#daniel sharman fic

[escapist-of-fiction]

One shot - Troy Otto x Fem Reader

Description - just a bit of fluff really. Something that has been floating in my head for a while and needed to write it down. Troy is a bit of a tease in this but I like him like that.

Warnings - none really. Mild swearing.

If you do read, a like, reblog and/or a comment would make me smile :) enjoy!

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It had become abundantly apparent to everyone that something was developing between you and Troy.

There was something about the way he looked at you from across the room, never intrusive but always keeping one eye closely on you, watching your every move. You didn't mind though. It made you feel safe. You didn't feel so alone in the crowd.

Every chance Troy had; loading supplies from the trucks, collecting empty dishes at meal times, showing you how to hold a gun in the right way to defend yourself, any excuse to have just a little bit of contact with you. You didn't mind. You wanted him to do it. Your skin tingled at his touch. If he stood close to you, you would hold your breath without even realising. It was just the effect he had on you. In a group situation, he would always somehow find his way next to you, by now it was almost an expectation.

You wondered how long it would take for him to make a move. It had taken so long that you were unsure whether it was all in your mind and he had no interest in you at all.

"You can see it, can't you?" Alicia said one day as you sat together at lunch.

"See what?" You responded innocently.

You needed someone else to spell it out to you. To make it seem real. It seemed too good to be true in your own mind. After all, why would someone as complex as Troy be interested in someone as basic as you?

"Troy. There's something about you two. The way he is around you, it's like you're precious cargo or something. He speaks to you so differently to everyone else, with a whole new level of respect. He doesn't even speak like that to Jake, his own brother."

You didn't know how to respond to this, so you decided not to say anything at all.

On the day the Militia headed out on their short mission, you stood with everyone else at the gates. Going on missions was a weekly occurrence in the post-apocalyptic world but today everyone seemed a little on edge. Everyone except Troy.

You stood a little away from the small gathering, leaning against a table where supplies were piled up high. You watched as Troy fooled around with some of the Militia members, his trusted and closest comrades obviously. He wasn't normally this way before a mission, which made you think it was a little more serious than the average. He was trying to put everyone at ease. Rumours had been going around the Ranch that you were heading out to confront another group, who were threatening to steal water supplies. It wouldn't be an easy mission and lives were potentially at risk.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn't notice someone pick up a box beside you, until their voice brought you back to reality.

"You aren't normally here to see us off," Troy noted.

"I'm surprised you would even notice," you answered with the tiniest of smiles, watching for his reaction.

"Dont worry, I notice."

You watched as he walked towards the truck and placed the final box in the back, hitting the side panel to signal to the group that they were ready to go.

You expected Troy to climb into the driver's seat as normal, rev the engine, turn up his heavy metal music and speed out of the Ranch, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. But not this time.

This time, he turned and walked back in the direction of you. You lifted your head to look up at him as he got closer and closer, until he was stood toe to toe with you. He had a look on his face, a mixture of uncertainty and, was that yearning?

You were perplexed by Troy's actions and you were just about question his odd behaviour when he suddenly grabbed you by the waist and....kissed you.

The briefest of kisses that lasted long enough to make your head spin, your toes curl and heart race all at once. It stunned you but made sense to you all at once. You felt Troy's hand press firmly into the small of your back to pull you against him as his other hand gently caressed your cheek.

Then no sooner had it started, it stopped and Troy pulled away. No explanation. No second glance as he turned and walked back towards the truck and the waiting Militia.

You stood there in shock, your fingers reaching to your lips to trace the echo of his touch.

What the hell was that?

Five days passed until Troy and the Militia returned.

Five days for you to mull over your encounter and ask yourself a million questions. You flitted from the feeling of lusting after Troy and more from that kiss, to being filled with a mild rage at how the bastard had acted in such an impulsive way and walked right out of the Ranch with no explanation.

By the time they returned, you had made up your mind on what to do next.

You never normally gathered with the others at the gate but this time was different. This time you had a reason to stand amongst the friends and family. You wanted Troy to know he had left someone behind. Someone who cared about him, his reckless behaviour and the consequences that came with it.

You watched him exit the truck last of all. He looked tired and weary, having been on the road with little to no sleep and carrying the responsibility of everyone's safety on his shoulders. There was a part of you that wanted to rush to him, embrace him but something made you hold back and wait.

Eventually, Troy looked up and spotted you, his eyes lighting up as they met with yours. You gave nothing away. He approached you, watching your expression tentatively, wondering how you were going to react since your last encounter. He took the fact you were here at all as a good sign.

Coming to stand in front of you, he rested his hands on his hips and tilted his head with a cocky smile.

Words were lost on you. You tried to think of something smart to say, to chastise him for what he did the last time you saw each other but you just kept losing your train of thought in those azure, blue eyes.

Instead, you communicated in the only way you both knew how.

Stepping forward and rising to the balls of your feet, you placed a hand on the back of Troy's neck and pulled him down to meet you.

Your lips pressed firmly against his. A kiss almost sweeter than the first, full of promise and something that you couldn't quite describe but you knew you needed more of it.

Reluctantly, you pulled away to look up at Troy, your hands pressed against his chest. Judging by the hazy look in his eye and the delectable way he licked his lips, it told you everything you needed to know. He felt exactly the same way.

And then, just like that, you found your voice again,

"Hi."

Troy laughed softly,

"Well it took you long enough, darling"

[insom-nom-nom-niatic]

2 Of A Kind Ch. 3

CHARACTERS: Troy Otto X Fem Reader

WARNINGS: It's made for FTWD so you should know the basics. +SMUT (read at your own risk. I'm nobody's mom) +Fem receiving

There may or may not be a part 4... need to see how people feel about it. ALSO! Shoutout to all the GIF makers out there for giving me so many options and I love you all... I still feel the need to use the same one repeatedly, but you all help me fight that urge!

This is made for THIS anon request!

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

“Can I help you with that?”

Troy’s eyes grew dark, feeling his senses begin to tunnel into her and her alone. The woman merely smiled, adjusting herself under the blanket to the side. Her cheeks burned with a fury of confusion and anticipation as she stared back into the blue eyes watching her. “I mean-” Troy shuffled his feet lazily towards the right side of the mattress, closest to the woman. “You helped me so it’s only polite of me to offer my assistance. That is - if you want me to help. Not to be frank but, I could do a bit better than what you were doing.” Troy cocked his head to the side with a crooked smile when the woman scoffed exaggeratingly at his remark. It had been some time, if ever, that anyone had made him feel like this.

Powerful.

“Come’er,” She whispered to him, a voice sending shivers down his spine, but Troy followed her order. The mattress slunk down from his weight, dipping the two into one pothole in the middle. Her fingers ghosted over his hand, the wound on it open to the warm air. His eyes flinched at the sting that rang up his extremity as she placed the hand to her lips, gently kissing the inflamed skin while looking up at him through dark eyelashes. with a twist of his hand, Troy caressed the woman’s cheek, feeling the heat radiate from her dewy skin. Their eyes never broke until Troy lowered his gaze to her lips, softer than he thought they’d be, swiping one calloused digit across the delicate flesh.

With a smooth lick of his lips, Troy initiated the kiss. Pressing his flesh upon her own, feeling her warmth and hearing the ever-so-silent moan that escaped her lips against his. He thought about going slow. He thought about taking it easy with her and not being so forceful, but the sound she made turned him into something more than he thought he was. Deepening the kiss, Troy licked at her bottom lip begging for permission.

Denied.

He could feel her lips pull at the sides, smirking against his touch. This was a game.

A hand found its way to the base of her neck, his fingers dancing along her spine until she felt his way into her hair. Troy took a handful of lush locks, pulling it into a fist. Her body began to arch as her neck pulled back just enough to gain his awaiting tongue entry. His body began to barrel over her as she was lost in the feelings. She wasn’t one to ever relinquish control… yet, here she was. Allowing a stranger control over her body, and she liked it.

As Troy’s tongue ventured into the walls of her mouth, his free hand found its way up her chest, burning fingerprints into the skin he began to expose. With one final nip to her bottom lip, Troy backed away, his lips at least. His eyes regained control again, watching her once-hardened eyes turn soft and needy. The look she gave him through those dark eyelashes gave him the feeling of warmth… possessive… needed.

Fully collapsing into the soft sheet below, the woman gave up her fight. His touch felt too good to push away.

Watching his head dip below her chin, she felt his lips once again burn into her skin, just below her collarbone. His tongue swirled with small suctions traveling lower and lower. His nimble fingers pulled the blanket she was hiding under exposing both breasts to his full view. Troy glanced up, his fingers pinching the sensitive skin of her nipples.

He wanted to see her face as she let him do everything he wanted.

He wanted to see her vulnerable. He wanted to see her as his.

After a little while, he couldn’t take it any longer. Seeing her skin raised in goosebumps and her nipples formed into full points, Troy replaced his fingers with his lips. He hadn’t thought he had an oral fixation before, but the way his cock begged for his lips to have her, any part of her, was beginning to make the brunette re-think that. Her voice jumped when he sucked in a breath against her, biting harder than he had before. Her fingers weaved through the curly locks on Troy’s scalp, tugging ever so much with each moan that escaped her. Troy hadn’t realized that his hand had already found her most sensitive region until she shook under his grasp.

“Wait-wait-wait-wait!” She exclaimed, her fingers lifting his chin to look back at her. “If you’re going there, then I need something other than ‘fuck-boy’ to scream. So what’ll it be?”

Troy smirked, a devilish smirk, with one arm under his weight to keep him raised above her form. The hand that was at her core swiped the saliva from his lips before ghosting down her body, once more resting where he could see a glint of her slick dripping from. His eyes watched her skin react to his touch the entire time, her scars rough and coarse before his fingertips met more soft skin. He thought about toying with her, prolonging her wait for any form of identity of him, but he wanted to hear his name echo on those walls just as bad as she wanted sweet release.

“I’m Troy.”

As soon as he spoke, Troy delved two fingers into her core. Her hands fisted into his hair as he did so. He watched as her entire body arched from the mattress and her lips enchanted the delight of moaning his name. Enjoying the sight before him, Troy watched as she came to orgasm. His digits glided in and out of her sodden core, stretching the walls of her pussy farther with each spasm she had. As she began to clamp down, his thumb rubbed circles through her clit, only causing even more mess as she finally climaxed with a squirt of fluids soaking the bedding below her sweat-slickened skin.

She was a mess, a hot uncontrollable mess as she came back down from her high. She had completely forgotten she was even in company until she felt one strong arm tighten over her belly and soft curls itch across her cheeks. Troy knew she needed a little time, so kept himself busy making bruises to last her a few days on her neck. Once he felt her heart rate slow against his touch, he pulled back to look upon the magnificent work he had done. One arm, again held him up as the other moved slickened hair from the woman’s face. His eyes peered over her lips as he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from dazing before meeting her watchful gaze.

“I suppose I should thank you.” She spoke quietly, much softer than normal. Her mouth upturned into a shy smile before turning to look at the ceiling. Troy chuckled tenderly. This woman wasn’t at all who he thought she would be as he peeled back layer after layer.

“There’s no need, I’m here to help, ma’am.”

Troy rolled over to the edge of the mattress, swinging his legs over the side. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome so he figured it was off to the couch for another night. Then, a soft touch wrapped around his wrist.

“Why are you leaving? Did I-”

“I didn’t want to overstay or put you in a position to ask me to leave.”

Troy looked back at the woman from over his shoulder. She sat where he had left her, trying to hide her modesty behind entwined arms and legs. The look she returned was not one that he had assumed he would get. Her coy smile beckoned his feet to not move. Her eyes were like a siren making any thought he had of leaving melt away.

“I’m grateful, I truly am -” her hand that was on his wrist weaved through a belt loop, tugging at the fabric, “- I need more, Troy. And given by how tight those pants have gotten, I think you need more too.”

[escapist-of-fiction]

Just some casual Tuesday fic inspo

[thiamsalpha]

a duo we deserved to see but were robbed of

anyways, im working on a lil fanfic based off this edit idea I had with Isaac and Theo being ghost faces but obviously Isaac isn’t allowed to touch Liam because Theo’s the mastermind of the pair and Liam’s under his protection 💅🏽

link to edit here

[perseephoneee]

Can you do a isaac lahey imagine where the reader us on her period and freaks out and doesn't know what to do so lydia tells him what to do

hehe yes omg

period talk (isaac lahey x f!reader)

warnings: fluff, period talk, dumb boy

a/n: try the drink mentioned if you want to imagine running through hogwarts on a winter day.

↳ masterlist ↳  want to be shipped with a fic character?

Isaac wouldn't admit it, but he loved the cold weather. He liked when the winter season would hit, and holidays were a topic of conversation. Holidays were the only time his Dad treated him like he was actually proud of him, and despite that fucked up relationship, Isaac couldn't help but romanticize the season. It's why, when Beacon Hills hit a new low for the weather, he was excited to see you at school. Perhaps he could even convince you to skip class and get hot coco with him.

Unfortunately for him, your period had started therefore your mood was sour. The cold just added to your discomfort, and you basically hissed at him when he came by your locker.

"Woah, what did I do?" Isaac recoiled, a nervous laugh on his lips. You took a deep breath before turning and facing him.

"Nothing, you did nothing," you sighed. "I'm just...not doing great."

"Whats wrong?" Isaac inquired, brows furrowed and concern evident on his face. You loved your cute werewolf boyfriend, and while he was very helpful, he probably couldn't do much for you right now.

"I'm on my period," you admitted with a twinge of shame. Talking about these things was never fun, even to someone you trusted. A blush coated Isaac's cheeks as he processed what you said.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Should I, uh, do something?" Isaac stammered, hands in his pockets.

"Just be you, I'm a big girl and can handle myself," you chuckled, lightly slapping his arm as you closed your locker and started in the direction of class. Isaac stood in the hallway a moment longer, before deducing a game plan and targeting the area of the school he knew the familiar red head would be. She was typing on her phone when he ran up beside her, backpack slung lazily over his shoulder.

"I need your help," Isaac said hurridly, earning a squeak of surprise form Lydia. She set two angry eyes at him, and he resisted the urge to run away. Women did not like him much today.

"Stop sneaking up on me like that," Lydia rolled her eyes, putting her phone in her purse. "What is it?"

"Y/N is on her period, and I want to help, but I don't know what to do, and you're a girl and you're smart so I thought you'd have some ideas?" Isaac rushed, lips pressed in a thin line as Lydia cocked a brow at him.

"Why do you have to make everything so dramatic?" Lydia huffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Isaac sent her a look though that showed that he wasn't going to figure anything out, anytime soon. "Look, unless she asks for products, don't bother trying to buy her them-- you'll likely get the wrong ones anyway. Get her her favorite warm drink, a heating pad, blanket, maybe an activity or something calming."

"Drink, heating pad, blanket, activity, got it," Isaac listed out everything, brows scrunched together in concentration. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, during this time, she's always right. Even if you think she isn't, just agree that you're wrong and she's right. Otherwise, she'll claw your eyes out," Lydia crossed her arms, daring Isaac to challenge her. He stayed quiet though, and she loosened up her stance. "I have to go, have fun, don't get killed."

Isaac was never that great at social cues, but he really liked you, and that was enough. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling taking pit in his stomach, he skipped out on school to go get the necessary things Lydia listed. Starting off with a butterbeer chai, a concoction you created (two pumps caramel, two pumps toffee, caramel drizzle, and chai); going to CVS for a heating pad and a blanket; then finally the bookstore down the street where he found a book you wanted (after searching through his phone for fifteen minutes trying to find the text where you mentioned wanting a new release). By the time he had finished his grand adventure, school was out and he would be able to surprise you.

You were having a crappy day with a side of more absolute garbage, so you were very pleasantly surprised when your golden hair boyfriend comes bounding up the street as you exit the school building.

"Woah, where's the fire?" you chuckle. You finally take notice of the bags he's carrying, as well as the drink.

"These are for you," Isaac stutters, passing you the drink. You peer in the bag and can't hide the grin on your face as you take in the plethora of supplies he got. "I know you weren't doing well, and I felt bad, so I got some stuff."

"Isaac, you are the sweetest puppy of a boyfriend a girl could ask for," you smile, wanting nothing more than to pick him up and twirl him around (he is too tall, you are too small). "How did you know what to get?"

"I asked Lydia," he mumbles, staring at his feet. You fight back a chuckle.

"Probably the smartest thing you could've done."

"That was my thought process as well," he chimes, scratching the back of his neck and shooting you a grin. You lean up, kissing him on the corner of his mouth and looping his arm through yours.

"C'mon, lets go hide from the cold together and I'll bitch to you about life," you chime, the cold dusting yours and Isaac's cheeks in shades of pink.

"Sounds perfect, just like you," Isaac smiles, kissing the top of your head as you walk off back home.

[everlastingdreams]

The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Chapter 5

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Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Chapter Title: The Fall Of Embers

Notes: !!!!!!PLEASE NOTE, THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS A SUICIDE ATTEMPT!!!!!

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. !!!!Self-harm!!!. !!!Suicidal thoughts!!!. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapter:  5/47

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!!!!!!PLEASE NOTE, THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS A SUICIDE ATTEMPT!!!!!

You were in that tent alone for hours, dozing off into sleep when the sun no longer sneaked into the tent. Even when the Monk finally entered his tent late at night, your eyes felt too heavy to look. By the time you opened them, time had clearly past. He was sleeping on his cot. You were glad to have avoided conversation after that encounter earlier. This was no place for you, one hell had traded itself for another. The paladins who had brought you back there had used a rope of poor quality to bind you to the pole, it even smelled rotten. You continued to move the rope against the wood, just as you had done during those hours alone. Finally the last strand of the rope broke and set you free, you sat still for a while, debating on where to go from here. Carefully you got up from the ground and moved towards the sleeping Monk, his hand was resting on the swords he had put down beside him, taking those would surely wake him. So you decided to steal one of the small daggers still resting at his waist. A cold sweat formed on your back during the moment it took to steal the dagger, but you had a lethal weapon in your hand as a reward. Then his hand shot out and grabbed your sleeve, you stumbled back and his hold faltered, he was on his feet fast. You cowered away, he stood between you and the exit. He didn’t even reach for his swords yet, like he was certain he could overpower you without them, it filled you with dread.

“Don’t come any closer!” you warned, pointing at him with the dagger.

His brow arched arrogantly, that dagger was no match for him and you both knew it.

You turned the blade and pointed it at your own heart. “Let me leave.”

His eyes dropped to the dagger, then snapped back up to your face. “I cannot let you leave. Hand over the dagger.”

Despair crashed into you, consuming what little hope that had kept you going. The Monk had gotten closer. The dagger felt like the only thing keeping your thoughts together. You had moved the blade before doubt could set in again.

He had never moved so fast before. His hand was partly on yours, stopping the dagger from going into your chest, when he felt resistance his other came to wrap around the blade. It cut into his palm slightly.

“Stop!” he ordered, standing behind you, arms around to be able to push the dagger forward and away with his strength.

His order gave no resolution, you only grew angrier, desperate…

His breath touched the side of your head, his voice much gentler than it had been. “Stop.”

The tears you had kept contained broke free, your struggle lessened, your voice cracked, “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

He plucked the dagger from your hands and tossed it far out of reach, still his hold on you remained as he could feel you crumble apart.

“Why?” he quietly asked.

“There is no point to it.” You heaved through the sobs.

The Monk was quiet for a while, he held on, refusing to let you flee from his hold. You had grabbed hold on his sleeve, hating how deep down your soul welcomed the touch even from someone like him.

“Is that what the sellsword wants you to believe?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

His breath went passed your cheek. “I have seen the fight in you, I saw it again just now. You are not surrendering to the fight, you are searching for a reason to keep fighting.”

“I don’t have a reason.” You tried to control your breathing.

“Then have this as one,” He took a breath, “You and I may be the only ones left alive of the Ash Folk. I believe your survival means that you are meant for a greater purpose.”

“To serve the Church?” It came out colder.

“Perhaps.” He made you turn to face him. “I know you desire to belong. Manblood, Feyblood, not belonging to either kind but dangling right in the middle. I believe your place could be here.”

You were still calming down and oddly enough the Monk’s presence now helped, those eerie voices in your ears were noticeably softer. Was it because the blood of the Ash Folk ran through him too that you felt a strange connection to him?

“My place isn’t here.” It was a whisper as you shook your head a little.

He breathed out a sigh and finally let go off you, he looked towards the dagger on the ground then at the small cut on his palm. “You could have killed me as I slept…”

It slipped out of your mouth, “I was trying to escape, not slaughter a monk.”

He pointed out the flaw in that, “I would not have been able to stop you if you had.”

“I regret it.” The bold statement fell out of you.

The Monk appeared surprised to hear you say it, a slight smirk formed on his face. “You are not done fighting.”

It was said with a pinch of admiration and it was enough to help find a little hope within yourself.

“How did you free yourself from those ropes?” he asked.

You pointed at them. “Can’t you smell it? They’re rotten.”

Was the arrogance intentional? He did not know. But he did enjoy how innocent you had looked whilst saying it. Perhaps he could toss some wood onto that fire…

“Those ropes were very close to you.” he said, unblinking.

It took only two counts for you to understand the insult in his excuse. And then you did something you never thought you were brave enough for. You gave him a shove, he hadn’t seen it coming and was almost imbalanced for a second. “If I smell, it is because I’ve been bound and unable to bathe!”

He actually chuckled. The Weeping Monk chuckled. With wide eyes you stared at the one who might have purposely riled you up.

Realization hit. “You said that just to anger me…”

“There is still fire in you.” he stated, not even slightly angry for the shove.

You took a step away from him.

“You do not smell, but perhaps bathing will offer you some comfort?” He saw no threat in it.

Was he really asking? By the way he was waiting for an answer, he must have been.

“How?” you asked.

“There is a river near here.” he suggested.

“But…” You stopped.

He tilted his head, “But what?”

You explained the problem. “You want me to bathe in a river, with my hands bound and without dry clothes to change into afterwards.”

The Monk blinked, then cleared his throat. “I believe I can arrange some clothes. As for your hands, I could make an exception.”

You were wary of it, “What sort of exception?”

He set the terms. “The rope stays on as we travel there, once at the river I will remove them long enough for you to bathe.”

“You trust me not to swim off?” you blurted it out.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I know your scent now. Wherever you would go, it would only be a matter of time before I find you again. And when I do, I would remember the time you broke the trust I gave you tonight.”

It was a warning. This speck of trust must have been hard for him to give. “I agree with your terms.”

He gave a sharp nod. “Go to the pole.”

With some reluctance, you did as asked. And he tied your hands to the pole, not with a rotten rope this time, while you stood.

“Wait here.” He turned to walk out of the tent, then stopped after two steps when realizing what he had said. When he looked over his shoulder he saw the glare send his way.

Your tone was prickly. “Don’t mind me, I’m not going anywhere.”

There was just the faintest hint of a smile on his mouth, but he turned away before you could be sure.

Not much later he returned with clothes, a spare set, trousers and a shirt… they must have anticipated you needing it.

He held them up for you to see. “Change into these fresh clothes after the river.”

You nodded in agreement.

“We go now.” he said.

Bathing in the dark of night with a stranger nearby was a little unnerving to think of. Still, you let him guide you out of that tent and to his horse. Until then it hadn’t crossed your mind that he would be riding there, probably to make sure to be back soon.

“Mount.” He moved you to the saddle.

It was easier said than done with your wrists bound together and while wearing a dress, thankfully the skirt of it was wide and long enough. You clumsily climbed into the saddle then to the spot a little in front of it. The Monk on the other hand hoisted himself up into the saddle effortlessly and took place behind you. You tensed up completely when his arms came around your form to take the reins. For a Monk, he was not so reserved to be close. And as you rode towards the river, you wondered why he would even allow you to bathe at all, it was known that the paladins would rather see Fey-kind burn than help them.

“Are you hoping the sin will wash off of me?” You kept your eyes on the path ahead.

The Monk’s response took a moment to come, “Are you?”

You were a bit defensive. “No. Because I have none.”

There was a huff of air, “You stole from a priest.”

Alright… he may have had a point there…

“You let me keep the ring…” you mumbled through your teeth.

“Because I believed you to be an innocent person who was forced to steal. Not a thief.” he said.

Was he truly so scorned about that? Anger boiled inside of you. “I wasn’t lying when I said that Cassian forced me to steal!”

The Monk kept quiet, it somehow only made you angrier. That silent judgment…

You spat out the words in fury, “You think I’m just some thief, that I chose to live like this! I never had a chance to choose, I was taught to be quiet and obey!”

“Do you fear the sellsword so much?” He didn’t sound condescending.

You were done with this conversation.

“And your father? You spoke of him. He must disapprove of how his son behaves.” he asked.

Your voice was very quiet, “Where do you think Cassian learned it…”

He had to strain his ears to hear it, but he had heard it.

After a brief silence, he asked, “Who is your father?”

“Lord Aldith of Ravenwick.” you answered.

The small rise in his tone was audible, “Lord?”

With a nod you confirmed it. “He rules over the village.”

He was piecing the puzzle of your life together, piece by piece. “When we met, you said that stealing was necessary to ‘earn your meal’, am I correct to assume that your father expects you to steal even though he is wealthy?”

You nodded.

The Monk was prying the truth out of you. “Is your brother given the same treatment?”

“No. He is his son.”

To him it didn’t seem to make sense. “And you are his daughter.”

You sighed a bit. “My father only wanted sons, so he wishes a daughter was never born.”

What the Monk said next was unexpected. “If he did not want to risk having a daughter, he should have abstained.”

Your eyes widened slightly, then you heard the river’s stream nearby.

He halted his horse. “We walk the rest of the way.”

He dismounted first, then gave some aid to get you to the ground as well. You knew the risk that dress posed and refused the help, seeing him from up at you.

“Dismount.” He grew wary, perhaps he thought you were going to ride off.

You hated having to ask. “I will, but you should step back a bit.”

“Why?”

Hated. Really hated. “Because when I dismount, the odds are high this dress will reveal more than I wish to share. I barely prevented it when I mounted.”

It clicked in his mind right away, he cleared his throat and took a step back, looking off to the side until your feet were on the ground.

“I spared you from the sin.” you said dryly. “You’re welcome.”

He ignored it. With one hand he held the reins, with the other the rope that was attached to the one on your wrists. He retrieved the clothes from the saddle bag, handing them to you to carry, then he began to head towards the river.

The moonlight reflected in the river’s stream, the Monk took the clothes from you again and removed the rope from your wrists.

“Do not flee.” He turned you to the river with your elbow.

You didn’t wait for him to tell you to get into the water, you took the opportunity with open arms and were in the river seconds later. The water was just a bit too cold, but it had been a while since you had the chance to bathe like this. For just a little while your mind was distracted from all the bad things around you, even the Monk. You splashed the water up to your face, pouring it over your head to wash your hair. The dress was completely soaked. The Monk made a small bonfire to keep his hands warm. You looked over at him, quietly wondering why he wasn’t getting irritated that you were taking so long. But he kept his attention on the small fire mostly, only looking your way once or twice to see if you hadn’t swam off yet. The fresh clothes laid close to the fire, warming up for you to wear. A shiver had settled into your bones, the temperature of the water was getting the better of you.

The Monk had probably noticed it, because he beckoned for you to get out of the water. “It is time to head back.”

You walked out of the river, letting the water pass through your fingers as long as they could touch it. It wasn’t until you were close to the fire that you noticed how hard he was trying to keep his attention on the grass. The wet fabric of the dress was stuck to your skin, and your face heated up at the realization. The Monk gestured to the clothes just next to the fire, you moved to take them.

Wind went through the fire, pushed the flames in your direction and caused them to lick the skin of your hand. You don’t know what frightened you more, being burned or seeing the flame turn green upon contact. A loud gasp of fright forced it’s way out of you, then everything happened so fast.

The Monk responded immediately, he grabbed you by the arm and brought you to the river, he forced your hand into the water and held it there.“Does it hurt?”

A frown formed on your forehead, it wasn’t hurting… why wasn’t it hurting?… “I don’t… no.”

Maybe he thought it was the shock that dulled the pain, because he didn’t let you pull your hand from the water to inspect it, “How did you do that?”

Had he not seen the same thing you had? “I just wanted to grab the clothes, but then the wind blew the flames to me.”

“That is not what I meant. You changed the flames, I saw it.”

“I didn’t.”

“Do not lie.” his voice got deeper, a warning.

“I’m not lying!” your voice wavered just a little, hating to be called a liar while speaking the truth.

His eyes scanned your face for a moment, then focused on your hand as he pulled it out of the water. He should have looked more surprised to find no burns on your skin, but he truly wasn’t.

The fire that lived in his dreams, causing comfort instead of fear… had come from your hands.

He turned your hand over, inspecting the unscathed skin of your palm.

“I don’t know what that was…” you whispered, fearing the response yet to come.

The Monk let go of your hand and rose to his feet. “Change your clothes. We return now.”

You looked up at him a little lost but did as he asked. He watched closely when you reached for the clothes on the ground again to change into them, expecting to see it happen again. But you were far more cautious now, the fact that you hadn’t burned your hand yet didn’t mean that it couldn’t happen. The Monk was still looking, as if he was trying to decipher you.

“Could you… uhm…” You lost the courage to ask him to turn around.

He seemed to snap out of his thoughts and gave a shallow nod when he understood what you were asking, he turned around and faced away. You changed rapidly into the dry warm clothes, the trousers fitted well but the shirt was a little too big, you took some of the excess fabric on the side and made a knot in it.

“I’m done.” you informed him.

He turned around and came closer to bind your wrists with the ropes again. He hadn’t asked any more questions about what had happened just moments ago, you didn’t know if you had to be relieved or worried. What would happen if they began to see you as a threat? What if he knew that you heard whispers in your ears almost daily?

The Monk made you mount his horse again and got into the saddle right after as well. The silence between you felt suffocating, you had so many questions running through your head. Why had those flames changed upon touching you? Why hadn’t they burned you? Why was he so quiet?… The answers would have to wait, because he was determined to get back to the paladin camp in as little time as possible and he spurred the horse on to canter.

  ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

Back at the paladin camp he told you to be quiet and not say a word until back in the tent. And the moment you set foot in the tent with him, the questions he must have prepared were fired at you.

He was tying you back to that pole by the waist. “Have you ever seen that kind of fire before?”

You shook your head, sitting on the ground again. “No. And I’ve never put my hands into fire by accident before either.”

“Do you know what it is?” He stood in front of you now, hands folded behind his back and the same look of intrigue in his eyes still.

You shook your head again. “Do you?”

He was of the Ash Folk, there was a possibility he knew more of them than you did.

“I do.” he said. “It is called ‘Fey Fire’.”

“But… what does it mean?” You hoped to learn what it was that had happened.

The Monk was quiet for a moment. “Fey Fire has not been seen in centuries, it is thought to be extinct. It is fire born of magic.”

You knew exactly what happened to those with magic when the paladins found out, you didn’t want to be cleansed in some horrible way. “I have no magic.”

The fear in your voice was clear to hear.

“You must have.” He stepped closer and knelt down to your height, you flinched a little.

You shook your head, denying what he believed to be true. “Please… I never used any magic. I wouldn’t even know how.”

His voice was more gentle now, “I believe you. Do not fear. I believe Father will be pleased to learn of this.”

You frowned at him. “Pleased?”

He gave a small nod. “Yes. Your abilities are a valuable asset to us.”

“I am not your asset.” You didn’t want to hear it.

“Your conscience is stopping you from seeing what must be done.” The Monk said. “Those Fey you defended when we met, refused to do the same for you. They left you to die at my hands, and I spared you.”

Were you supposed to be grateful that he hadn’t murdered you that day? “At least I still have a conscience.”

He stood up from the ground, jaw tense. He went over to his cot and plucked a small book from it which he put right into your hands.

“What is this?” you asked.

“The scriptures.” he answered. “They may offer you the answers you seek.”

Another attempt to corrupt you, your brow arched high, “Do these help you?”

He didn’t answer and went to his cot again, taking seat after removing his cloak and putting his swords down on it.

You put the book down in your lap and looked over at him. “I wasn’t raised with any religion. My brother mocked whoever spoke of a divine power.”

And your father would never have allowed another to influence you instead of him…

“The sellsword…” he spoke under his breath, sighing. “I do have a personal dislike for your brother. He threatened my horse. No one has done so before and lived.”

“He traded me for his life, will you uphold that agreement?” You wondered, because the Monk sounded like he hated Cassian.

“Father will uphold the agreement.” he said, then added casually, “But I made no such trade with him.”

Your frowned at him. “But-”

The Monk explained himself. “He traded with Father. You, in exchange for clemency for his past sins. However, should he commit new ones, which I am certain he will, I will not be obligated to offer him clemency.”

“Cassian just bought himself time…”

“Yes.”

You looked down at the book in your lap.

He noticed. “You may keep it.”

“Don’t you need it?” You weren’t interested in the scriptures.

The Monk, laid down on the cot, swords neatly beside him. “They are in my head.”

“You memorized them?” you asked.

He shut his eyes. “If you read something enough, it tends to happen.”

The blatant attempt to convert you to a follower of the Church didn’t sit well with you at all. “Is that what Father Carden did all those years ago, give you this book and hope you would believe in what it said?”

He took in a deep breath, having heard the sneer to the faith. “You would do well to rest now. Dawn is not far off anymore.”

You rolled your eyes, he couldn’t see it anyway. But you followed his advice and tried to get some sleep before that chance would be taken from you again.

  ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

At dawn, the Monk was summoned by Father Carden. He knew others would have noticed him leave the camp with you at night and reported this to Father.

“How is the Fey girl?” Father asked him.

He knew Father was not asking about your health.

“She is conflicted.” The Monk told him truthfully.

Father was glad to hear it, this opened up opportunities. “That means there is doubt in her. Use it to show her that our path is the only one to salvation, my son. Has she been given the scriptures?”

He gave a nod. “Yes, Father.”

Then the Monk gave him a brief explanation why he had taken you out of the camp last night. To earn your trust and convince you of the benefits to joining them.

“Fey Fire���” Father breathed in quiet shock. “Are you sure?”

He could see the interest in his mentor’s eyes. “Yes, Father.”

The priest placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do what is necessary to gain her trust, show her why her place is here. Become her redeemer.”

The Monk gave a nod.

Father was asking to let an attachment form that would benefit the mission. If this was what was necessary to make Father believe in him again, then this needed to be done.

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[noemitenshi]

What should've been - Troy's revenge

OK so, this here

is absolute bullshit. No way in hell would the person who stabbed his injured hand on enemy’s knife

(gif for your convenience)

be as easily deterred from extracting his revenge as depicted in the first gif (especially since he's so fucking close to finally getting it). So what actually should've happened in this scene* is some iteration of the following.

Troy's revenge

God he was so close, so fucking close to finally avenging his Serena, finally getting his due. Finally… it was all he could think as he dragged Madison towards Serena’s spoiled form. Finally, finally, finally.

God, he felt like he was going crazy with the anticipation of it, so so close now, he could hardly believe it. But it was happening. He was making it happen. Finally, finally. Seconds, really, until Madison would get what was coming to her, until he could watch her being torn apart by his wife that wasn’t his wife anymore.

Even if that turned out to be the last thing he’d ever do – that’s what it felt like with the pain burning white hot in his chest, a beacon of agony, tearing through the entirety of his body, reverberating in his bones, his teeth, his very soul. He paid no mind to it. Couldn’t. It wasn’t important now. The only thing important now was right in front of him, Serena, Serena. His eyes were glued to the shell of her, this distorted, wild thing. No matter how much effort he put into taking care of her, she never again looked right. Not since he watched the life drain from her eyes. And no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t not see his wife in her—

Suddenly the pain became unbearable, driving everything else from him – nothing else existed in him than this pain. No thoughts, no feelings, no goals and wants. For an eyeblink he didn’t even see her anymore, even though his eyes were staring right at her snarling face. Just an eyeblink and he’d almost given in – anything to make this pain stop – but then he could see her again, hazily, chopped, in a way, as if his mind wasn’t working right, but he could see her again and he gritted his teeth, and with a choked shout he stayed right where he was, his hands still on her, dragging her forward, even as she was still twisting the branch in his chest, pulling and tugging, trying to make him stop. He wouldn’t.

He didn’t surrender. Not ever. Not even when the sheer agony caused tears to spill, when every part of him, every fiber of him wanted nothing more than to let go of her, hide and cower until the pain passed. She was shouting now too, with the effort it took her, both of them not able to talk anymore, not in control of their voice anymore, and finally, a howling scream rang out – and at first he wasn’t even sure if it was her or him it was torn from, but his sight didn’t betray him this time, and when he saw flesh being torn from Madison’s neck, then did he finally realize that the pain wasn’t as pronounced anymore, not as all-encompassing – Madison had finally let go of the branch.

He was still holding on to her jacket though, was still holding her close to Serena, while she was thrashing now, limbs flying uncoordinated. It was her in agony now. He stayed right there and watched how she was being devoured, bit for bit, watched as her screams died, turned to gurgling, sobbing, sounds, turned to nothing. Watched as her limbs trembled and twitched until they didn’t. Watched as her face turned unrecognizable, muscle and bone showing. Watched as Serena’s mouth, her face turned a bloodied mess and still bite and chew and tear. Still not satisfied. Never satisfied.

Troy let go. And the pain, the pain he’d ignored by sheer power of will returned and he gasped, sank down, whimpered. Sobbed. Cowered and hid his face and was hurting.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like this, how long he’d let his pain overwhelm him but when he could finally feel, think something else besides it, he heard chewing noises. His gaze sought their origins and he saw that Serena’s form was still straining towards Madison, still tearing flesh where she could reach, though there wasn’t much left, still this groaning, gurgling sounds out of her throat, filling the air.

Suddenly he moved, swift, a reflex maybe, and buried a knife in what had been his wife’s head once. All movement stopped and her corpse sank down.

He cradled her head in his lap, hugging her helplessly, stroking her hair – that wasn’t as silky as he remembered it being – because it wasn’t her, even if it was.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

His hands moved through her hair that wasn’t hers desperately, as if trying to find remnants of her, patting her head sweetly, stroking her cheek, all empty gestures now.

“I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for – not having been there to protect her, not insisting she stay home, not having buried her when she died, letting her turn, using her body as means for revenge…

“God, I’m sorry.”

He was sobbing again – still, his vision blurred by hot tears, dripping down his cheeks. He leaned closer over her, as if wanting to be even nearer to her, or as if to shield her, the sharp pain intensifying, though by now he’d almost grown accustomed to this tortured feeling, his body screaming at him, frantic and terrified.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t stop saying it. Sobbing, blubbering, whimpering and short, panicked breaths interrupting his words until he was hiccuping, wailing. Mourning her.

And now, once he’d started, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop. Didn’t think he’d ever feel alright again. How could he when his wife lay dead in his arms – while he was alive. There was no denying that, the pain tearing at him unmistakable proof of it.

He was alive while she was dead, what a travesty! It should’ve been him, it should’ve been him.

Why wasn’t it ever him?

Why did he keep surviving the people he wanted to protect?

Why couldn’t it be him?!

He didn’t know how long he stayed like this, uselessly caressing his dead wife, his hands not able to stop – they remembered, too – while his body was wracked by grief, unable to speak anymore.

And though he thought he wanted nothing more to join his Serena, the second Madison stirred, letting inhuman sounds escape, he was startled into motion, eyes landing on her hammer while he scrambled to his feet and he didn’t hesitate to smash her legs – he wouldn’t be fast enough to escape like he was – and he’d be damned if he let her rest in peace. She didn’t deserve that. Crawling on the ground in perpetual hunger sounded just about right for her.

Then he took Serena in his arms, gently, gently, finding her a last resting place, every step poor agony, every scoop with the shovel dousing him in flames, ruthless and cruel.

But he persevered. He always did. He always would.

When he finally lowered her down his hands tightened around her and almost didn’t let go—

But he did. He let her sink into the earth, started covering her with it, shovelful by shovelful.

Soon he couldn’t see her anymore but he continued, dutifully making sure she wouldn’t be disturbed. He let her go because he had to. He wasn’t done yet. He was still needed. Tracy still needed him.

And with one last look at his wife’s grave stone

he turned to go get his daughter back.

-The end-

*that the scene shouldn’t exist *at all* because Tracy begging like this

should’ve been enough motivation for Troy to free himself earlier is another thing entirely...

[corrodxdcoffin]

Did Daniel Sharmans character get a happy ending in every man for himself?

He did!!!! Well, as happy as he could. He lost his wife, daughter, and someone he considered a friend and his hat, but he wasn't put back in jail and he's free from the influence of his former friend/cellmate and the constant scrutiny from his wife!!!

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Horizons to Battlegrounds Masterlist

Read it on Ao3 Here!

Next Chapter

Summary; Out on the road a gravely injured Weeping Monk reflects on the events of the past day after betraying the church, defeating the Trinity Guard, and fleeing with a young Fey boy and unconscious Green Knight...

TWs; Major character injury, pain, religious guilt, battle, internal injury, broken bones

Wordcount; 3,902

POV; Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

-———}~ • ~{——

A gust of wind brought with it the promise of change.

Rising up across open moorlands the breeze carried scents of a season quickly turning, a cold Autumn drawing in as Summer began to rescind her fierce control of the land. She had not yet bowed to the golden leaves and crisp mornings that warned the land of Winter on its way, and so the air was mild and pleasant, quiet and calm. This peace was gradually interrupted by the slow and rhythmic clattering of hooves as two weary horses emerged from the swell of a hill to the west. They wandered steadily along the lonely gravel path that split the vast moors in two.

The leading horse was a large, muscular Stallion; He was black of coat and tall for his Courser breed- a good 15 hands- lightly armoured, with dark leather blinders intricately decorated and a matching worn saddle and blanket. On his back rode a disheveled, heavily bloodied rider, dressed all in black with a young boy at his lap. Both were quiet, as if afraid to further disrupt the tranquility of this late morning than their mere presence here did already.

The pair looked for all the world like they had been pulled through one of the heathland's colourful hedges of gorse and bramble five times backwards.

The young boy was bleary-eyed with a scrape and a bruise and a lightly blooded nose, his lip was split and puffy, and one of his eyes was bruising. The Rider, on the other hand... had they indeed been dragged through the hedges then his had definitely fought back, and with a great many thorns too by the looks of it.

Dried blood stained his face, bruising painted purple what visible skin wasn't just a little too pale to be considered healthy. His left arm was clamped to his side in some futile effort to stem bleeding, a widening stain of crimson steadily darkening the fabric of his battered black suede surcoat. His body seemed curled around this injury though it was far from the only one he had, and he used an evidently practiced effort to keep his oddly crimson-Ash-marked face stoic. The emotionless mask slipped all the same with a pained grimace at every other jolt of the Stallion's hooves.

From a lead rope tied over the Stallion's neck was secured the second horse. She was relatively young, though full grown, and like the Stallion, a Courser. A diminutive thing in comparison to him, though an arguably more reasonable example of her breed, she stood at around 13 hands with a lithe build. Her Chestnut coat shone with a healthy luster, that is, what parts of her that weren't stained dark with mud from the path and far too much blood that was not her own. She snorted irritably, tossing her long copper-brown mane at the joining rope that clipped to her simple bitless halter.

A plain saddle matched the worn brown leather of the straps, sat upon a red blanket that may or may not have been another colour before it was bled on profusely. Unlike the black Stallion she had no saddlebags, instead, she carried a far more precious cargo; for draped across her back was a Fey man. He was unconscious, beaten and broken, covered in another blanket which too was stained with blood, and he had been hog-tied to the saddle with rope. The Stallion's Rider cast a careful look over the limp body dangling over the saddle for at least the 50th time this hour alone. He silently noted the faint but sure rise and fall of The Green Knight's chest, allowing a rush of relief to tug at the edges of his mouth.

Still alive, then. Good. The Weeping Monk thought to himself, though his mind was hazy and sluggish from the pain of his many injuries. Again, he scanned a careful eye back over the path ahead as he had done repeatedly now, anxious to ensure there was no danger, feeling exposed here out on the path but without knowledge enough of these moors to risk straying from the road. What offered them steady travel also brought the risk of being caught, he knew. Yet after another several minutes of suspiciously glaring hedges into submission there was nothing of note but the rolling moorlands stretching wide across the horizon, and the only scents he could catch on the breeze were cool air and the unmistakable tang of his own blood.

The latter he probably shouldn’t have drawn attention to. Now that he had it seemed overwhelming, this thick coppery stench that began to combine with sweat and horse and God only knew what else to send his empty stomach roiling in complaint.

He coughed involuntarily, nearly retching at the smell. Immediately he regretted the movement as a sharp, stabbing sensation grated through his side with enough strength to blacken his vision momentarily and force him to hold his breath lest he scream. Bloody knuckles whitened around his horse's reins, gripping the leather like a drowning man clinging to driftwood floating at sea, and The Weeping Monk was all but overcome with the powerful resurgence of this all-encompassing, mind-numbing pain...

God help me…

It became inordinately difficult to even think as this blanket of fog descended on him. His body burned and ached, and though it had done so for hours this sharp pain caught him so off guard that it was all he could do not to voice the agony surging through him aloud, not a single wretched part of him spared its suffocating grasp. He couldn't mask the silent, pained snarl that twisted his expression as his Stallion once more jarred him on the uneven ground just as he began to regain his composure.

Silently, he took a shaky breath to calm himself.

Breathe. You're fine.

He almost wanted to laugh at the thought; Fine was surely a generous statement. Without having even checked yet, he guessed that he had at the very least several broken bones, a myriad of lacerations, more bruises than he could count, and there were several other places that just. Fucking. Ached. It made every stride a hellish torment regardless of if his trusty horse was surefooted or not.

You have endured worse than this before.

Indeed, The Weeping Monk knew well that he could tolerate this sort of treatment from far too much past experience in enduring terrible suffering. This particular example still tiptoed further and further over his resilience with an increasing severity as the hours slipped by.

And in truth, they had been riding for hours. The Monk had admittedly been barely conscious for much of the night during the ride, having been dragged awake by the Fey boy in front of him only when he nearly fell from his horse, which had been at least seven times too many, and those were only the instances that he could remember. (If you'd asked the boy he would have informed you that it was more like fifteen. At least.)

They'd stopped once just before dawn, otherwise having ridden constantly throughout the night and morning since fleeing The King's encampment until now. It had been only a momentary pause when they had stopped, he reflected, and a brief and unfulfilling respite at that.

The Weeping Monk probably would not have chosen to stop, himself, a stubborn determination that continued lending him the strength to carry on far beyond what he should have. Nay, it was the boy who had been the one to demand a rest so he could relieve himself, with a rather barbed threat to do so where he sat if The Weeping Monk refused. The Monk had reluctantly agreed, having very little desire to deal with either that particularly unappealing scenario, or the joys of a complaining child in general, for that matter…

-———}~ • ~{——

When The Weeping Monk had gone to relieve himself in turn, his waters had been stained dark with blood and he had nearly collapsed from the stabbings of utterly crippling pain and nausea that had twisted brutally like a knife in his abdomen. He'd spent a good few minutes on his hands and knees, brow slicked with sweat, trying in near pathetic desperation not to vomit. It had taken him an inordinate amount of effort for him to regain his composure, energy he knew he really couldn't afford to spare, but he had in the end managed to succeed in not emptying his stomach of what little would even be left in it. He was quite acutely aware the action alone would have made him scream. Thankfully enough the Boy had given him privacy and had been busy sorting the horses a little ways out so hadn't noticed, and, if he had then seen the Monk's discomfort when he returned then he hadn't voiced it aloud. In fact, he hadn't said anything at all. The Monk had been equally silent in his gratefulness of it.

As he'd proceeded to check on the Knight, the Boy had watched him like a hawk with an aggressively suspicious look pinching his small features, but again made no comment.

They had been quick to return to the road afterwards.

The thought that the Boy was probably only so quiet from sheer exhaustion had stuck in his mind winding round and round like a nagging worm in his skull after this morning's stop, and so, despite his own fatigue and a fierce need to rest the Monk had encouraged the shattered Boy to do just that, taking over the reins in full without complaint. It had taken more willpower and focus than he liked to ignore every agony that flared within his body, keeping himself as awake and alert as he possibly could.

The Boy, meanwhile, had accepted with an almost dazed nod of his head. He had fallen asleep quickly, still without a word, and once asleep he'd snuggled into the Weeping Monk's side and clung to his surcoat like a limpet to a hull. It was both endearing and excruciating to him as the child unconsciously aggravated still bleeding wounds and broken bones, yet the Monk hadn't known how to react but to wordlessly allow it to happen.

Even now, reflecting on the memory as he was, his heart thrummed with a warm and soothing sensation The Weeping Monk just couldn't place.

The Monk had felt oddly compelled to wrap the Boy in his grey woolen cloak to keep him warm and when he'd still felt the child shiver in the cold dawn, he'd cradled him protectively in his right arm.

Never before had the feared Weeping Monk known a touch like this. It was one of comfort and trust and closeness, and so if he breathed through it and focused on the warmth of the child nestled against him, then the pain was just about bearable... Just. As time went on, though, breathing had become difficult. The pain had in fact been so severe, that with every breath he had taken, he'd begun to wheeze painfully.

When the Boy had woken he had anxiously muttered a few choice swear words and moved away as much as the limited saddle space would allow. He hadn't seemed to notice the blood that had stained into his clothing from leaning against the Monk's injured side, and the Monk, for his part, was momentarily relieved he could breathe a little easier. Strangely enough came the near immediate realisation that his touch-starved body seemed to mourn the loss of contact...

The Weeping Monk shook his head, trying to distract himself from this idea. No longer lost in his thoughts, the pain stabbing through him offered itself immediately for the role and it took great effort to keep it at bay. He could feel how his body shook with fatigue as this torment took its toll.

-———}~ • ~{——

As if echoing the sentiment, the Boy yawned loudly in front of him. It had been an hour or so since the Boy had awoken--

--The Boy? Quite suddenly came the realisation that he had no idea what the child was even called. Or the Green Knight, for that matter. He knew he'd heard at least one of their actual names spoken before, in fact he was certain he should know the Knight's for sure, but what... what were they...?

A snippet of remembrance, yes, the young Fey warriors he'd used the Boy to bait back in the Iron Wood had called him something...

Josse? No... that was the one he'd killed. It began with an S... Seth? No... Serrel? Sorrel? For the life of him he couldn't remember what either one of these irritatingly elusive names actually was.

Why is it so fucking difficult to think?

"What was your name, Boy?" The Monk asked, daring to break the silence to speak his question. His low voice was hoarse and cracked, immediately betraying his poor condition aloud.

"Squirrel." Came the quick response. The Boy's voice was sullen but level and clear. He had thankfully escaped the sort of damage that had the Knight unconscious and himself suffering. The Monk paused at the answer, smiling lightly. He'd been close with Sorrel then, but just like his own monikers- The Weeping Monk, The One Who Cries, The Grey Warrior, Ashman - he recognised the false name.

"A Squirrel is an animal..." The Monk stated, pausing to take a breath, already, the speaking alone was draining him and he had to gather strength to continue "...What is the name you were given?"

"I don't like that name," Squirrel said, looking away almost petulantly. The Weeping Monk pondered this for a second. His brain was sluggish and slow, pain again dominating the majority of his thoughts, and Lord, it was difficult to even focus on what the Boy had said.

"Well... It's still your name..." He felt himself respond, leaving his words hanging in the air like an unspoken question though he didn't directly ask again. The agony lancing through him was swiftly sapping him of what little he had left.

"Fine..." Squirrel huffed, pulling a face. Even from behind the Monk noticed it. "...It's Percival."

"Percival..." The Monk echoed in a breath, allowing himself another smile. He may not like it, but it is a good name, he thought to himself. A good name, for a courageous young Fey.

"Do you… have a real name?" Squirrel asked, and The Weeping Monk took an anticipatory breath. He ignored the sharp stab of pain, the sensation in his injured side like he was actively being attacked again. He probably should have anticipated that question. Or perhaps he'd asked the Boy's name on purpose, subconsciously wanting the Boy to ask after his, he wasn't fully sure...

Unbidden, memories of his childhood- before the slaughter- came to him. He could not truly remember the face of his mother anymore, nor could he remember her voice, but he could remember his name and knew well enough that it was she who had given it to him. It was a name he sometimes whispered aloud when he was alone at night, a name that didn't feel like his own and hadn't for years, yet he still held onto like a secret, prized possession. A name he knew he must reclaim, for no matter what happened next, The Weeping Monk could surely not endure.

"Lancelot..." He finally said, inhaling again to gather his waning strength in the face of this quiet admission. "...A long time ago, my name was Lancelot."

A disconcerting feeling enveloped him when he spoke the name aloud, the oddest sense of... relief, perhaps? that mingled with a prickling unease. Yet at the same time, nothing had changed, nothing at all. All he truly knew was that it somehow felt...

Yes. It felt right to return to this name now.

The Boy, Squirrel, regarded him for a moment. He gave the slightest nod to acknowledge The Weeping Monk's "new" name, before he turned away without another word and studied the Knight and the horizon before them. Whatever Lancelot had been expecting in terms of a reaction he wasn't entirely sure that was it. Better than a worse reaction, he supposed, raising his eyebrows in his own silent acknowledgement.

And so they were quiet once more, both lost in the private solaces of their own minds. In truth Lancelot was too bone-weary to strike up any further conversation right now- not that he was particularly prone to that anyway.

It still took him far longer than he thought it should have to recognise that Squirrel was still being uncharacteristically quiet. It was quite unlike the last journey the pair had taken together in which Lancelot was fairly certain the child hadn't stopped talking for even five solid minutes. He remembered that he'd used Squirrel's utter inability to fucking Shut Up to his advantage by patrolling the boy through the forest, Squirrel playing his unwitting part as bait extraordinarily well. The barest hint of a smile edged the pained grimace upon his face as he recalled the boy spending an inordinate amount of the time talking on insulting him. Pretty damned inventively too, the Monk had to admit...

Ex-Monk now, he supposed. His tonsure seemed to prickle in response, and God, not for the first time he had an almost overwhelming desire to carve it from his head. Not that he physically could, he knew well enough that it was too deeply branded.

Pity...

Before his mind could wander down the specific circumstances of his unconsentual branding or the all too appealing idea of harming himself, he focused on the scents on the wind, on the scenery around them, on the pain of his injuries and keeping them navigated the right way. His Stallion, Goliath, would lead them well without his interference, but Goliath didn't quite have his ability to scent enemies or allies.

Not that you know which is which anymore... Lancelot shook his head against the thought. He didn't particularly want to face the reality of that situation either just yet.

Finding his pain still too overpowering when he focused on it, he distanced his body from his mind as best he could and forced himself to reflect on the events of the past day that had led them here instead.

Percival, Squirrel, whatever he wished to be called, had been uncharacteristically quiet back then, too, as The Weeping Monk had marched them both through Father's Carden's encampment. As they'd approached the horses the child had broken the uneasy silence to protest.

-———}~ • ~{——

"No! Where are you taking me!"

Squirrel had begun struggling, standing so firm his small feet carved furrows into the ground against the Monk's firm grip; the latter had restored to dragging them both towards their freedom like cuffing a young animal.

"No! We have to go back! The Green Knight! We must save him!"

The Weeping Monk had found himself halting at the mention of the Green Knight. His mind flooded with the memory of those kind, empathetic eyes, of that fucking look the Knight had given him, a look that had been haunting him like a tenacious ghost since their… enlightening conversation in the torture tent…

"Where did they take him," The Monk remembered replying.

No, what are you doing? Flee, now, or they'll catch you!

He remembered too the voices in his mind, yet The Monk had ignored his internal warring then, just as he ignored it now.

"To Nimue! We have to-"

"...Nimue?"

"The Fey Queen!"

"The Wolf Blood Witch..."

He'd spoken it as barely a whisper, yet still Squirrel had pulled an indignant face at his use of her moniker.

For some Godforsaken reason that he could not explain, he'd found himself saying yes...

He'd tracked the Green Knight's bloodied scent all the way from the Red Paladin encampment to a lone tent in King Uther's, sneaking past the majority of soldiers, finding the way suspiciously clear and a rising tension that crackled through the air like thunder…

When he entered the tent he'd immediately been struck with a second familiar scent, that of the Fey girl who had evaded him for so long... The Wolf Blood Witch. This scent was young and mingled with Brothers he recognised, she'd clearly only left within the last few minutes, dragged out against her will by Red Paladins from the look of the scuff-marks on the floor. But his attention was pulled quickly from the innate desire to follow those tracks by the shape of a body, encased with living, writhing vines.

Blessed Mother Mary... What sorcery was this?

"Green Knight...?" The child had asked, small voice trembling with fear.

The Weeping Monk had knelt at the side of this strange cocoon. This was the Witch's doing, of that he had no doubt, but beneath the stench of magic he could indeed smell The Green Knight. The Monk had pulled a hand through the vines, a warm, soothing sensation dancing across his skin as he had, and unbidden against his will his skin had reacted, swirling with the colours of these vines whilst he revealed the man lying beneath. Squirrel hadn't noticed, too intent on pawing over the Knight, who's broad chest lay still. Too still.

Leaning back on his haunches, The Weeping Monk hid his hands in his lap and waited silently without much hope for the man to breathe. He would allow the boy a short moment to grieve before fleeing this place.

"Wake up, Sir! Please, please wake up..."

And just as The Monk moved to step forwards and drag the boy from his fallen leader, The Green Knight’s emerald eyes had flown open as he gasped a breath...

A pain as sharp as a stab from a blade cut through these ruminations, throwing his shattered body, mind, soul down down down into the darkest depths of these recent memories.

...Blows rained down upon The Weeping Monk, adrenaline seeping from him as crimson splattered across the floor and he was driven to his knees. Golden death-masks leered in his face, a strike to the side of his head sent the whole world spinning and he lurched from it, gasping, before a second strike to his jaw snapped his head back painfully. He felt rather than saw his own blood spray forth, warm and wet where it oozed down his face and neck as he sunk limply to the floor, this broken toy that coughed and wheezed from the agony in his side and back, spitting out the hot blood that collected in his mouth before he choked...

...The rest of the battle faded into a haze of pain, the moment that he waited to die... The moment he forced his broken body upright, to save the Boy who had shown him why he must carry on... The moment he raised his sword to a cowed Abbot Wicklow- a deadly promise that he intended to keep...

The moorlands before him loomed into his darkening vision. Horizons turned into battlegrounds, the terrible clash of war painted the skies and fields around them in rivers of crimson, the stench of blood flooded Lancelot's senses. He watched Goliath's hooves splash into these waves steadily rising, felt them lapping at his feet, thighs, chest, he breathed it into his lungs, drowning now, choking, helpless to do a thing but watch this vision fading to an engulfing sea of red...

-———}~ • ~{——

Taglist; @holy3cake @violetastrid @gwalch-mei @beginning-writer

Just ask to be added or removed from the taglist!

Chapter 1 done! Thanks for reading, let me know if you enjoyed this :) Chapter 2 coming soon, I won't be updating incredibly regularly but I am on the final edits for Chapter's 1-4. Edit; Chapter 4 deleted itself and my life went mental but I promise these are in progress!

Chapter 2 has been posted now, find it [here]

[escapist-of-fiction]

Title: Let the games begin

Ch2: One Small Decision

Setting: Post-Ranch, pre-apocalypse full collapse

Characters: Troy Otto, Evie (OC), Jake Otto (mentioned)

Word Count: ~1,500

(I do not own the Gif)

I'm back - read, enjoy, comment/reblog. Share the love ❤

E x

The engine coughed once, then gave up entirely.

Troy slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, muttering curses that didn’t do much to change the fact that they were dead in the water. Or worse—dead in the dust, with a herd of the undead dragging their rotting limbs just a few miles out.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Evie said, already slinging her pack over her shoulder.

He looked at her sideways, lips twitching into a smirk. “If I were kidding, I’d say something like, ‘Hey Evie, wanna take a scenic tour of corpse country?’”

Evie didn’t respond, just opened the passenger side door and hit the ground running.

The diner was the only thing left standing on a forgotten stretch of road. Roof half caved in, counters still sticky with ancient syrup. Booths gutted. A sign out front swinging lazily in the breeze, creaking like it was mourning something.

They made it inside just as the first walkers appeared on the horizon.

Evie was breathing hard, hands on her knees, her pack thudding onto the floor. Troy bolted the door behind them, then turned toward her, expression shifting from adrenaline-high to something sharper.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

She looked down. Blood was soaking through her jeans, just above her knee. A nasty gash, probably from the crash through the diner’s broken window.

“I’m fine,” she said automatically.

“You’re not,” he shot back, already digging through his pack. “Sit. You don’t argue with the person holding the gauze.”

Evie narrowed her eyes but sat on the cracked leather of a booth anyway, trying not to wince as she pulled her jeans up enough to expose the wound.

Troy knelt in front of her, surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the cut. She watched him in silence, noting the concentration in his eyes, the way he pressed his lips together in thought—not frustration, but care. There was something disarming about it. Something real.

“You ever done this before?” she asked.

He didn’t look up. “Got hurt enough times to learn.”

“And here I thought you just bounced off the walls like some indestructible pinball.”

That earned her a ghost of a grin. “I’m flattered.”

He wrapped the bandage tighter than it probably needed to be. She hissed, but didn’t pull away.

Silence fell between them after that. Not uncomfortable—just heavy. Weighted. They sat back-to-back against the wall, sharing a canteen, listening to the groans of the dead outside.

Evie caught herself glancing at him more than once. Noticing things she hadn’t before. The way his eyes softened in the dark. How his leg brushed against hers and neither of them moved away.

“I used to hate guys like you,” she said eventually.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Too much swagger. Too little filter. Full-time chaos generator.”

He chuckled. “Used to?”

She shrugged. “I’m still deciding.”

They both laughed—quiet, almost disbelieving. Like they weren’t supposed to have moments like this anymore. Like softness was dangerous now.

Somewhere past midnight, they both drifted. Evie’s head found his shoulder, and Troy didn’t move. He just sat there, breathing slow, eyes open, listening.

When Jake and the others found them the next morning, they were still like that—half-asleep, dried blood and dirt between them, but something new too. A shift.

Jake’s eyes flicked between them. He didn’t say anything, but the look was enough.

Later, when they were back at the Ranch and the dust had settled, Evie watched Troy walk away from the truck without a word. She wasn’t sure what she expected.

But he turned, just before disappearing into the barracks.

And smiled.

Tags

[insom-nom-nom-niatic]

2 Of A Kind

CHARACTERS: Troy Otto X Fem Reader

WARNINGS: It's made for FTWD so you should know the basics. +Abuse but not really but you can't know that yet

This is made for THIS anon request!

I don't typically write long fics, but this idea has me needing a whole story so it will be in 2-3 chapters!

It is also un-edited other than by my own tired eyes so things could be wrong... punctuation may be off... who knows but let's just say it was planned chaos and if you find it then good for you and you can get a black star.

Rocks shuffle under the heft of Troy’s boots along the twisting and turning of the back road he somehow stumbled upon. 

It had been just over 2 months since his exodus from the ranch. 

2 months of wondering aimlessly. 

2 months of anger building up, only to fizzle into starvation. Starvation in the physical sense, but Troy had never thought he would ever feel the starvation for being a person again. To have a home, or a need, or someone (anyone) to talk to. He was always a bit of an outcast knowing he hadn’t been anyone’s favorite or even friend once Mike left, if he ever was a friend at all. 

His feet, trembling from the pain he kept pushing through, trembled in his boots. Icy eyes watching the path finally glanced up, squinting in the setting sun as he peered through long eyelashes. A cabin was dead ahead, not even 100 meters away making his heart pound in his chest as he let out a deep, gutteral chuckle. 

Nothing. Nothing is all he had seen for miles upon miles of desert and the occasional tree sparing little to no shade. What a time for his luck to turn around. The cabin seemed free of both the dead and alive as he closed the distance, doing what he could to stealth up to the wooden building. Blood splattered most of the exterior walls, always accompanied by a few bullet holes littering the cabin… but there were no signs of the dead nor the alive. 

With his gun raised, Troy slowly turned to the knob on the back door pushing the wooden plank open with the tip of his boot. He waited a few heartbeats before entering. 

Ther were no sounds. 

No smells.

No signs of life. 

As he entered, Troy sighed. His lips turning into a grin at what he found before him. The place was decrepit but it was clean. He walked over, gun hanging by his side as he looked over the photos still barely hanging on the walls. This place must be from the early 1800’’s at least. 

Checking the cupboards, he came across a few gallons of water hidden in what used to be the pantry. His gun clattered onto the wooden floor at his feet when he rushed to open the jug closest to him. Dying of thirst, Troy savored every drop he swallowed, spilling some in a stream down his chest. Welcoming the cool moisture to his overheating and over exhausted skin. 

The sound of a shotgun pump made his chest fall, freezing in place. Taking the jug from his lips his blue eyes searched beside him before a voice cleared directly behind him. His face was still, unwavering, as he slowly placed the jug back in the cupboard and raised both arms. 

“Kick it to your right,” the voice spoke up. It was a woman’s voice that spoke to him and he could tell by the tone, she wasn’t playing games. So he did as she asked. Troy kicked the gun at his feet to his left, watching as it clamered against the wall. His eyes examined the wall higher where an old copper plate hung. He could clearly see the woman now. 

“I didn’t know anyone was here. I don’t mean to intrude ma’am, I just needed a place to get out of the sun for a little.” Troy kept his head low, peering through his eyelashes when he oh so slowly turned in place. The woman kept her stare but allowed him to do so. 

“I’m not from around here,” Troy thought for a moment before continuing, “I don’t think. I’ve been walking for ever and this is the first place I’ve come across that is still standing.” 

The woman’s grip on the weapon tightens. Her neck stretches to the side before aligning again. Troy notices a long scar, seems to be healed, trailing from one eyebrow down to her jawline where her hair flows in front of. Something about her makes him not feel as uneasy as one should whist being held at gunpoint, so he lowers one hand to test the waters. 

“You can’t stay here.” The woman glares at him as he relaxes a bit. It’s then that Troy notices the scars up one of her arms before his eyes catch the newly formed line of blood across her neck. 

The woman shifts her hands to  move her hair to cover her injury, giving Troy the oportunity to grab the gun in her hands. He had to admit that she pput up a fight, but he was twice her size. She assumed she’d now be the threatened, but Troy simply looked the weapon over, smiling at the way she must have kept it clean and in good working order, before placing it upon the counter behind him. 

Troy turned back to the woman, hands now on her hips as she gives him a questionable glare. 

“I can’t stay here because I’m in danger of you,” Troy straightened his stance eyeing her neck befire meeting her glare once more “or of the person who did that to you?”

Suddenly, the mood shifted. The woman slunk her shoulders back, dipping her chin slightly to grin up at the brunette infront of her. “Both. I can handle myself, mister. And I don’t need any fuck-boy to get in my way when they do come back.” 

Troy was taken aback, quietly chuckling at the spitfire he had unfortunately come across. But he was still who he has always been. Being at the ranch or not didn’t change that. 

As the woman opened the door for him to leave, Troy took a step back. Glancing up at the roof, already half fallen in shambles. And then to the walls, or what there was left of them. He could audibly hear the woman grumble and scoff, the floor boards below her feet creaking with every step she took closer to him until he heard her reach for the shotgun. 

“By the look of that blood dripping down your neck and the scars on your arms, you sure do look like you have everything handled.” Troy’s voice echoed as he stepped into the living area… or what would have been. 

“I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself ma’am,” Troy opens the door to the bedroom, facing a dresser covered will all sorts of knives and daggers cleaned and sharpened. Troy swallowed hard before turning back to the woman standing at the other side of the hall now. “I need help, and you seem to need a little as well. It doesn’t have to be forever, ma’am. Let me get on my feet and keep that man away from you and I’ll be out of your hair.”

His cold blue eyes struck a nerve in the woman. She wanted to shoot him then and there, but then she’d have a bloody mess to clean and she’s already found out how hard it is to get brain matter out of wooden walls. The way he talked, the pain and exhaustion in his eyes though made her release her weapon. 

Her eyes stuck on him as she saw his tension release. 

“It’s not a man… it’s many.” 

Troy’s face contorted at the information, looking at her through a side eyes she closed the gap between them, shutting the bedroom closed with a loud clammer. He was able to see the wound on her neck more clearly however, and the dried blood that stained her knuckles. His heart jumped and cheeks flushed  when she spun against his chest, ushering him back towards the living area.Her hands small but lighting pressing into his back.

She didn’t give anymore information that night, she was quiet but kind. He tried asking questions about the house but to each inquiry all returned was a look of intimidation. 

Troy awoke to the sun shining through the small windowcoverings on the east side of the cabin. Rustling with a groan, he wiped the sleep from his eyes. He had forgotten the comfortorts of a home, even though he had only fallen asleep on the torn up sofa. He didn’t feel that uneasy jostling of having to check your surroundings at every moment, he could sit there and take in the comfort… the safety. He then remembered he wasn’t alone. 

As Troy rose to his feet, he waited to hear any sign of the woman but there was nothing. He searched the bathroom and then bedroom, finding nothing but a heap of sheets and a lizard scurrying down the drain. Troy couldn’t help but run his hand down one of the hunting knives displayed on the dresser. He could hear the sound of the blade skimming his calloused skin with a grin. 

Making his way back to the pantry, his face lit up with the joy of once again having clean, uncontaminated water. As he threw open the pantry door, he was left with a single 1/6th of a jug in front of him. Scoffing into the air, Troy took the jug in his grips and slowly drank the remnants turning towards the window above the sink. Removing the plastic from his cracked lips, Troy narrowed his gaze as he caught movement outside the cabin. 

With a creak, door swung open and the woman came prancing in. Both stood in the kitchen, face to face in silence for what seemed like ever before she finally spoke up. 

“So you found the water, eh?” She passed by him with a smug smirks marked on her lips. Bouncing down on the couch and removing her boots, she looked over her shoulder at Troy, still standing silently. “I couldn’t trust you while I was out, sorry but not sorry.” She threw her military grade boots against the wall near the door. 

Troy couldn’t helpthe miniscule smile that grew to the left corner of his lips. He didn’t like this woman, but he didn’t hate her either. He was weirdly amused and proud of the witt she had. It was becoming more clear how she’s continued to survive this long. 

His boots clanked and creaked on the floors as he went to inspect her own, kicking one to the side to get it out of the emergency exit path. “Where did you go? Hunting?” He said with sarcasm looking at her boots caked with sand, dirt, and drips of what he is now figuring out may be blood. 

“Yeah, actually.”

“Come back with anything to eat? Squirrel maybe? Rabbit?” 

“I don’t think you want to eat what I hunt fuck-boy. Unless that suits your fancy, in which case, there’s a while ass feast about a half mile North.” Troy sighed at her little nick name for him, but soon grew more intrigued by her option of hobby. He could hear the snicker she muffled as she got up and headed towards the bathroom.

 Without a thought… he followed.

[baezen]

a perilous place masterlist

ISAAC LAHEY X OFC PRINCESS!ALEXIA

JACK THE GIANT SLAYER!AU

summary: in which the once sought after magic beans that the Dread Doctors of Beaconia once crafted have found their way into the hands of an orphaned peasant boy who opens a gateway between the worlds. warnings: violence, revenge, treachery, gruesome deaths, word count: [tbd]

prompt: jack and the beanstalk + petrichor for @arcane-vagabond fairytale writing challenge

author's note: this is basically a rewrite of the jack the giant slayer movie don't come for me

coming soon | masterlist

other content:

moodboard

[usermiczyeis]

At the request of fans, Jeff Davis decides to make a one-season series for the character Stiles Stilinski.

The series takes place in an FBI agency, where Stiles solves "normal" but also supernatural cases. the series also features characters such as Isaac, Theo and Kira, fans were surprised by Kira's appearance, Jeff apologized for the racism she suffered.

The series ends up being very successful due to the scenes with Stiles and Theo, the sexual tension between the characters ended up being multiplied many times more than it was in the series.

So much so that the entire cast shipped them both, even Jeff, but no one shipped them more than Cody and Dylan.

Stheo's fans went crazy, especially since the last episode ended up having a kiss between them. but in addition to the romance between Theo and Stiles, a romance also developed between Dylan and Cody.

[perseephoneee]

ice skating [ficmas day 7] [isaac lahey x reader]

↳ masterlist ↳ ship exchange ↳ taglist ↳ ficmas 2024

anonymous: I saw your post about ficmas 24. can you please write smth with Isaac and ice skating?

author's note: i went ice skating with @muffinbeliever and it was so terrifying all i did was almost cry

playlist:

the moon will sing -- the crane wives

i'll be home for christmas -- she & him

gold rush -- taylor swift

Beacon Hills officially had a high school hockey team.

You don’t remember when Coach Finstock lost his mind, but you assume it’s been a long time coming. It’s the only explanation for why he thinks this would be a good idea.

Especially since his ‘hockey team’ is just his lacrosse team on skates. Many of them can’t even skate. You’re unsure how he coerced the team to even participate. 

“This is painful,” Allison commented, and you had to agree. You both accompanied Scott and Stiles to hockey practice, Allison to see her boyfriend, and you to get a free ride. You still didn’t have a car (you hoped to fix that soon).

You watched Stiles fall face first.

“It’s pretty awful,” you hissed, watching another teammate crash into the wall. “I kinda want popcorn.”

“Me too.”

You both were heathens.

Danny was reasonably competent and would be very solid with a few more practices. The other surprising one was Isaac, who was skating laps around everyone. Scott wasn’t falling, but he wasn’t confident either. Werewolf instincts meant jack shit in the face of skating.

“Did he just do a little hop and a skip?” You remarked as you watched Isaac. You couldn’t help but watch Isaac. He was aloof and not amazing at conversations, but he was alluring. Maybe it was the jawline or his eyes. You were unsure. Sometimes, he’d take Scott’s bike to school when Scott rode with Stiles, and sometimes, he’d drive you home. Those were your favorite days.

“He’s ridiculous,” Allison chuckled as Isaac continued to show off. He and Danny were playing their own game of hockey at this point. You didn’t want to look at what Stiles was doing; it made you sad. Allison turned to you. “Ten bucks says Stiles, knocking over Scott.”

“You’re on, Argent.”

You were $10 richer by the end of practice, in large part thanks to the fact that a conga line of lacrosse-turned-hockey players took out Scott, who then wiped out Stiles. It was inherently painful but insanely funny. At least the ice rink had concessions. You were sipping a blue slushie when the boys came out, broken and battered.

“I want to be eaten by a wolf,” Stiles sighed. A bruise was forming on his arm. 

“Sure, but it’s not going to remedy the fact you can’t skate,” you chuckled. He glared at you.

“You’re not funny.”

You sipped your slushie, hiding your laugh. Isaac came out a few seconds later. His hair was slightly damp, and it looked like he had run through the rain. It was way too sexy and made your stomach turn. He waved in greeting.

“What flavor?” He inquired, pointing to your cup. You stuck out your tongue to show the blue dye. He just nodded. 

“Isaac, can you take Y/N home? Allison and I were heading to Stiles,” Scott asks, tossing his keys to the beta. He catches them quickly. Isaac nods, not bothered, but it doesn’t stop you from worrying you were a burden. Not that he’d ever tell you that you were. 

The night air was crisp as you climbed behind him on the bike. He always gave you the helmet, even though you should both have them. He argued he could heal. You couldn’t fault his logic. 

You were on your way a little later, arms tight around his middle as you savored the few moments you could pretend to be his.

Isaac started to slow down, and you lifted your head to ask why, but he shushed you. You slowed to an idle, barely fast enough to stay up. His proverbial wolf ears perked up. He decided a split second later, quickly swinging the bike around and taking off much quicker than before. 

You yelped as you gripped him tighter. You could hear engines behind you, which did not bode well. He went off-road, starting to serve through side streets in a way that made you nauseous. A shot rang out.

You had nowhere to hide as more bullets were fired. Isaac quickly turned, the bike screeching. He launched you both off of it, covering your body with his as the asphalt cut into your skin. You wanted to cry out but didn’t. Not when you were more concerned about finding safety. Isaac gripped your hand, dragging you to the backdoor of a building. He tore off the handle and shoved you in.

The alcove was small, and you pressed up against him as he looked out the window, watching your pursuers run by. A few seconds later, you both let out long breaths. 

Isaac relaxed against the wall, grimacing. That’s when you noticed the patch of blood blooming from his flank. You stifled a screech.

“Isaac—“

“Is there first aid?” He coughed, looking around the room you were in. It was the kitchen of a diner. You went through five cabinets before finding first aid. It wasn’t much, but you made do. You were too distracted by his wound to process his shirtlessness.

The bullet wasn’t deep, or maybe it had been, and his healing pushed it out. You weren’t sure. Your minimal nursing skills came in handy as you bandaged him up. He might be able to survive, but it wasn’t painless. 

When you were done, you made him swallow some ibuprofen. Your hands wrapped gauze around his middle, hiding an obnoxiously sculpted chest from you. Fucking werewolves.

Isaac’s eyes traced your face, a frown marring his expression. He traced your arm with a finger, and you hissed in pain as he found the fracture that you had been trying to hide. He was on you in a second.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“My wound isn’t bad like yours,” you protested. Isaac took his discarded shirt and tore it into cotton strips. He fashioned a makeshift cast for you before cleaning up your arm. You realized it was the most tender moment the two of you have had. He took some cotton balls and wiped some blood off your temple. 

“I didn’t know you could skate,” you murmured, breaking the silence. Isaac’s mouth quirked up. 

“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Kind of,” you tried to shrug, but it just hurt your arm. 

“My brother was a hockey fan. He’d take me to the rink,” Isaac answered, applying a small bandaid. He never talked about his brother; you didn’t want to push. “Derek mentioned there might be some bounty hunters. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

“It’s fine, Isaac. Really.”

“You should come back to see Melissa for that arm,” Isaac moved to put his shirt back on, and you bit back disappointment. He glanced outside and, feeling safe, led you both out and back to the bike. It was scraped up but still worked. Isaac put you on the front of the bike since his torso was still healing. He wrapped his arms around you to grab the handles, and you couldn’t help but inhale his smell of petrichor and pine. You wanted to lean into him and never leave. 

You could’ve fallen asleep like this, even with the wind biting into your skin. Fortunately (for your sanity), you pulled up the McCall residence no longer after. Isaac helped you off the bike and led you up to the front door. 

You’ve been to the McCall residence a few times, and each time were struck by how much warmth Melissa had managed to infuse into the place. She came out of the living room when you both entered.

“What the hell happened?” she inquired, coming to you first. 

“Bounty hunters,” Isaac said matter-of-factly. 

“Why do I let any of you outside,” Melissa mumbled. She took you to the bathroom to take a look at your arm. You were happy to hear that your arm wasn’t broken, but there was lightly a fixture that needed to be watched. She gave you pain meds and redid your cast. 

“Do you think I could stay here tonight?” you asked, adjusting your arm in its cast. “I just don’t feel like going home right now.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Melissa smiled, kissing your head. She felt like your other Mom. 

She gave you some of her pajamas and a toothbrush so you could get ready for bed. You were thankful she was there to help you maneuver out of your clothes so you could put on the pajamas. You tried not to think much about Isaac in the next room. When you were all done cleaning up, you went to the living room to get situated on the couch but found Isaac already lying there on his phone. He had also changed into sleepwear. 

“I was going to sleep here,” you stated. He glanced up at you, jawline and all. You really needed to get your priorities straight. 

“You should take my room; it’ll be more comfortable.”

“You got shot.”

“I’m already almost healed, and you’re in a cast,” Isaac pointed out. “Trust me, you’ll want a bed.” You didn’t ask if it was a sports injury that let him know that or something his Dad inflicted. Isaac, when he wanted to be, could be frustratingly stubborn. You took your leave to his room.

You had never been in Isaac’s room, and you took the opportunity to do some high-level snooping. No judgment; you weren’t perfect. There wasn’t much snooping to do, though. The room had minimal decorations. There was a ball poster that was so utterly stupid you had to hide your laughter. There was also a snoopy ornament on his desk. That fact made you smile. 

Sleeping in Isaac’s room was already going to be a bad idea. The sheets smelled like him. The room felt like him. You were one delirious episode away from stealing his shirts and pretending like you were waking up next to him. You would call Allison and freak out, but that would involve admitting that you found the beta wolf attractive. 

The pain meds plus Isaac’s bed made your insomnia take a back seat, allowing you to fall asleep. You woke up in time for school, only because Scott is one of the loudest people you had ever known. He stumbled into everything and slammed open every door. 

You got dressed in your clothes from yesterday and made Isaac’s bed. You brought the folded pajamas downstairs. Isaac and Scott ate all the pantry food while Melissa downed a cup of coffee before her shift. 

“Thanks for letting me stay, Ms. McCall,” you smiled, voice quiet.

“Nonsense, you’re always welcome. I’d offer you breakfast, but I think they ate it all,” Melissa nodded towards the two boys. You stifled a smile as she rummaged through the pantry again. “Actually, I found an apple. And peanut butter.”

“That’s usually what I have,” you shrugged, taking the granny smith from her and finding a cutting board. You ate your breakfast and sipped some coffee with milk while observing everyone run around the kitchen. You grabbed Isaac’s sleeve right before leaving the kitchen. “Thanks for letting me use your room,” you muttered. “And for yesterday.”

“No problem,” he shrugged. He paused, shifting his feet. “Have you ever skated before?”

You shook your head.

“I could teach you…after hockey practice.”

“In case I get shot on the ice?”

“Yes, for that,” Isaac smiled. You felt your heart drop into your stomach, butterflies filling the now-empty cavity. You don’t know what Hallmark movie you were in, but you liked it. 

School couldn’t go by fast enough. You had to come up with a plausible excuse for your arm around teachers, but the pack immediately jumped on the case. Stiles was itching for some snooping work, and you think you just gave him a good reason to break into his Dad’s safe again. You made a mental reminder to send an apology to Sheriff Stilinski. 

You told Allison about your night over lunch.

“You have a date with Isaac Lahey,” Allison gushed, passing you a potato chip.

“I do not,” you responded, mouth full of crunch. “He probably just feels bad about me getting hurt and just is trying to make up for it.”

“So he could buy you lunch, give you rides to and from school,” Allison responded. “Not take you ice skating, just the two of you. It’s a Hallmark movie.”

You put an apple slice in her mouth before she could say anything else. 

“I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“That’s fine,” Allison chewed, the words garbled from the bite. “I’ll get my hopes up for you.”

Allison accompanied you to hockey practice, but not before giving you some of her clothes and lipgloss. While you grumbled, you were thankful not to be wearing the same clothes you got shot at. The sweater she lent you was soft, and the leggings were comfortable and stretchy. Perfect to fall on your ass in. 

Hockey went as well today as yesterday. Danny and Isaac continued to have a squirmish of their own while the other players tried to remember what a skate was. A few of them were getting better; you could see a small team starting to form. None of the players getting better were Scott and Stiles. Scott’s werewolf reflexes did not translate to the ice. 

“Werewolves on ice, coming to a theater near you,” you mumbled. Allison was hiding her eyes at their skating. You were fighting the urge to do the same. Fortunately, your torture came to a halt as Coach fell on the ice and canceled the rest of practice out of anger. You waited till everyone was gone to bother approaching the rink, the feeling of drums in your heart matching each step. Isaac skated around the rink and came to a stop by the entrance. 

“I want you to know I’ve never skated, and I’m very, very scared,” you gulped, your healthy arm holding your fractured one against your chest. Isaac smirked.

“I won’t let you fall.”

Your fingers shook when you went to grab rental skates and even more so when you put them on. You had to do a sort of waddle across the padded floors to the entrance, and you looked at the ice like it was the deep ocean. Unknown and utterly horrifying. 

“You won’t get hurt, I promise,” Isaac chuckled, holding out his hand. You stared at it. 

“What if I trip and pull you down?”

“You won’t.”

“I’m very good at hurting other people,” you whispered. Isaac skated closer to you, a towering figure. He grabbed your hands, unclenching your fingers. Your breath caught as he pulled you onto the ice. It was slippery, and you didn’t like how your feet slid across it. Isaac held you steady, correcting your weight if you started to wobble. He skated backward, going slow as you tried your best to calm your breathing. 

“Look at me, don’t look at your feet,” he said. You looked at him, his gaze intense, and you forced yourself to not break. You listened to his every instruction, bending your knees slightly, pushing out instead of forward, until you started to feel somewhat more solid. Isaac noticed when you began to relax more. “Do you trust me?”

“No,” you answered, still not trusting of the ice hell you were in. Isaac laughed. 

“I won’t let you go,” he muttered before doing exactly what he said he wouldn’t. He let one of your hands go, twirling you. You stifled a scream as your feet slid across the ice, but he kept his initial promise and didn’t let you fall. He pulled you back into him, closer than before. You stumbled and fell into his chest; he skated you both to a stop. You tried to push back before you made the situation more awkward, but he kept you close, his hands on your back. 

You kissed your teeth. 

“I’m terrible at skating,” you murmured. You felt the vibrations of Isaac’s laugh. 

“That’s okay,” he smiled, that crooked half-smile you often long for. You tilted your head up, Isaac’s nose nudging yours. Your body felt hot, even in the cold room. Still, you shivered from his touches, proximity, and everything. He looked at you through his lashes, his eyes the color of sea foam and lakesides. Your eyes fluttered closed when he brushed his lips over yours. It wasn’t enough, so you pushed closer. His mouth was firm, and you wished you could go on your toes to get closer. The only thing keeping you stable was Isaac. His hands roamed your sides, your neck, everywhere he could hold. He deepened the kiss, and you sighed. It was too soon when he pulled away, even as you realized you forgot to breathe. 

“Do you still want to skate?” he murmured.

“Will you kiss me if I fall and embarrass myself?”

“I’ll kiss you even if you do a good job.”

“Then I most definitely still want to skate,” you grinned. 

You did fall later on, but you weren’t in pain. Isaac was able to catch you. 

taglist: @alice3612 @rafecameronswhore @evasmlp @awnmaknees

[ragerageatn]

My fic is anyone wants to give it a read — I’m planning on posting ch.3 today and keeping a posting schedule of Friday nights 🩷

[everlastingdreams]

Weeping Monk x Reader Masterlist Part 2

The Forbidden Apple:

Story Summary: Father Carden begins to notice how his Weeping Monk starts to question all he was raised to believe in. In an effort to distract him, he has his Red Brothers bring him a ‘gift.’ The Monk is skeptical when he hears of this, Father never just gave him gifts. But when the Monk enters his tent in the evening he understood what Father had meant by 'gift’. You, a fey girl, were the gift.

Notes: Please do read the warnings ! I hope I got them all.

Warnings: There’s a list of warnings for this story: Stockholm syndrome (?), lima syndrom (?). Rape threats, sexual assault, murder and violence. Angst. Sexism. Strong Language. Trauma. Childhood trauma. Survivor’s guilt. Mentions of child maltreatment. 

Other warnings: ! Smut ! . Jealousy. Enemies to lovers (?). Romance. Pining. Thigh grinding.

Word count of this fic:  157K

Chapters:  27

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8  Chapter 9  Chapter 10  Chapter 11  Chapter 12  Chapter 13  Chapter 14  Chapter 15  Chapter 16  Chapter 17  Chapter 18  Chapter 19  Chapter 20  Chapter 21  Chapter 22  Chapter 23  Chapter 24  Chapter 25  Chapter 26  Chapter 27

The Patience Of A Heart:

Story Summary: After fire claimed the lives of your family, the monastery of your Uncle Carden becomes your new home. As the niece of a priest you are expected to behave prim and proper, but not even the watchful eyes of the Weeping Monk can see all. An ancient magic returns to life when love and duty begin to blur.

Warnings: There’s a list of warnings for this story: Murder. Violence. Death. Angst. Sexism. Strong Language. Trauma. Childhood trauma. Survivor’s guilt. Mentions of child maltreatment. Threat of Sexual assault. PTSD. Misogyny, Self-flagellation. Gore.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forbidden Love. Romance. Pining. Smut. Little Slow-burn. 

Word count of this fic: +138K

Chapters: 27

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8  Chapter 9  Chapter 10  Chapter 11  Chapter 12  Chapter 13  Chapter 14  Chapter 15  Chapter 16  Chapter 17  Chapter 18  Chapter 19  Chapter 20  Chapter 21  Chapter 22  Chapter 23  Chapter 24  Chapter 25  Chapter 26  Chapter 27

Pray For The Wicked:

Summary: When Father Carden and his Red Paladins arrive at the convent with their wounded brother, Aveline is tasked with serving them something to drink. What she did not expect was that she would catch the attention of the notorious Weeping Monk.

Warnings:  Strong Language. Smut. Dom(?) Lancelot. 

Word count: 4k+

Pray For The Wicked 

The Last Flames Burn Together 1&2:

Summary: You were one of the many Feys trying to seek refugee from the cleansings across the lands. When you finally find the carriages that smuggle Feys to Gramaire, safety seems closer than ever.

Warnings: Violence, death, strong language. Spicy (?). No descriptive smut but spoken off.

Word Count: 7K

The Last Flames Burn Together  + Sequel 

Cloaked Beauty:

Summary: The struggles with your body image begin to affect your happiness. Your two recently acquired companions, Lancelot and Percival, notice the changes.

Notes: Insecure plus size y/n. Fluff. Stuff I wrote when I was feeling down.

Warnings: Possible ED symptoms/signals (?)

Word Count: 3K+

Cloaked Beauty 

More to come...