#sam vimes x reader

[veinsandknuckles]

Long hard road, pt 5

Vimes/f!Reader Slow burn AU where Vimes isn’t married. pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4 (explicit)

People threw around a lot of half assed comparisons between food and sex, some more accurate than others. But out of all the ways a woman could hunger, there was this to be said for food - if it wasn’t so bad it actually literally made you sick, even an indifferent meal could satisfy. Bad sex staved off nothing.

Thankfully, Patrick was actually serious about whatever work it was he was heading for (you’d tuned him out while he told you all about it) and so he actually got up, had breakfast and dragged his two less fortunate friends out onto the road with him at a reasonable hour. He’d done the best he could, and you were happy to see the back of him. 

Today was your day off and you wanted to get as far away from the inn as possible. After a wash and as much food as you could stomach, you wrapped up warm and snuck out the back door. 

And there, leaning against a wall, smoking one of his never-ending slim cigars, awake and alert completely outside of his usual hours, was Stone. When he caught sight of you, he didn’t look away. If anything it seemed as if he’d been waiting for you. 

Well, you had put on a show for him, hadn’t you? Whatever he was going to do or say about it, you supposed you’d practically asked for it. 

“Good morning,” you called as you walked up to him and hovered uncertainly at a respectable distance. The bastard actually looked like he was almost smiling.

“Oh yeah?” he asked.

“Well, you know. A few drinks and a lie-in...”

Stone nodded. “Going for another walk?”

“I was thinking about it.” How was he so calm? Gods, the man seemed completely unable to react to anything the way a normal person should. Or maybe he was really just that determined not to give you any kind of satisfaction. “...Do you want to come?”

“Hm.” He thought the offer through while he dropped his cigar and put it out with the toe of his boot. “As far as the outlook, maybe.”

Once again, you headed out side by side, and once again he seemed perfectly prepared to stay dumb the entire way. But when you made it well out of earshot of the outbuildings, he surprised you by speaking. 

“I think maybe I’ve let myself get a little too, er... familiar.”

You stared at him. He didn’t so much as glance back, but he seemed perfectly cool and collected. “This is your place of work. You’re stuck here, in a manner of speaking, and I’m stuck here too. For now, at least. And I know it’s as dull as watching paint dry - well. Most nights, anyway...”

You flushed, but you weren’t about to apologise or get any closer to that topic than he chose to go. 

Stone continued before the pause could get significant. “Of course, I don’t begrudge you for trying to pass the time, and there’s nothing wrong with banter, but, well... you’re probably better served getting your kicks from someone else.”

So. That was the only edge you’d managed to push him over. Your stomach felt hot and you felt yourself sweating, even in this sharp cold. 

You realised you were angry with him. If he had it in him to shut you down so directly, why the hell had he waited so long? Why had he let you think your words had any effect on him besides discomfort, if this was all it was leading to? Why couldn’t he have turned you down gently before you’d made a fool of yourself?

“Yes, I think I realised the same thing last night.” Not smooth, not subtle, but what did he expect?

“Right.”

You’d made it to the overlook by now and he paused and looked around, clear eyed, at everything around him except you. “Just wanted to make sure we understand each other.”

“There’s no need. I already told you I would quit if it made you uncomfortable. Now I know. Thank you.”

For whatever reason, those words made him grimace and he finally seemed a little less at ease. “...Comfortable don’t enter into it.”

Stone turned to you with a look of pained, embarrassed earnestness. “It’s just... I know you’re just looking for ways to kill some time, and I-“

“But I’m not. I really...”

“Just wait.” He cut you off in a tone so final you didn’t have the guts to press the issue. You realised it wouldn’t matter what you said or what you did - he would never believe you meant any of it. He wouldn’t let himself. “In a few days, or a few weeks, I’ll be out of your hair. And you’ll be better off for it. Until then, well... you’ve better ways to fill your time. Right?” 

There was nothing to say. And he pierced you with a look so firm, it felt impossible to contradict him. 

And it hurt. He really would leave soon and it’d be forever, and for however long he stayed he wasn’t even going to let you talk to him anymore. Let alone get close, let alone...

“Right,” you breathed. 

Stone nodded, looking as grim as you’d ever seen him. All you could hope for was that he was crushing something in himself, just as he was crushing something in you.

#sam vimes #sam vimes x you #sam vimes x reader #sam vimes imagine #vimes #my fics #x reader #this might need editing but #oh well

[badwasabi]

How not to use "idly" and "absently".

​ A lot of writers - including me - misuse the words "idly" and "absently". Don't be one of them.

Absently

"Absently" means "not paying attention". Lots of people use it to tell the reader that someone is not paying attention.

"What's wrong with that?" you say. It's lazy. It's telling, not showing. It means you don't have to describe what's going on. You're going "They're not paying attention! Take my word for it!" Lady Sybil: I'll tell Willikins to pack winter clothes. It'll be pretty cold up there at this time of year. Sam Vimes: Yes. That's a good idea. Lady Sybil: We'll have to host a party ourselves, I expect, so we ought to take a cartload of typical Ankh-Morpork food. Show the flag, you know. Do you think I should take a cook along? Sam Vimes: Yes dear. That would be a good idea. No one outside the city knows how to make a knuckle sandwich properly. Lady Sybil: Do you think we ought to take the alligator with us? Sam Vimes: Yes, that might be advisable.... What alligator? In this sequence, from The Fifth Elephant, Vimes is clearly listening and responding absently. Pratchett didn't have to outright say it. Heck, it's clear just from the dialogue. So how do you do it? Well, if the absent person's interjections are about the same length and rhythm, that's a good sign. There's the classic gag where someone says something outrageous (EG the alligator) and the absent person responds on autopilot before it registers. And, of course, there's the popular use of "absently" as a generic placeholder word, even when someone is clearly paying attention. Idly >As the bucket fell, Vashti looked up. It was blue, she noted idly, just before the water hit her face. A lot of the time, people use the term idly to describe an active action or thought, something that isn't actually being done in idleness.

a) You just finished binge-watching something on Netflix. You already Tweeted about it. Or posted it on your Wall. Or Tumblr. Or all of the above. So you're sitting around, nothing to do, and you decide to check out the next show on your list. b) You're binge-watching something on Netflix, while liveposting your reactions and making dinner. Oh, and you're FaceTiming with your friend Monica, who's simul-watching it with you. Which one of those is being done "idly", instead of actively? The first one? The first one. Notice how I didn't have to explain? But isn't there another meaning for "idle"?" Like, "without being worth anything"? Basically. Question is, how does the POV character - assuming it's not Ye Olde Omnipresent Narrator - know that whatever X is doing is worthless? Once again, show the evidence and let the reader decide. And personally, I suspect most people aren't using the "worthless" meaning. Or thinking about it at all. When was the last time you actually thought of yourself as "idle"? Or doing something "idly"? Or "absently"? Don't remember. There you go. Just like "absently", "idly" is often used as, like, a generic filler word, uh, y'know?

Good hunting. Bonus Content

"We have to find this guy," Alice replied. She absently looked at the pictures on the wa- "Why did you do that?" Ian asked. "Do what?" "Not you, the narrator. Why did you say she looked at the pictures 'absently'?" ...Because she did? "No she didn't. Alice, you wanted to know what was in those pictures, right?" Alice nodded. "Right. So that means I wasn't absent-minded, and I was paying attention." "Exactly! So it wasn't 'absently'!" Oh, come now, you're just being pedantic. Ian frowned, and idly drummed his fingers on the table. "Meaning is important. You can't just throw filler words in-wha-you did it again!" No I didn't! "You said 'idly'! I had a purpose! I was drumming my hands on the table because that helps me think! And I sure wasn't being lazy!" Alright, smart guy, what would you use it for? "Well...if I was sitting on my bed tossing a ball into the air to kill time, that would be 'idly'." Alice spoke up. "I'm reading an email, and I'm playing with a pen in my off-hand. That would be 'absently', since I wouldn't be paying attention." "And besides," Ian said, "there are better ways to show a reader that someone's idle or absent than just saying so. Imagine we were watching a movie or show; what signs would there be?" "That ball example was good," Alice said. "But would we really need to say you were playing with the ball 'idly'?" "Good point." I see. Well, time to end this tutorial, since you only exist for the purposes of it. "Mmm hm," Ian said absently. Then his eyes widened. "Wait, don't-"

#nanowrimo #discworld #writing #writers #writing advice

[vimesbootstheory]

g! n! w! x!

Thanks for asking!

G (What was your first fandom?) -- Unfortunately, this was Harry Potter. My mum moved recently and she had these "memory boxes" for both my sister and I. She asked if there was anything she could throw out, I said anything to do with Harry Potter, which was like... over half the box. Fuck Rowling for tainting so many of my childhood/teenage memories.

N (Your favourite fandom) -- Discworld for sure. It's always there, in the background, whenever I need it. The community has a level of emotional engagement that is just on another level from any other fandom. It's also pretty much the only fandom that has been around for as long as it has with virtually NO gatekeeping -- this is a fandom that is always encouraging more fans to join in, and there is no required level of reader accomplishment needed to participate.

W (5 favorite characters from 5 different fandoms) --

Not necessarily a top five, although a couple of them are among the top five of all time:

Miss Parker (The Pretender)

Zuko (Avatar: the Last Airbender)

Sophie Devereaux (Leverage)

Tali'Zorah nar Rayya (Mass Effect)

Sam Vimes (Discworld)

X (3 OTPs from 3 different fandoms) --

Trying to come up with 3 OTPs forced me to remind myself that I'm not actually a huge shipper? And if anything I've become less shippy with age. So a lot of the ships I have a huge, enduring attachment to are ships from earlier fandom days that have been grandfathered in, e.g.:

Sam/Sybil (Discworld)

Fraser/Kowalski (due South)

Arthur/Merlin (Merlin)

#thanks again for asking!

[rockinlibrarian]

Three Survey Memes

@e_louise_bates tagged me once directly and twice indirectly (I mean, since I'm already typing something here I might as well do the others too), so here. Please feel free to comment! I like discussions!

Survey One (what I was actually tagged for): Name my top ten favorite characters from ten different fandoms.

I feel like the way this is phrased, I should pick ten fandoms first and then narrow them down to the characters, so that's what I did. It's an easier way to find my favorite characters, anyway.

1. From Harry Potter: Luna Lovegood, obviously

2. From Tolkien: Samwise Gamgee, obviously

3. From the MCU: Peggy Carter, most obviously of all

4. From Star Wars: This is a product of me picking fandoms first, and then discovering I don't have an OBVIOUSLY answer this time. But when you get right down to it, I've always had a special place in my heart for Obi Wan.

5. From Diana Wynne Jones: Sophie Hatter. Stealing one from Louise there, but again, obviously.

6. From L.M. Montgomery: Stealing the fandom from Louise that time, but I on the other hand have to stick with Anne Shirley, because she may top my fave character list, period.

7. From Jane Austen: Rev. Henry Tilney, NOT stealing from Louise because again, OBVIOUSLY, as she well knows, too. :D

8. From Discworld: DEATH. This was hard, because as soon as I started thinking of Discworld, so many MUST INCLUDES came up. Tiffany! DEATH's granddaughter, whose name I totally had a minute ago when I first thought of it but now has suddenly slipped my mind as I'm typing it (my brain now keeps trying to tell me it's "Karen" but that feels utterly wrong Her last name's Sto-Helit. I think. EDIT: SUSAN! Of course. The second I hit "post")! Sam Vimes, one of the other great Sams of fiction! But who's there and perfect and wonderful through all of it? DEATH. So I'm sticking with that.

9. Uh, other Marvel properties that aren't the MCU: I just have to shout out again to the Loudermilk twins from Legion. They count as one person because they sort of are, and because their chemistry together just MAKES them, even though they both individually are pretty fun, too (Cary's dorkiness and Kerry's innocent enthusiasm for beating people up). There was like a block of three or four episodes this season without them and it nearly ruined the whole season for me.

10. No particular fandom I'm aware of but no list of favorite characters is complete without: Blossom Culp. From the books by Richard Peck.

SURVEY TWO, a writing one:

1. When did you start writing and how? In first grade I had this dream about a disgruntled Santa's elf taking our church hostage on Christmas Eve. It was a great dream, so I decided to turn it into a book. Recently I decided to revisit it-- the basic plot, at least-- as a picture book. And for some stupid reason I decided it needed to be in verse. It might work some day.

Early on all my story ideas came from dreams, actually. Still today, my subconscious does most of my story-creating. Last night I had one about this huge family that lived in a mansion with a public pool in it and had all sorts of hijinks. They were great. They lived on Chalk Street and the oldest girl's boyfriend was named Granger the Ranger. Anyhoo.

2. What is your favorite line from your own work? It's got to be "Concentration leads to Meditation leads to Levitation leads to Aviation," because that's just a way of life.

I'm also partial to anything at all that Billy Boyd says in the Pipeweed Mafia Stories.

3. Who is your writing idol, and how have they influenced you? Hmm, I wouldn't call Madeleine L'Engle my writing idol, but she has influenced me the most, with her way of seeing the cosmic in the very small and the individual in the cosmic. And I named my daughter after her. But my Patron Saint of Writing whom I occasionally call on for intervention is Diana Wynne Jones. I don't know why. She just seems to be who I need to get my writing juices flowing.

4. Which oc has the best family (found or otherwise)? Of my characters? Hmm, I've never really focused much on family in my works. Even found family. I guess Billy 'Arrison's uncle IS George Harrison, so probably that.

5. Which oc has the most satisfying ending to their story? Ah, I'm terrible at endings. None of my characters has an ending to their story, not just because most of my works have never been finished, but because I keep thinking of things that happen to them later. NO ENDINGS.

6. If you’ve gotten feedback on your writing, who is your readers’ favorite character? If not who do you think readers will fall in love with? Well, no questions there. Billy 'Arrison. I mean look how often he's come up already in this survey. If you ask anybody whose ever read my work to name ANY of my original characters, they will go with Billy. Heck, people who HAVEN'T actually read his story would pick Billy.

7. Which tropes (eg. Friends to lovers, fake death, white haired pretty boy) do you always find yourself wanting to write? All my stories tend to have the theme of disparate people becoming friends through having an adventure together. I recently wondered if that's because I've always thought friendship would be easier if you could cut out all the small talk, and having an adventure leaves no time for small talk.

8. What goes through your head when writing a scene? The... scene? Also, random entirely unrelated stuff. Because I have ADHD. My brain is impossible to follow anywhere.

9. How specific is your idea of your characters’ appearance usually? Do you draw them? (If so can we see it?) Facial features are usually fairly foggy to me. I get general shape and color, so, like, what their hair looks like, their size, their race. I get their sense of style, too-- often I give them a signature item of clothing whether in my mind or in the text. I've drawn a few of my characters, yes, but I'm not particularly good at drawing consistently.

10. What are you proudest of as a writer? That I can occasionally look back at things I have written and be delighted by them as a reader. Unfortunately most of these things I have written continue to not be finished.

SURVEY THREE, also about writing:

1. How many works in progress do you currently have? That depends on your definition of "in progress." If you mean ACTUALLY IN PROGRESS, zero. Zip. Unless you count a couple of GeekMom articles I have in the planning stage. Or unless you count not-writing. I have a living room renovation in progress at the moment.

How many works do I have in an incomplete status that I plan to get back to eventually? Hmmm. At least five.

2. Do you/would you write fanfiction? I'm not INTO fanfiction but I do/have written a few pieces when they occur to me. There's of course the Pipeweed Mafia, which is a mix of Inklings fanfic and real people fanfic. You could count me writing George Harrison into Billy's background real people fic. One of my works in possible occasional progress is a Firefly fic about how Zoe fell in love with Wash. Oh, I should have put Firefly on my list of fandoms above, just so I could name Kaylee. KAYLEE, people. But I haven't written fic about her. Anyway. I also once wrote a very short prompt response X-Files fic that always delights me. It's silly, and yet in character.

3) Do you prefer paper books or ebooks? Paper.

4) When did you start writing? First grade.

5) Do you have someone you trust that you share your work with? A few people. It depends on the type of work, who would be the best fit for it. Louise is in fact one.

6) Where is your favorite place to write? Someplace where I don't have real life demands calling on me. Oddly enough, I think I got some of my best writing done while working at the Children's Museum, during downtime. On slow days I'd write a scene on the back of my schedule. A page a day really adds up! Of course, on busy days that was unthinkable!

7) Favorite childhood book? Have I mentioned A Wrinkle In Time?

8) Writing for fun or publication? Depends on where I am in life. Now, it is for fun, unless it is an article.

9) Pen and paper or computer? First drafts pen and paper. Then putting it together on the computer.

10) Have you ever taken any writing classes? Yeah, I had some writing courses in college, and I also took correspondence courses twice.

11) What inspires you to write? Ideas. As I mentioned, I get a lot of ideas from dreams. But there's also, like, a swelling of words in my brain that needs to come out through my hands every so often. I called it "writeritis" as a kid, and I guess I still do.

TAGGING: Whoever. You know who you are, if any of this resonates with you!

[veinsandknuckles]

I know x reader fics aren't really a thing in the discworld fandom, and I get why. But if anyone wants to send some suggestions for reader x vimes, I'm all ears pretty much any time

#sam vimes #x reader

[veinsandknuckles]

Long hard road, pt 4

Vimes/f!Reader Slow burn AU where Vimes isn’t married. Rated R as of this chapter Content warnings: masturbation, consensual voyeurism, rough sex, piv, cunnilingus (referenced), BETA-free (for now) Read part 3 here  There were a lot of things that threatened to drive Vimes back to drink. The state of the world, most of his own memories, the way Colon pronounced the word “impasse”. But lately one in particular tempted him so sorely to get off the wagon and reclaim his former home in the gutter that he could only barely withstand the impulse and that was you.

As hard as he tried not to look, he did have eyes and they would fix on you, despite all his good intentions. The way you walked, the way you moved. The softness of your skin, where ever it was bare. Your playful, mean smile when you teased him.

It started out perfectly innocently every time and Vimes told himself that people looked at each other all the time, he’d spent a lifetime watching people, it was part of his job. It was in the name of his job. And then, as quickly as you could say ‘pathetic letch’, he found himself practically hypnotised with his mind straying back to the dark places he usually guarded so carefully.

He’d held out for as long as he could. No matter what you said or how you looked at him, he’d been determined not to understand you or at least not to let himself believe it, or enjoy it.  The attention of such a beautiful young woman was always dangerous, even when it was nothing more than a joke. 

And you didn’t let up. There was always a touch on his arm as you slipped past him on the stairs, a meaningful look to drive home a double entendre. You’d even had the gall to lick spilled cream off of your fingers once in an absentminded way that might almost have been unintentional, and that had nearly been enough to make him angry. He knew he’d failed spectacularly at keeping you at a safe distance or else he wouldn’t have met you in conversation, hung around the bar until your shift ended or tried to make you laugh. It didn’t happen often, but it happened often enough.

When ignoring you had proved to be impossible, Vimes had told himself he’d be allowed to keep the joke going as long as he showed he was in on it. By being an unremitting realist, he could at least force you to settle for laughing with him, rather than at him. Haha, very funny, draw in the lonely, middle-aged man with sweet smiles and filthy jokes and watch him struggle not to make an absolute tit of himself. ‘We sure do both know what men are like and it’s lucky for me I’m a safe target, because I already know that nothing good ever comes my way’. ‘Wouldn’t it be hilarious if someone like you would go for someone like me’.

That, too, had gone about as well as could be expected because it may have helped him save face, but it sure hadn’t saved him from wishing, and (when especially weak-minded) hoping, you meant more.

Vimes couldn’t help it. Gods damn it, he was lonely. Wasn’t everyone? It was only human nature to go on wanting, even after a lifetime of wanting in vain. He was just a man and you were beautiful and funny and relentless.

Sometimes he stalked up the stairs to a freshly made bed and buried his face in the pillows, hoping to find a trace of your perfume, and wondering whether (if he somehow let slip that he’d leave his door unlocked) you might ever be desperate enough to come to him. He could just about slap himself when his thoughts went there.

And the dreams. He couldn’t count how many times he’d woken up in the small hours, stiff as a poker, sheets tangled around his legs and soaked with sweat, with your name on his lips. He refused to do anything about that problem but wait it out, with some help from the snow on his windowsill if necessary, no matter how he ached. It was no less than he deserved.

Because the truth was that he was as sad an old fool as any of the marks he’d ever taken statements from, with their pockets empty or their safes cleaned out and still somehow with hope in their hearts, expecting every moment that their temptresses would walk back into their waiting arms and explain it all away as a misunderstanding. There was the dreaded, long-ignored voice of hope inside his mind that kept on asking if you could really lie that well and for that long, and why.

As if there couldn’t be a thousand reasons why. Vimes could think of plenty.

There must be a sob story coming, some former lover you wanted him to do away with or some great reason he should spill his guts to you so you could string him up by them and collect payment from his enemies. (Were it not for the perfect hiding spot he’d found for his purse, he knew he’d be dead already - whoever it was that kept searching his belongings wasn’t subtle about it.)

If he ever betrayed how you affected him, he’d be lucky only to pay for it with his dignity - you were too clever not to have something up your sleeve. Lately he’d begun to think he should get it over with, take the hit and pick himself back up afterward. You may very well laugh at him, but in the end it still meant you’d move on and he could regain some peace of mind.

It was all a painful cliché, but at least it made sense because he was sure he’d got you more or less figured. Or he had been sure, right up until tonight.

 Vimes had withdrawn to his own room almost immediately after you’d left and now he sat on the edge of his bed, trying to piece together what had just happened.

He’d thought he’d managed to back you into a corner when he’d asked you, upfront, why you kept on toying with him. He’d expected you to laugh it off like usual as a harmless way to kill some time. Instead...

“We all have needs.” Ye gods.

He prided himself on being able to spot a liar, and even if you were good enough to fool him, why on Disc would you push it even further when he’d just given you an out? You’d looked up at him with such vulnerability and told him, once again and more explicitly than ever, that you wanted him. Your voice had been uncertain and you’d looked as if you were barely able to hold his gaze... as if it mattered to you whether or not he turned you down.

And he had turned you down, and then he’d had to watch you leave, with a little twerp who, predictably, embodied everything Vimes was not. Young, strapping, forward, handsome and (it had to be said) not terribly clever, even compared to him.

Could it have gone any other way?

With a sigh and a determination to be brutally honest with himself, he took the shard of shaving mirror lying on his bedside table and regarded his distorted reflection in the moonlight. He rubbed his chin, making a noise like sandpaper against stone. The familiar inner voice of self loathing supplied all sorts of helpful remarks about his receding scalp and grey hair, his broken nose, his lined brow and all the other little marks on his stupid face that showed just how far he was past his prime. But he’d promised himself he’d be honest, even if he wasn’t comfortable with what he saw.

The thing was that (even though he’d never been what you could call lucky in love) in the spirit of fairness, Vimes had to admit that his looks had never really been an issue. In fact, he dimly recalled being told he was handsome back in his heyday on many occasions, and by women who knew very well that he had nothing to offer of value.

This was uncomfortable, because if the fault hadn’t lain in his appearance, it had lain in his behaviour and he couldn’t lie to himself about that part.

At first he’d been too shy even to talk to girls, whether kind or cold, pretty or plain. When the worst of that post-pubescent awkwardness was got over, he’d already gotten started on his lifelong downwards spiral and was too broke, and broken, to be much of a catch for anyone.

With few exceptions, his past with women could be more accurately described as a series of encounters than anything resembling relationships. Sure, there’d been some repeat offenders, but they’d returned to him the way you’d return to your local all night greasy take away - he’d been reliable enough when you had a craving for something quick, cheap and slightly disgusting. Those had been the glory days, before he’d poured himself into his work and poured the rest of his life into a bar glass. Past that point Vimes hadn’t even been reliable anymore.

So, where did that leave him now? He was as close now as he’d ever be to a good man and for all he knew, maybe something remained of his decent looks, albeit in a gaunt and grizzled way... He tried to put himself in the mind frame of a bored, easy young woman with self admitted, and now proven, low standards. His hand trembled slightly as he put the mirror down.

Stranger things happened. Worse matches were made. Hadn’t he seen countless men linking arms with women who should by rights have been as far out of their reach as you should be out of his? He’d never envied men like that. He’d been too busy pitying their wives and girlfriends. But this wasn’t even really relevant, because you’d never asked him to court you, had you? He knew what you’d been asking for. The very thought of it made his mouth dry and his treacherous member stiffen.

A sound in the hall made him start. Vimes groaned. Just when he’d thought the evening couldn’t get worse... it was you; he recognised your voice even if he couldn’t pick out a word you said. You and the twerp. You were right outside his room, stepped nearer to it as you laughed, then withdrew again.

A door opened. A door shut. Not just any door, either, but the door right beside his own. He heard the deeper voice, cut off mid sentence. You were actually about to... in the very next room to him. Vimes felt something inside him almost break.

Did you know? Or were you too drunk or distracted to remember where Vimes was staying? What would be worse, if you were doing this intentionally to finally send him over the edge, or if he was somehow violating your privacy just by sitting perfectly still on his own bed?

Could he leave? But the floorboards outside complained even under his light steps. And if you were to slip out yourself, and spotted him standing there... besides, there was nowhere for him to go! The hall downstairs would be closed by now, at least officially if not physically, the torches and candles out and the fire burned down to embers.

He wasn’t about to freeze to death over this when it wasn’t even a guarantee he could avoid detection. And he had a right to be here. That was the only reason he decided to stay.

There was a scrape of wood against wood as someone landed on the bed next door and  shoved it up against the wall. Another laugh. Vimes swallowed and stared fixedly into the darkness. And then, so softly that he could barely hear it, you moaned. If he’d been the type to, he might very well have cried.

Moving as if in a dream, he got up (a little awkwardly now) and closed the window half way. He pulled off his shirt. He unlaced his boots and stuffed his socks into them. He averted his gaze as he undid his trousers. Another moan, louder this time, and a string of words, muffled through the wall but he still understood the tone of them, heard how they pitched a little higher... urging.

You knew. Of course you knew. Vimes had never been so sure of anything in his life. You’d looked him right in the eye and told him you were trying to make him jealous.

Well, he caved. You won. You wanted him to hear you and by gods, Vimes was too tired, and honestly too angry, to resist.

He pulled the blanket aside and lay down, shut his eyes and edged close to the wall that separated him from you. He hadn’t even touched himself yet and he was already so hard that the weight of the covers pressing against his erection felt almost painful. The next time he heard you speak, you sounded impatient, and Vimes wasn’t surprised. If it’d been him in there with you, he would’ve torn every scrap of clothing from you by now and given you everything you could take.

All the images of you that his subconscious had forced on him, whether asleep or awake... he’d shut them out as quickly as they’d appeared but now, despite knowing better, he welcomed them back and built on them. It wasn’t difficult to picture you dishevelled, smiling and eager. Vimes frowned and felt the heavy, sickly heat of guilt and shame shifting and growing in his stomach.

He shouldn’t do this, he’d regret it. He was already regretting it. Because, and this was the worst part of all of this, he was pretty sure he knew exactly what to do with a woman like you.

He heard your voice in another moan and he gasped in response. The noises and the shifting of the furniture painted a perfect picture - that idiot was down with his back on the bed making you do the work, and by the sound of it, you had just lowered yourself down onto him and called out as he entered you. Vimes couldn’t deny the sting of jealousy, but it was softened when he waited for you to continue and realised how little he had to compete with.

If it was him in there, you might well start out sounding equally impatient but he would meet you soon enough. He would know how to touch you - he could read you so well already and every little sigh and movement from you would tell him how you wanted to be treated. Vimes reached down to grip the base of his cock, squeezed hard and waited - and yes, you were already settling into a quick pace. He cursed under his breath. You would want him to be rough.

If it was him in there, you would be on your back, spread for him. As much as he loved the safety of darkness, he’d keep the candles burning so he could see every inch of you. Whatever of shyness or reserve you might still have, it would melt away when he kissed you, ran his thumb across the lips of your filthy mouth and knelt between your legs.

He pictured your hands - would they reach for him? Undress him? Would you be wanton enough to run them along your form to show him where you wanted him? Would you touch yourself, wet your fingers in your own slick and please yourself if he tarried?

Had you ever brought yourself to the finish while thinking of him? But that was difficult to imagine, even now.

If he had the self-command, he might tease you; it was the least you deserved after everything you’d put him through. Vimes pictured putting his weight on one knee, pressing it up against your cunt and forcing your thighs apart wider, pictured your wetness slick against his skin, pictured you pushing up, grinding against him. He pictured your eyes opened wide, looking up at him desperately with a pretty little frown, he pictured your hands trembling on the blankets, pictured your voice asking him to touch you, to fill you.

He kept a firm grip on himself, stroked up slowly and let the precum trickling from the head wet his calloused palm. Then he decided that if he was going to do this, he may as well do it right and so he spat into his hand before continuing at an agonisingly slow pace. It had been so long since he’d done this and he had been so thoroughly tortured these last few weeks that his cock was already jumping at his own touch, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t outlast you.

You were crying out now while riding that... boy and Vimes just knew he could make you keen like that before he’d even touched you. Vimes was filthy enough to give you a run for your money and, not that this should matter, but he knew it did, he was big enough, could last long enough to leave you weak-kneed for days. If you let him take you as hard as he wanted, he could stretch you like you’d never been stretched and fuck you to within an inch of your life. That was the problem - he was pretty sure that if you did want him, he could give you what you needed and the hunger he felt wouldn’t be sated after just claiming you once. It never was. And he would use every trick in the book, all his years of experience to leave you wanting more.

Teasing wouldn’t last long. Soon enough, knowing you, you would sigh out a “please” and he wouldn’t be able to hold back. He’d hike your pretty legs onto his shoulders and make you look up at him, grab your jaw and twist your head if he had to to make you meet his gaze, and he’d hold it and watch every subtle shift in your expression as he buried himself in you.

Vimes groaned, felt his dick twitch and he squeezed, hard, around the base and pressed the back of his other hand against his mouth to shut himself up. He had never let himself think about this before, at least not long enough to imagine how soft, how tight, how dripping wet your cunt might be around his cock. Wet enough for it to smear across your thighs, stick to his skin, trickle down to his balls... Good gods.

And still, he couldn’t be blamed for picturing it. There you were right this moment, inches from him, moaning and whimpering and sending the bed thumping over and over against the wall. You were enjoying it and that was fine by Vimes because he knew he could do better.

If it were him, he’d take you deeper, harder. You would be begging him by now. He could almost hear those words in your sweet, breaking voice, calling out his name with a whimper and pleading with him to fuck you so roughly it hurt. Even as the head of his cock reached the deepest part of your cunt, you’d be crying out for more.

Maybe he’d flip you over onto your hands and knees and hold himself back to watch as you curved your back, bared your pretty little arse for him, left yourself open and dripping for him like an animal in heat... squirming on the sheets, turning your head to look back at him with lust darkening your eyes. In that position you’d be as exposed as you’d ever made him feel, you’d be at his mercy and he could hold your head down with one hand  and tease your cunt with the other while he fucked you.

His ears strained to hear you now, your gorgeous voice calling to him. It was for his sake you were so loud, he just knew it. How much sweeter wouldn’t it sound when you finished?

If you were half as desperate as you seemed to be, it wouldn’t take him long to make you gasp and plead, wouldn’t take him long to find just the right rhythm and pressure to tease your clit and make your cunt clench around him. No matter how tight you squeezed, he’d force himself back inside, over and over until it was all too much for you and he finally pushed you over the edge.

Vimes stroked himself faster, his cock almost burning hot to the touch, balls already tensing. Every few seconds pleasure, blended with shame and longing, threatened to overwhelm him and he had to stop for a moment to hold himself back.

It should be him there with you. You’d wanted it to be him, he was sure of it. It could have been...

For a second, it was almost impossible for Vimes to resist the urge to get up, wrap the blanket around his waist, kick down the door and throw your boy-toy out the window before taking his place.

He wondered what would happen if he did. Would you treat him the same? Hold him down and take what you needed?

He would buck under you, meet every rolling motion of your hips, he’d give you everything he had. Gods. All he wanted was to bury his face between your breasts, hold you, have his hands guided by yours so he could please you as he took you.

Vimes had almost pressed himself against the wall by now and he knew he wasn’t fooling himself - there was no rhythm anymore, he could hear that little shit stammer out something and your voice, as thick as it was with pleasure, was nowhere near high or breathless enough for you to be close to your peak. He had to listen as somebody else fucked you and the idiot wasn’t even doing it right.

He didn’t want his pleasure to last much longer than yours did. If you weren’t here with him, there’d be no reason for him to continue. Vimes heard you pick up the pace as you raced to the finish and he matched it, tried to picture your touch in place of his own, mind jumping from image to image as he let himself unravel... your filthy mouth made filthier than ever as you took his cock down your throat, his face buried in your cunt with his tongue and jaw working against your core, lapping up your desire... your voice crying out his name, over and over...

Vimes bit down hard on his own wrist and felt his whole body tense up from the mattress until his weight felt divided between his shoulders and his heels. For one moment, endless and fleeting all at once, his mind was almost a complete and blissful blank, with no guilt weighing on it, no cares, no nothing. What little of his higher functions remained informed him that if he’d come any harder, he probably would’ve pulled something... It was a miracle that he could silence himself enough to make so little noise, just one long, quiet growl of half pain, half pleasure. It really had been a long time, because through the haze he could feel his seed landing in strings across his chest.

 He had no idea how long he lay there, staring blindly at the ceiling. If you’d had any spectacular finale of your own, he was sure he would have heard it but all he could make out now was gentle murmurs back and forth between you and your companion. All the effort you’d put in, and between you and him, Vimes, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t gotten more out of the bargain.

It was hard to think, now. Vimes was dimly aware of a thousand new reasons he could and should kick himself, but he couldn’t quite distinguish one from the other at the moment. And if he was really such a wretch, he hadn’t really done anything worse than was to be expected, had he?

It was late and he was tired. You weren’t here. He’d spent the entire evening willing you to appear beside him and it was time to admit defeat. Sleep could claim him - hopefully now he could at least go one night without being tormented by awful visions.

With the last bit of strength he could muster, Vimes grabbed his shirt from the floor and mopped up the worst of the mess he’d made, then balled it up and threw it into the corner with contempt. He rolled over into the middle of the bed and couldn’t help thinking that it was much too wide for only one person...

Well, what else was new. He’d wake up tomorrow and hate himself, and that wouldn’t exactly break the mould either. As he fell backwards into unconsciousness, the last thing he heard was the door next to his own once again open, then close.

He smiled grimly. You might not be here to fall asleep beside him, but at least you’d join him in sleeping alone... in this life, that was about as fair as things ever got.

Seconds later, he was snoring.

#sam vimes #sam vimes x you #sam vimes x reader #sam vimes imagine #vimes #nsft #my fics

[veinsandknuckles]

Long hard road, pt 3

Vimes/f!Reader

Slow burn AU where Vimes isn’t married. Will definitely become hard R down the line. Content warnings: violence, sexual harassment, vomit Read part 2 here, part 4 here ---- Then there was the other way to while away an afternoon and in one way or another it seemed to press on nearly everyone’s mind, apart of course from that of mr Stone who apparently Didn’t Do That Kind Of Thing.

Sofie just got on with it which was refreshingly pragmatic. Men who spent a lot of time in inns usually counted, probably out of optimism rather than experience, on that being just another service offered to anyone with coin to pay for it, and Sofie didn’t mind playing into this on occasion, if they were clean and polite enough. She had an apprenticeship to save up for. Conrad had a sweetheart within walking distance and Mrs and Mr Erickson resorted to mutual passive aggression that sometimes escalated to loud fights in front of anyone who would listen. That at least meant guests were provided with both dinner and entertainment.

Which left you. Perhaps spring was making itself known already even if the weather didn’t show it - there was an itch there that you just couldn’t scratch on your own and making eye contact with Stone through the smoke from his cigars of an evening didn’t help. He’d started watching you a little and sometimes you could swear he even smiled at your jokes. It would have been better if he’d ignored you altogether. Being cooped up with a handsome man who wouldn’t have you wasn’t the fun kind of torture.

Business might be slow but it hadn’t dried up altogether so if he wasn’t going oblige, perhaps it was better to look around for another candidate. There was Patrick, sitting tonight at the bar between two friends and looking the classic image of air-headed, well toned and well fed countryside masculinity. He was travelling back up the mountains in preparation for spring where he’d presumably do some dangerous and thrilling outdoors job and impress absolutely everyone, and when he’d been past this time last year you’d very nearly had something. That something may as well run its course now.

When he saw you, he positively beamed and actually tipped his hat in your direction. You had expected him to elbow his friends or make some nasty comment to prove what a man he was, but this humble politeness sealed the deal. Where was the sense in having high standards if no one ever met them?

“Hello Patrick,” you greeted with honey dripping from each syllable.

“Hello, miss. I swear these mountains are worth climbing just to see your pretty smile again.”

You rolled your eyes and in doing so, spotted Stone sitting much closer than you had expected and well within earshot. Well, if he was getting used to your teasing, it was only sensible to find a new way to make him uncomfortable.

One of Patrick’s friends was rocking unsteadily in his seat and now he laughed into his tankard. “They won’t be… they won’t be the only things getting climbed tonight.” It wasn’t the worst joke from someone in his condition.

“Please,” Patrick cut in. “Sit and have a drink with us.”

“Hmm.” You glanced around the room and saw no one around who might rat you out. “I should take another lap and then I might be able to join you. It has been such boring winter, I could use some entertainment.”

“Oh? I was looking forward to hearing what you have been up to since I saw you last.”

“That won’t take long.”

“I bet nothing takes long, the way you look.” The drunk opened his eyes to give you a pointed once over, although in reality it took him two tries just to get them to focus.

“You’re all a bunch of sweet talkers, aren’t you? How’s a girl supposed to handle all this attention without getting a big head?”

On cue, he mumbled, “I’ll show you a big head…”

“Wow, he’s on a roll.”

Patrick smacked his friend on the arm. “Be quiet! You’re making us look like idiots.”

You knew the three of them well enough to think that warning had come a little too late. “Keep an eye on him, will you? If he pisses his pants in here I’ll have to mop it up and I can think of much better ways to spend my evening.” ----

That final lap turned into more of a marathon as the patrons called out increasingly incoherent orders and made increasingly sticky messes. Dinner was burned and everyone complained. The eleventh time you ran back out of the kitchen, Patrick’s friend blocked your path in the passage. He looked a lot steadier now since you hadn’t been around to refill his glass.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” he stated, as if that was any problem of yours.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m quite busy.”

“Oh yeah? Doing what?”

“Well... my job, unfortunately.” You could tell just by looking at him that he was gearing up to tell you the customer was always right.

“That is unfortunate. I can think of much more fun things for you to do...”

“Haven’t you had enough yet?” a familiar voice cut in from behind him. The ex-drunk stepped aside slightly to reveal Stone, glaring right back at him.

“What are you talking about? I haven’t been able to get any service for like an hour.”

“Oh, I wasn’t asking you,” Stone clarified and turned to you. “I was asking the lady.”

You nodded, more eager to be rescued than you’d ever been before now that it was him offering it. “I’ve definitely had enough.”

“Good. I was getting real sick of listening to this one.”

“What are you gonna do about it, you old -“

Stone hit him in the stomach so hard you half expected to see his fist exiting through the man’s back.

Your would-be seducer didn’t even gurgle, he just sort of crumpled up where he’d stood. Stone rolled his shoulder and winced. Quite a crowd behind him had gathered to watch the proceedings and you waved to the audience.

Then the man vomited, violently, all over the floor and across Stone’s boots and the entire bar cheered.

“Blast.” Stone looked at you, very sheepishly. “...sorry.”

You felt the corner of your eye begin to twitch. “No, that’s alright. This is what I get for complaining about being bored.” ----

Twenty or so minutes later, you stepped back into the main hall, crisp and clean and looking for your hero.

Patrick and his friends must have excused themselves and Stone was back in his usual corner as if nothing had happened. People watched him with even more wariness than before but that just meant no one would get near enough to interrupt you.

You poured a very generous serving of wine and bore down on him, slamming the glass down on the table in front of him. He didn’t so much as flinch.

“...I told you, I don’t drink.”

“It’s for me. My shift is over and somehow I still fancy a drink even after cleaning up all that puke.”

“Seems like you’re in the right line of work, then.”

You sat down opposite him and still he wouldn’t be provoked. All he did was raise the cigar to his lips to hide a smile and regard you with perfect calm - another approach would have to do and thankfully, you knew some reliable ways to needle him.

“I wanted to come over and thank you properly.”

It worked instantly. Stone grimaced. “Please, don’t.”

“No, I’m serious. It’s not as if you meant for him to throw up all over you.”

“My boots have seen worse. Smelled worse, too.”

You weren’t about to let him get away from the subject. “It’s a real comfort, knowing we’ve got a strong, chivalrous fighter about the place ready to defend us.” You smiled, more mean than playful, and took a deep drink. “Well. Protect me, anyway.”

“Yeah, right.” He snorted and craned his neck to look over your shoulder. “Ah, just like I thought - your pretty boy’s scampered off and now you’re crawling back to me.”

“Who, Patrick?” With perfect sincerity, you caught his eye and held his gaze. “You know I only flirted with him to make you jealous. He’s got nothing on you.”

There was a tense pause and then Stone sighed, evidently through playing. He stubbed out his cigar as if he had a grudge against it. “Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Talk to me... like that.” He kept glaring and went on when you didn’t acknowledge the hint. “You like to watch me squirm? Is that it?”

“Oh. Partially...”

“It can’t be anything else. I’m not a complete fool.”

You put your head on one side. “Is it really so impossible to believe that someone might, you know… Find you attractive?”

He sat back, exasperated. “There’s no talking to you, is there?”

“Besides, we’re stuck in the country. People here make their own entertainment. It happens, you know. ”

“Not to me, it doesn’t. Don’t you have better, er... I don’t know.” Whatever he was getting at, he was too embarrassed to actually arrive there. “People must get married even here in the arse end of nowhere,” he finished lamely.

“Are you married?”

“Lady, do I look married to you?”

“Not happily.”

“Right. Well. It’s all the same in the end, in my experience.”

You licked your lips and scrambled for some way to get him to at the very least believe you were in earnest. “There’s no need to make it a bigger deal than it is. All I’m saying is we all have... you know. Um. Needs.”

“I don’t.” Stone held on to the edge of the table with both hands and the tendons on the back of them stood out as if they were trying to spring from his skin. He could have turned pieces of coal into diamonds if you lodged them in the right place.

“If you really want me to stop, of course I will - I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. At least, not very uncomfortable.”

“You don’t want to make me uncomfortable.” Stone’s eyes searched yours and there was something suddenly hungry mingled into his uncertain expression. Without thinking, he spread his fingers wide on the table top and his hands pushed forward an inch towards you. This moment of weakness lasted less than a second, but you saw it and he saw you seeing it and he caught himself. “If by ‘entertainment’ you mean mocking old men, far be it from me to object - gods know we probably deserve it.” The wall had come back up and his face was impassive once again.

Before you could reply, a hand landed on your shoulder and someone spoke your name.

“Your young man is back,” Stone said sourly and you turned to see Patrick looming over you.

“Are you alright, miss?” Patrick said in Überwaldian. He looked genuinely worried and you smiled awkwardly back up at him and touched his hand. Stone cleared his throat and that only encouraged you to get up out of your seat and give over your attention to Patrick. You’d already squeezed more out of that dry stone than you’d hoped, there was no harm now in going for an easy win. And besides, the jealousy angle seemed promising.

“I’m fine. Where did you escape to?”

“We had a talk with our friend. He’s sleeping it off in his room. I’m very sorry about him; he doesn’t understand women.”

Neither do you, you thought to yourself. But he had this in his favour: he didn’t have to be dragged kicking and screaming through a conversation. You knocked back your drink and decided to get your comforts where you could find them. “I could do with some air - would you come with me to the courtyard?”

You got up to leave and did not object when Patrick put his arm around your shoulders. Hotter than his touch, you felt Stone’s gaze burning against your neck, following you all the way out into the night.

#sam vimes #discworld fanfiction #discworld #sam vimes x you #sam vimes x reader #my fics #it really is easy to write a slow burn if you update every two years

[veinsandknuckles]

Long hard road, pt 2

So, this is a new part 2, making what used to be part 2 part 3. Makes total sense, right?

Vimes/f!Reader Slow burn AU where Vimes isn’t married. Will definitely become hard R down the line. Content warnings: none Read part 1 here, part 3 here One sunny day about two weeks after Stone’s arrival, you found him lurking in a shady corner of the courtyard, leaning against a crate with an amused expression on his face. Today you were shirking so you followed his gaze to see what he was seeing.

It was Conrad and one of the local boys, around thirteen or so, engaged in a mock battle with a stick each for a sword. They weren’t playing, either. Conrad stopped every other minute to give minute advice with an air of great authority. Stone nodded to you when you joined him. “He’s always fancied himself a bit of a strongman, I think,” you said by way of a greeting. Conrad did have endless stories about his adventures, and it was fun to keep track of the details he got wrong with each retelling. “He’s got the posture down, I’ll give him that.”  It really was the kind of form you’d see in an instructional engraving; shoulders drawn back, chin in the air and his free hand behind his back. The boy caught him a blow on the outside of the thigh and Conrad loudly discounted it as unsportsmanlike. It was hard to tell if the kid was actually holding on to his every word, or just playing along for the excuse to beat a grown man and get away with it.

“Could you do better?”

Stone looked over at you with a suspicious frown. Then he shook his head. “You can’t bait me that easily.”

You nodded to the sword at his side. He never left the inn without it, and as plain as it was, it couldn’t be because he worried about it going missing. “So, what, you just carry that thing to impress the ladies?”

“Good grief.” But he must be in a good mood because then he smiled with a faraway look in his eye. “You know, I did try that for a time in my youth. When things grew desperate.”

“Did it work?”

“Nope.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure where that idea came from in the first place.” Conrad had backed the kid up against a wall with the point of the stick at his chest and looked a little too pleased about his victory. “In my experience, any excited talk between women about a big sword and the like is usually intended as a humorous metaphor.”

“You give men too much credit if you think we can tell the difference.” Stone still smiled, but you knew his words were a little too true for comfort. It was interesting that he could join in with this kind of talk so easily as long as it remained impersonal.

When Conrad turned his back to return to his starting position, the kid whacked him with his full strength across the leg. Conrad howled and nearly lost his balance. You couldn’t help laughing and the two knights in training finally discovered their audience. The boy bolted, Conrad scowled and limped off towards the kitchen, throwing the stick to the ground as he went.

“Show’s over,” said Stone and stood up straight. “Suppose I’d better get my own exercise in while there’s some daylight left.”

“Want some company?”

He sighed with an expression that was half amused, half irritated. “Do I have a choice?”

Of course he did, but if you said so he’d feel obligated to turn you down. He had to be able to tell himself he was being befriended against his will. After all, if he really wanted to avoid you, you knew he was more than capable of being impolite enough to say so. “What do you think?”

“Fine. A short walk, then.” Stone gestured for you to choose a direction and you headed out through the gates with him beside you, falling quickly into his leisurely pace.

The thaw had gotten an early start this year and everyone was fooled by it into hoping it would last, despite years of experience to the contrary. Every winter it was the same way - half a week of mild, sunny weather and not even the born locals could help thinking that this time it might be different, this time spring might arrive a month before it was due. Perhaps it was just human nature to talk big about expecting the worst and getting suckered despite of it.

Stone seemed a wonderful exception to this rule. There didn’t seem to be a silence thick enough to tempt him into speaking of the weather. He walked beside you, occupied with his own thoughts, completely at his ease.

“How long do you think you’ll be staying with us, mr Stone?”

He snorted. “Not a moment longer than I have to.”

The road you followed clung to the side of the mountain and bordered on the other side to dense pine forest growing from almost vertical ground. The little buildings of the inn huddled together on one of the wider plateaus and marked the edge of real vegetation before the path continued up towards the pass. You had just reached a bend in the road, a perfect vantage point to take in the stunning view of the mountain range to the side and the valleys below. On such a clear day, you could see the wide river even from here, snaking through the landscape like a silver inlay.

“How is it possible to tire of all this?”

Stone raised his eyebrows and regarded it dispassionately. “It’s just nature.”

You laughed. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

“Since when are you so in love with the place? Thought you were bored to tears.”

“I’m not,” you conceded and tore yourself away from the view. “Just making the best of it.”

Stone took the lead now and followed the next trail leading in between the trees.

“Why not leave?”

“And go where? To do what?”

“I don’t know,” Stone shrugged. “You must want more than this, surely. You could settle down, start a family...” His ears caught up with his mouth and you saw him screw his eyes shut and shake his head.

Because of course the height of every woman’s ambition is a husband and children. You laughed and elbowed him in the side. “Mr Stone, are you offering to take me away from all of this?”

“Hah!” For once, he looked more amused than uncomfortable with the suggestion. “That’s me, walking model of fairy tale prince.”

“I’d say you’re more like the dangerous, good-for-nothing rogues that my mother should have warned me about. I’m sure you’ve left a few broken hearts in your wake.”

Stone snorted. “Right. You’ve really got me pegged.”

You bit your lip and kept watching him, but he was resolutely focused on the trail ahead. It didn’t seem like false modesty; he really did seem completely ignorant of his own charms. How could he not be, if he mistook every kind of flirtation for a joke?

Perhaps you weren’t his type. It happened. Not every man was ready to pounce on every opportunity that presented itself. Perhaps he didn’t want to pounce on anything in the first place.

But if that were the case, surely he would say so, instead of sarcastically playing along or pretending to misunderstand you. Whatever other obstacles may present themselves, the first and largest was that he wouldn’t believe you.

“Oh well,” you said. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“No, I suppose I can’t,” he said, as if wishing he could. “But I can judge you for having poor taste.”

That was exactly the kind of comment you could hardly interpret as anything other than encouragement for you to continue.

“Are you asking to be complimented?”

Stone half turned towards you with a look of startled dread. “Absolutely not.”

Exasperated, you rolled your eyes and decided to drop it for the time being. “Fine. You pick a subject, then.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Stone couldn’t pull himself back together. The silence was thick and uncomfortable and you could have sworn you saw him, out of the corner of your eye, looking at you with some earnestness.

“Do you... er. Have you lived here long?”

“A few years.” The poor man really was ready to scrape the bottom of the barrel, but you felt like you owed him a little help in steering back into safer waters. “You’re from Ankh-Morpork, aren’t you?”

The little path forked up ahead and Stone chose the path that looped around to the other side of the inn. He really had explored his surroundings. “I suppose that’s not much of a secret.”

“The accent is pretty strong.”

“Huh.” He sniffed. “Your Morporkian is, er... it’s very good.”

“Thank you.”

“Must be from reading all those books.” He’d seen you read once, but apparently that was enough to set you down as a confirmed book worm.

For a while, you walked together in silence and slowly his ruffled feathers seemed to settle down. It was beautiful out here, every shadow in the snow a rich blue, every dapple of sunshine glowing peach and gold as the afternoon wore on. Your footfalls made a pleasant, hypnotising creaking sound with each step you took.

Before you could think it through, you asked a question that had been weighing on you for some time. “Is it safe for you to be here?”

There was a pause. “...for me or for you?”

Oh gods. “Either, I suppose.”

Stone thought this through. He looked very weary.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

You tried to smile. “I guess I wasn’t too far off with the ‘dangerous rogue’ thing, then.”

“Well, you knew that already.”

“Yeah... next time you should have a backstory and name picked out before you introduce yourself.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he replied drily.

Despite everything he’d said (and failed to say) and despite how incredibly intimidating he could be, it was impossible for you to view Stone as a threat. If he had tried to make himself likeable or if he’d tried harder to bullshit an excuse for being here in the first place, it would have been another thing altogether. He didn’t seem as if he wanted anyone to like him very much and that indifference was predictably irresistible.

He was just so... self-contained. He seemed perfectly content on his own and perfectly careless of his reputation. His attitude towards whatever danger he was in seemed to consist mostly of boredom, as if he was just waiting to get it over with and wasn’t all that invested in the outcome. In many ways, he was untouchable, and of course that only made you more desperate to try. It was also very difficult to believe he didn’t have to fight people off with a stick.

You should really know better. So far everything had gone his way, which meant he could afford to be a gentleman, but who knew what desperation could drive him to do? When his reality caught up with him, you might all be acceptable casualties - to him as well as to whoever, or whatever, was chasing him. Somehow, all these facts were trumped by a strong gut feeling in his favour and here you were, walking beside him feeling as safe as if you’d known him for years.

The inn was coming back into view. Stone was deep in thought, but when the climb to get back onto the road got a little steep, he scaled it ahead of you, turned and offered his hand to help pull you up.

It was big, rough and warm - you felt the heat of his skin even through your mittens - and yours seemed almost to disappear into his grip. With a slowly creeping flush you realised that your attraction to him had grown much quicker than you had intended it to. Soon, if he kept deflecting your advances, you might find yourself too shy to continue them or, if you were very careless, growing lovesick.

“Thank you,” you said as you stepped onto the road and he immediately let go. You worried that you might have sounded a little too breathless and sincere.

“Course.” Stone cleared his throat and walked briskly towards the stables. “And, er. Thank you for the company. Although,” and he shot you a glance, “it shouldn’t become a habit. Seems all people do round here is gossip.”

“Of course.” You couldn’t deny it even if you wanted to, but it was very sweet of him to care about your reputation. “We wouldn’t want anyone to think you were a loose man.”

The shadow of the house crossed your path and Stone immediately seemed more at ease when he stepped into it. You could sense that he wanted to be alone with his thoughts now and so you forced a little smile and waved him off. A curt nod, and then he slunk in among the buildings, off to do whatever mysterious things usually filled his time.

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