#cozy writes

[thecoziestbean]

a waking dream - on ao3!

BG3 Halsin x F!Reader | E | 1.9k

18+, Minors DNI

cw: pregnancy kink, somno, please check out all of the tags on ao3 before reading

Read on ao3

You drift on the edge of a very pleasant dream. A hazy memory of lingering touches and summer’s fading heat. You’ve found that your dreams in the winter are often pleasant, tucked into your cottage snug and warm and well fed while the world outside slumbers beneath its quiet blanket of snow and darkness. You certainly rest easier when the comforting weight of a certain massive elf is cuddled close.

OR: There's more than one way to stay warm during a long winter...

#oak father preserve me #oak daddy #daddy halsin #halsin x reader #halsin x you #halsin x tav #halsin #halsin silverbough #bg3 halsin #halsin bg3 #halsin fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 #cozy writes

[cozy-the-overlord]

Free Fall

Summary: Tony Stark arranges for an Avengers Teambuilding Day at a local amusement park. Loki had been hoping to avoid it -- he's had enough thrills to last a lifetime, he has no desire to seek out more -- but you and your endearing enthusiasm for roller coasters convince him to come along. However, the free fall drop tower you start out with turns out to be a bit more thrilling than he bargained for.

Word Count: 3,482

Pairing: Loki x Gender Neutral Reader

A/N: Drags self out of the grave and awkwardly waves

So it's been a minute since I posted lol. Those of you who follow may be aware that I recently graduated from college with the Final Semester From Hell that involved my computer hard drive dying on me in class and causing me to lose not only forty pages of my honors thesis two weeks before it was due, but also almost every WIP I had been working on in the past four years because I am an idiot who chronically forgets to back things up :D I did make it through college, but between stress, burnout, depression, and the death of any motivation to work on anything because of having to restart from the beginning for all of my projects, I went a while without writing anything. But I'm slowly getting back into it -- I have several projects in the works and I'm hoping to get back to posting more regularly. This fic was a short piece that I had started prior to the computer death that I had a lot of physical notes on so they weren't lost when my hard drive decided to yeet itself into the sun. I'm not entirely happy with it, but honestly it feels so good to finally finish something that I don't care.

Anyways, sorry for the obnoxious A/N. Thank you so much for reading!

Warnings: PTSD, flashbacks, panic attack, a bit of motion sickness?

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @the-emo-asgardian @imnotrevealingmyname @electroma89 @lokislittlesigyn @moumouton4 @theredrenard @justdontmindmetm @lostgreekgod @naterson

If you want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask/message :) (I also realize that this taglist is Old so if I need to update it please let me know)

Read it on Ao3!

Standing in the shadow of the great tower, heart thudding in his throat, Loki is suddenly aware that he’s made an enormous mistake.

Next to him, Stark whistles. “This is what you usually start with?”

You grin up at the spire, a massive construction of electric green cutting through the cloudless sky. Two elevators, one on either side, are creeping slowly up the length of the tower. They linger at the top for just a moment before plunging back down to Earth, their occupants screaming. Loki feels ill just watching, but you’re practically vibrating in place. “It’s good to get the blood pumping.”

He can’t bring himself to look at you.

It’s your fault that he’s here. Loki hadn’t planned to come today at all. A day spent outside in the sweltering summer sun, following Stark’s gaggle of misfits onto various machines designed to fling mortals from side to side to simulate the feeling of a near death experience? Loki couldn’t imagine anything more torturous. Thor’s begging and cajoling received nothing in response. No, he hadn’t the slightest intention of coming today, not until last night, when he came across you restocking the main refrigerator.

“Are you excited for tomorrow?” you had asked as you arranged rows of Red Bull on the top shelf. “I can’t wait to take you guys around Rapid Rails—I’ve been begging Mr. Stark to do a teambuilding day there ever since he hired me.”

Your eagerness caught him off guard— as Stark’s personal assistant, you had been present at all of his godforsaken teambuilding events, but Loki had never known you to be particularly excited about any of them. “I … I wasn’t aware you had such an attachment to it.”

“Oh yeah—I grew up just down the street from there!” You beamed at him, breaking down the cardboard box you had used to carry the cans. “We used to have season passes – they were way cheaper when I was a kid – and we’d just go there to hang out all the time. Gosh it was so fun. And now I get to go for work!” You let out a merry laugh. “I guess some things never change, right?”

Loki huffed a soft chuckle. He had never seen you like this before, practically bubbling over in excitement. It was … rather endearing. “I suppose not.”

“You are coming, right? Thor said you hadn’t made up your mind yet.”

Were the circumstances different, Loki might have scoffed. Hadn’t made up your mind yet—Norns, his brother lived in denial. Instead though, he hesitated. “I … I’m afraid I hadn’t planned on it.”

“Really?” The way your face fell actually hurt his chest. “Why not?”

“I—” He glanced away, pressing his lips together. “I’m not sure I’m one for your roller coasters,” he said, finally. “You’d likely have a better time without me there.” It was an attempt at lightheartedness, but you only seemed more disappointed.

“Oh, that’s not true at all! I was really looking forward to—” you stopped suddenly, and when Loki looked up again, you were biting your lip with a nervous laugh. “I mean, it would be really fun if you came with us. But it’s okay if you don’t want to.”

“I suppose I could come, if you so desire.” He hoped he sounded nonchalantly cool, and that you couldn’t see the way his heart fluttered at the idea that you might want him there. “I wouldn’t wish to let you down.”

“Oh, I mean—” You looked away, the light from the refrigerator silhouetting your frame. “I don’t want to force you, if you don’t want to. You shouldn’t do it just for me.”

“No, I …” He inhaled, then smiled. “I think I would like to join you.”

And so here he is, at the base of this great metal monstrosity, intently studying the sign outside of the line entrance to avoid Thor’s knowing smirk. His brother has never worn self-satisfaction well.

DEATH DROP: THE TALLEST AND FASTEST DROP TOWER ON THE EAST COAST

 The description is illustrated with a photograph of two people strapped to their seats, mouths wide in mid-scream as their hair flies every which way. Loki lets out a shaky exhale as he reads. The tower, it claims, is 400 feet tall. It reaches top speeds of 85 miles per hour. The ride itself lasts about 90 seconds in total. The measuring stand besides the entrance indicates that participants must be at least 48 inches tall.

400 feet. That doesn’t sound too terrible, he tells himself. The concept of a foot as a unit of measurement is still something he struggles to wrap his head around, but he knows that Stark Tower stands at over a thousand. So that’s not too bad. 400 feet would be a drop in the bucket, really, compared to …

No. He pushes the thought down, back into the dark recesses of his memory. None of that. Not today.

Stark smirks at him. “You’re looking green, Tommy Wiseau.”

Loki swallows, straining to maintain his stiff mask of composure. It’s bad enough to have Stark reveling in his discomfort, but now you’re looking over at him too, brow furrowed in concern, and he wishes he could melt away on the spot. “I’m quite fine.”

“Of course he is!” Thor booms, slapping his shoulder with a hearty thwack that does nothing for Loki’s stomach. “We’ve fallen from much higher heights, haven’t we, brother?”

Weightless. Breathless. Engulfed by inky nothingness, the air so thin he can’t even scream —

Loki’s smile hurts. “Yes, very true.”

“You don’t have to go, Loki,” you interject. “It’s totally okay— I have friends who love roller coasters and refuse to touch this ride. It’s a lot.”

He knows you mean it as reassurance, but he can’t stand the way you’re looking at him, as if he were a frightened child, too fragile to be brought along. Are you regretting having convinced him to change his mind? Do you feel that he’s only holding you back? Somehow, the idea that you no longer want him here is almost as sickening as the thought of the fall.

Loki huffs a breath. No. He will prove himself worthy of your coaster. “I assure you, I am fine.” His voice is more strained than he’d prefer it to be. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

…

The attendant seems rather starstruck as he ushers the group onto the ride—he stumbles and stammers through the explanation of the seating arrangements and the harness. Loki’s not really listening as he follows you to the left side of the cart, trying not to ignore the buzzing that seems to be settling behind his ears.

You smile up at him. “Would you rather sit on the side or in the middle?”

He frowns. “Does it make a difference?”

“Well, personally I don’t think so, but I know some people who get scared of heights think it’s easier to sit in the middle.”

“I’m not scared of heights.” The words come out far too quickly to sound believable, and he curses inwardly at himself. “I can sit on the side.”

“Are you sure?”  You eye him uncertainly. “It’s okay if you—"

“I’m quite capable of managing such a seat.” He sits before you have the chance to question him again.

The seat is rather tight—Loki wonders if that’s intentional, or if it’s simply built with a smaller frame in mind. In the cart off to the right, he can hear Thor fumbling about with the attendant, and he chuckles despite himself. If he’s finding it to be a bit of a squeeze, he can’t imagine the troubles his bulky brother must be having.

It’s a momentary reprieve from his darker thoughts, and Loki is actually smiling when you warn him to sit back against the seat.

“The harness is going to be coming down soon.”

“What?”

You motion to the contraption above the cart, two plastic green masses shaped like upside down u’s that hover above your heads like the top of a clam shell. “It sits over you and keeps you from flying out of the cart.” You let out a small laugh. “It’s like the harnesses on the Quinjets, but way less cool. They also have little handles that you can hold on to if you want.”

Loki is eyeing the harnesses uncertainly. “What do you mean they’ll be coming down soon?”

“You used to have to pull it down yourself, but they have it all programmed now.” A great mechanical creak cracks through the air, and you press yourself against the back of the seat. “Oh, here it comes now!”

He frowns, mimicking your movement to sit as far back as he can. The green restraint descends slowly over his head, with a metallic groan that does not give him much faith in the construction of this monstrosity. He expects it to stop once it was hovering over his torso, but it continues until it’s pressed snuggly against his chest, pinning him to the seat. The attendant is saying something over the intercom, but Loki barely registers it over the feeling of the restraint. It’s … it’s not a painful sensation, but the firmness with which it holds … he’s been restrained before. Little flames of memory spark in the corners of his mind, flames he can’t seem to douse no matter how hard he tries.

Get it off. Get it off. Get it off.

He gives an apprehensive tug on the metal handles that now rest on either shoulder, a tug which quickly turns into a hard yank. The harness does not move. His mouth has gone dry.

“Loki?” you’re frowning at him, your head only barely visible through your own harness. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You’re not bothered by the restraint. Of course you aren’t—how many times did you say you’ve ridden this ride? It’s fine. It’s fine. Goodness, what must you think of him, seeing him panic over the safety harness that you’ve worn hundreds of times before for fun? He nods his head, shaking away the feelings and memories and emotions and all the other thoughts that he wishes he could just wash down the drain …

“Are you sure—?”

“Perfectly,” he spits, but it comes out more snappishly than he intended, and you recoil with a look on your face that makes him despise himself.

I shouldn’t be allowed to speak.

“And enjoy your ride!” the attendant finishes with a flourish, and the thick metal cranking is all the warning you get before the cart begins to lift off from the ground. Loki’s heart jumps to his throat, pounding so fast he can’t make out the separate beats.

“This part is the scariest bit,” you yell at him over the grinding of machinery. “The anticipation kills me!”

Loki inhales. The elevator continues to rise, inching up slowly along the spire, the ground beneath their feet melting into miniature. This is alright, he tells himself. If this is the worst part of the experience, then he’ll be just fine. There’s nothing particularly frightening about it—he spoke the truth when he told you that he had never been bothered by heights. It’s all perfectly fine.

Perfectly. Fine.

Norns, they’re still going up. He risks a glance at the track above him—surely they must be close now? The movement makes him queasy, and he quickly turns back to face straight ahead. His knuckles are white from clutching the handles. The harness is digging into his chest and it takes all of his self-control not to rip it off. The elevator stutters—is this it? His breath catches, but no, they’re still going up. They seem to be slowing down though, don’t they? Or is that only his imagination?

I’m going to be ill.

They’ve stopped. That’s not in his head. Everything seems frozen in place. Why did he agree to do this? Loki presses his eyes closed. Any moment now. Any moment …

Still nothing.

His chest aches. He may have forgotten to breathe. Why have they stopped? Is something wrong? Loki turns to you—you look ecstatic, eyes crinkled with elation, mouth wide in an open grin.

“When is it going to—”

You drop.

The world goes silent. He feels it, that awful sensation in his stomach as the line goes slack and colors rush before his eyes in a blur until it all fades to darkness, airlessness, weightlessness, his lungs burning and drowning on the empty void of space—he’s falling, he’s falling again, he’s falling again oh please Norns not again—

There’s ground beneath his feet. He’s not sure where it came from. His knuckles ache. You’re talking – to him? He’s not sure, he only barely can make out your voice …

“Loki? The harness is coming up. Can you let go?”

He’s still clinging to the handles. Can he let go? He’s not sure. His body feels like lead. He pries his fingers from the metal tube and the pressure against his chest vanishes with a woosh over his head.

“There you go.” Your voice is soft, encouraging, closer than he remembered. He looks up to find you kneeling on the ground before him. You flash a nervous smile. “You alright?”

He’s not sure what to say. His instinct is to apologize, insist that yes, of course, he’s quite alright, he didn’t mean to give any impression to the contrary, everything is fine, but the words catch in his throat.

stars melting together smothering his last breath

Loki lets out a shuddering breath, settles for a nod.

“What’s the hold-up?” Stark calls out. “Barton and Romanov are waiting with the kids on the other side of the park.”

“We’re just taking a break for a minute!” Your reply is hurried. “You guys can go on, we’ll meet you there.”

“Is something wrong?” Thor sounds concerned, and—oh great—now both him and Stark are walking over to their cart. “Loki? What happened?”

“I—” But words, so often his steadfast ally, seem to be failing him right now. What happened? He has no answer; at least, none that his brother would accept. For nothing had happened, not really, and yet that was enough to send him spiraling through the fabric of reality.

He hates this. He hates feeling so weak.

Stark is chuckling. “If I knew that this was all it took to shut him up, I would have rented this place out sooner—”

Enough.

Loki forces himself to stand – far too quickly, his stomach churns at the movement, but he swallows the bile in his throat. He needs to get away. It doesn’t matter how, but he needs to not be with them. Besides him, you scramble to your feet too.

“I’m well.” His voice doesn’t sound right—it feels foreign, and thick like syrup, nothing like his own. “You may go on without me.”

“Are you certain?” Thor is frowning. “We can wait—”

Please don’t.

“I’m certain. I just need to sit for a moment.”

“There’s a bench nearby!” You’ve taken on the same cheery inflection typical of your working voice, and it adds a sense of normalcy to a distinctly abnormal situation. He’s grateful for it. “I can show you where!”

Both Stark and his brother seem reluctant to leave, but you insist that it’s fine. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

He feels slightly steadier as he follows you to the bench—it’s just a wooden thing on the side of the concrete path, across from what appears to be a diner of some sort. You mumble something about going to get water. It’s a relief when you turn away, so you don’t see how he collapses against the seat.

There’s ground beneath his feet. Loki closes his eyes, focuses on that. There’s ground beneath my feet. The asphalt is firm, hot with the summer sun, anchoring him to reality. He lets out a breath. It feels safe.

Unless, of course, it crumbles beneath your step and flings you back into the abyss –

“Hey.” He jerks up at the sound of your voice, and the suddenness causes you to jump as well. You shift apologetically, standing in front of him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Loki swallows. How did he not hear you come up? “You didn’t.” Although it must be obvious that you did. At least you’re kind enough to allow him the lie.

You offer him a plastic cup. It’s a flimsy thing, but quite cold, relieving against his feverish skin. He takes it with a mumbled thanks, pretending he doesn’t notice how you’re studying him with a quiet sort of concern.

“Are you feeling better?” you ask after a moment.

Loki bites down on the inside of his cheek, relishing the way it stings. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just – I mean – ” you glance down, tugging at your shirt sleeve. “I get panic attacks too.”

“I don’t—” But he stops himself, stops the urge to argue. Gives a gentle nod instead. “I’m well, thank you. I just … I need a moment to catch my breath.”

“I’m sorry …” You look away guiltily. “Death Drop is kind of a lot – we shouldn’t have done that first.”

“It’s not that. I –” He wants to explain to you. He wants you to know that he’s not usually like this—he never used to be like this, he’s strong and steady and perfectly capable of anything you could ask of him, but his voice is failing once again. Loki huffs a sigh. “You ought to go on with the others. I don’t wish to ruin your day.”

“Oh, you haven’t ruined anything. I’ve been on every ride in this park about a million times. It’s fine!” Your voice is bubbly and light as you sit down next to him on the bench. There’s something oddly comforting about the sound. “Besides, it’s bad etiquette to leave a friend by themselves at an amusement park. Buddy system and all that.”

A friend. He can only stare at you.

You falter. “Unless … unless you’d rather I left?”

“No—” Loki surprises himself with how quickly he answers. “No, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Several minutes pass in silence, the frantic beating of his heart slowly tapering off into something softer as he drinks in your presence. He’s grateful for it, grateful for how you let him soak in the quiet. Thor would never have allowed him such a moment’s peace.

 He’s considering asking if you’re sure you don’t want to go on any other coasters (he feels guilty for keeping you here—perhaps he can accompany you through the queue and wait on the ground?) when you suddenly sit up stock-straight. “Oh!”

Loki frowns. “Is something wrong?”

You turn to him with a wide grin. “I just remembered they have Dole Whip here!”

“They—what kind of whip?” What sort of ride would a whip be, he wonders? A human sized slingshot, perhaps? His stomach lurches at the thought.

Luckily though, he’s proved wrong. “Dole Whip!” you giggle. “It’s like ice cream, but fruit flavored. Like there’s pineapple and strawberry and whatnot—it’s like soft serve.” You look at him with a kind of hopeful excitement. “Do you want to try some?”

Loki hums. He has yet to try soft serve ice cream, but he knows his brother practically swears by the stuff. “Is it good?”

“Supposedly. I’ve actually never tried it— we never wanted to spend money on park food when we would come as kids. It’s stupid expensive.” You smirk. “But today’s all on Mr. Stark’s dime, so…”

He chuckles. “And you would take advantage of your employer in such a fashion? I didn’t realize I had such a Machiavellian on my hands.”

“Hey, I’m just taking advantage of the opportunities presented to me!” You stand with a grin, holding your hands up in a mock surrender pose. “You can’t blame me for that, can you?”

“Oh, I’d never,” he teases as he stands, and he’s relieved to find that his legs have regained their steadiness. “I’d be honored to experience this Dole Whip with you on Stark’s expense.”

“Fantastic,” you beam. “It’s not too far from here. And it’s right next to a bunch of these little shops—they have this ridiculous giant sea monster toy that costs like $300, I can show you—”

You continue on as the both of you walk down the path, telling him all about the park’s various hidden gems and the inside jokes you and your friends have concocted around them, and Loki finds himself laughing more than not—he can’t help it, your giggles are just too infectious.

Huh. Perhaps joining you today wasn’t a mistake after all.

#loki x reader #loki fluff #loki fanfic #hurt/comfort #loki marvel #free fall #cozy writes

[cozywriting]

Slow Hands //

Requested by Anonymous: could you do a King Schultz x reader where the reader is shy and stoic and gets injured and King Schultz comforts her and they admit feelings for each other.

Pairing: Dr. King Schultz x fem!reader

You winced in pain, eyes shut, biting your tongue as King gently worked the alcohol into your wound. King’s brows furrowed in focus.

“I apologize, my dear,” he said. “It’ll be over soon.” His tone was as soft as the feathered pillow and silken blankets you now longed for.

You daydreamed of sleep, away from the dangers of guns and outlaws. You relaxed at how hot King’s fingers were tracing alongside your chilled skin.

The bandage over your thigh tightened as King wrapped its layers.

“Does that feel okay?” He asked, his gaze finally adjusting upwards. His fingers trembled against your skin.

Your eyes averted back onto his, and you wondered if the back of his neck was just as warm as yours. Did his stomach do somersaults while yours fluttered? Or was it, perhaps nothing, but a cruel flicker of hope that somehow, he could return such affections?

King was a bounty hunter, you understood this. Invisible blood stained his hands. So how come the calloused ones pressed against you were anything but rough? How was it that passion blazed with each lingering touch? And why, did he stare at you every time with that beautiful sparkle in those hazel-hued eyes?

Finally, you nodded a response. Your tongue twisted to find some words of gratitude, but they did not come. You looked over at Fritz, who was sniffing at the grassy dirt, then up at the orange sky. The day would turn to dusk soon.

“Fraulein,” King said. He was examining the gauze on your leg.

A second hand grazed your left thigh and your heart jumped. You spotted King’s fingers as they caressed your smooth skin, he had not turned his attention away from your wound.

Heat arose within you once more, and you fixed your gaze on the valley of trees that surrounded. Internally, you sighed. How could you possibly signal that this was everything you wanted and more without scaring such a pleasant man away?

As soon as your eyes locked, King swiped his hand away. His quick movements sent a rush of ice down your thigh. You did not realize how much of his touch you longed for until it ceased to exist.

His eyes swelled with regret and your chest ached.

“I’m sorry…” He apologized. “I couldn’t resist.”

King stood up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He paced back and forth away from you and his flushed face was stricken with panic.

You sat, watching such a mess of a man. You did not dare to giggle as much as you wished to. You continued to stare at him in silence, hoping that he would overcome the silliness and help you to your feet.

A moment later, he did exactly that. As your fingers laced with his, you stopped him.

“Don’t let go,” you said, pulling his hand against your breastbone and the haste of your heart quickened.

King’s fingers twitched at the first thump. His chest mimicked deep breathes as his eyes moved up from your joined hands.

“Have you… always?” He asked.

You nodded in reassurance. Your stomach fluttered again, as King’s eyes softened.

“…And you?”

King tugged you closer, closing the space between you. His eyes roamed your face as his thumb grazed your cheek.

“I’ve always loved you,” he said.

King pressed his lips against your forehead. The whiskers of his mustache forced you to giggle. His finger hooked under your chin, tilting your head upwards.

The worry of the world was forgotten as your lips fervently met. Warmth fluttered inside you and King’s grip around your waist tightened. He held you as if that very moment would slip through his grasp forever, had he chosen to let go.

The two of you spoke through timid glances and heated kisses throughout the night. For now, this was enough. For King, you were enough.

And you finally let out a new giggle when the bristles of his beard nipped below your belly from underneath shared covers.

#django unchained #dr king schultz #king schultz x reader #christoph waltz x reader #christoph waltz #quentin tarantino #request #cozy writes #i loved writing this one #imagines

[reachfolk]

❥ title: my house (in which i dwell no more)

✿ tags: hurt/comfort, homesickness, themes of diaspora and displacement, lots and lots of infodumping about markarth, reachfolk & forsworn characters

❥ word count: 4.4k

✿ summary: two displaced natives of the reach—a city boy forced to flee markarth and a wilder girl who’s never laid eyes on it—find comfort in each other.

❥ author's note: title is based off this poem. i’ve taken a lot of liberties with markarth’s layout and history because i do what i want, and because i miss souq al-hamidiyah. this is kinda set in the middle of a bunch of bigger plot stuff lol, but the gist is understandable.

✿ this is a story written by an anti-zionist syrian about the emotional turmoil of living under colonialism. palestine and syria are in every word i write.

In an entirely expected turn of events, Robin couldn’t sleep.

He hated feeling bothered by something that was a near nightly occurrence. There was no sense in it. Worst of all, his efforts to latch onto something to complain about were in vain. He could blame the cold, but the tent had been covered in layers of fur and hide that could keep a snowstorm at bay. He could blame the hard ground, but he’d spent his entire life sleeping on hard stone beds, and he’d grown to prefer it over soft mattresses. He could blame the tight space in the tent he shared with Marceline, but it was all too common for them to share a bed even when they had individual rooms available.

The more he realized how comfortable the arrangement was, the more irritated he became. Because he knew all too well why he couldn’t sleep. And he really, really would rather not think about it. If he were destined to spend the night tossing and turning, then he should at least be given an itchy wool blanket. His complaints would be much more manageable then.

But the blankets were soft, and he knew that all he could point to for his sleeplessness was the state of the world. The state of his home. The state of his family.

His thoughts were blissfully interrupted by the sound of a foot stomping thrice on the stone outside the tent. With the walls made of soft furs, knocking wasn’t much of an option, and he quickly learned that this was a common alternative in Karthspire.

Grateful as he was for the interruption, he couldn’t find it in him to hide the displeasure from his face. He stood slowly, careful to not disturb Marceline as she slept beside him. A cold burst of air smacked him in the face as he stepped outside, and it only deepened his scowl.

“What is it?” He asked, his tone flat and his back slumped.

Much to his surprise, he was met with the sight of Esmeralda before him.

“Oh, uh—” He found himself impulsively straightening his posture and righting his tone. “Esme. Hello.”

She carried with her a pair of thick blankets and a nervous expression. Foregoing any greetings, she simply said, “I wanted to check on you. These furs were—uh, are Alex’s. I figured, since she isn’t back yet, her family should be the ones to keep them.”

He barely needed to consider the offer for a moment before declining. “Have you asked our parents? We’re all good here, and mother might need them more than us.”

Something about that seemed to please her as a smile made its way to her lips. “That’s what Isobel said about you,” she said. “Though she was more insistent. I don’t think she’d be very pleased if I give these to anyone else. So…” She held up the blankets again, swaying them as though that made them more tantalizing.

This time, Robin took them graciously. He knew better than to fight his mother on gestures like this, and he certainly had no intention of dragging Esme into it. “Thank you. Mimi didn’t seem bothered, but she has a tendency to run cold.”

He pulled back the entrance of the tent and gently tossed the folded blankets onto his own empty bedroll, figuring he’d cover up Marceline with one of them once he made his way back to sleep.

When he turned back around, Esmeralda was still there, watching him. Her eyes bore into him with an intensity he hadn’t expected, though he couldn’t for the life of him identify the emotion underlying it.

One could blame the cold, but he knew that the way his skin prickled had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with her.

“So…” His eyes darted from place to place, looking for something to talk about without making it all too obvious that he was avoiding her gaze. “Chilly night, huh?”

“Of course. It’s winter,” she replied dismissively. Thankfully, before Robin could chide himself for his inability to hold a conversation, she changed the subject without missing a beat. “You’re not going to sleep yet?”

“Uhm, I’d like to,” he answered, “but that’s easier said than done.”

“Walk with me.”

The suddenness and directness of the invitation—or was it more of a demand?—left him speechless. All he could do was nod in response.

When she began walking off to the side, it took a long moment for his mind to process it enough to chase after her. She was making her way over to the northwestern edge of the camp. The spot was away from the main road where any attack would likely come from, so there was less of a need for a strong patrol there. In other words, they had plenty of space to themselves.

Once he caught up, he slowed down to match her pace. “Are you having trouble sleeping as well?”

“No,” she answered, “but I like to help with the evening patrols. Nighttime is about as quiet as a big settlement like Karthspire ever gets.”

From his short time here, he could understand. Throughout the day, the whole place was as busy as the Markarth marketplace, if not more so. Of course, the city was much bigger, but it provided enough privacy to hide away from the noise. Meanwhile, in Karthspire, privacy seemed to be on no one’s mind. Sure, the tents were separate enough from prying eyes, but it was a space too small to do much else besides rest. All the other affairs of a society were done out in the open—trading, cooking, crafting, drinking, dancing, teaching, and storytelling. It was no wonder the Reachfolk were known for their loud, boisterous voices. The Wilders, at least, simply had no need for an inside voice.

“It’s the best time to go for a stroll,” he agreed as the two wandered back and forth on her designated route. “Much as I enjoy the hustle and bustle, I loved nights in Markarth. You get to hear the sounds that are drowned out by daily life.”

“What were they like? The nights in the city?” The question tumbled out of her mouth with more urgency than a casual stroll required, but she seemed not to notice the confusion on his face.

“They were… uh… pretty. As far as nights go. The view of the aurora is always nice.”

He fumbled with his words trying to find what answer she was fishing for, but she kept looking at him expectantly.

“And uh… dark?” He felt a strong urge to smack himself, but settled instead for rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry, I don’t know—”

“What did it sound like?”

That much, he could answer. “Humming,” he said. “The machines hum constantly. It’s quiet, and you can’t hear it when people are running around all day. Most of the time, cities sound like the people living in them. But at night, all you hear is the city itself breathing.”

“Breathing?”

She was looking at him like that again. It left a heavy lump in his throat, and he found himself suddenly very unsure what to do with his hands. But he didn’t want her to stop, and so he went on.

“Yeah, it was—at least, I think it was the lights.” As he fumbled with his words, he began to regret every moment he didn’t spend studying the Dwarven tech around the city. He tried to recall whatever he could from the bits of knowledge he’d acquired in passing. “The old lights powering the city are still running. Well, a lot of them, especially in Dryside. Not much of the old tech survived without the automatons maintaining it, but I think Calcelmo and whoever came before him were able to figure out how to keep the lights up, and we’ve been using them as long as I can remember. I think because they can all be activated with a lever. Better than having lantern lighters work each night.”

“And they don’t go out in the rain,” she added.

“They don’t,” he nodded. “It was breathtaking when it rained at night. The droplets would catch the light, and they’d shimmer in the air, all over the city.”

By then, they had stopped walking altogether, their pace slowing to a halt as Esmeralda hung onto every word he spoke. She was no longer watching the path ahead, all her attention focused solely on him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes for long before his nervousness got the best of him. Instead, he looked over to the path leading out into the night, watching in her stead.

“I used to tinker with those bulbs whenever I could sneak off to some ruin or the other as a child,” she recalled fondly. “I learned how to operate them eventually. I still leave one on when I sleep. Something about the sound of it, the glow of it. They’ve always been soothing.”

The image of a young Esmeralda tinkering with Dwemertech both delighted and impressed him. “If you like the sound of the Dwemer machines, you’d find the whole city soothing,” he said. “It’s even clearer and louder the deeper you go, but then you’d have other things to worry about.”

“Deeper..?” She mulled over the word, seeming to turn over in her mind everything she knew about the city. “Alex said the underground was forbidden and all the entrances blocked.”

“All the entrances Alex knew about are blocked.” He couldn’t help smirking as he said that. “Good to know she never caught onto me.”

“So, then… wait, wait.” She brought a hand up to her temple as she processed his words further. “Are you saying you’ve been to Nchuand-Zel?”

Much as he wanted the answer to be a resounding yes, he chose to be truthful. “Not exactly. I’ve never been to the heart of it under the Keep, but I’ve been deeper underground than the authorities would like for civilians to go.”

If that dampened her excitement at all, it was minimal. “How’d you pull that off?”

He couldn’t help but puff up with pride as she leaned in closer, drawn in by intrigue. He’d always treated this as his own precious secret, keeping it even from his own sisters. Never before had he felt the desire to brag until she looked at him like that.

“The Warrens, usually,” he answered, hoping she would not be as deterred by that fact as the average Markarth resident would. She didn’t seem the type. “There’s lots of entrances to Nchuand-Zel, like the palace or the prison, but they’re all guarded. Except, unsurprisingly, the Warrens. The entrance there is boarded up shoddily with some wooden planks, and no one ever goes near it.”

“So you took down the boards?”

“No, not at all!” He rushed to correct her. “I wouldn’t want to put anyone at risk should anything follow me back into town. But it was easy to climb the pipes around it and sneak through the vents to the other side. No one ever noticed.”

“Ever?” She repeated the word with a tilt of her head. “So you’re saying you went there often?”

“Only when I was sick of being around everyone,” he said, truthfully. Quieter, he clarified, “So, about every other day…”

She huffed a laugh at that, and the sound went straight to his heart. “You’re exactly like your sister described you, you know.”

Squashing down his nerves, he tilted his head to the side to look at her directly. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

For a long moment, she only eyed him, exploring his features so intently that he could almost feel her on his skin. Her gaze burned a trail from his cheeks, to his jaw, to his lips. The confidence he had just barely managed to wrangle together was beginning to falter in the silence. Until, that is, her lips curled into a coquettish smile, and she finally said, “A compliment.”

With that response, he’d expected the tightness in his chest to let up, but it only seemed to burst into a heat that spread across his whole body.

“So…” She took a step closer, leaning into him. It did nothing to help his giddiness. “Is it true what they say? The automatons are still functional beneath the city?”

Thankfully, he was able to compose himself by latching onto the question. Clearing his throat, he answered, “There’s something down there. I never saw automatons, even though there were ports for them everywhere. They must be disabled throughout the city. But I heard all sorts of scuttling and moving around through some of the walls. I’d always assumed it to be skeevers, but why take the chance?”

She hummed in acknowledgement. “Yes, especially coming from the Warrens. Sounds like the vents were large enough for skeevers and all manner of creatures to get through.” She giggled to herself, and quietly added, “Even a Robin.”

He cringed at that and brought a hand to hide his flushed face. “Ugh, when you put it like that, I suppose it wasn’t as roguish and daring as it felt.”

His embarrassment only seemed to entertain her as her laugh grew louder, but she rested one hand on his shoulder and used the other to pry his hands away from covering his face. “Oh, come now, I’m only kidding,” she insisted, even as she giggled through her words. “Tell me more. Please? What was down there?”

Lucky for her, the feel of her hands on him quickly made him forget his embarrassment. He cleared the lump in his throat and went on, “The place wasn’t in good condition, obviously. But I think it used to be a shopping district back in the day, as far as I could tell from how it was built. There was a long hallway with alcoves that looked more like storefronts than homes.” As he spoke, his eyes flicked back and forth between the path ahead and Esmeralda’s face, intentionally avoiding where her hands rested in his palm and on his shoulder.

As acutely aware of her touch as he was, she seemed to have completely forgotten and made no effort to pull back. “That makes perfect sense. The Warrens give the most direct route between the two levels of the city. It must have been the perfect hub for trade between the Reachfolk aboveground and the Dwemer belowground!”

As she spoke and stared off at an undefined point in the distance, Robin could practically see her adding to map of the city that existed in her mind. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “It’s a shame we blocked off that part of the city. It would be far better than the mess that is the Dryside marketplace.”

She hummed as she took in his words. “That’s true,” she mused, a mild surprise in her tone. “Why would they relegate the tradespeople to wooden stalls crowded together in the cold when there’s a perfectly good marketplace built into the city itself?”

“And invest in Riverside?” The idea was laughable. “The Jarl would never do that. Much more convenient to leave the smeltery and slave labor neatly tucked away where travellers carrying gold don’t ever have to go.”

Her shoulders slumped, and as they did, her hand fell away from his. “Typical of those damn Nords,” she spat. “They control a city built to house two peoples, and all they can think to do with it is to segregate us into their slums. Do they even have a clue what their feet trample on?”

“Doubtful,” Robin said, his own expression falling into a scowl not unlike hers. “They’d sooner forget it all and just take the privileges handed down to them without question. Most of them don’t even realize our people lived there alongside the Dwemer. Even I only learned that recently.”

“Alex said the same thing!” she exclaimed, her rage stepping aside to give way to disbelief. “I’m still confused by that. It’s the only Dwemer city with any aboveground living spaces. What, do they think the Markarth Dwarves just liked sunshine better than all the others?”

“Ah, see that’s where you’re mistaken,” Robin pointed. “They don’t think.”

She snorted a laugh and rolled her eyes. “Clearly. And they have the gall to call us uneducated.” With a swoop of her hand, she gestured to the entire mountain range around them. “I’ll bet I know more about the entirety of the Reach than they know about the one city they claim.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a moment.” He tried to smile with her, but an unshakeable twinge of sadness dampened it.

She caught onto it all too easily. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he said, instinctively. “I just… I suppose, in a way, I envy you. As self-centered as that sounds. It’s stu—”

“Hush with that,” she quickly interrupted before his self-deprecation could go on. “You’ll find no judgement here. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Acceptance was not what he expected, nor what he was accustomed to. After taking a moment to shake off his surprise, he went on, “It’s the way you speak of the Reach. You know it in ways I never have. You know yourself in ways I never have. While you lived among our people, I was stuck in classrooms being told about how oh-so-great Emperor What’s-His-Name The Twenty-Eighth was for killing and enslaving us. Not the education I’d have chosen for myself, if I had been given a choice at all.”

She nodded along to his words, grimacing at the thought of it all. “How could I ever fault you for hating it? I’ve had nightmares more bearable than that.” With a sympathetic smile, she lightly bumped his arm. “You’re not the first city Reachman to make your way out here. Your sister did it. She struggled in all the same ways, but despite it all, she learned and thrived with us. You will too.”

His brow furrowed as he considered her words. Yes, he supposed Alex must have felt this way as well—she was the only one of the three siblings to join the Wilders of her own volition. In the chaos of everything, he hadn’t been given a chance to speak with her about why she ran off. He realized, then, that he never needed to.

“We never spoke of it growing up.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Esmeralda said. “That was always part of the problem, wasn’t it?”

As her words slowly sank in his mind, he couldn’t help but chuckle. When she tilted her head in question, he explained, “It’s funny. I’d spent years trying to make sense of it all. Who I am, and why I’m here. I’d started to believe there was no sense to be had at all, and that I was simply broken or mad. Years of confusion, and you seem to understand it within moments. Was there ever a point to the madness?”

“It’s not madness,” she said. “It’s what happens when you’re away from home for too long.”

“Markarth is home.” Even as the words left his mouth, he hated the certainty with which he said them. Markarth did nothing to deserve such a title.

“She is. But without her people, she’s hollow. She was the body, and we were the soul that gave her life. You can envy me for knowing our people, and I can envy you for knowing our city. But in the end, you’re a body without a soul, and I’m a soul without a body. Neither one of us is more alive than the other. Just a different kind of dead.”

Her words seared into his heart, burning through a wall of pain he’d long thought was impenetrable. For a moment, it felt healing. He’d never had words for it until she spoke them.

And yet all at once, behind the wall he’d never been able to see through, there was more pain. A grief—deeper, and darker, and bigger than he’d known before.

He thought that by now he had perfected the art of appearing stoic, even in his worst moments. But Esmeralda saw through it, and wordlessly interlaced her fingers with his, pressed a kiss to the back of his hand, and lifted it to her forehead.

The gesture had never been so soothing. All he could do was pull her closer with his free hand and hug her.

He did not know how long they stayed there, holding each other. It was only when he felt another hand on his shoulder that his attention snapped back to the world around them.

“Would you like me to take over your patrol, feather?” Beatrice asked, directing the question to Esmeralda.

“Ah—yes, if you would be so kind,” Esmeralda said, pulling away from the hug but keeping their hands intertwined.

Robin felt his face flush and kept his gaze on the ground. “My apologies, I shouldn’t have distracted her from her duties.”

“Nonsense.” Beatrice waved off the apology. “With everything you’ve gone through, I’m glad our Esme could bring you comfort.” Her hand came up to his chin and, with a gentle touch, lifted his head. “Don’t despair. One day, you’ll see your home again, and it shall be in better hands. We are nothing if not resilient.”

It felt odd, being so seen. Robin had always been one to stick to the shadows—literally and metaphorically. He’d come to associate being perceived with being judged and misunderstood. He had never stopped to consider what it would mean to be seen and, without ever needing to defend or explain himself, simply be met with compassion.

“Thank you,” he said, hoping he did not appear as dumbfounded on the outside as he felt on the inside.

They parted, with Beatrice watching over the camp in place, and Robin and Esmeralda making their way to—well, he wasn’t quite sure. He was simply allowing her to lead, and he was too lost in thought to notice that they’d passed the tent he shared with Marceline.

It was only when she pulled him into an unfamiliar tent that he realized where she was taking him. This one was much more decorated, if haphazardly, with silver and Dwarven metal crafted into elaborate geometric shapes. A messy workbench sat in the corner, littered with Dwemer tools and half-finished projects. Below it was a chest so full of all manner of belongings that the lid could not close all the way.

Rather than an oil lamp or candle, the space was lit with the bluish hue of a Dwarven light bulb hanging upside down from the wooden scaffolds.

“I tend to collect things.” Esmeralda vaguely waved her hand at the entire place. “Don’t let it bother you. I swear, there is order in the chaos.”

That pulled a chuckle from him. “It’s no bother. I’m much the same,” he confessed, smiling as he examined it all.

After kicking off her boots, Esmeralda sat cross-legged on the bed, her back against the headboard, and patted the spot in front of her. “Join me. I’m not done interrogating you about the city, you know. I want to hear all I can before I start pestering Isobel next,” she said with a chuckle.

“What, am I being held hostage?” He joked, even as he followed suit and sat at the foot of the bed, leaving a respectable distance between them. “I take it I’m not your first victim.”

“Oh, not at all,” she said as she spread her legs out and rested her feet on his lap, any respectable distance quickly tossed aside. He did not mind in the slightest. “I’ve been grilling Alex for stories about Markarth since she joined. And Duach. And just about anyone who’s so much as stepped foot there.”

“I’m going to hazard a guess and say you’re not a Wilder by choice.”

She feigned a gasp. “What gave it away?”

“My powers of perception are like none other.”

She laughed, and Robin couldn’t help the little rush of pride from knowing he caused it.

“If you must know,” she explained, “my parents were among the rebels who retook Markarth with Madanach. They had wanted to raise a family in the city of our ancestors.” She gestured around her. “Clearly, it did not work out as planned. Now, I’m stuck begging for stories so I can imagine what my life could have been.” She gave him a light kick on the arm. “I hope it isn’t a pain, because I have no intention of stopping.”

“It isn’t,” he said, truthfully. “On the contrary, I enjoy it. I only know Markarth as she is. Conquered and soulless. I much prefer seeing her through your eyes.”

And so, the pair stayed up late into the night, exchanging stories of the city and the wilds. He told her of the acoustics in the music halls, and she told him of traditional firedances. She told him tales of swimming in the Karth river, and he told her tales of climbing the Temple of Dibella.

He did not remember when, exactly, he fell asleep. All he could recall as he was carried off to sleep was the pale blue light on Esmeralda’s face, and a feeling of home.

#tesblr #skyrim fic #skyrim oc #reachfolk #forsworn #cozy writes #oc: esmeralda #oc: robin silver blood #good to get back to writing about the gang <3 #ship: esmeralda x robin

[cozy-mecha]

Summary:

What subharmonics would Wing use? Drift asked his main process forcibly, but couldn’t stop his background processing from calculating how much fuel he had lost by now. for whumptober 2023 day 5, "you better pray I don't get up this time around" "It's broken." | Pinned down | Debris

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Fandoms: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types

Character: Drift | Deadlock Additional Tags: Dismemberment, Hurt/Comfort, More Hurt Than Comfort, Whump, Whumptober 2023

#hello i have finished my first whumptober entry #probably the only one I'll finish this month #transformers drift #mtmte drift #transformers #maccadam #transformers fanfiction #transformers idw #transformers idw1 #idw drift #the second entry will be with ratchet and drift and is what motivated me to finish the first entry #cozy writes #also like #take the warning seriously #robogore wasnt a tag on ao3 but like #there is robo gore #and this is a repost bc I forgot the link the first time....

[ao3-crack]

(x)

#archive of our own #ao3 stuff #ao3 quotes #archive of our own quotes #fanfic #fanfic quotes #funny #ao3 #ao3 tags #Author Has No Plan And It’s Causing Her Problems #how dare you call me out like this #it’s not like I’ve been staying up an extra hour every night trying to write a single one shot #bc the only time my fucking brain wants to come up with the next part of the plot #is when im already cozy in bed and halfway to being asleep

[lokorum]

so....................i've read unraveled the other day.................... and then ive re-read it.........and now im in the middle of re-reading it again????

honestly cant promise that im not gonna keep coming back to it until someone would steal my phone and then i'll just log in from the pc lets be real here (¬‿¬ ) but!!! what i wanted to say is that its just such a good fic?? so well written? it has all the right words in just the right order and i can and will argue till late night that it healed part of myself that i had no idea existed. these descriptions of hugs??? gonna stay with me untill the very end  (*_ _)人  

and drawing something is the least i can do to show just how much your work means, @2btheanswertothequestion  (/▿＼ )

"unraveled" became my spiderverse canon since the moment ive finished chapter one and it will stay this way!!! thank you so so much for all the long hours and all the hard work you clearly had put into it!! you're amazing!! ♡

#hobie brown #punkflower #miles x hobie #hobie spiderverse #spider punk #spiderverse fanart #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #atsv fanart #atsv #gosh i wish i knew english better just to get a liiiiittle bit closer to a proper description of how cool this fic is #and how happy and cozy it made me feel #im not leaving comments on ao3 bc well i cant write shit #but i hope its okay and not creepy that i made fanart??? #i could keep nervouslybuzzing here #or i could go #FINISH READING IT FOR THE THIRD TIME LFDKJGLKDFJG

[longreads]

"Done well, there are few foods on this Earth more satisfying. Warm, rich, salty, and deeply filling in a way I’ve not encountered elsewhere, a good cholent is ambrosial. What I might call divine."

New on the site today: A lovely piece from Benjamin DuBow about a workaround that became a way of life. Read it here.

#longreads #Food Writing #essays #cozy

[jdragsky]

the curse of being best known for writing a cozy uwu-ass indie rpg at age 22 is that now i must forever deal with people assuming im celibate

#babygirl sometimes the same person writing about cozy rabbits going on hikes #is engaging in fucknasty transsexual orgies of a revolting style #you can never tell!

[inky-duchess]

Warm and Cozy OC Asks

Here are a few asks just to get your OC cozy.

Do they get cold easily?

How do they warm up when cold?

Do they wear jumpers (sweaters)? If so do they fit perfectly or are they baggy?

Do they have a favourite hot drink? Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Hot cider? If so, how do they take it?

It's cold and wet outside, your OC has just come in the front door. What do they do to get warm?

What's your OC's idea of a cozy night in?

Does your OC have a particular trick to get them asleep at night?

Does your OC wear pyjamas to bed? Do they have a favourite set?

What side of the bed does your OC sleep on? Why is that?

Does your OC nap easily?

Does your OC enjoy a cuddle?

Does your OC enjoy a particular gesture of affection? Does it calm them?

What makes your OC feel safe and secure?

What are some of your OC's comfort foods?

How much does your OC wrap up when they go outside? Hat, scarf, gloves and multilayers or is the cold anything to them?

How light of a sleeper is your OC?

Can they fall asleep anywhere? Or are do they need an optimum condition to sleep in?

What does a lazy morning consist of?

Does your OC prefer early nights or late mornings?

Do they hog the blankets?

Does your OC have a favourite pillow? A favourite duvet set? A favourite cuddling toy? Blanket?

How would they solve the one bed and two people scenario? Could they share a bed?

Does your character have a favourite place to chill?

Where does your OC sit of there's not enough chairs at a gathering?

What's something your OC does to wind down after a long day?

Is your OC the one who recieves the jacket or gives the jacket in their relationship?

What does your OC get any winter illnesses? If so, how badly do they get ill?

Your OC has the sniffles. How do they handle it?

Your OC has a sick day off. How do they spend it?

Does your OC play with the thermostat/heating constantly or are they rigid about it's use?

#OC asks #Warm and cozy oc asks #Character asks #Comfort asks #Cozy #Warm #Fluff #writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing reference #writing advice #ask answered questions #writers #writing advice writing resources #spilled ink #Ask game

[redglassbird]

I will NEVER get over the fact that I can write stories. Like I can weave threads of whimsy in a whole new world and make people feel things if I weave them well enough???? Stories are worth so much!!! Lines of poetry are literally currency to me like I get to write little lines and then writing little lines helps me notice things when I read other peoples' lines????? Magic! Whimsy! Characters! Words! Words! Words!

#idk if any of this made sense #writing #writblr #writers of tumblr #poems #stories #fiction #short stories #creativity #hobby #vibes #dark academia #light academia #cottagecore #cozy #text post #words #pretty #fantasy #high fantasy

[thecoziestbean]

Finished the fic! Read on ao3.

run through the forest (settle before the sun) BG3 Halsin x F!Reader | Fairy Tale AU E | 6.8k

Your voice shakes as you stare up at the massive beast. “M- my, you’re quite large aren’t you? Big eyes, big snout, big…” A gulp as you try to swallow around the hard lump of panic still nestled in your throat. “Teeth.” It cocks its head to the side and lets out a huff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. The bear’s nose twitches once before it gives its head another shake. A current of shimmering golden energy cascades over its body, radiating from the tip of its nose. Beneath the rippling tide of magic, you watch as the bear’s form shifts, fur receding and bones rearranging, until a large elf stands in its place. “So you’re the one that’s been eating my food, wearing my clothes,” he rumbles, his voice like the thunder that heralds a coming storm. “Sleeping in my bed.”

#oak father preserve me #daddy halsin #the three c's: cozy creepy cottagecore #halsin #halsin silverbough #halsin bg3 #halsin baldur's gate 3 #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #cozy writes

[cozy-the-overlord]

The Little Thrall Girl

Summary: A young Viking thrall sent out after dark to collect firewood finds herself hopelessly lost in the freezing cold woods. Desperate to warm herself, she turns to magic, but luckily for her, her inexperience ends up catching the attention of a benevolent god ...

Word Count: 4,874

Pairing: None

A/N: So I wanted to write something for Christmas this year, but I couldn't come up with a Christmas-y prompt that interested me enough to work on, so instead I decided to do a retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Match Girl," which is something I've wanted to do for a couple of years now and is Christmas adjacent. Big thank you again to @lokislittlesigyn for doing all that pesky research for me and acting as beta reader <3 For reference, I pictured Drifa as around ten years old.

Also I wanted to shout out @maiden-of-asgard's A Thief In The Night, which I think I may have been subconsciously inspired by. Hers is a much different story than this (it stars a much older protagonist and is nsfw) but the opening concept is pretty similar and I realized about halfway through writing mine that that was probably where I got the idea lol. Also all of her work is absolutely fantastic in general, so I wanted to mention it <3

Thank you so much for reading, and happy holidays!!

Warnings: Slavery/references to child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @whatafuckingdumbass @the-emo-asgardian @imnotrevealingmyname @electroma89 @lokislittlesigyn @moumouton4 @theredrenard @justdontmindmetm @lostgreekgod @naterson

If you want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask/message :)

Read it on Ao3!

Drifa is freezing.

It’s her own fault, because she—stupid, idiot girl!—forgot to fetch firewood before supper as she had been bidden, and now darkness had fallen and her mistress had discovered her mistake. The woman had beaten her bloody and dragged her by the hair into the cold, instructing her master’s guards not to allow her back in until she had collected enough to last the night. Drifa had cried and begged, but it was useless.

She stumbles through the snow, groping blindly in the dark for the feel of tree-bark against her fingertips. There’s a panic building in her throat, icy and sharp. She should have reached the woodpile by now. In the daylight, Drifa has never had the slightest issue navigating the woods around her home, but now, with the moon cloaked in a thick shroud of storm-clouds, she can barely make out the shape of her own hand. She turns to go back, but the flickering light of the longhouse has long disappeared into the black of the night. So dark is it that she can’t even find her old footprints in the snow to follow back home.

She’s lost. She swallows, trying to peer through the labyrinth of shadows for a sign of something, anything familiar. There’s nothing but blackness. Drifa thinks of the tales the old serving-women like to tell, about the bloodthirsty beasts with curling horns and daggers for claws that roam the woods after nightfall, hunting for some luckless little girl to drag back to their lair and slake their hunger on. You must never walk the woods after dark. She wants to cry. I didn’t want to walk them! I didn’t want to! I just want to go home!

A branch snaps in front of her and she shrieks, frozen in place for what seems like an eternity as she waits for something to emerge from the darkness. What does she do if it does? Could she run in the snow? Scream for help? Would anyone hear her? Would anyone care?

But the seconds tick by, with no other sound except the blood pumping in her ears. After a moment, Drifa takes a shaky breath (the cold feels like shards of glass in her throat) and continues trekking on.

Deep in the woods now, she shivers, so violently it makes her bones ache. Originally, she had taken a cloak with her – although really, it was more of a ratty cotton sheet than a cloak, something she tended to use as covering when she slept – but it had gotten caught up in the branches of a tree not long after she started out, and in trying to tug it free she had lost it in the snow. Now, she’s in only her smock, soaked through from falling against the ice.

Without anything to cover it, the metal collar around her neck has grown ice-cold, burning her skin everywhere it touches. She wishes she could take it off, but the collar designates her state as a thrall, and removing it would earn her an even worse beating than the last. Her forehead stings too, more piercingly than it ought to. She thinks she must have cut it when her mistress threw her out, although now, she can’t really remember. Everything seems hazy.

Warm. She must get warm. The need drowns out all other thoughts. If only she could make a fire. If there was wood, she might – one of her many roles is tending to the fire, and she’s usually very good at it. Usually. Drifa bites away the tears, the skin of her lips so cold it feels like glass against her teeth. She could do it, if she only had some wood, but she can’t find any – the ground is covered with snow, and the trees towering over her hold their branches above her head, far too high to reach. It’s as if they’re mocking her.

She cries out when her fingers brush against something brittle. It’s a rock, a large one, jutting out of the snow like a miniature wall. Drifa leans against it, her breath coming in fast little puffs of mist. She knows she shouldn’t stop – out in the cold, winter is liable to put you into a sleep from which you’ll never wake – but everything hurts, and her eyelids are so heavy. It’s only a moment before her legs give out entirely and she collapses on the ground against the rock. Her lower half has gone completely numb, and she wonders if she’s turning to ice.

Fire. I need fire.

Maybe … maybe she could magick one? Her master has talked about seidr before, how witchy women can spark up a flame with only a flick of their wrist and a click of their tongue. Drifa often listens to his conversations with his men while she kneels before the fire. He doesn’t seem to like seidr much – “cowardly and villainous,” he called it, something no woman deserving of respect would ever touch. He wouldn’t be happy if he knew one of his slave girls was considering it, but Drifa is so cold she can’t bring herself to care.

A flick of the wrist and a click of the tongue. Her mouth is so dry that the sound only barely comes out. The forest remains as cold and dark as ever. Maybe it needs a spell? Drifa doesn’t know any spells. She can’t feel her hands anymore. Her eyes are burning. She tries it again, whispering words that sound right. Fire, burn, alight, warm, please, please, please please please please—

“Oh dear, that’s not the right incantation at all.”

Drifa snaps up her gaze and shrieks – or she would have, had the sound not frozen in her throat. A shadow stands across from her, the slender form of a man looming amongst the trees, crimson eyes glittering through the darkness. Her heart jumps to her throat. It’s the monster from the stories. She tries to move, tries to push herself away, but her legs are leaden and heavy and won’t work properly, and so she can only sit paralyzed in terror as he approaches her, the snow crunching beneath his step.

He’s going to eat me … he’s going to bite my head off and carry me back to his lair and feast on my bones … she lets out a soft cry, squeezing her eyes closed as hot tears finally break free, running down her cheeks and freezing against her skin. Oh, why didn’t I remember the firewood earlier?

When the creature speaks again, Drifa can’t make out the words over the sound of her own whimpers. What she does make out is the familiar crackling that follows, a warm, pleasant sound that washes over her … no, it’s a warmth in more than just sound. She looks up, fear giving way to confusion.

The forest is awash with light. It almost hurts her eyes, so accustomed to the dark has she become. As for where it’s coming from – I must be dreaming. A man stands over her, a roaring fire burning in his outstretched hand. She blinks, but the sight does not change. His hand is on fire. It doesn’t seem to be harming him though – the man appears as relaxed as can be, his burning flesh untouched and unaffected, as if the fire wasn’t even there at all.

He’s a normal looking man too, aside from the flames dancing in his palm – no horns or talons or any of the particular beastlike qualities she had been bracing for. No, just a normal man, with his dark hair slicked back and a cloak of black feathers draped over his shoulders. Even his eyes are a green-tinted blue, not the red she could have sworn she saw in the darkness. They sparkle as he smiles down at her.

“Seidr can be quite the tricky little beast,” he says. “You ought to be more careful in your attempts with it. You never know what you might summon.” Drifa gapes as he kneels before her, holding the fire as though he expects her to take it from him. Instinct keeps her hands frozen in her lap, even as the heat beckons her with its soothing warmth. He can’t mean that, can he? Fire … fire hurts. She’s singed her fingers trying to start one enough times to know. You can’t just pick it up in your hand … and yet that’s exactly what he’s doing.

The man seems to sense her turmoil. Chuckling softly, he holds it closer to her, and Drifa nearly starts crying again from how good the heat feels. “Go on, little one. It’s quite safe.”

Biting her lip, she reaches out towards the flame, ready to flinch back the moment it hurts. But the pain never comes. Instead, it’s a warm, tingling sort of spark that travels up her arm, chasing away the cold as it settles in her chest. Drifa gasps as the feeling returns to her fingers, any sense of caution melting away as she reaches for the fire with her other hand. So warm …

She’s almost forgotten that the man is still there when he clasps her arm. She flinches – it doesn’t hurt, but his hand is large enough to wrap entirely around her wrist and then some, and her fear comes flooding back.

But he doesn’t yank her arm out of its socket. Instead, his voice is as soft as his touch.

“You’ll want to cup it,” he says, guiding her hands together to hold the flames as one would a cupful of water. “Like so. That way you’ll have the most control over the spell.”

Drifa pulls her gaze away from the flames to look back up at him, and he smiles at her again. He appears to be wearing leather beneath his cloak, but his leathers look different than any she’s ever seen. Intricate pieces of black and green interlock over his chest, with just the slightest glimpse of glittering gold. Gold on his leathers. This man must be wealthy – far wealthier than her master, at the very least.

If he’s really a man at all.

She inhales a trembling breath. “Are … are you a monster?”

The man throws his head back and lets out a merry laugh. “Oh my,” he chuckles. “I suppose that depends on who you ask.”

Her eyes widen – what does that mean?—and he must notice, because he chuckles again and shakes his head. “No, I’m no monster. Not in the way you fear. My name is Loki.” He reaches towards her and she tenses, but he only tips her chin up with a single tender finger, eyes intent on her neck. It takes a moment to realize he’s looking at her collar. “And who might you be, little thrall?”

Her voice catches in her throat. Should she tell him? Her instinct is to obey –  if he is as wealthy as he seems, her master would be furious if she showed him any disrespect. Although Drifa somehow doubts her master would have much respect for a man who practices seidr. Goodness, she hadn’t known that men could practice seidr at all … that’s not natural, is it?

But Loki is smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “It’s alright, lovely. I promise I don’t bite.”

The thought makes her glance at his teeth. They seem quite normal sized, at least. She looks back to the fire, then closes her eyes, her voice coming out in a shaky exhale. “Drifa …”

He hums, pleased. “It’s good to meet you, Drifa.”  His finger drifts from her chin to her cheek, slowly stroking up the side of her face. She shudders, but it’s a pleasant feeling – there’s a warmth to his touch that feels nice against her cold-numbed skin. “You’re a small little thing, to be out so far on your own.”

She hiccups. “I had to get firewood …”

“Firewood?” He’s frowning – Drifa can hear it in his voice. The pinpricks of panic that the heat had melted away spring back in full force. Did she say something wrong? Is he angry? She opens her eyes. His gaze is dark – oh goodness, he is angry – but before she can determine what she’s done that’s earned his ire, he presses his fingertips to the bruised cut on her temple, and Drifa gasps as the stinging turns to tingling, then melts away entirely. She looks up at him in shock.

But Loki says nothing. He pulls away, eyeing her collar once more.

“Has your master sent you out on such a mission so late at night,” he asks at last. “With neither hatchet nor torch?”

Drifa stiffens. “I was supposed to get it earlier …” Her voice is hoarse. Even with the fire in her hands, she feels quite cold. “I forgot …” Goodness, how long has she been gone? Her mistress had told her to hurry – that feels like hours ago. Her vision blurs. Norns, she’s going to be in for the beating of a lifetime—

“Oh lovely girl.” There’s something soft about Loki’s voice as he shifts to sit on the ground beside her, something calming. Gentle. Drifa’s not used to gentleness. It makes her cry harder.

She hardly notices when he shucks off his cloak, only when he’s wrapping it around her shoulders like a blanket. “It’s all right, darling,” he soothes. “No need for tears. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

Drifa inhales shakily. The cloak is warmer than any blanket she’s ever known, the feathers soft against her cheeks. She wishes she could burrow into it and never come out. “But I’m lost …”

“Well, that cannot be, as it seems I have found you.” Loki gives an easy grin. “One can hardly be lost and found at the same time, now, can they?”

She turns back towards him (how he’s not shivering without his cloak, she has no idea). She supposes he’s right – she’d certainly feels better here with him, with his cloak and his fire and his magic, than she had alone. At least it’s not as dark anymore …  

A rustling in the bushes to her right slices through her thoughts, and Drifa shrieks, slamming her hands into the ground in a frantic attempt to push herself away. The fire hisses when it hits the snow, dousing the clearing in blackness once more. It’s coming. It’s finally coming. The monster finally found us—

She cries out again when a hand grasps her left shoulder, but it’s only Loki, calm as can be as he hushes her softly. He mutters the words from earlier and another fire ignites in his free hand. The bush is still moving – something’s trying to crawl out. Drifa whimpers, but Loki rubs her shoulder soothingly.

“It’s all right, dear,” he whispers with an eager smile, holding the light higher so that she can see better. “Look!”

Drifa can’t believe her eyes.

It’s a goose, feathers as white as the snow across which she’s waddling as she wriggles free from the shrubbery. She pauses, tilting her head as she considers them, then with a little honk! that makes Drifa jump, the bush rustles again and six grey, fluffy goslings come scampering out behind her.

Drifa gapes. How is this possible? It’s far too cold for any goose to be here, let alone babies. This can’t be real. And yet here they are, waddling past her like nothing’s wrong. The goslings scurry to follow their mother, letting out squeaky little chirps as they run past her. One stops at Drifa’s boot and pecks the leather with its beak. She giggles – it’s such a tiny thing, she can barely feel its beak on her foot – and it chirps again, stumbling back into the snow. Across the clearing, the mother goose lets out another honk, and the gosling dashes off to join its siblings as they slip away into the dark.

Next to her, Loki is smiling. “See? No cause for alarm.” There’s a playful sparkle in his eyes, as well as the dancing reflection of the flames, and she finds herself wondering if the unnatural winter geese were magic in the same way as his fire. But before she has the chance to ask, her stomach lets out a mighty growl.

Loki’s gaze flickers down to her torso. “When have you last eaten, little one?”

Drifa bites her lip and looks down, crossing her arms over her stomach. When had she last eaten? It was long before she set out for firewood – the mistress had pulled her away before she had a chance to eat her table scraps. Someone else has probably eaten them by now …

Her stomach rumbles again. She’s very hungry, she realizes. She was so cold for so long she must not have noticed it. It feels wrong to complain though … Drifa’s not sure what to say. “I …”

Loki lets out a huff. “On second thought, I believe I can glean the answer myself.” There’s the sound of something being stabbed into the snow – Drifa looks up to see that the fire is now a torch, firmly planting in the ground in front of them. Loki does a strange flick of his wrist, and before she can blink he’s holding out an apple to her.

She hesitates, gaze shifting from the apple to his face. Is he angry? He definitely sounded displeased, and he’s not smiling anymore. Did the sound of her hunger irritate him? Besides, fresh apples are a rarity in the winter – certainly not to be wasted on the likes of her. Is it a trick?

But he only holds it out closer. “It’s all right. You can take it.”

It feels wrong, but with his encouragement the demands of her stomach are louder than her sense of decorum, and so Drifa takes the apple in trembling hands. Her first bite is a small one, just enough to pierce the skin and taste the sweet juice on her tongue, and it’s nearly enough to send her into tears yet again. Oh, it’s heavenly – luscious and ripe and perfect, the most delicious fruit she’s ever brought to her lips. She chomps down hard for another bite and the juice dribbles down her chin but she can’t bring herself to care. The flesh is somehow crisp and soft at the same time, and she tilts her head back as it melts in her mouth, euphoric.

Loki smiles. “That’s a good girl.”

The apple does not last long—Drifa practically inhales it, slurping the juice off her fingers like an animal. Maybe under different circumstances she’d be embarrassed, but right now it feels right. Beside her, Loki hums in amusement. She glances back up at him. Now that she’s seeing him without his cloak on, his clothes look even stranger. There is gold on his leathers, a swooping curve across his chest, as well as matching shoulder plates and bracers. It doesn’t look like regular armor though – certainly nothing like the bulky breastplates she’s seen her master’s men wearing.

“Why are you dressed so funny?”

She freezes almost as soon as the words leave her lips – such an insolent question, what was she thinking?! But Loki’s smirk only widens, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Not such a timid little mouse now, are we?” He shakes his head, grinning as he sits back against the rock. “I’m dressed in the fashion of my people, lovely. My clothes would be considered very normal where I’m from.” His gaze drops down to her collar. “Yours, on the other hand, would be seen as quite unusual.”

“Oh …” Drifa pauses. She’s never seen anyone dress like him before. Although she supposes she hasn’t seen many outsiders beyond visitors from settlements near to her master’s longhouse. “Is that far away?”

Loki nods. “Very far, I’m afraid. But it’s a far kinder land than this. Much more forgiving.” He lets out a soft chuckle. “Warmer, too.”

“Warmer?” she frowns. “But it’s winter.”

“It is,” he agrees. “But we have our seidr to weather the cold.” He nods his head towards the fire, still flickering brightly on its torch. After a moment, he grins softly. “Besides, you’ll find my home is … a bit more eternal than anything you’ll find here.”

Drifa is quiet for a moment. She imagines what that must be like, a sturdy house free of ice and snow, glowing with the constant warmth of magical fires. Maybe there were more cloaks like this one too, blankets that never let in the cold no matter how the temperature dropped. She allows herself a soft grin against the apple core.

No need for firewood.

It’s a nice thought. A scary one too, though – goodness, what would her master say if he knew she was fantasizing about living in a world of magicians? That she was sitting here with one now, enjoying his seidr fire and seidr apple? What was it he had said? Cowardly and villainous.

Drifa purses her lips. “My master doesn’t like seidr.”

“Your master is an imbecile.” Her eyes widen. He didn’t – he couldn’t!! She whips back to look at him, but Loki stares ahead, his features blank, as if he’s only made a statement about the weather.

“Besides,” he adds after a moment, turning to give her a wink. “I rather doubt you hold his opinion on the matter in very high regard. You were trying to work it yourself, when I came upon you.”

His voice is teasing, but Drifa feels as though she’s plunged into a frozen lake. “You … you won’t tell him, will you?” She inhales, throat tightening. “I wasn’t trying – I was just so cold, and—”

But Loki only laughs again and wraps an arm around her back, giving her shoulder a gentle pat. “Sweet thing. Your secret is safe with me.”

It’s a strange feeling, having his arm around her like that. Being held. It feels so safe, like a shield, protecting her from the darkness. She likes that. It’s nice to be protected. Warm too – that must be magic, how he manages to still feel so warm despite being out in the dead of winter in such thin clothing. Without thinking about what she’s doing, Drifa leans against his side, resting her head on his chest. Loki stiffens, but she hardly notices. His leather tunic is soft against her cheek. Warm and soft and safe. He relaxes again after a moment, his hand coming back to rub her upper arm in easy, gentle strokes. That feels nice too.

She’s nearly drifted off to sleep against his chest when he speaks again. “Do you have any family, Drifa? Brothers, sisters?”

Drifa shakes her head. As far as she knows, she’s alone in the world. “Do you?”

“I have a brother. A very loud one at that.” He chuckles. “You’d probably be frightened of him, skittish little mouse that you are. He’s well-meaning though.”

For some reason, the thought of Loki, with his soft voice and even softer step, having a loud brother makes Drifa giggle. “Can he do seidr too?”

“I’m afraid not – at least, not in the way that I do. He prefers a more conventional way of life.”

“Oh …” She wonders what conventional is, when you live in a magic land where everyone has seidr and it never gets cold.

The forest falls silent for a little while. She’s not sure for how long. Laying against his chest, she can hear his heartbeat, a faint, rhythmic lub-dup, and wrapped in the warmth of his cloak, it’s nearly enough to lull her to sleep. When Loki clears his throat, she can’t tell if it’s been minutes or hours since he last spoke.

“Now, darling,” he says. There are snowflakes in his hair, she realizes – when did it start snowing again? “As lovely as this little picnic has been, I fear the temperature is dropping even further, and you can’t stay out here forever.”

All at once, the panic returns. “What do you mean? Are you leaving?” He can’t leave, he can’t leave her here, if he leaves he’ll take the magic and the fire and the cloak and everything and she’ll go back to being cold and lost—  

“Oh sweet girl, no need to fret,” he soothes, stroking her side. “I have no intention of leaving you here. I can take you back to your longhouse – it’s not too far.”

“Oh …” She … she should feel relief at that. Hadn’t she hoped he might rescue her from her peril? She should be overjoyed that he’s kind and willing enough to see her back home. Home. The word feels empty.

Loki is studying her, his eyes glittering in the faint light of the fire. “Unless you don’t wish to return?”

“I …” Drifa hesitates – why is she hesitating? Would she rather slowly freeze to death out here? No, of course not … But what will be waiting for her when she returns, hours late and without the very thing she was sent for? A shiver runs down her spine. She knows what will be waiting for her. But … what other choice does she have?

“I have nowhere else to go …” she whispers finally, looking down at her hands to hide the tears once again pooling in her eyes.

 Loki lets out a low hum. “Well, there is an alternative.” He tips her chin up so that she’s looking at him. His features are serious. “You could come with me, back to my home.”

She inhales, so sharply it hurts. “Really?”

He nods. “You’d be safe and cared for and want for nothing. No more of this—” his hand drifts from her chin to her collar, slipping his fingers between the metal and her skin. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “—mistreatment. This I can swear to you.” He pulls his hand away, looking at her somberly. “But if you come with me, you’ll not be able to return here again.”

She bites her lip. Is it bad that she wants it? He said he lives far away, but she has no idea where … she doesn’t even know if he’s even a man. Shouldn’t she return to what she knows? But she thinks of her mistress’ shrill voice and violent hands, the meager rations she receives, the hard floor upon which she sleeps … Drifa doesn’t like what she knows.

Her voice is hoarse, but strong. “I want to go with you.”

“Are you certain?” There’s a weight behind Loki’s gaze as he regards her. “This is not a decision to be taken lightly, little one.”

She nods. “I’m certain.”

Loki’s smile is as wide as it is warm. “Very well. Hold on to me, love.” He reaches forward, wrapping one arm around her back and the other beneath her knees before he scoops her up as though she weighed nothing more than a feather. Drifa gasps as he stands – he’s so tall, she’s never been this far off the ground before. She burrows into the feather cloak and clings to his shoulders, digging her fingernails into the leather as she hides against his chest. He chuckles.

“Just one thing more before we go..”

With deft fingers, he unlatches her collar, pulling it free from her neck with only one hand. Drifa’s eyes widen – she’s not allowed to do that! Except … she supposes she is, now. He drops the collar on the ground with a muffled thunk as it sinks into the snow. Drifa lets out a shuddering breath and reaches for her throat. Her skin feels raw and exposed, but free. She feels herself grin. When she looks up, Loki is grinning right back at her.

“You’ll want to hold tight,” he says. “Our method of travel is … rather unconventional, at least to you mortals.”

“Wha – Mortals?” Her head spins with sudden recognition. “You – you mean—”

Loki smirks. “I mean that we’re going to Asgard, darling.”

…

There were precious few awake at that hour to see the flash of color that lit up the sky, for it lasted only a moment. It wasn’t until morning, in the embers of the untended-to fire, that it was discovered that the girl sent out for firewood never returned. A meager search was attempted – the master was not one to take the loss of his property lightly. They found her cloak first, a torn, ratty little thing frozen stiff in the snow not too far from the longhouse, then her collar about an hour’s walk away from that. With the snowfall in the night, any tracks had been lost, but it seemed safe to assume that the child had been dragged off and devoured by some beast of the forest. The mistress was irritated. Why the little fool wandered into the woods, instead of sticking to the woodpile as she had been told, was beyond her.

None of them had any idea of the magic and glory with which she had been swept away to the Realm Eternal, or that she now lived amongst the gods as one of them.

#loki marvel #loki fanfic #hurt/comfort #loki oneshot #the little thrall girl #cozy writes

[cozywriting]

Dr. King Schultz angst imagines

requested by: nobody (me)

Dr. King Schultz often keeping his distance from you, attempting to ignore his growing feelings in fear that he will lose you like he lost everyone else.

You sat next to Django, staring across the fire at King. He was looking down at his dinner and hadn’t said a word to you for most the night.

“Did I do something wrong?” You asked quietly to Django.

“Nah, he always like that.” Django replied, returning to his food.

You gave Django a look. “Not with you.”

Django did not reply and instead took a sip from his canteen. You looked back over at King, who finished eating and was now staring at his feet. It was almost as if he felt your prying eyes so harshly, that he was looking for anything to do but return your gaze.

Django was first to break the silence. “Y’all gonna turn in soon?” He asked, looking back and forth between them.

“Yes, my dear boy,” King finally replied. “I think some sleep would do us well.”

Django retreated across the camp back to his tent, and you and King were alone. You watched as the older man rounded up the mess of his dishes.

“You know if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were giving me the cold shoulder,” you spoke up.

“Now why would you think that?” He asked, taking a moment to reply. His back was turned to her.

You got up and crossed your way to him.

“You went from talking to me every day to,” you paused for the right words. “…this,” you said with a gesture of hands.

“And what is this?” King asked nonchalantly. Clearly, he feigned ignorance. 

“I don’t know!” You huffed, ready to give up. “I just want you to talk to me.”

“We’re talking,” he responded, making no effort to turn his face.

His cold demeanor was disheartening. It angered you, but ultimately you knew better than to chase something that never existed.

“Forget it,” you said quietly. You turned away from him and began walking to your tent.

“Wait—” King called out behind you.

You slightly turned your face and saw his eyes roam to the ground. You could tell he was still attempting to avoid looking at you.

“I’ve lost people,” King said.

You turned around to face him, arms crossed. He looked up and for the first time the entire night your eyes connected with his.

“And I haven’t?” You challenged.

“This is different!” He shouted, causing you to slightly jump. He immediately regretted his tone after seeing your reaction. “I’m sorry,” he pleaded softly. “Please, don’t make me say this.”

“Say what? God forbid I ask you to show me the littlest respect of at least acknowledging me!”

“I have plenty of respect for you and more,” he replied harshly. “Do not belittle my emotions.”

You said nothing and King ran a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath, calming himself down.

“I care about you, King,” you finally said, breaking his reverie. He looked up at you.

“Fraulein, I care about you too much and there lies the problem,” he said. Even lengths apart, you could see the sadness in his eyes.

“Then why won’t you let me in?” You asked him quietly.

“I never want to watch another person I love die ever again. And at the hands of myself, no doubt.” King’s eyes welled up and he blinked hot tears away. He did not wait for you to reply before continuing. “Besides I’m no good for you, that much is clear. I’m too impulsive and you’ll only get hurt. I could never be so selfish.”

Still shocked by his confession, you remained silent. With King’s mind made up, he headed into his tent. Leaving you out and alone in the cold.

#imagines #django unchained #dr king schultz #king schultz x reader #king schutlz imagines #christoph waltz #christoph waltz x reader #quentin tarantino #angst imagine #emotionally exhausted king #everything is usually happy and soft with him so bam i give u angst and sadness <3 #cozy writes

[reachfolk]

Reach Tribes: Grimseer Clan

❥ prompt: "dreams" for @tes-summer-fest

✿ word count: 2.1k

❥ taglist: @vilkas @lookathooves @qah-naarin @faolan-red-eagle (let me know if anyone wants to be added!)

✿ author’s notes: Super excited about this post in particular because this is the first tribe in my Reach Tribes subseries that is totally original! The others have been from ESO or Legends and I expanded on them, but this one is my own. My OC Ophelia is from this clan too, so I’m naturally very biased, but I say that every time.

History: The Origin of the Grimseers

The Grimseers are the youngest of the extant Reachfolk tribes, being founded in the late third era by Mais Aldag, originally of the Mistborn Clan.

The history of the clan begins with a nightmare. Mais Aldag, only fifteen years of age, would have constant, recurring dreams of the Chief Drech Wedlir betraying the clan. The nightmares were vague and varied night by night, but they always ended the same—with the Mistborn Clan being torn asunder at the hands of Chief Drech. At first, Mais ignored it. But the nightmares went on. And on, and on, and on, for years and years.

It was on the eve of her twenty-first birthday that Mais could no longer withstand it. Driven mad by the nightmares plaguing her, she made an attempt on the Chief’s life. She’d managed to get in a stab to his stomach, narrowly missing any organs. With her betrayal, Mais was rejected from the clan as one of the Shunned Ones.

That night, her dreams were different for the first time in years, as Vaermina revealed herself to Mais. She congratulated Mais for listening to her words and following them despite the questions plaguing her troubled mind. Impressed by the mortal, Vaermina offered one last challenge: to exchange her eye for the Presage, a golden prosthetic eye that would allow Mais to receive visions of the future.

Do this, mortal, and I shall reward you most handsomely. Let the terrors of the night guide you, protect you and your loved ones, from the betrayer Drech and all who oppose you.

Mais, still convinced of Drech’s ill intent, did as the Daedric Prince offered, becoming the first Grimseer oracle.

With her newfound powers, Mais’ visions were clearer, more defined. She saw Drech’s true colors with a newfound clarity, as the image of him with an Imperial spy Vilana in his arms was burnt into her mind. He had fallen in love with an outsider, and it would bring about their end.

Refusing to see her people fall at the hands of the Imperials and a betrayer, Mais shared her story with her fellow Shunned Ones, pleading for their help. Without hesitation, they agreed to join her in tracking and attacking the Imperial camp.

The Imperials, believing they had the advantage of stealth on their side, never saw the attack coming. In the dead of night, Mais and her team of trusted companions slit the throats of the sleeping Imperial soldiers. They then returned to the Mistborn clan with Vilana as their prisoner, ending her and Drech’s lives once and for all.

With that, the clan was renamed the Grimseer Clan and Mais Aldag became their first chief under the patronage of The Dark Lady, Vaermina.

Religion and Core Values

As stated before, the Grimseer clan follows Vaermina as their primary deity, due to the omens and prophecies she sends their way.

Vaermina and her teachings sit at the core of the Grimseer way of life. She is their great protector, warning them of tragedy before it may strike and giving them the tools they need to prevent it. Over 200 years of this has led to a culture of hypervigilance within the tribe. They view the fear and paranoia she instills within them as a necessary ward against evil, especially that wrought by outsiders such as Imperials and Nords. Even by Reachfolk standards, they are deeply mistrusting and suspicious of these outsiders, never once allowing them onto their territory.

But do not be mistaken: the Grimseers are also among the most patriotic and protective of the Reach clans. They preach unity among the tribes to strengthen and defend them, as it was only through Mais’ alliance with the Shunned Ones that they were able to survive. They view themselves not as an independent tribe, but as a group meant to serve and protect the Reach as a whole from outside threats. Nearly all clans of the Reach view them as allies, turning to them for guidance and assistance in times of great need.

On the Oracle and the Presage

The Presage is the main cultural and religious symbol of the Grimseer Clan. An eye of tar and gold, the Presage is a Daedric artifact crafted by Vaermina exclusively for use by this clan. As the artifact forms a direct connection to the holder’s mind, it provides them a strong tie to Vaermina. She uses this connection to send the holder omens of the future, hence the name.

It is important to note that the Presage does not reveal the true future, as there is no true future. All of time is a river of endlessly branching currents, and every micro-decision created by anyone takes them down a different path. The Presage does not directly determine these decisions; instead, it shows the most tragic possible futures. As the oracle receives these visions, it is up to them to parse out the clues as to what would lead them down this series of events in order to avoid it.

These prophecies are strongest and clearest when the Oracle is asleep, as this provides them the deepest tie to Quagmire in order to hear Vaermina’s word. However, the Presage also provides them with an uncanny sense of intuition even in their waking, as Vaermina is able to send them messages at all hours with ease. To take on the Presage is a great honor, as it allows the Oracle to never leave Vaermina’s side.

Due to the secretive nature of the clan, this powerful artifact remains unknown to non-Reachfolk.

Ritual: The Dreamwalkers

We have very little canon information about Dreamwalkers, but what we do know comes from a book of the same title written by Raynard, an academic from Mournhold. He states that:

“They call them Dreamwalkers. Beings that can, with a simple spell, step into the dreams of another. Your darkest desires, your most bizarre fantasies, your true self, all revealed to these Dreamwalkers like an open book. Your most prized memories ransacked and picked through like the leavings of last night's feast.

Those who Dreamwalk are said to have sworn themselves to the Daedric Prince Vaermina. To have sold their souls for the ability to enter her plane, the Dreamstride. The veracity of this claim, I cannot say, but the similarities between what Dreamwalkers do and what the Priests of Vaermina accomplish is quite uncanny.

The only difference I could ascertain was how each entered the dream state. Vaermina's priests require nothing more than the drop of an alchemical concoction, a draft prepared by the most brilliant alchemists. The Dreamwalkers, however, require no such potion. They conjure a magic that appears to be innate, not taught or passed down by some hereditary process. Were they blessed by the Daedric Prince? Did their parents perform some sacred ritual to acquire this power upon birth? None I have spoken to truly know. Or will say, one way or another.”

Raynard states the theory that these Dreamwalkers have sold their to Vaermina, but that’s not quite what makes them Dreamwalkers. While it is true that they are her devotees and many dedicate their immortal souls to her, the ability itself doesn’t come at this price. Rather, they offer her their minds—a lifetime of restless sleep and night terrors—in exchange for this unique ability.

The ritual itself is a notoriously traumatic one, but many would argue that they would do it over again in a heartbeat, for the Dark Lady pays back her favors in full. Most Grimseers will conduct this ritual on their tenth birthday. It involves a gas known as Vaermina’s Hypnagogue, the recipe to which is below.

The subject is placed in a small, airtight space with nothing but a bed, possibly some hanging taproot, and a bubbling cauldron containing the liquid Hypnagogue. They are strapped to the bed, the door is locked, and the gas from the evaporating Hypnagogue is made to fill the room. The first thing many note is the sickly-sweet scent of the gas, and the purple hue to it. Before long, the hallucinations begin.

The Hypnagogue is, first and foremost, a fear-inducing poison. As the gas fills the subject’s lungs, it quickly reaches the brain, where it begins to show visions of all manner of horrors. Though they spend their lives preparing for it, it is not uncommon for the screaming to be heard into the open for several long minutes. Others are silent, frozen in fear, while others thrash and fight and rattle their chains.

As time goes on, the Hypnagogue grows thicker and thicker in the tight space, limiting the oxygen in the air. The subject grows light-headed, and before long, they are knocked unconscious. This is when Vaermina is able to reveal herself to them, as they enter her realm of Quagmire in their dreams.

What they may see varies depending on the individual and their own unique fears and struggles, but in all cases, they must face these fears head on. After exactly six hours under such conditions, the door is opened to release the thick Hypnagogue and allow them to breathe properly. Some minutes in the fresh air (and often being made to sniff a strong mixture of ammonia and giant’s toe), the subject wakes, officially as one of the Dreamwalkers.

Recipe for Vaermina's Hypnagogue

You will require:

2 liters of Karth River water

50g of powdered charcoal

5 cyrodilic spadetail

3 mature Namira’s rot

20g of powdered mammoth tusk

3g of void salts

a handful of silver shavings

1 daedra heart

(optional) hanging taproot

Steps:

Begin by purifying the water. First, place it over a fire and let it boil for one full minute. Remove and let cool. Once at room temperature, add powdered charcoal and let sit for two days. The charcoal will adsorb impurities (i.e. the impurities will stick to the porous surface). It is best to repeat this process twice, but not necessary. Filter out the charcoal using a cloth.

Extract the eyes of the spadetails, until you have 10. Leave out in the sun for two days until dry and hard. Crush under a mortar and pestle until very fine.

On the day of the ritual, remove the stem of the Namira’s rot. Turn upside down and scrape the spores off the gills, mixing them in with the powdered mammoth tusk. Add two tablespoons of water and mix, until it reaches a paste-like consistency. You may need to add more drops of water until homogenous.

Heat the mixture over a crucible, but watch carefully to ensure it does not overheat. It should lightly bubble, but it should not change color. Keep it over the flame for 20 minutes.

Combine the purified water and fish eye mixture in a cauldron over a weak flame, stirring until thoroughly mixed.

Add in void salts and silver shavings, then use a light shock spell on the mixture to activate it. You should see bolts of electricity spark through the water between the bits of silver. If not, use the shock spell once more.

Gently place the daedra heart in the cauldron—make sure not to let it splash! The heart should begin beating and circulating the hypnagogue mixture.

(optional) While setting up for the ritual, use hanging taproot to amplify the effects.

Once the ritual is set up, add firewood to the flames until the mixture begins to evaporate. Make sure the subject is in an airtight space to concentrate the miasma properly.

Arts and Stories

Like all Reach tribes, the Grimseers put great emphasis on their oral traditions and arts.

Never ones to let go of a grudge, the Grimseers pass down stories of outsiders wronging the Reachfolk, with the message that caution and fear are what keep them safe. Their people continue on, alive and thriving, because they never allow outsiders to manipulate or get close to them. They also tell of great oracles, the value of unity among Reach clans, and the love of their deity. It’s all very reflective of the clan’s strong “us vs. them” mentality. They tell these stories nightl around a campfire while sharing lavender tea with a touch of nightshade to encourage a restless night of sleep, as per the Dark Lady’s wishes.

As for arts, the Grimseers are most renowned for their wool quilts which can be used either as light blankets or as an accessory. They often depict images of snakes, eyes, and nightshade flowers, typically in dark shades of purples and blues, reflecting the deep night sky. They form a core part of many traditions, typically gifted during births, marriages, and after passing the Dreamwalker ritual.

#tesfest22 #series: the madmen of the reach #subseries: reach tribes #cozy writes #oc: ophelia #i'm tired of proofreading this #if u found any typos or sentences that cut out of the blue no u didn't < #this is also way more organized than my other reach tribes posts so i might revamp the others to get it to this standard. i like this more #i might add more to this too tbh since i have more ideas but !! im satisfied for now

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me time

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