked for. Are you still interested in 2 Autonomous Cricket Golem in exchange? I assure you, they are more useful than any normal person at carrying things!”]

Once activated, the two little golems quickly go to work picking up items and moving them to the stockpiles. These guys will be very helpful to us. As more and more of the villagers become crafters or warriors and spend most of their time focused on that, there are fewer and fewer people to do the necessary work of just hauling stuff from one place to another. The cricket golems will help pick up the slack.

[ID: A screenshot of the item stockpile, containing animal pelts, bones, strips of rawhide and blocks of wood, as the two golems pick up items from the stockpile. The golems are dark gray and rectangular in shape, with four stubby legs, small square gray heads, two glowing yellow eyes, and two glowing rectangular antennae.]

More good news: we’ve got enough food and networth to pick up another villager.

Now, I realize that you may have increasingly been thinking, as this game continues to progress, “uh, where the hell is SPOCK? you’ve literally included LESLIE in your roster before SPOCK? what are you even doing here” or something along those lines. Well, you can rest assured I did not forget about Spock. The reason I haven’t made him a villager yet comes down to one simple thing: I had no absolutely no idea what to do with him. There is no position available to the Hearthlings that even remotely corresponds to ‘science officer’. Herbalist, maybe, at a stretch—but there are multiple characters who fit that job better by virtue of being actual medical professionals. I thought about making him a warrior of some kind, since Spock takes out a fair amount of foes throughout the series, but that didn’t seem to fit him very well. Spock’s not a warrior at heart. He’s just a guy who’s willing to nerve pinch a bad guy or two if the situation calls for it.

But of course, we’ve gotta have Spock in here somewhere. So in the end, after much deliberation, I decided...to make him a Weaver. Weavers are a crafting class that refine fibers and animal pelts into thread, leather and cloth, which can then be used either by the Weaver to make clothes that provide various benefits to Hearthlings, or by other crafters to make things like bows and armor.

My reasoning for this? Spock’s fabulous sense of fashion. That’s it. That’s literally it.

[ID: A screenshot of Spock’s Character Info window, which shows that his mood is content, his stats are 6 Mind, 5 Body and 4 Spirit, his class is Worker, he has the trait ‘Night Owl’--represented by a crescent moon icon—and his mood is being improved by the ‘Pioneering Spirit’ buff. Below, Spock’s portrait is seen in the information box at the bottom of the screen, showing him to be a white Hearthling with brown eyes, short square black hair, and thick black eyebrows.]

Spock has an impressive stat spread—6 Mind, 5 Body and 4 Spirit—and the trait Night Owl. You might remember that Kirk also has this trait; it makes the Hearthling stay up later at night and wake up later in the day. So Kirk and Spock can keep each other company. As it should be.

The character appearance options aren’t exactly equipped to make Vulcans, so the best I can do is give Spock some really big eyebrows. Unfortunately, a strange graphical glitch results in those eyebrows floating in the air next to his head instead of remaining on his face as eyebrows usually do.

[ID: A screenshot of Spock the Hearthling running over the grass with his eyebrows floating at the right height, but to the right of his head instead of on it.]

my god, those NBC execs were right all along! his eyebrows are demonic!

Well...it’ll probably sort itself out.

Meanwhile, McCoy needs to build himself a cauldron so he can craft potions. This requires a bit of stone. Once we start mining for ore, we’ll have more stone than we know what to do with, but for the moment we’re fresh out. Luckily there are some boulders standing out in the fields around the village, so McCoy goes out to break those down for stone. Apparently he doesn’t much feel like picking it up afterward, though, because he just kind of stands there while a cricket golem comes to collect the stone instead.

[ID: A screenshot of McCoy standing in the grass staring at the stockpile and doing nothing, while behind him a cricket golem picks up a block of stone.]

what? did you not get your coffee today?

Once the stone is in the stockpile, though, McCoy—begrudgingly, I assume—goes to craft a cauldron out of it, and begins brewing some potions. A few energy potions made from the ad hoc little herb garden will make everyone move a bit faster for a while, which hopefully will speed up production of the tavern.

[ID: A screenshot of McCoy bending over a bubbling cauldron next to his workstation in the grass. The information box below describes him as ‘crafting energy tonic.’]

Uhura has befriended another rabbit, this one named March. I really hope March and Thumpy don’t breed, because if we get into a Trouble With Tribbles situation I don’t think my CPU will be able to handle it.

[ID: A screenshot of the camp with a small rabbit sitting next to the empty hearth, while Kirk patrols nearby and McCoy gets something from the stockpile in the background.]

Night Owl Spock stays up to finish putting the roof on the tavern after everyone else has gone to bed. He’s not completely alone, though; he’s got his eyebrows to accompany him.

[ID: Spock walking across the roof of the tavern in the dark, eyebrows still hovering next to his head.]

The next morning is warm but a bit rainy. With the tavern itself completed, all that’s left is to place all the windows and doors. Everyone chips in to help.

[ID: A screenshot of several villagers walking across the grass towards the tavern, each carrying a door or window. Rand is selected in the information box below, which says she is ‘placing Wooden Door.’]

Some more Entlings attack...or rather, they try to, but they’re up on the cliffs surrounding the town to the north, and can’t get down. So they just kind of stand there angrily for a while before wandering off again.

[ID: A shot from the front of the tavern, showing four Entlings standing on the cliff some distance in the background.]

The tavern is finally finished, and everyone takes a moment to celebrate.

[ID: A screenshot of McCoy, Rand, Chapel, Leslie, Spock, Chekov, and Scotty all standing in front of the tavern with their hands in the air as confetti and clouds of dust fly up from the completed building.]

There’s not much time to stand around, though—now that the building is complete, it’s time to start moving things into it. Eventually we’ll make individual houses for people and use the tavern as, well, a tavern, but for the moment it’s more pressing to just get everyone under a roof, so the beds are moved into what’s theoretically the tavern pantry. Well, almost all the beds. One of them can’t be moved for a while, because Kirk is sleeping in it.

[ID: A screenshot of Kirk passed out in the one remaining bed next to the berry bushes.]

The berry bushes and herb garden are also moved over to be closer to the tavern, and the outside storepiles decommissioned in favor of moving all our supplies into some more neatly organized boxes inside. Scotty queues up some more storage boxes as well as a few more beds to support the growing population, but he needs wood to make them, and building the tavern has used up our whole supply of it. So a few people are sent to cut down some trees. Just cutting down the trees growing nearby has given us enough wood so far, but that’s not going to be a sustainable solution forever. We’re going to need an orchard for wood, so a few acorns are also planted out back to get that started.

One of the felled trees drops a bee’s nest. This is actually a good thing—a Herbalist can collect the bees and put them in a hive which will supply honey. McCoy is sent to go pick up the bees, but he decides he’d rather get a drink instead.

[ID: A screenshot of the field behind the tavern, mostly cleared but with a couple of tree stumps in the corner. One of the stumps has a swarming bee’s nest on the ground next to it. McCoy is running away from the stump, and the information box below says that he is ‘getting a drink.’]

Yeah I can’t really say I blame him.

#starhearth #starhearth episode 5

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txladyj-blog · 5 years

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Chapter 7 - This Time Around

a Daryl Dixon x OFC collaboration written by @xmistressmistrustx

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Daryl Dixon/Original Female Character

Tags: Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Awkwardness, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Crush, Fluff and Humor, Angst and Humor, Mild Smut, Strong Language, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Some Canon Scenes and Dialogue

Chapters 15/?

Lucky wasn’t something that Jess considered herself to be. Her life hadn’t been unlucky per se, but if it wasn’t for her determined approach to life, strokes of bad luck would have dragged her down altogether. It had taken the end of the world before it dawned on her that maybe it wasn’t responsible for things that went wrong, it was merely that she’d been unable to see life’s small wins, the glimmers of goodness and positivity that shone through when she was too busy occupying herself with the darkness.

She didn’t know if it was luck that had led her to where she was in the city or if it was down to her own methodical and logical approach of planning and protecting herself. She had managed to part drag, part walk Merle back to her apartment, administer enough painkillers to knock out an Ox and forage for enough food to keep them both going for a comfortable number of weeks. Merle did nothing but sleep for the first four days after Jess had painstakingly sewn his stump up and she was glad for it. She needed the peace after fretting he would die on her in the night and feast on the plump flesh of her legs, turning her into one of the mindless monsters that now roamed the streets. She checked on him religiously and returned from every supply run with caution, her knife drawn and a loud knock at the door before she committed to entering.

Jess was smart, it was no small feat to gather medical supplies and weapons along with setting up for a life of self-sustainability and loneliness, but armed with enough self-belief and her weapons from the Faire, she worked her way around the buildings, using the rooftops as her pathways and dead soldiers and police officers as sources of body armor. She gathered herb cuttings from the balconies of other apartments, seeds for vegetables from a gardening store, buckets, tarp and plastic containers to collect water from precipitation and enough wood to carve arrows for her bow. She spent a large portion of her time in her new living space reading books from the library and trying to retain as much information about survival, self-defense, weapons, basic DIY and tools and hacks from books on doomsday prepping as possible. For Jess, knowledge was most definitely power after being thrust into the apocalypse with next to no useful skills.

After 8 days, her unexpected lodger finally woke from his blurred, meds induced slumber and tried to move around the room. Jess jumped to his aid but he quickly waved her off, the two of them having never spoke more than a few words to one another unless they had no other option. Despite their lack of communication, Jess was sure there was a kind of mutual respect forming between them. Merle had protested very little at everything she’d done for him, accepted her help, her food, her desire to keep him in one place until he recovered enough and he tried to explain as much as he could about how he'd ended up sawing off his own hand. He also never made it a secret that as soon as he was well enough, he would be out of her hair and heading back to the camp to find Daryl. Upon finishing up the stitches on his arm, he had thanked her sincerely and told her she had balls for a little, fat kid. She’d accepted the backhanded compliment with a surprising ease and had to admit that she was impressed by his resilience.

“Gotta stretch my damn legs.” He grumbled as he wandered aimlessly around the room, picking up books and throwing them down again with his one remaining hand. He studied her weapons, neatly hung on hooks on the wall, her body armor and boots on a coat stand near the door and squinted at the planters that filled the balcony outside. She had left the door open, needing to air the room out and spare herself the agony of breathing in Merle’s thunderous flatulence while he slept. Another one of his redeeming features, she figured. She watched as he swiped up his leather vest and struggled to slip it on over his shoulders without bumping his stump. Jess stood up from her spot on the sofa surrounded by books and took hold of the back of his vest, holding it out so he was able to thread his arm through with ease. He shot her an irritated look but she decided not to react, knowing that accepting help was probably not something he was used to.

When he sat back down on the opposite couch, she grabbed two tumblers and poured him a whiskey before filling her own glass. His eyes widened when he noted the bottle. A Nice, expensive whiskey. The likes that he would have stolen rather than bought from a store back in the day.

“It’s what you came to the city for, right? Booze?” She queried as she passed him the drink.

He accepted gratefully and held the glass up, taking in the deep color of the liquid and the long-missed smell.

“That’s right.” He grinned before knocking the drink back in one go. “Best painkiller out there.”

Jess scoffed and sipped her own drink. She’d never been much of a drinker, especially not hard liquor, but since she’d been in the city, she found herself able to understand a little more of why Merle sought out something mind altering. It was an escape, one in which she needed sometimes, just maybe not as often as someone like Merle Dixon. She lifted a leg and shoved the bottle across the table towards him with her sock-covered toes, signaling for him to have as much as he wanted.

“Get trashed if you want, better you do it here than out there.” She shrugged.

Not about to argue, he quickly poured himself another helping and this time, took his time working though it. Jess could feel his eyes baring into her soul as she skimmed the words on a page of a book she’d opened in her lap. She glanced up and stared right back at him, no longer afraid or intimidated by the old redneck with the cuss-laden vocabulary. If she could haul herself through the woods and get herself into a safe and seemingly maintainable situation in the middle of a walker ridden city, she could deal with Merle.

“That shit about my brother that barbie doll read from ya little diary that day…” He mentioned.

Here we go. She thought.

“…It true?”

Jess slapped the book shut and threw it onto the couch next to her as she lay back and huffed, sending strands of her dark hair billowing into the air above her.

“Been dying to ask me about that, haven’t you?” She sighed.

“Was on the top of my list of priorities, after not dyin’, of course.” He grinned, swirling his drink around in the glass in front of him.

She was never a liar. Lies always spiraled into something complicated and regretful. Lies were responsible for many failed friendships and she concluded that even now, at the end of days, lies were still as poisonous as ever. But she also wasn’t about to tell Merle the complete truth about her true feelings for Daryl.

“I like him. But I think I was confusing a connection as friends with something more. I was wrong.”

A throaty chuckle emerged from his throat and for a moment, he winced in pain as if the juddering movement of his body had aggravated the life-changing wound on his arm.

“Shame. Kid could use some action. He’s wound tighter than a monkey’s nut.” He quipped. “Can’t recall the last time he got laid. Not that he’d tell me. Always was quieter than a damn mouse about shit.”

Not feeling the need to join him in the direction he wanted to steer the conversation, she just shook her head and smiled at him.

“Barbie, she uh-she tried it with him first, y’know. He turned her down. I was second fiddle but that’s alright with me. Pussy presents itself on a plate n’ who am I to say no?” He said, levelling his gaze at her and carefully observing her reaction. Giving nothing away, she kept her face as nonchalant as possible while her insides churned at the thought of Sarah trying something with Daryl.

��She hit on Daryl, huh?” She asked casually.

“True as i'm sittin' here now. He said no. Might be ‘cause he aint got a scooby what the hell he’s doin’ with the females. Or maybe he was holdin’ out for ya.”

The thought alone made Jess laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. It was outrageous to even consider it now she knew what she knew. Now she’d heard how he really felt.

“Pretty sure he never saw me like that. He made it clear he didn’t give a shit about me” She expressed, finishing her whiskey and contemplating another when Merle snatched the bottle from the table and re-filled his glass. At the rate he was drinking, he’d have the whole bottle down in an hour. Nevertheless, she held out her glass and nodded to it. He dutifully re-filled it and she sat back again.

“One thing I know about my baby brother? He’s always been real off with folks. Don’t trust nobody. No friends, no nothin. But he spent all the hours god gave him with you at that camp. When he found out you’d skedaddled in the small hours, he lost his shit.” He explained with a knowing look on his face which Jess tried to ignore.

“He did, huh?” She mumbled

“Almost shot blondie in the face with a bolt. Got up on his soap box n’ told the whole group what she’s been getting’ up to. Damn good job I don’t blush easy.” He smirked. “He’s lookin’ for ya.”

Jess shook her head again and reached into her pocket, retrieving a packet of cigarettes and throwing them into his lap across the coffee table that divided them. Merle looked down at them in disbelief.

“Don’t look so shocked. I’m a good host.” She quipped.

She’d picked up cigarettes and whiskey for him while sweeping a store for food. She had everything she wanted and needed so far save for a few comforts like ice cream and electricity. So, she figured giving Merle something he would be thankful to have once he woke up was only fair.

“He just feels guilty.” She muttered, dismissing his observation of his younger brother.

“Maybe.” He shrugged as he ripped the pack open, propped a smoke between his lips and rummaged in his jeans for his lighter. He paused before he lit the end, peering at her over the cigarette. She offered him a small nod and picked up a heavy glass ashtray from the floor and positioned it in the center of the table, gestures that told him she was fine with him smoking in her apartment and were met with an even more surprised expression. He sparked up, sat back and waved the small, white stick around as he spoke.

“Ahh I don’t wanna talk about no sentimental stuff, but the kid liked ya.”

“No, he didn’t.” Jess retorted straight away.

A flash of exasperation flickered across his face and he raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Argue all ya want. I practically raised that boy. He’s a little odd but I ain’t never seen him flip his lid like that about some skirt. Should go back n’ find him. Or, let him find you. ‘Cause he will. Could find a flea in a hay bale, my brother.”

It was non-negotiable to her. Daryl had made it clear how he felt and she wasn’t about to go back to a place where she was constantly ridiculed and humiliated with no one to step in and defend her. Jess took a gulp of the liquor and winced at the warmth that radiated from her stomach. Whiskey really wouldn’t have been her drink of choice. She wished she’d picked up some rum, or spent the time bothering to find some Sam Adams.

“I’m not going back there. I know you’ll go and find him and you owe me no loyalty, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him where I am” She requested.

Merle’s eyes dropped to his glass and then back up to Jess’s waiting face, over and over as he thought over the prospect of withholding important information that Daryl would want to know. Jess knew she was asking a lot of him, but the thought of being found and forced to face what had happened before she’d left, along with the heartbreaking confession from Daryl to Merle about her meaning nothing to him was too much for her to handle. She wanted a new start, alone, with no reliance or ties to anyone. Merle was still glaring at her intermittently but she paid it no mind, figuring she would get her answer soon enough and if she didn’t like it, she would be forced to move on and find somewhere else to live.

“Saved my life.” He mentioned. “Got me booze and smokes. Sewed up my arm. Hell, I’m pretty sure ya had me doped up on some pretty shit hot pain meds these last few days too. I may be from the wrong side of the tracks but I ain't no dumbass, sweet cheeks. know when I owe somebody.”

It had never even crossed her mind when she stood in the dark store, gawping down at a bloodied, mutilated and half-dead Merle, that she should just walk away and let him die or kill him herself. Instinct kicked in and she reacted in a calmer, more together way than she had ever done previously, knowing that she had to get him out of there and away from any danger. There was simply no other option. It occurred to her as she was sitting there opposite him that she had already come a long way, she was no longer as scared. She was more accepting of her situation, more tactical and shrewder. Now, more able to survive alone than ever before, simply because she had given herself no other choice. She stifled a small smile when she studied him, looking over his heavily bandaged arm and his bloodstained shirt. She made a mental note to make sure he did some physical therapy and got a new shirt before she let him go anywhere.

“I can’t believe you cut off your hand, you fucking psycho.” She said.

“It was that or be Walker jerky.” He replied.

The two of them giggled and Merle finished his smoke and glass of alcohol while Jess got up and started to prepare him something to eat from the piles of tinned food she’d hoarded. Now, she was providing for two of them for the time being and she’d felt it necessary to stock up. She’d hauled him out from near death, so she wasn’t about to starve the man that had been surprisingly pleasant to her, going against everything she’d expected of him. Maybe, just maybe, there was the same element in Daryl after all. But that no longer mattered to her.

That night, while her houseguest snored noisily on the couch in an alcohol induced coma, Jess settled on her bed and opened her journal.

Merle has turned out to be much more personable than I ever imagined. Maybe that’s because I saved his ass. Or, maybe it’s because underneath it all, he’s actually OK as long as you know how to deal with him. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I trust him. But right now, I have the upper hand and he is relying on me to get him well enough to leave and go and find Daryl.

Daryl. It’s not like I don’t think about him. I do. I do miss him. Or, rather, I miss the person I thought he was and I remind myself of what I heard that night. I should have known better, it’s not the first time I developed a crush on somebody that was way out of my league. It’s my frequent reminder not to get attached to anyone, not to feel anything for other people or it will be me that suffers. There are only a few survivors left and I have to look out for myself. It’s been five weeks and I’ve not seen another living soul apart from the alcoholic redneck that sleeps on my couch and stinks to high heaven.

Besides this, I have set up quite the fortress here, I think I could live here for a long time. That’s if Merle doesn’t tell Daryl where I am. I’ll be forced to move if he does. I don’t want to be found. Just leave me be. This way, I may get physically hurt but I can deal with that, I’m studying books to deal with every possible outcome. But I just can’t handle more emotional turmoil. As much as I miss him.

I managed to get a punchbag from one of the other apartments in the building along with some weights. I intend to train and improve my stamina, heaven knows when I’m going to have to run and keep running, so I intend to be ready for anything. The herbs are taking and the bell peppers I planted on the roof are well on their way. So far, I’m doing well. I just can’t figure out how to get rid of the Walker behind the grate in the elevator shaft on the first floor. But he’s not a problem right now. His cage keeps him contained and some days I even wonder if he can hear me when I sit on the steps and tell him about my day.

Maybe I am going crazy.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Daryl had been looking for Sophia for hours. Days actually, but on this one particular occasion, in the blistering sun atop of a nervous horse that had bolted at the sound of a Walker and sent him tumbling down a hill into a watery area below, he was sure he’d had better days and was seriously rethinking his belief in Sophia still being alive. But still he pressed on, even injured at the bottom of a ravine, his eyes fluttered open in the stark light of the sun and his body thrummed with pain, but he managed to get up, treat his wounds and carry on.

God damn horse.

Where he got his strength and determination, he wasn’t sure but he could only really credit his terrible home life and childhood for instilling a kind of armor around him. A protective wall that he never let anyone pass. Surviving was second nature to him; he simply didn’t know any other way to be. Sophia was a child, alone in the walker-filled woods and Daryl couldn’t help but think of the time when he had found himself lost, back in the days when Walkers were something one only saw in a horror movie. He was merely a child and was missing for eleven days. Little did his father know, Daryl eventually found his own way home, wandered into the kitchen and fixed himself a sandwich like nothing had happened. It was Daryl’s way, even back then, he relied on no one by himself and as the years passed, he still lived by the same rule; just get on with it.

Of course, nothing was ever easy anymore and his departure from the ravine was trickier than he’d planned. Reaching the top by literally dragging his bleeding body through the mud and shoving away hallucinations of his brother, ridiculing him for not making any effort to find him. He had to keep telling himself it was down to him hitting his head and not insanity creeping in. Slumped onto the flat woodland ground, he was never more grateful to see even terrain before. He glanced down at the state of his body, a broken bolt in his side from the fall sent spikes of pain through his veins that turned his stomach and blurred his vision. His head thudded back onto the mud as he took a minute to compose himself and figure out how he was going to get to his feet with his side impaled by a piece of wood.

“So, you can teach me not to die but you can’t quite manage it yourself, huh?”

Jess’s voice made his eyes snap open and he frantically scanned the area around him, seeing nothing but trees until she stepped out from behind a tree, her pretty smile broad and her clothes clean.

“Jess?” He croaked.

“Time to get up, sleepy head.” She instructed, crossing her arms. Daryl noticed her woolen sweater looked brand new, her hair was shiny and well-conditioned, her skin was clean.

“I-I tried to find you.” He rasped, sitting up and sucking a sharp breath in through his teeth when the pain rampaged through his nerves.

“Took a bolt to the side for the girl, but you just gave up on me.” She pointed out.

Daryl’s sweaty brow furrowed when he peered up at her as the sun shot out from behind her, silhouetting her in the light until she was gone. He quickly checked over his shoulders and rubbed at his face.

“Jess?”

Nothing. She wasn’t really there. Nothing more than a mirage, a figment of his imagination and most likely a result of a hard knock to the head. Seeing her again made his heart hurt regardless of if she was real or not. He missed her and the burden of ceasing to look for her after finding her note was now weighing even heavier on his shoulders. His hands fell to his sides, clawing up clumps of dirt as he drew in a deep breath and pushed through the pain of getting to his feet.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Carol rapped softly on the door before turning the handle and quietly gliding inside. The tray in her hand contained soup and water that she’d prepared after hearing that Daryl was refusing food and just wanted to get patched up and back out into the woods. Carol hadn’t ever felt gratitude like it, nor had she ever been so surprised at one person’s sheer selflessness. Her child had been missing for days and Daryl had worked tirelessly, relentlessly and without any decent rest in order to find her. She didn’t know if he was harboring some kind of guilt over Jess and his brother, but as long as he was using it to find her little girl, she couldn’t complain. That was until now, until he’d almost died in the process.

The room was dim, the drapes drawn and the surfaces dusty from neglect. Daryl lay facing away from her, his side sporting a large square of gauze and bandages. Every part of his exposed skin was covered in scars, Carol could see that some of them were new, from the past day. But some, the largest ones were at least a decade old and her chest constricted with thoughts of the violence that she had known and how it could cause such trophies of trauma upon a person’s skin.

Placing the tray on the nightstand, she leaned over him and tenderly kissed the side of his head. Initially, he recoiled but she knew why and waited until he relaxed and let her offer her small token of appreciation and affection. He rolled over slightly, able to catch her eye for a moment and seeing them filled with worry. She sat on the edge of the bed.

“I couldn’t go look for Merle.” He whispered. “Gave up on Jess. Can’t find Sophia neither. Fuckin’ useless.”

Having known him only a few months, it was enough for her to come to the conclusion that Daryl was not like other people. On the outside, he was hostile but inside, he was sensitive, shouldering blame for deaths and caring so deeply about others that it ate away at him when they lost someone. But Daryl never spoke about it, preferring instead to internalize it all and simmer away, alone at the edge of the camp while glaring at the others and trying to understand how they could be so open and free with their emotions. Daryl never uttered a word about his feelings. That was, unless it was to Carol.

He couldn’t figure out exactly when it was that they’d become close but he suspected that his loss of Jess and Merle and Carol’s husband being turned by Walkers had somehow brought them together. He knew she was a broken soul, just as he was but neither of them needed to discuss it. Out of everyone, Carol was the one that seemed to understand him the most without even trying.

“No, Daryl. You did more for my little girl today than her daddy did in her entire life.” She promised.

He continued to look at her, saying nothing but speaking volumes with his expression. He was tired, almost defeated and knew that she would manage to say something to quell the exhausting guilt in his heart.

“And Jess… she didn’t want to be found.” She added.

Daryl resumed his previous position, fluffing up the pillows under his head and settling down.

“How are you feeling?” She asked.

“Like Andrea shot me.” He grunted.

An unfortunate accident it may have been, but Andrea’s trigger-happy attitude from the RV that evening had left Daryl in the dirt with a bullet graze to his temple and in his delirious state, he was unable to fathom exactly what had happened. Carol thought it was no wonder Andrea had mistaken him for a Walker after he’d staggered from the trees, covered in dirt and mud, snarling at everyone with a crazed look in his eye. A split-second decision was all it took and as luck had it, Andrea was still a bad shot with a rifle.

“You need to recover before you go back out there. I know you; you’ll want to push it. You almost got yourself killed. Took a bolt and a bullet today, all for Sophia. I can’t even begin to thank you.” She confessed.

“Don’t want no thanks.” He dismissed “I didn’t do nothin’ that Rick or Shane wouldn’t have done.”

Carol scoffed from behind him, rendering his last sentence as complete rubbish.

“I don’t see them lying in a bed with a hole in their sides. You’re every bit as good as them. Every bit.” She affirmed.

A silence from him told her it was her time to depart, pushing Daryl too much was likely to result in him lashing out, especially when she considered his current state of mind along with the fact that he was physically exhausted. She got to her feet and tapped the glass on the tray, the ringing of her nails on the glass reminding him that she wanted him to eat and drink something. In the doorway, she paused when she heard him speak again.

“Sophia, she's out there, I know it. I found her doll” He murmured.

“Maybe. Maybe Jess is too.” She suggested. “You can admit it, y’know”

He rolled onto his back, craning his neck to see her stood half in, half out of the room with her arms wrapped around herself.

“Admit what?”

“That you miss her. I know you two were good friends.” It was a hazardous approach for Carol to take due to her knowledge of his reluctance to talk about Jess. Every time someone mentioned her name his temper flared and he wasted no time in reminding everyone that she was probably dead and that they shouldn’t bother talking about her anymore. Carol knew it was a defense mechanism and in true Daryl form, his rage expelled itself in a series of abusive and offensive remarks.

“Ain’t gotta admit shit. Leave me alone.” He grunted.

“OK, but just eat something. Please. Or you won’t have the strength to get out of bed, let alone pick up that crossbow.”

With that, she left the room and closed the door behind her. A few hours sleep and some kind of sustenance would undoubtedly help his mood a little, but she wasn’t betting on him becoming a ray of sunshine anytime soon. She knew he had a better version of himself inside, but the loss of his friend and brother had began to chip away at it, eroding it day by day and she worried that eventually, there would be nothing left.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

A month had passed and Jess was sitting on the steps of the stairwell in her apartment block. She now had free reign of the entire building, every dwelling now empty and safe thanks to her tireless efforts to secure the building and ensure she had enough space to keep any supplies she might need. Her days had become routine, but she liked it that way. The mornings consisted of rising from her bed at sunrise and heading up to the next floor, where she had turned an elderly couples’ home into a gym. An hour’s rigorous exercise a day and a limited diet had seen her weight drop drastically over the four weeks she had been in residence and she was now confident she could run a life-saving distance without stopping at least. Late mornings were spent tending to the growing vegetables and herbs and checking the main street below for any swellings in the number of Walkers. If there was, she would make her way across the rooftops to the other side of town, where she would set off firecrackers or make enough noise to wake the dead all over again in order to draw them away and set them on a different path that didn’t include gathering outside her new home. In the afternoons, she scavenged and spent some time carving arrows on the steps with Ben- The Walker trapped in the elevator shaft. He wore a janitor’s uniform with his name embroidered on one side. She waffled on as if they were two best friends in a bar, telling him about her day and even regaling him with tales from comic cons and her opinions on the best beers in Texas. The evenings consisted of rooftop target practice and tedious conversations with Merle while she aided him with his physical therapy. He complained non-stop, telling her that he didn’t believe in all her ‘therapy shit’ and that he would be just fine without it. Eventually, he yielded and allowed her to help him with the advice of yet more books from the library.

Ben swayed back and forth as she held up an arrow for him to see, although she wasn’t quite sure if he could really see anything. More that he just seemed to know she was there with whatever part of his brain was still active enough to make him walk and want to eat people.

“I’m getting pretty good at this.” She mused with a smile. Ben reached through the elevator grate, his purple fingers with snapped nails grasping at her hand holding the arrow. She quickly snatched it away and slid the arrow into her quiver before standing up and throwing it over one shoulder. Her daily supply run had taken longer than usual after she ran into some unsavory undead in a camping store while trying to bring back more gas canisters. She had returned with her prize but decided to take some time to herself to carve some arrows before she had to endure Merle’s uncomfortable stare and chain smoking.

“Later, dude.” She said to Ben over her shoulder as she stomped up the steps to her front door. She stopped when she noticed the note pinned to the wood.

‘Gone to find my brother. Took some food and meds. Thanks, Sugar tits. M.’

Next Chapter

#daryl dixon #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead daryl #twd fanfiction #twd daryl #daryl x oc #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixon imagine

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veridium · 5 years

Text

the dark side of your room

hey, it’s an All Time Low song for the College AU Update!! Woo!

Time for some more queer fluff and anxiety, what I do best!

masterpost // last chapter

Olivia: Hey, still down for me to come over in an hour?

Cassandra: Yeah, I’m just running errands. I will be back but I might hop in the shower. I’ll leave a key under the mat.

Olivia: Ohhh, a key...we’re getting heavy.

Cassandra: Don’t get cocky.

This must be like what people who are ‘Superb Owl’ fans experience the week leading up to the big sports game they all watch. Day after day, since the one when she asked her to come to the party it gets harder to breathe. It might also be from the surmounting happiness that she is in no way used to, that is nevertheless overwhelming. She can’t do what she usually does and hideout in Ellinor’s company, because she is just as nervous as she is -- if not more. Poor Ellinor. Their conversation by the soccer field is still fresh in her mind even two days after. Now, it’s Friday, making it 24 hours until it all goes down.

Whatever ‘it all’ is, remains to be seen.

Speak of the devil. She catches a familiar, similarly petite figure walking past her open doorway while she’s finishing up getting ready for the night.

“Hey!” she peers out the doorway to see Ellinor fumbling with keys sluggishly, backpack on her shoulder. “Everything okay?”

Ellinor glances briefly. “Yep! All good.”

“You sure?”

“...Are you?”

Olivia strolls out into the hall and to her, all the while Ellinor finds her key and slides it into the lock. She stops short of twisting it, mouth tight with bated breath behind it, so it seems. In return, Liv grins in order to provide some form of comfort.

“At least our costumes look hot.”

“They do. They really do.”

“...Ugh, I’m so worried Dorian is going to make Cassandra want to punch him or something--”

“And if the lesbians scare the shit out of Cullen, I’m gonna--”

“Oh God, Cullen and gays...Cullen and the leftist kombucha hipsters?! Do we even know--”

“We don’t! That’s what I’m saying! And isn’t this Cassandra’s first real thing, going out with a girl?”

Olivia bites her lip. Fuck. She’s right. “Oh no. I’m taking her to the lion’s den right off the bat. Oh my God, why didn’t I think of this. I should have called for brunch like normal queer people do. The fuck is wrong with me?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know the gay agenda protocol for this, you never gave me a copy!”

“You aren’t supposed to have one, Ellinor, it’s not a Reader’s Digest.”

“Pfft,” Ellinor leans unto her hip and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Figure out the heirosapphics all on your own, then.”

Olivia pouts. “You stole that joke from me,” she grumbles, before brushing hair out of her eyes. “I have to get going, I’m supposed to be at Cassandra’s in like...whatever amount of minutes is left. I don’t know.” She pulls out her phone to check the time. Fifteen minutes, to be exact.

“Well then go on, get out of here,” Ellinor shoos, “I got plans too, anyway.”

“With C--”

“Yes, with him! Who else, the Pope?”

Olivia shrugs and dances off back on her toes towards her door. “Touchy Ducky!”

“I hate when you call me th--” the rest of Ellinor’s avarice is cut off by the door shutting. Yeah, yeah, she hates being called a touchy ducky. Which means, naturally, Olivia will have to tell it to Cullen and say she loves it, because pranks are healthy for any sustainable friendship. She giggle-snorts all by herself and searches around for her pair of sneakers she tossed somewhere earlier in the week, the perfect casual cap-off to her black leggings and tank top. Whatever tomorrow night turns out to be, at least she has tonight.

Only five minutes late, Olivia makes use of the key hiding for her when knocking doesn’t work. When she enters, the holiest of smells -- Italian spices that promise carbs -- greets her first. The kitchen is lit up, and on the stove is a big pasta pot that seems to sing to her. She follows the aroma over to it and finds steaming spaghetti, sauce, meat balls, large forked serving spoon and all. Beside it are two small bowls, and only two. Was Cullen not around? Eh, figures, if Ellinor said they had plans.

That means Cassandra made this. Cassandra made this for her. God, it’s been too long since she had any close associates who knew their way around a kitchen. Ellinor is a walking bio-hazard, Theia knows every order-in number in the city, and Josephine...well, she probably cooks, but she just doesn’t brag about it.

A whine gets caught in her throat -- the kind of “aw” one she makes at puppies in the mall and kids in the park. This is so sweet.

She drops her shoulder bag on the small dining table and lets herself wander. One slow loop around the coffee table, absentmindedly observing all the furniture. Sounds of a shower echo from the other side of the suite, and the mystery is solved just as to where Cassandra is. She must have gotten right into cooking and forgotten to shower when she got home.

Olivia comes to a halt at the mouth of the dark hallway and peeks with growing curiosity...

She’s been down to Cullen’s side, during the infamous occasion she went a bit Rutherferal, but that’s long in the past. Okay, a week, but the past is the past. Cassandra’s, on the other hand, is like some mystical Narnia closet. No one’s been in, and no one’s gotten out as far as she knows. The first time she slept over it was implicitly clear the living room was where she was invited and nowhere else.

What’s so mysterious about a dorm suite bedroom, anyway? What, is she hiding two twin beds down there put together to make a queen? The more she speculates, the more her feet inch closer and closer to the mostly-shut door. The light from the other side almost adds to the temptation. Liv, don’t, this is so weird. Yet, she keeps going, all the way until she reaches the door. She looks back down the other end, silent as sin: the shower is still going. So, against all logic in her head saying ‘stay in your lane,’ she pushes the door open. Expecting the worst, like in that Fifty Shades bullshit film.

The first thing to hit, again, is the smell -- it’s not spaghetti. Lavender? Lavender. In the corner on a desk a diffuser is on, spouting steam into the air. It invites her in like a shiny thing would to a squirrel, and in the process, the rest of the space becomes unfolds: A made bed with navy blue comforter and pillow cases, a stuffed bear against the throw pillow -- wait a minute, she has a stuffed bear? Yes, a stuffed bear with a button nose and all. Is that what she doesn’t want anyone seeing? Just a stuffed animal? I have five under my bed alone...

On the wall facing the door the curtains are pulled but the window is shut, and the floor is completely clean. The laundry basket by the door is almost empty, holding nothing but a t-shirt and a few socks. Up on the wall lining her bed there are origami stars and shapes taped all over, some making what look like constellations. They’re beautifully meticulous, just like Cassandra.

Nothing surprises her more than what she finds in and around her corner desk on the right, diagonal to her bed. Standard dorm honey-colored wood and red upholstery on the chair. Her laptop squarely centered, with a cup of pens and pencils off to the side. Books stacked neatly all around. On the attached shelf above it all are pictures with black frames, all shorter than the gold, silver, and blue trophy for some sport or another.

The pictures, though: that is what draws her in even more. From left to right there are four, total: the first shows two adults smiling with two kids: a boy, standing in front of the man holding onto his arm across his chest, and the other, a girl, held on the woman’s hip. She’s wearing a pale pink babydoll dress, she can’t be any other than six by the look of her baby face and twisted pair of buns in her long, dark hair.

Is that her? Wait, shit, then this must be her family.

The next picture provides more answers: the same adult couple, only the kids are older. The teenage boy is holding a soccer ball against his hip, and he has his hand on his Mother’s shoulder. They’re at the park, or somewhere green, and Cassandra is sitting on the blanket hugging her knees in a similar fashion as she did when she and Olivia lounged on the field. No baby pink anything in sight, though, just grey basketball shorts and a shirt, both a little big on her. The third is one of her and the boy again, her on his back riding piggyback and smiling such a joyous smile, it looks as if she was about to burst. Cheesy, and Cassandra is never cheesy. It’s heartwarming, the way the boy is looking at her from his periphery, chest puffed with pride.

The fourth and final one, though, is just him. He’s much older, and the picture is weathered even with the glass shielding it. As if it spend years just by itself, stashed or crammed somewhere, before finally being framed. The shot is off-center, tilted at an angle that cuts off the top of his head, making the shot look clumsy. He’s leaning against a car front, arms crossed and strong. The washed out lighting, like it was taken by a disposable camera, makes everything seem too bright: except for him, his smile, and his car.

He looks so nice. Why does she never talk ab--

“What are you doing?”

Olivia flinches like a cat struck by lightning, whirling around with her hands linking up behind her. She had been leaning over, soaking up every last inch of detail, but to the outside eye she simply looked nosy.

“I! Ah!” she struggles, “I’m...I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Cassandra shows no sign of intended placation. “You didn’t mean to, but you did.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I fucked up. “I did, b-but, I’m sorry. I just wanted...I think I was just…”

She tosses her clothes several feet into the hamper. “Just what? Going into someone’s room without asking or telling them?”

Olivia blushes and looks away, suddenly aware that she’s standing there with nothing but a blue towel on her and skin still damp from the shower. If there was a God, he would smite her this instant from her foolishness.

“Cassandra, I’m sorry,” she can’t say it enough, “I just--”

“Can you at least let me get clothes on?” Her tone is straight-and-narrow, and Olivia can’t quite discern whether she is deeply pissed or deeply understanding. She knows what she sounds like when she’s losing her cool, and it’s not anything like this. It’s unnerving, to say the least. Though, the guilt leads her to vacate the room without so much as a word, shoulders hunched and arms crossed as she skims past her.

The door shuts, leaving her to think about what she did. And boy, does she: making a slow death-march to the couch where she sits smack-dab in the middle. Every half-second feels like an hour, her knee anxiously bobbing. Her arms haven’t left her chest, and her lungs feel like kiddy pools for air.

Then, at last, Cassandra re-emerges. She’s wearing shorts, a black, slim hoodie, and a frown. Rather than join her on the couch she leans against the corner of the hallway wall and folds her own arms, phone in her hand. Olivia gets the courage to meet her eyes, and when she does, she’s reminded of how fatal ‘disappointment’ can feel.

“Well, I’m waiting,” Cassandra says flatly.

“Waiting for...for what?”

“For an explanation as to why you were nosing around my bedroom.”

“I was...um, the thing is, I couldn’t find forks in the--”

“Olivia Sinclair.”

Liv swallows and curls her legs up against her, hands hooking under her thighs. Humor won’t save her this time. “I don’t know! I just...the door was open, and for some reason, I just kept going and going until I was hip-deep and I just...didn’t think...well, fuck, okay, I didn’t think. That’s what happened. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, just please, don’t…” she’s spiraling into nervousness and it makes her words start to blur into one another. The sound of pleading, the kind that comes from someone who’s grown up being corrected too harshly for her age. “Please, I didn’t mean to...t-to...ugh, shit.”

Cassandra’s stoic, but just as Olivia is about to break from the tension it causes, she sighs through her nose and rolls her eyes, chin lifting towards the ceiling as she does so. “At least you’re bad at lying.”

“I know I c--h-hey! I’m not...I…” as she grumbles, she only vindicates Cassandra’s opinion, and elects to shut her mouth rather than dig the hole any deeper.

“Mhm,” Cassandra hums, moving away from the wall. The way her hips sway, like she has the upper hand and most of the battlefield already won, is both attractive and disconcerting. She comes to the side of the coffee table closest to the couch, sitting down on it directly in front of her. It’s so close, she has to keep a knee on either side of Olivia’s legs, but she makes do.

“I don’t like people invading my space,” she says as she settles in, very matter-of-fact.

Olivia is stiller than a grave casket, and stays that way. “Mhm...”

Cassandra smirks drily. “If you know, then why did you do it?”

“Because I didn’t think...”

“You weren’t thinking? You sure about that?” Her stare focuses, as if she has the power to break glass with it alone; only, Olivia is the one to crack.

“I...guess I just wanted to know about you. Maybe I thought your room would...satiate my curiosity.”

Cassandra raises a brow. “Ah, so there’s the answer.”

Olivia wants to leap out the window for a cold breeze. Or escape...kill two birds with one stone, as it were. No one likes their space to be invaded. Why did I do it? That’s such a no-go. God dammit.

“I guess I just wondered.”

“Wondered?”

“About your background. Your...childhood...and your interests…”

“Snooping is a great tactic...if it’s a matter of national security.”

Olivia huffs through her nose. “Oh, yeah, okay, technically that is correct. But...but…”

“But what, Liv? Are you suddenly scared of me?”

No. No, no, no. “No, it’s just!” She stops herself before she is definitely in yelling territory for no good reason. “I’m just nervous about everything, all the time, and sometimes it’s weird. I overthink even when I do impulsive things like go in someone’s room and look at their family pictures and gawk at their teddy bear and their fancy oil diffuser and yes, okay, I gawked. I admit it. It was all gawk….just...gawk-able...fuck, is that even a word? Fuck…” she whispers the last expletive as she leans forward onto her lap, putting her face in her hands. The solace she finds from Cassandra’s discerning capabilities only goes so far, though.

Then, in the self-induced darkness, she hears Cassandra chuckle, low and warm despite the conflict. It’s almost unbelievable, until it’s followed up by the sensation of hands holding onto her forearms and lips pressing to the top of her head. That makes it definitely unbelievable. A lingering kiss, before her hands move up to Olivia’s shoulders and start to rub nice and slow.

“I was only looking for an apology, not to put you to the guillotine.”

“I apologized like five times in one breath, though,” Olivia replies as she lifts her eyes out from her palms.

“Yeah, but you panicked.”

“I did.”

“I was looking for more of a calm, collected, sophisticated apology. Maybe even slightly poetic. Rhyme optional.”

Olivia’s mortification is olympic swimming pool levels, but even then, she finds she cannot escape the desire to giggle at her humor when it shows. It’s both kind-hearted and measured. Her hands go to her lap and she sits up more, chin still tucked from bashfulness.

“I can’t rhyme for shit, but...I can do sophisticated.”

Cassandra grins. “I’ll take it.”

Olivia takes a deep breath, mostly for herself and her still racing heartbeat. “I’m sorry I went into your space uninvited. I should have asked, and communicated, and respected your boundaries. I will take care to do that from now on.” The few seconds of ‘deliberation’ are more than enough on what remains of her nerves.

Luckily, Cassandra ends the anguish with a soft smile. “Very impressive. I don’t forgive you, but it’s impre--”

“What!?”

Cassandra bursts into a laugh, leaning back as she puts her fingers to her mouth. “I’m sor-rry, I couldn’t h...help--”

“You could help it, Pentaghast,” Olivia smiles, and takes it upon herself to push Cassandra the rest of the way down by her shoulders until she’s laying flat and expectant. Rather than do as she did in the field and make it interesting, she jumps off the couch and jogs to the kitchen.

“Kiss my ass, I’m getting pasta!”

“Hey!” Cass jumps up, “do I not get any appreciation as the cook?”

“No! Psh, you must be new here.” Olivia grabs a bowl and takes hold of the serving spoon.

“Oh am I?”

“Yep! Fresh mea-yAGH!” She shrieks as Cassandra’s hands rush around Olivia’s sides so quick they tickle her, cutting her off in her triumph. She giggles and curls against her hold, dropping the thankfully hardy bowl onto the stove while the spoon remains in a death grip. It’s not enough calamity to distract her from the silly awe she’s in, being like this. And Cassandra just rests her chin on her shoulder and chuckles along. Her strength nearly picks Olivia clean up off the kitchen tile.

“Stoopp! Let me!--” Olivia gets out in between laughs, “let me eat, woman!”

“Woman!? Is that all I am to you?!”

Olivia tries to wiggle free, but it’s a lost cause. “Yes! Ugh!” she huffs as Cassandra inches them both away from the stovetop, “A heartless, tormenting, merciless woman!” She finally pivots around to face her, arms bracing against her shoulders. Cassandra is smiling so big and bright...just like the way she did in the picture. Her arms stretch up straight until they wrap around her neck loosely, and Cassandra only glows more. Their laughs simmer down into tired, but wonderful giggling, and Olivia feels nothing but the urge to keep her this way.

“But...you’re my woman.”

“Yeah?” Cassandra mutters back as their faces draw nearer, her hands travel low down Olivia’s back.

Olivia makes a ‘tsk’ sound with her tongue. “Yeah, but...only part time.”

Gullible if only for a moment, she catches on. “...Ugh. Ok, I deserve that.” They move together as she pushes Olivia back against the edge of the counter.

Olivia gasps and giggles more. “Is this the way you’re gonna try to dance with me tomorrow night? All nice and close, then bumper cars?” Olivia teases, tongue sticking out for added effect.

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, tomorrow night. The party..?”

Cassandra pauses and grins, but loses exuberance. She rubs Olivia’s arm lovingly before breaking from her. Her side-step brings her to the stove, where she picks back up the bowl Olivia dropped, and the spoon she surrendered; the pot needs stirring, apparently.

“Cass?” Olivia asks, feeling a bit left to hang, her hands going behind her and resting on the counter.

“Hm?”

“Is...everything alright?”

Cassandra nods, eyes still on her very important stirring. “I’m just hungry. Running you down must have reinspired my appetite.”

Olivia lowers a brow. “Uh-huh.” Her skepticism is either undetected or ignored, though, as Cassandra spoons the first generous spoonful into the bowl and hands it to her. Once it’s taken off her hands she goes to the second, and is equally as unceremonious with her own serving. Olivia stares down at the amazing looking meal in her hands but can’t seem to just enjoy it. Is she trying to ditch out? Is this a ditch-out attitude? Ugh, she does hate it. She’s just going for--

Cassandra hands her a fork. “I was thinking we could all ride together. I know how to drive Cullen’s car, anyways.”

“I mean, sure, but that means you’d have to…” it’s a wonder it takes her so long to figure it out, but when she does, the sentence doesn’t need finishing.

“Yeah, but that’s fine. I wasn’t planning on it, anyway,” Cassandra seems to read her thoughts anyways, and begins twirling the first bite of noodles around her fork.

“Okay. I just...I dunno, I thought you might want to since you did at Rylen’s…”

Cassandra shrugs, and leans her hip against the stove. Her forkful suspended in the air. “Yeah, but, that’s Rylen’s.”

Olivia scoffs, and begins forking around for a meatball to take a bit out of. “That place isn’t exactly child safety approved. What’s the difference?”

Cassandra swallows and tucks an ankle behind the other. “The difference is I don’t want to be drinking when I meet all your friends at once.”

“Oh, come on, it won’t be that bad. I mean, I went whiskey-hunting up in the cupboards the first...time…” crap, this isn’t a shining example. “You know, nevermind.” She shoves her first bite into her mouth to help ignore the sound of Cassandra’s smug chuckling. At first, she’s pressed, but then she looks down again in amazement.

“What the fuck? Cassandra, this is so good,” she mumbles with a full mouth, preparing another forkful, “oh my God.”

“Have you never had spaghetti before?”

“Ugh! Yes, I have! That’s not…” she forks it into her mouth some more, reckless abandon and starvation taking over. “Holy shit.”

Cassandra smiles and keeps modestly twisting and preparing her mature, normal person serving. “Here I was worrying I wouldn’t compare to your standards.”

“What, am I Rachael Ray all of a sudden?”

“By the way Ellinor looks at you in reverent fear while you explain how you get your onions diced so fine, I’d say it’s a strong possibility.”

“It’s just the way you hold the kn--you know what, I’m gonna just…” Olivia shakes her head, wiping her dirty mouth on her wrist. “Did you just know how to do this?”

“No way, I learned a long time ago. It’s one of the few things I can cook off memory.”

Olivia eyes her as she takes another bite. She wants to ask where, or who, did. Someone, at some point, had to have taught her -- and maybe there’s a story. A funny story, or a cheesy one. It doesn’t matter what kind, as long as it is one that could help her discover more about what makes her tick. Olivia’s never wanted to know every crumb of a person like this before like she does now, for her.

“Hm. Good to know, but I think I wanna know if you got the better bowl.”

Cassandra peers up, nonplussed. “What? But, it’s the same dish…”

Olivia draws herself in, step by devious step. “You sure? ‘Cause I think I gotta do a quality check.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. This is a democracy, right?”

Cassandra snorts, twisting another forkful just as Olivia is about to collide with her. She holds it out carefully, bowl underneath for insurance. “You are ridiculous.”

“Mhm,” Olivia repeats, before she takes the bite with glee.

“And this is a democratic-republic, woman.”

“...Woman?” she asks, but with her mouth full, it sounds more like ‘wuhmin.’

They link eyes, and Cassandra shakes her head slow. “You heard me.”

Olivia swallows, wiping the corners of her mouth and proper, before she sets down her bowl off to the side. She does the same with Cassandra’s, so that it can rest beside hers.

“Say that to my face,” she dares, pitting her torso against hers.

In return, Cassandra tilts her head, hand wrapping around her. “I just did. That was kind of the point.”

“You really don’t know how to play along with things without critique, do you?”

“I just don’t like double-standards.”

Their mouths veer in close as Olivia’s hands slide up her Cassandra’s arms. “You don’t like a lot of things.”

“No, but I like you.”

Olivia’s eyes widen. “Oh? Prove it.”

That’s the kind of thing you say right before you get kissed so well the world could end around your feet and you wouldn’t care: which is exactly why she said it. And the competitive look in Cassandra’s eye doesn’t disprove it. But just as she’s about to make her move, a ruckus erupts on the door. Out of nowhere Cassandra’s hold turns from casual to protective, and she whirls around to face the corner where the door is shaking from what sounds like hooves rather than fists. It isn’t long until the perpetrators are identified.

“Cass! I really gotta pee, help a guy out!”

“Yeah, Cass!! wake up, grandma!”

“Answer the group chat!!”

Three voices, all somewhat slurred, and definitely gregarious. Cassandra’s shoulders release and she moans in disgust, letting go of Olivia and marching towards the door to save it before the hinges break. She opens the door wide and fast, and two of the three stumble in while she stands by.

The boys make various ‘woah’ sounds as they collect themselves. Olivia recognizes one of them, the guy who opened the door at Rylen’s party. Which means he must be Rylen, of course. The other has a fresh undercut and is wearing a white v-neck and jeans, too well-dressed for a jock she’d think. The cloud of Axe-smelling odor overtakes the room and makes Olivia’s nose itch.

“What have I told you all about coming over on the weekends?” Cassandra asks, indignant.

They all straighten up. The third of them, a woman with brown hair tied back and wearing jean shorts and a sports bra underneath a flannel, walks in with keys in-hand. “You said...uh...call?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I said.”

“We’re just stopping by! We cut through campus on the way home. A break was in order.” She glides on through between the two others, immediately spotting Olivia standing with a thoughtless bitch face on. Or, she must be, because she stops dead in her tracks, and even backs up.

“Woah, dude, I’m sorry,” she puts his hands up, “I didn’t know--”

“Hey! You’re Ellinor’s friend!” Rylen manages to collect himself. He shoots a look at Cassandra and smiles big, “wait...what are you two doing wi--”

“You said you had to use the bathroom,” Cass is quick to usurp, still glaring.

Rylen’s happy-go-lucky act subsides, and he keeps his head down as he walks off out towards the hall. He gives a “Yes, Ma’am,” before disappearing completely.

“Sorry, Cass,” the one in jeans says as he pulls out a chair and sits sideways. “We haven’t been...uh...well, we’ve had a few.” He whisper yells it like he’s trying to tell a secret across a room. Oh boy.

“I couldn’t tell,” she replied, shutting the door and going to the cabinet. “You need water?”

“Nah!”

“Uh huh, okay,” she takes a couple plastic cups out and goes to the sink.

While she is busy filling them with tap water, Olivia is still there like a Greek statue, unsure of what to do. Jocks in close proximity like this feels...odd. Like they’re just as apt to sniff her hair as shake her hand; or maybe that’s just her snobbery. She takes hold of her elbow and slides herself up on top the counter to the right of the stove, reminiscent of her climbing escapade at Rylen’s house, only now she’s just trying to keep out of the way rather than day drink.

The seated guy’s gaze flickers over to her, as if he just now realizes she’s there, watching. “Hey, I’m Krem. I don’t think we’ve ever met,” he waves.

She nods once, and manages a grin. “Hello.”

“So your name is Hello? Is it a f-family name?” he gurgles out the last half, unable to keep himself from chuckling while the other stands wide and joins in. Oh great, they’re both laughing at her, and she’s only said one word. Can she phone a friend? Surely Ellinor knows what to do.

“Krem, cut it out,” Cassandra hands them both their cups. “This is Olivia. Olivia, these are some of my teammates, Krem and Lysette. You already know the brute using too much of our soap in the bathroom.” She returns to Olivia’s side and places her hand on the stove handle where a clean towel hangs.

Olivia side-eyes her, before the staring from both of them provokes a response. “Nice to meet you all.”

“Cass, is this the girl you--”

“Not a word, Lys.”

“...Right,” Lysette answers, rolling her lips shut and looking off to the side. “Well, good to meet you finally. We see you on the field with Ellinor all the time!”

“Yeah, we...we do that,” Olivia shrugs, but it comes off a little mechanical in her attempt to be approachable.

Krem finishes a gulp of water. “I think we had a class together. Was it anthropology…?”

“Oh, hah, no it couldn’t have, I haven’t taken any anthro classes here.”

“...Oh! Gotcha. Hm. I wonder who that blonde was then…”

“There are quite a few of us around. We have a local chapter established. We call ourselves “The Bleach Bunnies.””

They both laugh, a bit uncoordinated, but they laugh. Cass shoots her a grin, but in her Captain persona, she can’t shake her vigilance for her inebriated peers. A door opens from out in the hall, and heavy feet track on the carpet towards where they are all congregated.

“So, Liv,” Rylen dusts his hopefully freshly washed hands off, “you have eyes for our Master and Commander, here?”

Cassandra growls. “Rylen.”

“No, no, Cass! This is tradition--”

“Since when is it ‘tradition’?”

“Since uh, 2003! Approxim-manly!” He waves a hand dismissively, and Cassandra rolls her eyes and snorts with frustration. “Now, look. You’ve let Cullen get all the action from us even though you’ve been having a little escapowerade all on your own.”

“Esca...power..?” Olivia tilts her head and looks to Cass for answers, but she’s above trying to figure out the linguistics of the situations. The scene from Finding Nemo where Marlin yells ‘it’s like he’s trying to speak to me, I know it!’ comes to mind.

“You know, a randall-view--”

“Okay, okay,” Krem saves his friend from further butchering the English and now French language, “I think she gets it, dude.”

“Alright, fine! But she has to do the thing!”

“What thing?” Lysette asks, folding her arms against her leather bomber jacket.

“She has to do a shot!”

Do jocks just test each other for every little rite of passage with shots? Is that all there is to their courage? Jesus Christ. Olivia waits for him to say something, anything, to clue in that he’s joking. Or that he’s wrong. But he just stands there, t-shirt, khakis, crocs and all, hands sliding into his pockets and chest puffed out like he’s the big ol’ man of the house.

“Rylen, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Olivia says calmly.

“Oh? You think yourself above the rules?”

“No, I think myself already indebted to you in the amount of half a bottle of whiskey, the one I nabbed out your cupboard about…two? Three? Weekends ago. I prepaid my hazing process.”

They all go quiet, eyes and mouths agape at varying degrees. Even Cassandra has teeny bit of a wince on her lips.

Rylen, now rebuffed, blinks like that white guy gif. “Uh...oh. Indeb-ted.”

“Yeah.”

“Uh...that would...yeah that would do it. Wait, but, I thought Elli--”

“She had the rest of it, but she shared that with Cullen. I alone took down the first half.”

“But...but you’re tiny.”

Cassandra scowls while the others try not to giggle. Olivia only shrugs a second time, and picks up her bowl of spaghetti and brings it to her lap.

“What can I say: the shorter the woman, the closer to hell, Rylen.” A bit more comfortable, she lifts the fork of noodles to her lips. For some reason the other two start to making low noises of ‘oohs!’ and ‘uhh!” which seems to mean they approve? Or are at least entertained. It occurs to her that this must mean she bested him.

“Good one, Olive,” Krem remarks, so cheerful that she doesn’t have the heart to correct him on her name.

“I think that is answer enough,” Cassandra agrees, shifting her weight onto her feet. “I think you all should get going, it looks like the night’s just begun for you.”

“Ah, yeah, shit,” Rylen shakes his shoulders and saunters with that wide machismo walk, sizing Olivia up some more in his inebriated state, before he ushers them all with him. It all happens as quickly and rumbly as it began, and they stampede back from whence they came with much less fuss. A symphony of “Later, Cass!” and “Sorry, Cass!” with one “See ya, Olive!” as the cherry on top of a socially-awkward sundae. At last the door shuts, swiftly locks, and the quiet is welcomed back into the room. The nice, sober quiet.

Cassandra comes back, palms pressed to her thighs before she uses them to rub her face with a little exasperation. “Ugh. That won’t be the end of it.”

“Do they come around often?”

“More during the season, but...now it’s playoffs, so I don’t know. Rylen’s place tends to be headquarters, but sometimes...they just...ugh.” She elects to stand in the middle of the tile floor and fold her arms. She still looks a bit anxious, trying to decompress from the rush of events. Olivia can’t help but fixate on it while slicing a meatball that’s too big for one bite. Did that actually scare her?

“Hey,” she holds up the forked half and offers it, and takes on her best ‘Rylen’ voice, “I think you need more meat, bro.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes and grins with dread. “Don’t even start.”

“Bro, come on, get that protein. How else are you supposed to get--”

“No one ever says ‘get that protein,’” she chuckles and walks to her, and Olivia spreads her knees to invite her in; something she happily plays along with. All trapped in her hold, Olivia feeds her the sacred bite, and tries not to burst into giggles again.

“Do you still need your proof of my affection for you?” Cassandra inquires, wiping the corner of her mouth and then resting her hands on Olivia’s thighs.

There’s the penchant to continue the jest and say no: put up a fight and see where it gets her. Olivia is always ready for more playful fighting. But what can you say to a woman who was ready to deploy herself as a human shield against the unknown forces on the other side of a burgeoning door?

“I think I’m good.” She sets down her meal in favor of the rim of Cass’s hood and brings her in even closer.

“Are you sure? Because I did have a plan of action.”

“A plan?” she says hushed, “and what is this plan, exactly?”

“Uh...debating over whether to watch Titanic or Love, Actually. Then debating over the acting abilities of either cast. Then...more debate about the historical accuracies and politics that you will inevitably bring up when a male character is awful or another character is racist--”

“Or classist. You forgot classist. I hate that shit.”

“Yes. Classist.”

“Yeah.” Her smile widens, and she knocks noses with her playfully. “I suppose that all could be evidence to further support your claim. I can oblige. We should get started though, it’s already kinda late and I might have forgotten my ID to get into my dorm after 10...again...because I’m a dumbass.”

“Or you could just not go home.”

Olivia’s stomach erupts into butterflies drenched in pasta sauce and garlic seasoning, so much so her back arches like she’s being secretly zapped up with electricity. “I...could also do that.”

“What, you don’t want to?”

“No, I do, I guess I’m just...nevermind. I’m down!”

She smiles again. “Okay, good.”

“On one condition.”

Cassandra blinks and stops just as they are about to kiss. “Hm?”

“Only...if we do the thing I wanted to do the first night I stayed over.”

“You...you still want to make a pillow fort?”

Her shoulders bunch up in pre-eminent glee. “Yeeaaah.”

Cassandra sighs, but it doesn’t sound completely out of patience. “Alright, fine, you drive a hard bargain.”

More butterflies. More spaghetti butterflies. I can’t wait to brag about this to Ellinor, she’s gonna be so jealous. Yeah Cullen can eat two burgers in five minutes flat but can he say that he made a pillow fort?! Can anyone? This is some next-level shit. They kiss to seal the deal, and to her delight, she tastes like marinara.

#college au update #adventures of ellinor and olivia #day & age #friendship fic!#modern thedas au #WOOOOOO I LOVE ME SOME FUNNY FLUFF

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