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foxigemini · 1 year

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Bound For Life - Chapter 1

Pairing: OC!Orc x Human Female Reader

Summary: Your life is nothing exciting. Until one day when you encounter a creature in the forest and your life is changed forever.

Warnings: Nsfw! Smut, Orc Sex, Monster Sex, Unprotected Sex, Rough Sex, Size kink.

Author's notes: Okay, so this is my first time writing and posting anything original. I hope this is good enough to post and that a few out there will like it.

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Life had never consisted of anything exciting or interesting for you. As you grew up to be an independent young woman after the death of your parents, you found yourself living quite a boring life. Living alone in a small cottage in the forest outside the village, you worked at the local Inn. Every day was the same as the other. Meeting the same people, having the same dull conversation.

Little did you know, it was soon about to change.

You knew of the creatures in the world, of the elves and trolls, goblins ad orcs, but you'd never encountered one. Their lands were far away from the humans, so distant it felt like a fairytale red to spellbound children.

It was late at night after another shift. You walked through the dark and murky forest, following the stone path to your home. Suddenly, your skin tingled and your eyes flickered as your breath deepened, inhaling more air. Your footsteps slowed down as you listened with great intensity, couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched.

You looked behind you, expecting your eyes to connect with a rodent, a wolf, or a bird, but nothing was there. Nothing but a lingering knowing. Looking onward again, you quickened your steps this time, hoping to escape the constant feeling of being followed by watchful eyes.

Yolmar hid in the darkness of the forest, watching the fragile, little female figure walking the path through the woods. He had never seen a human before. His head tilted, nostrils flaring as he felt the smell of your fear. It was almost like hunting a deer.

Yolmar had never been this far away from home. As he came of age, Yolmar was sent to explore the world to find a suitable mate. He never expected that it was the sent of a human that would awaken his interest.

A sudden crack made him look to the side, his pulse quickening at seeing the wolf sneaking up on you. His eyes snapped back to you, then back to the wolf, his instincts taking over when the animal suddenly lunged towards you.

It all happened so fast. Despite your senses being on high alert, you barely had time to react when you heard the crack of a breaking tree branch behind you. Twirling around, you stared at the wolf galloping towards you. Your scream didn't have time to leave your lips before the wolf was knocked to the ground by an enormous, green-skinned humanlike creature. You stared at the scene before you, unable to move as the creature wrapped his muscular arm around the wolf's neck and broke it. The green beast dropped the lifeless wolf to the ground, its chest heaving with heavy breaths as he turned his attention to you, staring at you with yellow, intense eyes.

From the stories told to you as a child, you knew that it was an orc.

You thought you would die on the spot as the orc moved closer, its heavy footsteps booming in your ears in pace with the sound of your own racing heartbeat.

"You okay?" the orc spoke, his voice guttural as he struggled to speak your tongue. You blinked, once, twice, as you stared up at this monstrous beast before you. His yellow eyes examined you with what you could only describe as...concern? He was tall, probably close to 6,6, his bare-chested upper body flexing with muscles as he breathed heavily.

You nodded at his question, couldn't find your voice as your gaze dropped to his loincloth, your face heating up as you imagined what was hidden beneath. What on earth possessed you to think such inappropriate thoughts in the face of death? You looked up again, your eyes following the shape of the black mohawk on his head, down his pointy ears, and the two tusks protruding from his bottom lips.

"Good," the orc answered to your nod, his gaze slowly roaming down the shape of your body, and you found yourself blushing. Why did he make you feel so utterly naked and bare?

"Uhm...t-thank you. For...for saving me," you finally managed to say, your voice shaking as much as your heart pounding in your chest.

The orc nodded, a smirk ghosting across his lips as he looked back up to your face and met your gaze.

"W-what are y-you doing here? I-I mean, s-so far away from your homeland?" you asked, not knowing where you got the courage to speak. Good lord, this was so unreal. Were you actually having a conversation with an orc?

"I left my clan to search for a mate," the orc replied, taking a step closer to you as he gazed at you leeringly. "I am Yolmar. What's your name, little human?"

You stared up at him, unable to breathe at his closeness and the lustful glimmer in his eyes.

"Y-Y/n...," you croaked and wetted your lips, scared of what might happen next.

"Well, y/n..." Yolmar placed his forefinger under your chin, lifting it up and forcing you to hold his gaze. "I believe you owe me for saving you."

Holding your breath, you felt a heat rush through your core as you looked into his piercing, yellow eyes.

"I-I...w-what do you want?" you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

"You. As my mate."

Your eyes widened as you kept staring up into his eyes. Your ears were buzzing, mind unfocused on everything except the word coming from his lips.

Mate.

"W-What?" you flickered your eyes, the nervous beating of your heart increasing. "W-What do you mean?"

"It's your scent. I could smell it from miles away, the way only a mate could sense it. You and I are mates, destined to be together. I must confess I was disappointed at first that you're not an orc. But now that I see you, how tempting your soft and tiny body is, I can't wait to claim you. To make you mine."

Yolmar smirked and leaned down to your ear, inhaling your scent. A growl of appreciation rumbled in his chest, and the sound along with his hot breath on your skin caused a trail of goosebumps down your body. You couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe how willing your body was to accept him when your mind was still trying to protest. Yolmar's finger left your chin and slid down the nape of your neck, sending another wave of goosebumps down your skin. A keen whimper slipped from your lips and you became shamefully aware of the arousal pooling between your thighs. Yolmar growled at the sound coming from your lips, his hand landing on your waist, covering your entire hip.

"P-Please don't, I can't...," you begged, hated the uncertainty in your voice and how your body betrayed you, aching and throbbing to feel him inside you.

"I can smell your arousal, human," he growled, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, coaxing an embarrassed moan from your lips. Yolmar snickered. "You want me as much as I want you."

His hand found its way underneath your dress and undergarments, two of his long, thick fingers slipping between your soft folds and into your wet, spongy core. You gasped and grabbed his big arms as his fingers stretched you out.

"So wet and tight," Yolmar mumbled and started moving his fingers inside you, grunting at the squishing sounds your pussy was making. His cock jerked at the feeling of your wetness, twitching, and hardening to life, eager to fill your tight, little cunt to the brim.

"Oh fuck," you gasped at the feeling of his fingers thrusting into you, didn't understand why you didn't stop this stranger, this monster, from doing this to you. Most of all, you didn't understand why you wanted him to do this, why your body seemed to crave his touch. Maybe it was true what he said? That the two of you were destined to be mates.

"Such foul words coming from such a sweet, little thing," Yolmar chuckled, the sound vibrating through your core. "Tell me, my little human...Do you crave my cock inside you?" At the last word, he pushed his fingers deeper inside you, pushing against your g-spot and you screamed out in pleasure.

"Y-Yes! Please, yes," you whimpered, tears welling up in your eyes as he repeatedly thrust his fingers into you at a rapid pace.

Yolmar grinned and took out his fingers from your pussy, his hands violently ripping the dress from your body, leaving you only in your undergarments. You gasped, wanted to cover your bare chest when the orc stared at your breasts but didn't have time to react before his calloused hand cupped your tits. "Pretty," was all he said and kneaded the soft flesh, felt the weight of them in his hands, and rubbed his rough thumbs across your nipples that hardened at his touch.

"P-Please," you begged, bit your lip at the feeling of your pussy aching and clenching desperately to be filled.

Yolmar lifted his gaze, his yellow eyes filled with hunger as he removed his loincloth. Your gaze dropped, widened when you saw his enormous, engorged member pulsating and leaking with precum as it stood proudly in a curve up against his stomach.

"Oh, fuck...," you whispered, wondering how it would ever fit inside you at the same time as your pussy twitched at the sight of him.

Yolmar chuckled at the frightened wonder on your face. "Don't worry, little one. It will fit. If we take it slowly. Now, get down on your hands and knees."

You obeyed on trembling legs, jerked and gasped when he ripped the undergarments from your body and grabbed your hips with both hands, pulling your ass up in the air. Then, you felt him at your entrance, slowly pushing the bulbous head between your fold and into the tight hole of your pussy. Your eyes widened, breath coming out in short gasps through your parted lips.

"So tight. So fucking tight and small," Yolmar mumbled and howled in pleasure when the head of his cock suddenly popped inside your warm, wet entrance. At that point, he couldn't control himself anymore. Grabbing your hips harder, he bucked his hips against your ass, pushing his cock into you halfway before pulling back. You cried out, back arching and head thrown back as his huge cock stretched out more than you thought was possible. Then, he thrust forward again and you screamed a silent moan, realizing he had only been halfway inside you and he was now fully seated in your womb.

"Feels so good...so good, my sweet, little human," he crooned, almost lovingly, as he started a slow and gentle pace of fucking you, claiming you as his mate. Your vision got blurrier with each of his thrusts, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body. Soon, your mind became dazed and numbed, and a smile spread across your lips when all you cared about was how absolutely divine his cock felt inside you. You could feel the pressure building in your core with each thrust, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. Then, the orc suddenly pulled out and you whined at the loss of contact, of feeling so empty inside.

Yolmar pulled out and positioned himself above you, on his hands and feet as he pushed inside you again, his massive frame hovering above yours as he thrust into you. You moaned when Yolmar pushed back into you again, smiled as you looked up at him over your shoulder. You looked into his eyes and held his gaze as he quickened the pace once more, rapidly shoving his dick inside you over and over until your senses were overflowing.

Yolmar looked back into your eyes as he slammed into you hard and fast, rougher with each thrust. The slapping sounds filled the forest, blending with your high-pitched moans and the orc's snarling growls above you. The pressure in your belly intensified and finally erupted just as you felt the orc pump into you a final time, burying himself deep inside you as he came. His cock twitched inside you and the feeling of his seed pulsing into you brought you swiftly over the edge, your pussy clenching and milking every last drop out of him. Yolmar threw his head back, his loud, guttural growl echoing through the forest as he emptied his seed inside your belly. You collapsed onto the ground, panting for air and your body becoming limp as you felt his cum flow out of you, creating a white river on the dirty ground between your thighs.

"Mine," he muttered quietly and out of breath as he picked up your exhausted body.

Yours. You smiled tiredly when Yolmar cradled you in his arms, and he started walking down the path leading to your cottage.

#orc x reader #orc x human #orc smut #orc fanfiction #oc x reader #orcs #orc #monster x reader #monster x you #monster x y/n #monster x fem!reader #monster smut #monster fanfic #monster imagine #monster fucking

3K notes · View notes

nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos · 7 months

Note

Your Mihawk has me weak on my knees so I wanted to request something for him.

S/O has scars on her body, mainly on arms. She does fight but some of them look… too precise. One time after she loses a fight she is really pissed and nervous, she goes to a place alone. There he sees her just giving herself a scar with a knife on her arm. Turns out she was taught scars are signs of losses and if she doesn't get one in battle then afterwards she needs to do it herself. That's why she's so determined to always win. She hates scars.

@patisilence tagging since I'm not sure if you'll get this since I had to save it as a draft to format everything right.

Anyway.

I DID IT I ACTUALLY FINISHED IT

I'M SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG 😭😭

And I honestly really really want to thank you. This is my first ever fic-request, for one.

And also, writing this has been an absolute emotional rollercoaster. I have kind of a personal history with self-harm and I wanted to depict it as realistically as possible. Which resulted in heavy focus on character development, which resulted in this practically turning into a novella. I'm going to split it up into a few chapters to streamline things and link them all in this post.

If I do it right, then the entire thing should already be posted when I post this, but I'm still pretty new to Tumblr so bear with me. Each chapter should be between 3k-4k words.

And ALSO ALSO I've been planning a longer Mihawk X OC fic, and I really hope you don't mind me using this concept for it? Because it honestly ties a lot of things together for me

Soooooo without further ado, here's the whole author note thing.

Your Scars Are Mine

Ch. 1

LA! Mihawk X AFAB!Reader

Tags: Fluff, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Mentions of Violence, I guess that's it, I'm bad at this

⚠️ MASSIVE ASS TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠️ : Self-harm, Blood, Implied PTSD

Summary: In the few months that he has known you, Mihawk has noticed the scars on your arm. You've refused to talk about them and skirted around the subject successfully, but a trip to Shells Town throws everything out into the open in a way that neither of you were prepared for.

Ch. 2

Ch.3

You were hiding something.

In the few months that Mihawk had known you, he had come to learn a fair bit about you. He knew, for instance, that you had over the past few years made something of a name for yourself as a sword for hire, typically among pirate crews who required a more discreet touch.

That this reputation of yours had led the Buggy Pirates to hire you to assist in stealing a map of the Grand Line from a Marine base in Shells Town. You had failed to procure the map before it was stolen by other hands, leaving you in their debt. Buggy had sunk your sloop to prevent your escape, and you had gotten stuck working for the ridiculous crew for a brief time, remained stuck with them until the Strawhat upstarts offered you passage with them.

Mihawk knew you had traveled with them as far as Baratie, where you had crossed his own path for the first time at the bar on the ship's deck. Where you had approached him with a bargain—if he left Roronoa Zoro alive after their duel the following morning, you would serve him for a year, an errand girl to send off on whatever menial tasks the World Government assigned him.

"And why would I want a little bird flitting around after me around for an entire year?" Mihawk had asked coolly.

And yet you had made a fair point—acting as a government lapdog was growing old. He had been sent after the vice admiral's grandson, for heavens' sake, as if he had nothing better to do with his time than to handle the old fool's family disputes.

Though the surly pirate warlord wouldn't have dared to dream of admitting it at the time, you had his attention. Your offer of unquestioned devotion, your confident demeanor as you sipped a glass of whiskey and kept your eyes on his without showing an ounce of fear or intimidation. You were certainly an interesting diversion from the otherwise dull task that had been laid before him, and your certainty that he would accept your offer had irritated and intrigued him in near equal measure.

It was intrigue that won out in the end. He had left his challenger clinging to the edge of life and taken you with him on his departure. You stayed toe to toe with him in wit and banter, and that alone would have been more than enough to draw him closer to your charm. He had wanted you before two weeks were out, wanted to claim you as far more than his "errand girl," and it was easy to see from the way you effortlessly returned his subtle flirtations that you wanted the same.

And now you were lying back across his broad chest in the hammock aboard your new sloop, a book open over your chest and his hand resting over your stomach, his other tucked under his neck as he frowned thoughtfully up at the roof of the small ship's cabin, pondering over the whirlwind of events that had led up to this moment.

It had been just over two months since the pirate lord had taken you as his lover, and you had been an open book about most things. Your training under your grandmother. Your setting out on your own from a small island village to find your parents, or some clue of their disappearance. The many and varied pirate crews you had served as a hired hand.

Yet you refused to discuss your scars.

Any seafarer with a history as sordid as your own had their share of battle scars. Mihawk had a fair few of his own; one didn't become the most renowned swordsman in the world without a few losses, after all. Yet your voice turned to clear contempt when yours were mentioned, even in passing, and you tensed like a statue when his hands brushed over them. You were confident to the point of near arrogance, yet you clearly held nothing but shame and contempt for the many marks that marred your delicate skin.

Some of which appeared oddly...uniform, for having been gained in battle.

It was in part—in great measure, honestly—the mystery of you that had drawn him in to begin with, and this was just another mystery that Mihawk intended to unravel.

You closed your book abruptly, stirring him from his thoughts as he glanced down at you. He watched you gaze thoughtfully toward the ceiling for a long moment, your hand resting over his at your stomach, before you finally spoke up.

"Reading a book is just staring at a dead tree and vividly hallucinating."

You tilted your head back, grinning as his mouth turned down in a frown and his brow furrowed at your ridiculous statement. Mihawk sighed wearily, plucking the book from your hands and lightly rapping you over the forehead with it.

"No," he scolded, as you giggled softly. He sighed heavily again, dropping the book over the back of the hammock before pinching at the bridge of his nose. "Are you trying to give me a stroke?"

"No," you said, imitating his scolding tone. You stretched your arms out over your head, arching your back for a moment, before rolling over to lay across his chest and brush your lips to his. "But it's fun seeing the look on your face."

"You irritate my very soul, little one," he said, shaking his head as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

"And I enjoy every second of it," you countered, grinning as you laid your forehead against his.

"I can tell."

Your grin managed to draw a small smile from him, before he lifted a hand into your hair and pulled you down into a slow, deep kiss. Your fingertips came to rest at his broad shoulders, the hammock swaying slowly in the steady ocean waves carrying the ship along. He knew as well as you did that he wasn't honestly irritated—your strange sense of humor had grown on him, as starkly as it contrasted to his dry sarcasm, and he rarely had the pleasure of meeting anyone as adept at keeping up with his own banter.

You lay your cheek at his shoulder when your lips parted, your eyes slipping shut and your contented sigh tickling against his neck.

"If the wind holds steady it will be a few hours before we make port," you said, your voice low and soft. "I suggest we don't move from here in the meantime."

"I'm not sure I've ever heard a finer suggestion."

Mihawk pulled one of your hands to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles. He pulled his hat down over his eyes to block out the sun pouring through the windows of the small cabin, tucked his hand back behind his neck again, and shifted beneath you to get comfortable as he closed his eyes. His arm remained curled around your waist, his hand slipping just beneath the hem of your shirt so his thumb could rub slow circles over your soft skin as you both drifted off toward the peaceful recess of sleep.

The first thing that struck Mihawk when he woke was that you weren't in his arms.

Every day and night for nearly two months, he had fallen asleep and woken with you against him, and the absence of your warmth jarred him instantly awake and aware. His eyes scanned around his surroundings as he sat up, taking in where he was—the small cabin of the sloop he had recently bought you as a replacement for the one Buggy's crew had sunk.

His sharp yellow eyes darted toward the door, taking in the sound of unfamiliar, muffled voices outside the cabin.

He was standing in an instant, straightening his hat and pulling Yoru onto his back as he slipped silently through the door and onto the small deck of the sloop.

There was another sloop tethered to yours.

A pair of no-name pirates holding you against the bow ny your arms, their captain pressing the barrel of his pistol to your forehead as they bickered.

"There has to be something on board."

"We could just take her. Looks like she's probably a feisty little thing."

"Still have to check the cabins. Could be—"

Mihawk cleared his throat.

The trio turned their heads in almost comedic synchrony, their jaws dropping at the mere sight of him leaning against the door of the cabin. Mihawk's eyes flickered from them to you, and you averted your eyes, clearly ashamed to be seen in such a compromising situation.

So he shifted his gaze back to the opposing pirates, his eyes flickering between each of them.

"You will remove your hands from the girl or I will gladly remove them for you," he said levelly, lifting his eyebrows.

They quickly let go of your arms, and stepped away when he moved forward to wrap a hand around your wrist and pull you to him. He curled his arm around your waist, lowering his head over yours for a moment and murmuring quietly, "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head no quickly, your jaw set at a rigid angle as you turned your gaze down to your feet, your shoulders tense. He pressed a light kiss to your temple for a long moment before lifting his gaze back to the trio that had dared board your ship, his eyes narrowing in an unspoken threat.

"Go." They remained frozen, glancing between each other. "Now."

They scrambled back over to their ship immediately, severing the ropes that were tethering it to yours. Mihawk kept his arm around you, but his eyes remained trained onto the opposing sloop as it drifted away on the wind, debating on just drawing his sword and splitting it in half on the spot.

He turned his attention back down to you when you began to pull away from him. He pulled you in close again, frowning. It wasn't at all like you to be bested by a few no-names, and it was clear that you weren't taking it very well.

"Tell me what happened," he said finally.

"I woke up," you said curtly. "Thought I'd check the charts and see how far we were from Shells Town. They were already on the deck. Seemed to think this was a small merchant vessel since there's no flag. I'd left my knives in the cabin and I was still half asleep when I came out here. By the time I registered what was going on, one of them had a pistol to my head."

You really weren't making a very good case for him to not sink their boat. He cut his eyes briefly toward the sloop before looking back down at you, your face shadowed by your hair as you stared down at the deck floor.

"Their captain started questioning me about cargo," you continued. "Told them there wasn't anything valuable on board. They were discussing taking me as compensation." You sighed heavily. "And that's when you chose to enter stage left and take approximately twenty years off the end of their lives."

He rolled his eyes the slightest bit at your quip. "I would have taken a great deal more than that had they hurt you."

"Well, they didn't," you replied, your voice still curt. Mihawk lifted an eyebrow. "And it's perhaps best not to go splitting any boats in half a stone's throw away from a naval base," you added, nodding back toward the bow of the vessel.

Mihawk gave a quick glance as well. He had been too focused on the fiasco he had just awoken to to notice that Shells Town was visible on the horizon now. It wasn't as if the Marines could do much about it if he did sink the sloop, but you were right—it would still be more of a hassle than it was worth. He sighed, shaking his head a little, and curled a hand under your chin to lift your gaze to his. You still kept your eyes averted, your jaw set. He hadn't seen you lose a fight before—apart from sparring with him while training, but that hardly counted.

You had proven to be quite the fighter when he had decided to test you. You were nowhere near his equal, but you knew precisely how to play to your strengths with your pair of daggers and your throwing knives. Your stature made you difficult to target even in single combat, your movements a graceful dance that toed the line between evasion and power.

Yet one loss—and a rather inconsequential loss, at that—and you were beating yourself up over it quite a great deal more than what constituted normalcy. Mihawk wasn't sure whether to scold you for being dramatic or attempt to comfort you.

"You were caught off guard, little one," he said after a long moment, brushing a thumb across your cheek. "There's no need to be so upset over that."

"I'm not upset, I'm annoyed," you retorted, pursing your lips a little. "Blades or no, I should have been able to take care of those idiots."

"Annoyed, then," he allowed with a small sigh. "And I've no doubt you would have had I not woke. I was simply able to handle it a bit more...subtly."

"Oh, yes, because sauntering out onto the deck with a giant sword and threatening to cut off their hands was so subtle," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you finally rolled your eyes over to his, lifting your eyebrows.

"Don't be a brat," he chided lightly. "We still have at least half an hour before we make port." Mihawk abruptly wrapped his hand around your chin and pressed his lips to yours in a brief, deep kiss that made you draw in a sharp breath. He parted just as you started to lean into it, resting his forehead against yours. He lowered his voice to an intimate murmur. "I would truly hate to have to spend it punishing you, my little bird."

You quirked an eyebrow, your lips curving in a small, coy smirk. "No you wouldn't."

He gave you a thoughtful frown and a small shrug of his shoulder. "Perhaps not." You let out a small cry of alarm when he stooped down and quickly scooped you up from the deck floor, one arm beneath your knees and his other curled around your back. "I suppose we'll just have to find out."

You chuckled lightly as he carried you to the door of the main cabin, plucking his hat off of his head and placing it on your own as you brushed your lips to his in a soft, teasing manner. Mihawk lifted his eyebrows when you nipped lightly at his bottom lip.

"You're really pushing your luck, my dear," he cautioned.

He lowered you down to the double bed in the cabin, his thumb rubbing small circles at the back of your neck. You lifted yourself onto your elbows, your lips nearly brushing his before he pulled back just far enough to stop you, lightly gripping your hair at the nape of your neck to keep you from sitting up any higher. You gave a small whine of protest, but didn't try to struggle against his grip—you and he both knew there was no point.

"Lie down." His voice remained low and intimate, but there was a subtle command in his tone, in the way his gaze burned into your own. You bit your bottom lip lightly, lowering yourself back down onto the bed fully. A soft, quivering sigh left your lips as he slowly began slipping the buttons down the front of your shirt loose. "Hands over your head. And you don't move them an inch until I tell you you can."

"Mmm..." You hummed thoughtfully, and Mihawk paused in unbuttoning your shirt as you lifted your arms from the bed, holding your hands high above you, straight up in the air. "I think my arms might end up getting tired."

Your lips pursed a little, clearly struggling to keep a straight face, and he lifted an eyebrow at you. "You're certainly in rare form today."

Mihawk wrapped his hand around both of your wrists, shoving your hands down into the plush white comforter over your head, and a couple giggles escaped you before you bit your lip again. It was honestly a bit endearing, how cheeky you were being—and all the moreso, as it appeared you were being so brazen just so he could have his fun with your punishment.

You were enticing him more and more every passing day, beyond the physical desire that had led him to claim you as his a couple months ago. It wasn't a feeling he was particularly accustomed to, nor was he quite sure what to make of it yet. He knew only that when he had seen you held captive against the bow of the boat, an emotion had flashed through him for a moment that he hadn't experienced in years.

For the briefest moment, Dracule Mihawk had felt fear.

He was not ready to contend with the connotations of that.

And he was a bit too busy at the moment, anyway. He let his forehead touch yours, his lips hovering a breath away from your own.

"You don't move your hands," he repeated, tilting his head to just barely graze his lips against your neck, drawing a small moan from your lips, "until I give you permission. Understood?"

"Yes, sir..." you sighed softly, your eyes slipping shut as he kissed down your collarbone, pushing your shirt open. His hand released your wrists and trailed down your arms, down to knead at the soft tissue of your breast through the sheer lace of your bra, feeling your nipple harden against his palm. He tugged the cups down, just a bit too hard given he felt one of them tear in his grasp, but that was a problem for later, not now.

You gasped out when he briefly pulled one of your stiff nipples into his mouth, his grip tightening slightly around your ribcage as you arched your chest toward his swirling tongue. His gaze flicked up to watch you writhe and shudder under his touch, your fingers digging into the bedsheets behind you, your hands searching for anything to keep occupied with.

"Very good," he praised, lifting a hand to brush a few strands of hair out of your eyes and brushing his lips to your jaw. "You see?" He wrapped his hand around your jaw and lightly pressed his lips to yours. "It's much better when you're a good little bird, isn't it?"

"This—doesn't feel much like a punishment," you commented, gasping softly as he circled the pad of his thumb around your nipple, lightly skimming across it once or twice.

"Yet," he corrected.

And gave you a small, devilish smirk, before lowering his head and biting down on the tender skin at the crook of your neck. Just hard enough to leave behind a small bruise, to draw a sharp cry from your lips and send a shiver through your body.

He straightened out as you heaved a sigh, standing over you. Your eyes remained glued to him while he shrugged away his long coat and tossed it back into a chair behind him, noting how your hands tightened down on the bedsheets again.

"Remember we still have a half an hour before we reach Shells Town." His fingertips curled around the waist of your shorts, the lace of your panties beneath them, and slowly inched them down your hips. "I could spend the entirety of it teasing you." Mihawk noted the movement in your throat as you swallowed in nervous anticipation, your eyes glued to his as he pulled them up the length of your legs and off, flinging them aside. "Making you beg for release but never allowing you the satisfaction."

How beautiful it was that it only took a few words to pull a blush to your cheeks and make your breath hitch. He brushed a light kiss to your calf and pushed your legs apart, rubbing his palms up your inner thighs.

"You're going to have to be on your best behavior if you want more, my sweet little bird." Trailing a single finger up your soft folds, dragging through your slick arousal and across your clit, pulling a small whimper from your lips. "Or would you rather I just torment you?"

You bit your lip, shaking your head quickly, your eyes flickering between his eyes and his fingertips trailing up. It was a struggle for him not to chuckle at you—always just cheeky enough to be amusing, but you knew the pleasure he could give you, were so desperate for it that you folded like a cheap deck of cards under his slightest touch.

Absolutely perfect.

Mihawk moved his hands up from your thighs, curling an arm under your back to lift you up and shift you further back on the bed. Your breathing was ragged with anticipation as he brushed his lips to your stomach, trailing his hands back down to your hips, his lips lower and lower, grazing slowly across the soft skin between your hip bones.

Shifting lower and dragging his tongue slowly up your slit, circling the sensitive bud at the apex, giving a quiet growl of approval as your breathy, shuddering moans filled the small cabin and your hips arched in his hands.

His gaze turned up toward your face, watching you draw closer to falling apart with every passing moment. This was only the beginning, and he still hadn't decided if he was going to give you what you wanted...but the sight of your divine, nearly naked and writhing under his touch with his hat still resting on your head made him just a little weak.

He moved from between your legs before he could get lost in the sight of you and the sweet sounds of your moans, reveling in the agonized whimper that left you as he trailed his mouth back up your stomach.

Across to your ribs, pausing at your breasts to brush his lips and his skilled tongue across your sensitive nipples.

Dragging his tongue up the column of your throat, seizing a fistful of your hair and crushing his lips to yours in a deep, possessive kiss, shoving your hip down onto the mattress to keep you from grinding against him, shifting his hand between your thighs to circle a finger around your tight entrance without pushing in. Your low moans and whines of protest were like music to his ears, your knuckles gone white from the force with which you gripped at the sheets over your head to keep your hands from wandering.

Every slow pass up and down your body brought you closer to the peak of pleasure but never quite there—and brought him closer and closer to caving in and giving it to you. He had to wonder whether you had any idea just how much of a temptation you were to him. It had been years since the pirate lord had allowed any woman to affect him quite as strongly as you had.

How much time had passed couldn't be ascertained for sure when he reached his breaking point—his mouth pressed into the crook of your neck while you moaned and begged desperately in his ear, one of his hands squeezing your breast hard enough to bruise the soft flesh while his other worked his belt buckle open and shoved his pants down his hips in a desperation that rivaled yours.

He shoved your open shirt up your shoulders and arms and flung it away; gripped one of your thighs, pushing your leg up as high as it would go, and the low growl that left his throat as he thrust into you was drowned out by your own cries of abandon. Your hips arched up from the bed to meet his, one of your arms flinging around his neck and your hooking beneath his arm to grip hard at his shoulder.

"I don't recall giving you permission to move," he breathed into your neck. He gritted his teeth as he pushed his hips forward hard, shoving yours back down into the bed as you cried out again, your slick walls tightening around his cock.

"I—I'm sorry, I can't—I can't—please—" You gasped, your head falling back as he moved in you in deep, hard thrusts, your fingernails dragging down his back. "Oh God, please—"

He lifted a hand to grasp at your hair as he crushed his lips to yours, delving his tongue into your mouth and drawing in a deep breath as you moaned desperately into the fierce kiss. The prospect of punishing you, of what the hell he had even been punishing you for was forgotten in this rush of unquenchable lust and desire, of pure carnal need for your body.

He normally hated losing control, but this was on another level entirely. There was no room to hate this, no room for anything but pure pleasure, for getting lost inside you as your walls tightened around his cock, as every muscle in his groin tensed and tightened in anticipation of impending release—

Your lips breaking away from his, your cry of abandon as your climax swept over you pulled him right over the edge with you. He pulled your hip up from the bed to slam into you as he came, gritting his teeth against a low groan, the rhythmic contractions of your tight channel milking him dry. His hips jerked toward yours with each intense wave of pleasure, fingers tangling in your hair as he pressed his lips to your neck, the two of you shuddering and tangled together over the bedsheets.

Mihawk heaved a shuddering sigh into the crook of your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair as he brushed his thumb across your temple. Maybe it was the lingering euphoria, but he didn't even think about the next words that left his mouth before he heard them himself.

"God dammit, (Y/N), I love you."

But it was impossible to deny any longer. You really were everything he had never realized he craved. No, it wasn't just the euphoria in the moment—it was that brief flash of fear earlier at the thought of you being hurt, at the thought of losing you. The utter fury at the morons who had briefly held you captive. How perfectly you balanced and complemented his desires.

He felt as much as heard you draw in a small gasp beneath him. "Y—you—wh—?"

"You heard me," Mihawk interrupted your quiet, almost cautious stammering, murmuring against your neck. He brushed his lips against one of the small, round bruises he had left on the soft skin, and said it again, quietly, "I love you."

You were quiet for a long moment, but he wasn't concerned, still trailing kisses up the side of your neck. He had seen it in your eyes before now, heard it in the softness of your voice when you lay against him, your fingers in his hair and your lips brushing his.

Several seconds passed, before you turned your head slowly and pressed your lips to his, tentatively at first, and then deepening the slow kiss with a soft sigh. He shifted onto his side, tugging you to him by your hip. Your forehead came to rest against his as your lips drifted apart, still barely a breath away, your eyes closed, your voice a quiet whisper.

"I...love you."

(Ch. 2)

#opla #one piece fanfiction #dracule mihawk #fanfic #mihawk one piece #mihawk opla #fluff #mihawk x reader #smut

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call-sign-shark · 1 year

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Heaven In Your Eyes || Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC

Summary: Beaten with guilt and shame after losing his temper again, Arthur's aimless wandering leads him to church. There she is and, after diving into her heavenly eyes, he is convinced God has sent him His sweetest angel to save his bastard soul.

Words: 2.6k

TW: Blood, a bit of angst, slight blasphemy and bad use of holy water, reckless x caretaker Inspired by the prompt "Where does it hurt? - Everywhere" by @the-three-whumpeteers

Notes:

✞ Timeline: between seasons 2 and 3

✞ Heaven is OP's original character but written with the use of « you » (Moodboard here). Heaven’s voice and song is linked, all you have to do is click on the lyrics.

NEXT CHAPTER || Masterlist

The stumbling tall silhouette of Arthur Shelby was crossing through the thick haunting mist of Birmingham. As unwelcoming the town was during the day, it was nothing compared to night time. When sun faded behind the horizon, chased by the pale glowing face of the moon, the whole city turned into a cut-throat area. Arthur brought the neck of the bottle he was holding to his chapped lips and gulped down a mouthful of pure Irish whisky. The fire trail the beverage left behind it as it went down his throat reminded him he was alive — he could still feel something, even though it was the alcohol’s burning. An animal growl escaped from his lips when the bottle left them only for him to lean his back against one of the church’s gigantic concrete walls. A loud raven’s croak torn the silent veil of the night, making him swears. The gravel in his voice answered to the dull bird, which was watching him from a tree with his tiny and beady eyes.

« Fooking bird, laughing at me like the rest of ‘em eh? »

The raven — which was rather large for a bird — tilted its head to the side and kept staring at the drunk man with a cunning interest. Its black eyes, shining under the moonlight, seemed filled with both a wise glare and a mocking sparkle. Soon, Arthur’s curiosity for the raven’s unusual behavior turned into a senseless anger when he understood why the bird was focusing on him, his explosive rage strengthened by the incredible amount of alcohol he had drunk a bit earlier.

« It’s the damn blood is it? Stop lookin’ at me like I’m — I’m some kind of monster, or a beast or I don’t fookin’ know what else! Go to Hell! »

The bottle flew towards the raven but it did not flicker, as if it knew Arthur was not in the shape of being quick nor particularly precise with aiming. As the glass smashed into the ground, Arthur hit the wall behind him with the back of his head and let out a frustrated scream. No more cocaine, no more auto destructive behavior nor suicide attempts for two years straight, and tonight he fucked it all up. He was convinced he could get better, and God knows he tried his best to do so. Got sober from every poison he used to take, got a religious wife that was trying to turn the wolf in him into a sheep… Hell, he even brought her flowers every damn day. But then came troubles, taking the shape of his little brother, Thomas Shelby.

He asked him to do the dirty job — again.

With his calloused hands, he took another man’s life. At first Arthur thought he would not be that disturbed at the idea of killing someone, after all he had done that almost his entire life. Just one last time, he told himself, just one last time and I’ll go back to my little peaceful life with me wife.

Yet, the guilt and the shame that struck him after bashing the lad’s head against the edge of a sink until his face became a pile of squishy flesh soon became too much to handle.

As the last spurt of blood spattered his face, Arthur’s clouded mind became suddenly crystal clear: it would never stop. After that epiphany, the older Shelby brother contemplated how everyone he deeply loved tended to use him. For Thomas and the rest of the family he was a mad dog, the combat brute whose only times he could enjoy life without a muzzle were when he had to rip someone’s throat apart. For his father, he had been nothing else than a poor naive hound that would have done anything to receive his respect. As for Linda, her love was a cruel mirage he wanted to believe with all his heart — but the illusion had vanished in smoke. Whether she considered him as her personal test subject for Christian brainwashing or as a tool to get what she wants, Arthur could not tell. What he could tell though was that he knew she did not really loved him. She wanted to mould him at her will, but he was no lamb. He was a wolf, a beaten and lonely wolf, but still one. And there was no love for rabid wolves, only a bullet through the brain to cure the madness.

As his skull buzzed with macabre thoughts, whose unpleasant noise reminded him of a furious beehive, a bewitching voice pulled him out of his auto-destructive spiraling. Standing at attention and listening carefully, he came to realize that someone was singing inside the church. Arthur’s eyelids fell on his steel blue eyes and the back of his head gently rested against the cold wall behind him, the same wall he had been previously smashing it with. A sighed escaped from his liquored lips as the angelic and hypnotizing voice, slightly muffled by the church’s heavy wooden doors, plunged him into a soft but oh-so-warm haze.

My heart is pierced by Cupid

I disdain all glittering gold…

Lulled by the sad melody carried away with Birmingham’s cold night breeze, the swarm of raging hornets in Arthur’s brain stopped crashing against the bony walls of his skull. Another sigh — one of relief this time, for the unbearable noisy thoughts and violent buzzing had vanished. His trembling fingers, numbed by the blows he had hit his target with one hour ago and still covered with half-dried blood, slid along his temples and slicked his hair back. The utter and feral anger he had felt was reduced to void, for even his old heart had slowed its pace down in his ribcage.

There is nothing can console me

But my jolly sailor bold…

The tune, embedded with melancholy, soothed his troubled mind and to be honest, he could barely believe it. When that switch in his brain flipped, God knew he was not in control anymore - even dear Linda, who still managed to hush down some of his tantrums, could not tame the beast inside when it broke free a bit more fiercely than usual. Yet, this voice did so. This stranger, faceless and nameless ghost of the night, brought him back to sanity with the sole power of her voice. The words she was singing, with her a juvenile and enchanting tone, were wrapping his heart. Arthur sniffed and fought hard against the dawning tears that were forming delicate crystal beads at the corner of his closed eyes.

If he had been the jolly sailor bold, he would have thrown himself out of the boat to join the siren that was singing.

My heart is pierced by Cupid

I disdain all glittering gold.

There is nothing can console me

But my jolly sailor bold…

She repeated, sadder than she previously sang.

Her song sipped through his heart and filled the cracks with molten gold. Arthur’s lips stretched in an almost invisible grin without even realizing it — By her voice, he was convinced she could repair the damaged creatures like him and make them even more beautiful than they were before they had been dragged through the trenches’ mud and shit. He had barely came to his senses, almost miraculously sobered up, when silent fell again in the church. Arthur reopened his eyes, and shook his head - Had he dreamt? Had it been the whiskey singing to him? No, he could not be that crazy right? Not quite sure if he was starting to hear voices and see things, Shelby decided that he had to found out who had been singing to his very own soul. He wanted to see her, the girl who soothed his foul heart and his twisted mind. He wanted to know, no, he HAD to know, even though his whole being was fragile like a flickering candle flame caught in a hurricane and would probably shatter in million of pieces if she turned out to be an illusion.

Gathering all his remaining strength, Arthur grabbed the handle and opened the church’s door.

[…]

A shiver ran down your delicate spine at the loud silence that floated in the gigantic and empty church. The peculiar sweet yet strong scent of myrrh, wood and frankincense filled your lungs with its holy fragrance. The vibrations of the last word you sang was still echoing in the room, swirling to the high and sculpted ceiling, from which marble angels were watching over you. If someone would have told you two years ago that the only place you would find comfort would be a church, you would not have believe it. You had never been particularly fervent about religion, but you did believe in higher forces whether they were good or bad. More than a matter of faith, the church itself was an old friend of yours. A gargantuan friend of stone, holy titan always welcoming you even in the darkest moments of your life. What you liked the most were these lonely moments at night, during which you could light up dozen of candles and sing your sorrow to the status and colorful stained-glass windows. No gossip from the parish, no believers swarming like ants within these mighty walls. There were just you, the candle lights and the soothing silence. For a few hours, you could finally find peace.

Brushing the varnished wood of the altar with your thin fingers and painted-red nails, you let your mind drift and, suddenly, the world around you vanished. You sunk so deep in the abyss of your thoughts that you did not hear the creaking sound of the heavy door opening, nor the footsteps that followed. All you could heard were the « Burn witch, burn! » that hundred of villagers screamed at you in the woeful remembrance of your past. And in spite of your immaculate porcelain skin, you bore the scars of their words deep in your soul.

[…]

Arthur made a few steps before freezing, his body refusing to come closer as if the aura around the creature that was standing back to him , right in front of the altar lightened up with dozen and dozen of small dancing flames, was too sanctified to be violated. Bathed in the soft and warm orange hue of candles, the long white hair of the woman fell down the small of her back like an ivory waterfall. Right above her the pale glow of the full moon coming through the stained-glass window formed a luminous halo around her head.

His breathing stopped, choking in his throat at such a divine vision. The gangster opened his mouth to speak but no words managed to come out. He had never been good with words anyway. Instead he moistened his lips and swallowed, his mouth dry. The white-haired girl had started to hum the same song she had been singing a bit earlier, not aware of his presence — and he did not dare to disturbing her as if he feared God’s punishment. He took another step, the wooden floor creaking under his sole.

This time the angel — because he was convinced it was one — jumped and turned around, an expression of utter surprise veiling her sweet face. Her fox eyes, adorned with two iris so fair it reminded him of aquamarine stones, scrutinized his slightest movements. She remained petrified for what felt eternity for her but, regarding him, time had stopped for good. Arthur finally inhaled sharply, coming back to life.

All those endless nights of crying, all those endless nights of praying in vain for something or someone to save him, and here you were… His salvation.

He had asked God to send him, the most desperate sinner of all, His most beautiful Angel and He had done so.

She was not just pretty. She was otherworldly and vaguely threatening. Almost ethereal in her short white dress whose cut let her naked back for the world to see.

« I waited for ya. » He whispered.

She blinked, her full and juicy lips opening with surprise.

He stuttered, looking down and decided it was better for you if he stopped talking. The gravel in his hoarse voice, as strong as it was, sounded indescribably frail. As if this tall and slightly threatening man could shatter at your single touch. Now he felt stupid, clumsy with words contrary to Tommy and his naturally eloquent and charismatic speech. In addition to the unpleasant impression of being a fool, Arthur’s own whisky-scented breath and the strong metallic smell of blood reminded him of his horrific appearance. Overcoming the awe you infused in him, panic started to kick.

You frowned, and all of sudden he did not look that impressive anymore. Swept away by the wind, your face relaxed and wrapped itself with a calm, almost placid expression. You exhaled through your nose and walked towards the gangster, who had brought his bloody hands to each side of his head and was now pulling his own hair in a desperate attempt to not lose track.

« Where does it hurt? » You asked with a quiet and soothing tone, for you were concerned about all the blood he was covered with.

Arthur raised his gaze toward the petite white-haired doll who had just pressed one of her cold little hands on his. Your ice against his fire made his legs weak and his heart missed a beat. How his breathing calmed down at your touch was a mystery, but it did. Not quite comprehending why you did not seem scared of him, he stuttered again, all flustered.

« Shhh, shhhh. Everything’s okay, take a deep breath and answer with all the time you need. » Your hand gently tightened its grip, willing to show him you were there and you were not going anywhere until he feels better.

« Where does it hurt? »

« Ev-Everywhere love. It hurts everywhere. »

His hands, his face, his body, his brain, his soul, his damn tortured soul… It all ached too much, and too constantly for him to bear anymore. E-ve-ry-where, that was all he could say because pain was all he could feel.

Without answering, you pulled him to the altar and invited him to sit on the marble stairs. The strong and fierce gangster followed you without the single physical resistance and gave in between your hands, as a rag doll. All he did was looking at you with his charming but oh-so-exhausted blue eyes as you tore the fabric of your dress near your thighs and soaked it in holy water.

« Let me wash away the blood. » Your voice echoed in the vastness of the church, enticing and haunting at the same time — enough to send a pleasant shiver down his spine. You had barely finished your sentence when you started rubbing the wet cloth against his hollow cheek to clean his pale skin from the dark red blood. Once again, he could not help watching you during the whole ordeal all the while enjoying the fresh sensation of the holy water cleansing the dirt of his soul. Not minding his stare filled with fascination, you focused on your task, brows slightly furrowed and fingers blessing him with the softest and most caring touch someone had given him.

« Yer an Angel. I swear you are eh. »

You quickly glanced at him, a sparkle of amusement shining in your cunning celeste blue eyes, before looking back at what you were doing. The weight of his gaze brought fire to your cheeks, for he looked at you like he had just realized what love was.

He looked at you, and to his greatest surprise, found Heaven in your eyes.

I'm super new in the Peaky Blinders fandom, so please bear with me... Especially since English is not my native language. To be honest I am kind of scared to post it so any comment, review, reblog or constructive criticism is welcome. Also, I'll be more than happy to meet people in the Peaky Blinders fandom! In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed some Arthur and Heaven. Still don’t know if I’ll write a full series or snipets of these two love birds.

Tags: @areyenotfondofmelobster

#Arthur shelby #Arthur shelby x reader #Peaky blinders #Peaky blinders x reader #Arthur shelby x oc #arthur shelby x ofc #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fluff #Arthur shelby imagine #Thomas Shelby #Tommy shelby #Arthur Shelby x Heaven #Heaven Shelby #Arthur Shelby fluff

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 6 months

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Blah blah blah, massive jerking off motion, sugar daddy Colonel König with a f!reader!30 year old, established sugar baby doing it for a laff fic bullet point idea I've been bullshitting around with under the cut:

Again, bc y'all know me, this is just my fuckin oc dressed up as a reader but yknow what whatever. It’s my maladaptive daydream and I’m generalizing enough to share it.

You’re a doctor of organic chemistry, working in pharmaceutical forensics at a lab that largely deals with multinational jurisdiction drug offenses for various state agencies. The work pays pretty well, as it’s government scale, but it is dull and repetitive.

To get your kicks, you sugar baby casually on a semi-regular to regular basis. It suits you. You’ve never established a meaningful long term relationship, flings come easily to you, and older would-be romancers have always taken interest in you in ways that people from your own age bracket haven’t.

Sex or no, it all depends on who is approaching you, the decision ultimately yours.

And they don’t have to provide monetarily, no. You’re well established, more than that even. Once they understand that aspect of you, they shift their approach, and that’s when the fun starts.

Gifts, trips, concerts, dinners—whatever you want, all of it a discreet text away.

None of your entanglements last terribly long. You’re off-putting, in your way, your mannerisms, your directness. Most of your paramours find that it doesn’t click for them. If you’re having sex, it doesn’t matter how mind blowing it is—usually for your partner, though you’ve had the occasional winner—one way or another it ends. And you have been the one to end it, especially when you feel it growing strained and pointed toward what services you provide your temp partners. You’re no stranger to the sudden and surgical cut.

One such situation leads a Colonel to a spot at your feet.

One of the dudes who wandered into your carousel was Declan O’Conor, of KorTac. He’d been intrigued by your intensity at first, and the sex was some of the best he’d ever had, though you thought he lacked skills in foreplay. He was generally brusque however, and tended to ignore the trade of attention and gifts in favor of his desires, which left you cold and unimpressed.

gonna be real, i left off here like two days ago, and i'm 2 hours into my last work day before my weekend, so i'm not bothering with extra detail, we're wheelin' and dealin' now, lads.

a certain colonel gets a hold of your email through declan, a nanosecond before you dump declan's ass. the timing? immaculate. the colonel could not have done better. isn't he fucking lucky.

he's heard declan bragging about his new bird. she's smart, she's discreet, she fucks like a succubus. she doesn't even want money, or a relationship. shit, she doesn't even care if you're married or have kids, she wants no part of your real life. she just wants fun and stimulation.

well. ain't that just what the colonel is looking for, he lies to himself. könig is almost half convinced you're an escort dressed up as a woman looking for a good time, but what the fuck does he know. and from what he's gathered, the way people approach you is myriad, but you're picky as for how long things go on.

he's drowned at work, has no desire to go bar crawling or trying to pick up a dumbass hobby to try and meet someone, and he, if he's honest with himself, does not have the time to dedicate to an actual relationship, is mildly horrified at the idea of using an app to date, and is approaching his mid 40s. his work is too demanding, he travels too much, he's too burnt out. fun sounds fun.

he shoots off the email.

what he gets in return: "interesting that o'conor seems to be recommending me around, as that's not part of the agreement. but i'll meet you. tell me when you're next in berlin, and we'll set a date. should it cross your mind, bring me something interesting."

smth smth, time moves on, you end up meeting up with him for dinner. he insisted. he knew a place. you hoped like hell it wasn't some overblown officer's club. that shit was always dead boring and full of the most disgusting braggadocio you've heard in your life. testosterone beating off against testosterone, trying to find out which one nuts first.

but, nah. he hauls you to a korean bbq joint that's a real down and dirty hole in the wall, and immediately you're impressed. the food is amazing. it's quiet. he is ENORMOUS, but has an air of cinders about him.

you can tell he used to run off rage, almost solely. it must've burned down over the years, or his fuel had taken a hit that it could never recover from. he's tired. he's looking for ease.

he wears a gaiter covering the bottom half of his face and neck, and you find it curious as the dinner starts, your booth in the far back, away from prying eyes.

thought it was for your comfort. he'd already spoken of your discretion, that he was well aware, and interested in the same. his position in his org is high up, he works with sensitive info, his clearance is big time spooky. things you're familiar with from your own work.

he calls his work security, and you call your own science. it is enough.

he warns you about his facial scarring before the meal begins, giving you the choice to avoid seeing him eat, and you turn down that offer. "i can assure you that i've seen worse," you say, confident, unshaken at what he might be hiding. your history is a darkness, it runs deep, and ruin is not unfamiliar to you.

he seems pleased, or at least mollified, and pulls down the gaiter. the lower half of his face is a wreckage, almost at odds with the wheat colored curls - all shot through with silvery-gray - tied into a tail at the base of his skull, and the blue of his bag-bruised eyes. a botched cleft lip surgery, exposing big, fuck-around-find-out teeth in a scar that leaves him always snarling. rippling burn scars crawling up from his ravaged neck, pulling at the corner of his eye.

at least he will eat, if nothing else.

it is one of the rare times he will allow you to see this.

at the end of the meal, after some good conversation, dancing light around heavy realities, secrets that can't be told, you sit back and watch him with curiosity-heavy eyes, a contentedly full stomach, the foot of your crossed leg hovering in the air between you under the table.

he's pulled his gaiter back up, peeling euro bills off a fat clip he pulls from his pocket, dropping them on the table, overpaying the meal. perhaps the privacy. perhaps the server. perhaps the flash of it.

"i didn't forget," he laughs, voice still higher than you'd expected, but rasping and rough as gravel churning mud and blood.

"apologies. i'm impatient. it is my nature."

"hah. have that in common, then, hm?" he laughs, going for another pocket.

usually, you expect jewelry on the first date. it hasn't been uncommon with the people you run with. perhaps even technology. you were afforded an iphone 14 pro max a month before they'd even come out, but you'd held onto it and resold it later.

and this fascinating könig pulls out a box, as well. you almost feel your stomach sink. you'd been hoping...well. it doesn't matter what you'd hope. and maybe it was foolish to harbor a small, chittering desire that he'd be different, after the turns your conversations took.

he plunks it down on the table in front of you, rapping two long, powerful fingers on the plain lid. it's not even that impressive of packaging. oh, your stomach churns with impending disappointment. sometimes these men end up cheap. you steel yourself, falling into your resolve.

a fossilized horse tooth is what is presented to you when you open the package, as well as a business card for a fossil and crystal dealer. you catch sight of a beaded bracelet on his wrist, carnelians.

"didn't know what sort of science you're in, but figured i couldn't go wrong with a fossil. or a horse. you have horse girl energy."

he's smirking. you tip your head back and cackle, mind flooded with your years on your school's equitation team and the summers you spent trekking across continents with your grandmother by horseback.

the energy shifts perfectly, and you pull your head down, beaming at him. running the toe of your heels up his calf under the table, you roll the fossil-black tooth between your fingers, following the grooves, feeling the age. this horse would've been about nine when it died. not bad for a wild thing. most of them didn't find the miracles of old age.

"what gave it away? the posture?"

"oh ja. jawohl. it's the posture. even leaned back, sit like you're setting your ass in a saddle."

"mhm. sounds like you've done some riding yourself."

"when i was younger, yes. half-sway-backed plow nag, though. nothing so fancy as what people might picture, with the accent."

"not everyone can afford warmbloods, it is true."

you fold the tooth into your closed hand, silence falling comfortable between you. and here it is.

"i think we should find a place for the night, don't you?" you ask, and you can see his mouth pull into a smirk under the mask.

"hah. good thing i thought ahead then. i booked a room--some place nice. you'll like it." his confidence would be off-putting. it should be off-putting. but it isn't. it's almost a relief. it's definitely a turn on. he's not feeling out your approval, at least not visibly.

you were both looking for fun. and perhaps you've found it. at the very least, he is not treating this as a fight to be won. maybe he would not've been crushed or vitriolic if the night ended with nothing further, ever again. you don't know. you let him help you into your coat, and into a cab, and you find your flesh-ripping want yelling louder and louder with his arm draped casually across the back of the seat behind you.

and good christ, does can he fuck.

okidoke, i'm cutting this one here, sry. i will probably continue it more formally (? idk) later once i've worked on some other stuff, but i wanted to get this one out, yeehaw. hope u enjoyed!

#konig #könig #call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x reader #my work #my hcs #??? don't know boss this has just been rattling in my head forever

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toms-cherry-trees · 4 months

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Don’t Hold My Hand (I’ll Break Your Heart) || Tommy Shelby x Fem OC ~ Ch. 3

Summary: The day Thomas has been awaiting for is finally here and things don't go as planned. The first crack begins to show

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Talks of medical procedures, needles and blood. Tommy suffers a pain episode

Author’s note: I am so sorry this took so long! These past weeks have been terribly busy and I have been having a major writer crisis. Yet here we are and I hope you enjoy!

Requested taglist: @call-sign-shark @zablife

《 Prev part -

Ever since their last encounter, Thomas’ attitude towards her shifted. Charlotte couldn’t say he respected her, for that would take more than a few harsh words and stern looks. But he seemed to have found something in her that piqued his interest. He still refused her help on the daily with the most basic of things, stubborn as a mule, or rather stubborn as a Shelby, but he granted her the ‘honour’ of a few words of conversation every now and then. And Charlotte used every chance she could to try and talk him out of his miracle doctor.

She brought up every argument she could muster, but they were all met with indifferent shrugs of the shoulders, dismissive waves of the hand and, when she pressed too hard, with Thomas turning his back to her and escaping her well intentioned words, seeking refuge in the safety of his veranda. Charlotte remembered time after time when she had to convince soldiers to follow treatment for their own good, to have their medicines and do the exercises and quit the alcohol and the laudanum. She never had to talk a man out of doing something, and definitely never a man like Thomas Shelby.

“Just tell me this, Thomas. Have you ever, at least once, met or even seen any of these veterans this doctor has claimed to cure?”

His silence sufficed as a reply.

The faithful day, Charlotte awoke with a bitter taste in her mouth and a heavy feeling in her stomach. A dull headache throbbed in her temples, since sleep had refused to find her, leaving her to toss and turn as the moon slowly gave way to the sun and the birds chirped in their branches. She did her best to carry on with her duties as usual, but every now and then she nervously glanced up towards the clock, waiting for the strike of 3 in the afternoon. The minutes felt too long and the hours too short. If she stared at the clock, the hands refused to move under her watchful gaze. But then she would turn her back for what felt like five minutes, and when she looked again, nearly an hour had transpired.

The doctor had sent beforehand some medicines that Thomas had to drink prior to the appointment. Charlotte had poured some onto a cup and stared at it intently, hoping that if she looked hard enough she could discern what exactly had been mixed into the ambary liquid, since the bottles had neither a chemist’s name nor any label. But other than identifying a hint of a sweet, herbal scent, she got nothing.

A taxi stopped before the gates just five minutes to three. Mrs. Gray and Charlotte both awaited in the foyer, standing side by side, to welcome the man who promised them the greatest miracle to be ever seen. They heard voices out the door, and Frances opened before he could knock. The second the doctor crossed the threshold, the bad feeling in Charlotte’s gut worsened.

The man before her dressed poorly. And not in the modest but clean way that most working class people did. His brown suit had definitely seen better days, perhaps better years too; frayed at the hems, the seams stretched out and the buttons hanging precariously from thinned out threads. Whoever had sewn in the elbow patches definitely had very little practice in tailoring. The shirt had taken a yellow hue from wear and time, and some bare threads hung from the collar. The shoes desperately needed a visit to the shoemaker, soles detached on the tips, the gap widening with each step.

Two women came with him, one on each side and just a step behind him, both with severe faces and strict postures. They dressed as nurses did, with the light blue dress and the Sister Dora cap upon the hair, but had black rubber aprons tied about the waist instead of the usual soft white linen she herself wore. Their appearance evoked more butchers than healers. Charlotte could certainly picture them wielding cleavers and with red splatters on their faces, not precisely from slicing meat.

Mrs. Gray shared her apprehensions, that much Charlotte could tell by the way the older woman lowered her cigarette slowly, one hand holding onto the ruby pendant hanging from her neck, twirling the gem between her fingers nervously. They both shared a tense and brief side glance, loaded with trepidation, when the doctor took Mrs Gray's hand and kissed it, his head lowered in a bow. She pulled away from his grasp delicately but firmly, the only betrayal in her collected facade being the slight narrowing of her eyes. He then tried to repeat the impish gesture with Charlotte; but the nurse’ hands remained firm behind her, not giving the audacious man even a speck of chance.

The doctor straightened, arms behind his back and puffing out his chest like a proud peacock. He appeared to not be unfazed by the tepid welcoming, although Charlotte easily noticed his barely concealed disappointment. Perhaps in other houses he had been received with tears and cheers like a hero who would save the day. She wondered if he had been sent off with the same enthusiasm after his magical treatments.

“Miss and Madame, I am Doctor Elias Keller '' He put a hand to his chest and bowed again, as if he were being presented to Queen Mary and her daughter in Buckingham Palace. “These are my assistants, Bertha and Henrietta” Both women nodded curtly once, still standing just a step behind Doctor Keller, like petty soldiers flanking a high ranking officer, ready to rush to do his bidding.

The man put out his hand again towards Mrs. Gray, mayhaps hoping for a handshake. But she didn’t give him the satisfaction, instead reaching for her cigarette case and lighting a new one. She took her time to take a long, deliberate drag and allowing the smoke to billow from her dark cherry lips before speaking

“I am Mrs. Gray, Mr. Shelby’s aunt. And this is Charlotte, Mr. Shelby’s private nurse” Charlotte had never heard her refer to Thomas as Mr. Shelby, but she understood the motive; she didn’t want to give Dr. Keller any chance of familiarity. As if she wanted, through subtle actions, to remind him of his position before he got too cocksure. In her line of work she had surely met one too many charlatans, Lottie thought, and she too could smell the rottenness in him.

Doctor Keller smiled, although the gesture looked perfectly practised and not at all sincere. Charlotte did notice that he looked her up and down out of the corner of his eye, and not in a bawdy way; quite the opposite, in fact. He seemed uncomfortable with her presence, a feeling that had appeared upon his face only after Mrs. Gray mentioned her to be a nurse. He fixed his bowtie, giving it a firm tug before addressing her

“A nurse, you say? You certainly don’t look like one, far too young you are. Perhaps a maid turned caretaker?” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes twinkling with condescending amusement. Charlotte clenched her jaw, teeth nearly grinding in annoyance.

“War nurse, in fact. I served in convalescent homes and then field hospitals in France since 1916. I was awarded for distinguished service” She puffed out her chest at the last part. Even if her recognition strips and medal lay forgotten at the bottom of a drawer in her room she had the right to boast about them. She had earned them through hardship and sweat, and she would not let this mountebank look her down.

Doctor Keller’s lips tightened into a line, but he regained himself with such ease one might even doubt the gesture existed. He straightened up once more, his eyes fixated upon Mrs. Gray, every aspect of his posture and demeanour indicating he wished to keep Charlotte excluded from the conversation

“Well Mrs. Gray, I must not be delayed. Every second that I am not by my patient’s side it is a second lost. I am very devoted to them and wish to give them only the best of everything, including my time” Charlotte had to look aside to disguise a poorly stifled laugh. The man didn’t spare her a glance, but his guarding dogs both looked her down with a mixture of annoyance and indignation. The shorter, much older woman reminded Charlotte of her commanding matron in the ward when she first enlisted; they both bore a particular type of severity in their faces that could put generals to their knees. Charlotte had bowed her head before the matron; out of respect for her status and service, but she would not let herself be intimidated by the walking circus before her.

Mrs. Gray on the other hand, had Doctor Keller’s complete attention on her. The man kept trying to go up the stairs, but she kept trying to delay him just a few more minutes

“You have just arrived, why don’t we have tea in the drawing room? We can sit down and discuss what treatment are you planning to implement on my nephew” Her manicured hand came to rest on the doctor’s bicep, as if attempting to steer him away from the grand staircase. But the man, who mere minutes ago had presented himself as fulsome and flirty towards her, didn’t take her attempts kindly. He stepped away from her touch, straightening out his worn jacket.

“Mrs. Gray, I must go to my patient at once. I am a very busy man and see many soldiers like him a day. My time is of precious value and not to be so easily wasted. If you do not show me to his rooms I will be forced to leave and reconsider his position as my patient” He spoke fast, a shrill tone edging his voice, the perfectly polished facade he had brought with himself showing the first crack. He appeared nervous to not have the family’s support, surely not used to be resisted that way. Charlotte prayed internally that Mrs. Gray would push just a little harder, that she would stand her ground for a bit more, enough to scare this opportunist into running and never looking back.

But alas, Mrs. Gray relented, perhaps to spare herself of a round with her nephew when he found out she had blocked the way for his miracle doctor, or mayhaps because she too bore a miniscule sliver of hope that whatever they did to Thomas may work.

She gave Charlotte a look, a brief one, no more than a second, but loaded with many conflicting feelings. Her lips quivered from the effort it took her to not say word, and she had to remind herself mentally of her position within that house; just a worker, placed there to look after the Master of the house, not to give opinions or interfere with his businesses. Feeling her heart tighten, Charlotte led the way towards Thomas’ chambers. When they reached the double doors she pushed them open, allowing them inside before stepping in. But she found her path blocked by the older assistant, who crossed her arm on the threshold to hold her back

“Doctor Keller works alone. If he needs help he will have us. Please wait outside” The harshness of her voice matched perfectly that of her face, her broad frame firmly forcing Charlotte out of the room. Incensed, and perhaps frightened, Charlotte stood her ground, her shoulder pushing against the human wall that was the other woman.

“I work here. I am his caretaker. You will not touch a hair of his head without me there” She spoke perhaps with more passion and strength than her station required, but she felt an overwhelming need to protect Thomas. She could not let, on her best judgement, allow this swindler to beguile Mr. Shelby and endanger his life on false promises.

Just when she readied to perhaps commit acts unbefitting of her against that woman, Mr. Shelby spoke up, his voice calm but firm.

“Charlotte. It’s okay. Just go downstairs”

The assistant stepped aside briefly, allowing Charlotte a peek inside. Thomas sat in his chair near the windows, an unlit cigarette perched between two fingers. Doctor Keller kneeled at his side, holding his free hand in his own in a reassuring grasp. The sunlights poured abundantly through the panes, golden beams framing them.

“Charlotte. Please” He had never said please to her.

He nodded towards the doctor, and the man stood up, taking control of the wheelchair and leading Thomas away from the windows and from Charlotte’s view.

The last thing she thought she saw was a smile on Mr. Shelby’s face before the assistant slammed the door on her face.

Time moved painstakingly slowly. Hour after hour slipped away, the sun steadily making its way across the skies. Warm orange bathed the rooms towards the back of the house, shadows lengthening as afternoon gave way to sunset. Charlotte sat in the main room, a luxury she rarely granted herself. Before she laid a teapot of black currant tea which had not been touched, and biscuits she refused to eat. She had chewed her thumb in anxiousness, leaving the imprints of her own teeth on the pads.

At least five times during her wait, Charlotte made her way towards Thomas’ bedroom but stopped halfway through, doubting in her feet before slowly making her way back down. She wanted to go up and see for herself what they were doing; every fibre of her being urged her to. But at the same time she feared what she would see or hear there.

A half past six, the double doors closed with a dry thud, and heavy footsteps resonated in the stairwell. Charlotte scrambled from her seat, almost slipping on the fancy rug and knocking her hip against a side table as she rushed into the foyer. Somehow Mrs. Gray beat her to it, already standing at the foot of the stairs even though she hadn’t seen her around since the doctor’s arrival.

Doctor Keller marched down the stairs ceremoniously, his head held high, as if he had just rediscovered America. He had removed his jacket, and his yellowed shirt clung to his body with sweat. His assistants walked behind him, carrying his cases and a bag Charlotte swore they hadn’t brought with them. Their rubber aprons had been wiped clean, and for some reason, that didn’t sit right with Charlotte.

He addressed Mrs. Gray, once more his posture and actions disregarding Charlotte’s presence. The man took Mrs. Gray’s hands, and this time she didn’t push him back. His smile suggested reassurance and triumph.

“The procedure has gone well. Mr. Shelby is now upstairs in his bed, sleeping. He has been left exhausted and I suggest he is not disturbed until morning. I will return in a fortnight to repeat the treatment, and will continue to do so as many times as it is necessary, but I feel confident that progress will be seen before my return”

Mrs. Gray’s eyebrows knit together in worry, and although she didn’t grant the doctor the reward of a smile, she had lost some of the apprehension she bore in the morning.

“Can you tell me what exactly is it that you have done to him? What sort of treatment is this?”

Doctor Keller chuckled heartily, shaking his head while he patted her hand “Now Mrs. Gray, those are gruesome details that delicacies like yourself should not have to endure” Charlotte buffed at the last part. Mrs. Gray could be described as anything but delicate. And the comment obviously didn’t sit well with the older woman either, for she immediately dropped the doctor’s hands and took a step back.

“Allow me to see you out, Doctor Keller” Even in now obvious annoyance, Mrs. Gray displayed an affability that Charlotte envied; a possession and control of the emotions that very few mastered. The small group headed outside while the valet brought the car around. But Charlotte did not follow, instead sprinting up the stairs towards Thomas’ bedroom.

She peered inside quietly, walking on tiptoes. Every window had been opened, the room smelling of damp soil and autumn leaves, but the earthy scent could not entirely mask the acrid smell of rubbing alcohol. The breeze had scattered papers from the desk all over the floor, and she hurried to pick them up, knowing how much disorganisation ticked Thomas off. As she placed them on the desk, she noticed they had left a kidney dish forgotten, alongside with a syringe filled with a milkish substance. The needle, the length of Charlotte’s hand, was coated in red.

Slowly, fearfully even, she turned towards the bed. She didn’t know what she expected to see, perhaps a gory scene with blood splattered on the walls and pooling on the floor, or a massacre akin to those seen in the field hospitals in France. Yet she only saw Thomas, laying on his side and submerged in a deep slumber, dressed only in his sleeping shirt and underwear.

She approached him slowly, her keen eye noticing the layer of sweat covering his skin, hair sticking to his temples and beads rolling down the curve of his neck. She dampened a cloth in the basin and wiped his forehead, feeling his skin feverish to the touch. The corners of his mouth had reddened marks, as if they had been rubbed raw against something coarse. Frowning in confusion, Charlotte leaned back, moving to examine the rest of his body. She found nail marks in his palms, in lines of bloodied crescent moon shapes. Just as she moved to grab the first aid kit to clean them, she picked up a small but significant detail.

The sheets had been changed

That morning, the bed had pure white sheets of plain linen without any embellishment, and these had simple blue embroidery on the edges, intertwined with Thomas’ initials as laundry marks. Charlotte could simply not understand why they would change the sheets amidst such secrecy instead of asking her or one of the maids to handle it, and neither could she find said sheets no matter where she looked. Clearly, whatever had been spilled on those linens, the doctor and his devils in tow wanted to be kept secret.

Worry crept up Charlotte’s spine and clawed at her throat. She didn’t want to disturb Thomas’ slumber, not after seeing him sleeping better than he had ever done before. Yet she could not ignore her instincts, not when they screamed at her so loud they drowned every other thought in her mind.

So she sat by the bed and watched.

Waited and watched, while the sun gave way to the moon. A maid brought her food but she barely ate, feeling as if Thomas would burst into pieces or fade into mist if she took her eyes away from him for one second. Frances came near eleven, urging her to go to bed, but she only asked the older woman to take watch for a moment while she changed into her nightgown and robe. Even during the brief routine of closing the curtains and turning off lights she kept glancing towards him. But despite her best efforts she was only human, and the ever growing tension of the day had worn her out. She huddled in an armchair near the bed, a blanket around her legs and a small pillow supporting her neck. She had a book in her lap, but fatigue clouded her vision and foggied her thoughts. She swore she heard the grandfather clock chime 1 in the morning just before she fell asleep.

Charlotte woke up in a nightmare.

In the space between the land of dreams and the real world, guttural, horrific groans of pain seeped into her mind, making her hair stand on edge. Her heartbeat quickened and her feet chilled. She had to fight the drowsiness and exhaustion off her body and will her eyes to open. The room was illuminated only by moonlight coming from one curtain she had kept drawn back, casting phantasmagoric shadows on the walls. As her vision adjusted to the darkness and her senses sharpened, she sought the source of those sounds. Her first instinct was to go to the window, but she hadn’t moved a step when the grunts of pain returned, coming from very close to her.

Thomas doubled over himself in the bed, fingers digging on the sheets and his jaw locked tightly around a corner of the pillow, poorly attempting to drown his pained cries. Charlotte rushed to turn on a lamp, and when warm light bathed him, she let out a scream of her own.

Crimson blossomed in the back of his nightshirt, the stains growing like flowers along the length of his spine. When she pushed his shirt up, she saw bandages entirely soaked in blood, the coppery scent filling her nostrils. The flesh around them had reddened and swelled. Thomas kept writhing, only worsening things as whatever they had done to his back kept tearing open and bleeding anew.

His fingers dug into his own hair, pulling at the black strands in desperation as he muffled the screams by biting into his forearm. Somehow that grounded Charlotte, setting her back into the same steeliness that got her through the war. She rushed to the medicine cupboard and pulled out bottles, not even bothering to check the labels, for she knew what she looked for. The laudanum she kept at the very bottom, hidden behind all the taller bottles, had not been opened. She went to pour it in a spoon, but thought it better and instead poured it into a glass, estimating what dosage would put two adult men to sleep. With the amount of whiskey and other things Thomas consumed on the daily, she knew a spoonful would barely give him a tickle.

She climbed in bed next to him, trying to sit him up so he could drink. But Thomas seemed to be paralysed with pain, and even the tiniest of movements reignited the agony. Not a word passed his lips, only exclamations of pains mixed with heavy, slowly drawn gasps of air, for even the simple act of breathing had become a struggle.

“Thomas, Thomas, breathe. Breathe with me” She cooed soothingly, running her fingers through his hair in a gentle caress “I have your medicines. But you need to sit up a bit to drink” Her calm words fell on deaf ears, and she couldn’t blame him for not heeding her command. Charlotte wanted desperately to ease his suffering, but for that she had to move him, which would only worsen his pain. She hated she had to do it, but it was for his own sake.

“I am sorry about this” She murmured as she sat by his side, hooking her arms under his heavy body the best she could to pull him up. The scream he emitted was otherworldly, and she could only silence it by putting her hand in his mouth, letting him bite her flesh like a rabid dog. The pain shot up her arm but she ignored it, not moving until his jaw had unclenched. She had managed to prop him upright against her chest, with her own back resting against the headboard. His head laid limp against her bosom, and the still fresh blood stained her robe. But none of that mattered at the moment.

Charlotte tried to get him to drink with the spoon but he refused to open his mouth. Sweat now poured profusely down his face and neck, giving his skin an unhealthy glistening. Even in the faint light she could see his complexion had paled, but at least it appeared the bleeding had stopped. Charlotte forced the spoon past his lips, but he only splattered on it, spilling the laudanum everywhere. When she tried again, he shook his head like a child refusing his porridge. She sighed in frustration, and also because his weight against her made it hard to breathe.

“Thomas, please. It will do you good. I promise it. You will feel better”

Again, nothing. Every muscle in his body was painfully tense, and she could see the vein in his forehead popping and the pulse beating strong and quick in the side of his neck. She placed a tender hand on the side of his face, her thumb running up and down the sharp length of his jaw to ease the tension. After a few minutes she noticed a slight improvement and how his lips parted open. Lottie seized that opportunity and brought up the spoon again. And this time, he sipped the medicine.

“That’s it. Take it slowly. This will make you feel better Tommy”

The pet name escaped her without thinking, and honestly, she didn’t give it a second thought. His aunt called him that so often that it had simply slipped into her vocabulary.

Spoon by spoon, slowly and carefully, Thomas drank the laudanum. The medicine acted quickly, and soon the relaxation became visible in his body. His muscles loosened, his breathing calmed and his pulse returned to normal.

Minutes ticked by in peaceful calmness, a stark contrast to the abrupt awakening she had. A brief glance to the clock showed her a quarter to four. Still a long time to go before sunrise. And a lot to be done. The bed had been left a disaster, as had Thomas himself. She would not bother with the sheets but the bandages and his clothes needed changing. It took her some serious shifting and pulling to get out from under him, but at last Charlotte managed to lay him down, propped comfortably on some pillows. She laid him as comfortable as she could, since she doubted she would be able to move him again.

The shirt was a goner, so she had no qualms in cutting it to shreds to slip it off his body. The bandages soon followed, alongside the thick folds of gauze which were now blood soaked. The sight underneath stole the breath from her lungs

A series of wounds traced the length of Thomas’ spine, from lower to mid back. Perfectly lined puncture wounds, in pairs, going up at regular intervals. Whatever needle had been used surely resembled more an icepick, for the holes seemed to have been drilled in his flesh. Charlotte could not even fathom what sort of procedure Tommy had been put through, but now her other findings made sense. The nail marks on his own hands from where he has fisted them so tight, and the abrasions on his mouth, surely a leather strip or a simile had been put in his mouth as a gag. Tears welled up in her eyes when she thought how he had willingly subjected himself to torture of the worst kind just for a crumb of hope.

She washed him clean as best as she could in that position, rinsing away the blood and sweat. She didn’t have any medicines at hand to apply to the wounds, so she only rebandaged them, making a mental note to ring a real doctor the next day for some real medicines. Since the sheets could not be changed nor could he be dressed again, Charlotte laid some clean towels around him and tucked him tight with the blankets.

As she moved around him, she paid close attention to his face for the first time. Without that perennial scowl on his face he appeared much younger, even under all that messy hair and unkempt beard. His eyelashes were enviably long, casting shadows upon his high cheekbones even under the weak light of the bedside lamp. His nose had a straight slope, and his jaw a particular sharpness, noticeable despite the beard. He was objectively very handsome, a man girls would surely fawn over.

Just as she readied to retake her watching post, Charlotte noticed again the nail marks on his palms, now swelling up and the skin purpling. She took his hand on her lap as she cleaned it gently, wrapping a simple bandage around them. Just as she moved to stand, his hand gripped tightly the fabric of her robe, stalling her moves.

When she turned to face him, she realised Thomas had been awake this whole time. His eyes were open, and the ice had melted from them, giving way to a sharp shade of blue, vibrant even under the obvious exhaustion. His eyes fixed upon her, and they held each other’s gazes for a moment. Charlotte had stared into those eyes many times, and had read many hidden emotions behind the blueness, but that night she saw something new, something she never expected to see in him; vulnerability. Raw, deep, unsuppressed vulnerability. The first glimpse of the man behind the carefully crafted iron mask.

It felt almost wrong to be allowed to see the facade crack, like being made privy to a secret she felt unworthy of. At last, she lowered her eyes first, working on putting aside her medical supplies, just to keep her hands and her concentration busy.

“Sleep, Tommy” The words were hushed, her voice meant to be soothing, although he wouldn’t need much soothing with the dosage of laudanum she gave him “Rest will do you good”

Charlotte moved to stand, but he moved to grip her wrist instead, his hold firm but not hurtful. She looked up to him again, confusion lacing her features.

“Stay”

The words were spoken through great effort, coming out raspy and strained, but perfectly clear.

“I will not leave you. I will sit right by your bed” She reassured him, but he didn’t let go. In a sudden movement he pulled on her arm, throwing her off balance and tossing her rather unceremoniously on the bed, so that their bodies laid close together. She felt her heart rise to her throat, eyes wide and breaths quick at the sudden proximity. She wondered if the pain medicines had loosened Thomas’ inhibitions. Or perhaps he was just in desperate need of some of the human contact he often rejected.

For long minutes Tommy just stared at her wordlessly, not offering an explanation as to why he did that, nor letting go of her arm either. Heat rose to Charlotte’s cheeks, yet she could not look away from him either. The silence lingered until she chose to break the spell.

“Tommy?”

His fingers slid down from her wrist, lacing his hand with hers. His next words held a longing and rawness Charlotte didn’t believe possible in him.

“Don’t leave me alone. Not tonight"

#marsie writes #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x fem oc #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby series #tommy shelby one shot #charlotte tindall #female oc #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #don't hold my hand (i'll break your heart)

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thebigbiwolf · 8 months

Text

Starvin', Darlin' - Chapter 1

Pairing: Not quite friends to lovers Astarion x OC/F!Tav

Chapter Summary: Astarion knows his power is waning, and seducing their leader Evelyn has gone poorly at best. If he is to keep himself in the tiefling's good graces, he's left with no other options. He must drink from a thinking creature.

Everything goes according to plan... until it doesn't.

Fic Tags: Minor spoilers for Act 1, The Bite Scene, Emotional slow burn, Angst, Teasing, Frottage (god I'm sorry), Pining, This is my first ever fic so idk how to tag things appropriately but you get the gist.

Fic Warnings: Eventual Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubcon (I cannot stress this enough), Bloodlust/Loss of control, Mentions of blood, lmk if you need anything else tagged.

Word Count: 6.1k

Read on Ao3: Here

A/N: I started this as a way to get this fruity fuck out of my head but I think I just made the situation worse. If you know me, no you don't. If you've followed me for a long time, sorry in advance. I may make this a mini-series depending on time and reception, but we'll see! OC is a rogue who seduces men to gain their favor but we'll get to that in later chapters.

Astarion's trance did not come easily that night; his hunger manifesting as a throbbing headache that refused to subside. It had been hours of tossing and turning in his tent, willing his body to settle, forcing himself to ruminate on the past few weeks.

Before he joined this disgustingly merry little group of adventurers, hunting rabbits and the occasional boar had been enough to sustain him. In fact, dining on larger animals had been a significant upgrade from the meager flies and rats he’d become so accustomed to under his master’s rule, but that was before all of this incessant hard labor.

He could feel his strength waning over the last several days. His senses were dulling, his reflexes numbed. Just this morning, he had failed to gain the upper hand with a particularly nasty kobold. He paid for it dearly when the damned thing all but pummeled him into the ground.

Luckily, Lae’zel had been there, hammer at the ready to divorce its jaw from its head. Beautifully done, by the way, but his blunder did not go unnoticed. All this sneaking around for barely a nibble during his watch was beginning to take its toll.

Astarion knew he was on thin ice, considering his relationship with their fearless, incomparable leader began with him pulling a knife on her and grappling her to the ground - in front of the damn wizard, no less. Some friction was to be expected.

But things hadn’t progressed much between the two of them since then. The pair rarely saw eye to eye on anything, and she seemed to have an innate passion for berating him over his unwillingness to stop for every single injured bird or helpless child as they traveled - as if playing the part of a hero was a favorable distraction from the literal time bomb in both their party and their heads.

“The world is full of potential allies, Astarion,” she had told him, sprinkled with a hint of her usual irritation. “I’m simply expanding our network.” As if a group of starving refugees and mud-slinging tree huggers were going to find them a decent healer any sooner. At this point, he’d heavily considered taking his chances with the goblins. At least they knew how to have fun.

What made matters even more frustrating was that Evelyn was seemingly unaffected by his charms.

Just how exactly was he supposed to secure his place under her protection when the woman barely spared him a second glance? Surely he wasn’t losing his touch. He was a master of seduction. Thousands of others had thrown themselves at his feet for far less effort. He’s had centuries of practice. The mere notion would be ridiculous.

In fact, he couldn’t remember a single moment in the last two hundred years where his advances had been so callously brushed off. Every attempt to make her laugh with his (admittedly morbid) quips was met with her chastising him for being insensitive and making threats to send him back to camp. She dismissed every flirtation, even if her lovely little blush betrayed her. She seemed determined to make him play her little game. He just hasn��t quite figured out what the rules are, yet.

Astarion couldn’t afford to take any more chances. If sleeping his way into her good graces wasn't an option, he was left with little choice. He wanted to make himself indispensable, so he was going to have to take drastic measures to ensure that his strength and physical prowess would never come into question. At least, not again.

He would have to drink from a thinking creature.

The idea of it was as invigorating as it was terrifying. He had spent the last two centuries enduring unimaginable cruelty, starved in ways mortals couldn’t begin to imagine--for years--without any reprieve.

No, starving doesn’t even scratch the surface. No words could ever describe the tortuous, gnawing, ravenous hunger that consumed his every waking moment under the heavy weight of Cazador’s boot.

Though, Cazador wasn’t here now, was he?

Curious.

Astarion had spent some time ruminating on who to approach before settling on Evelyn, though his options were limited at best. The githyanki was entirely out of the question; gods forbid he get caught, she would make quick work of him without allowing him so much as a single word of explanation. Shadowheart was…tempting, but that mark on her hand frequently caused her pain, and who knows if that magic would have any affect on him or worse, her taste? And Gale, well, he would rather subsist on a diet of garlic sprinkled with holy water before he put his lips anywhere near that man.

So, Evelyn it was. The tiefling wasn't terrible to look at. She was a younger woman full of vitality, so surely she wouldn’t miss a bit of her blood. He would just have to mind the horns.

He would be in and out. A quick nibble, then he'd be right as rain. One bite, he tells himself, barely enough to leave a mark. Then, he’ll pass it off and say that they had been attacked by bats during his watch and, not wanting to wake everyone, he quietly dispatched them and saved the day. Unfortunately, not before one of those wretched little beasts managed to puncture their illustrious hero. It was the perfect plan. Infallible. They'll eat it right up.

He continues passing through camp undetected, catlike in his silence, but when he reaches the canvas entrance of her tent ready to pounce, he freezes at the sight of her.

She looked…different while she slept. Softer, gentler, almost; surrounded by a nest of fur blankets, snoozing away instead of attacking his ego. Her hair was puddled beneath her head and horns like dark, red wine; rich and unrestrained by her usual loose bun.

Another realization hits him: this is the first time Astarion has ever seen her in her sleep clothes, a simple basic black wrapping across her breasts. Practical. Of course.

Her skin is pale enough to rival his own, even with the warmth of the firelight. She’s lying on her side, her uncovered shoulder lightly dusted in freckles, much like her cheeks. Her lips are slightly parted, and in the silence of the night air, he can hear her light, even breaths.

Cute, he thinks to himself. He could almost forgive her for being so maddeningly aloof with a face like that. Almost.

Astarion leans over to brush her hair away from her neck; the strands softer than he had anticipated. The thrum of her pulse underneath is magnetic. It pulls at his very being, beckoning him closer.

Settling on his knees beside her, his arms form a cage around her body.

He takes in the image of her form one last time and allows himself a moment to savor it. She is toned and lithe, much like himself, but smaller. Perfect. Delectable.

He bends closer, feeling her gentle puffs of breath on his shoulder; the warmth of her body. His ears ring with anticipation; manicured nails clench the sheets by her head.

She’s going to be so-

Something brushes his leg, hidden beneath the furs.

Her tail. He forgot about her bloody tail.

Evelyn stirs, and fully awakens right as his teeth are at her throat, eyes meeting his.

Shit.

“Shit.”

With incredible speed, she reflexively reaches for the dagger closest to her pillow, lunging at him. He just barely seizes her arm in time to save himself from being skewered.

“What in the hells are you-” he clasps his palm over her mouth to silence her.

The girl’s eyes are wild with panic, their golden hues burning a hole in his skull. He notices them flit down to where his body hovers over hers before she begins to struggle against him. “No, no, shh,” he whispers. “It’s not what it looks like, I swear.”

Her expression shifts from panicked to confused. She ceases her squirming. Good. Well, not good, but better. He can work with this.

“When I take my hand away, you have to promise not to scream and wake the whole camp,” he continues, hushed, “unless you’d like for them to find us tangled up in your bedroll. You wouldn’t want to give them the wrong impression now, would you, darling?”

Her eyes widen. Her face flushes deep red, warming his palm against her skin.

There, he thinks, that should-

Her body turns, and suddenly he feels the hard edge of Evelyn’s knee make contact with the corner of his ribs. A direct hit. Pain shoots up his chest as he rolls off of her and onto his side, clutching himself and coughing, heaving air back into his lungs.

She hurriedly covers herself with her sheets, glaring at him as he struggles to collect his breath. He can see her fuming through the tears forming in the corner of his vision. If looks could kill, he’s sure she would have him skinned alive. Maybe use what's left of him to scare away the crows.

She’s still holding the knife out toward him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What do you think you’re doing in here?”

A fair question, one he was not prepared to answer. Perfect. He’s just going to have to wing this. Possibly with two broken ribs. He can’t believe he expected this to go any smoother.

“I-I wasn’t going to hurt you.” He raises a hand and falls back on his thighs with a grunt, grimacing in pain. His other clutches his side, a bit of sweat forming at his brow. “I just…”

Okay, this is it. He’s got this.

“I just needed, well,”

Aaaaand,

“Blood.”

There. Excellent form, Astarion. Good show.

“I - You needed what?”

She blinks at him, whether in disbelief or shock, he cannot say.

It takes a moment before his words start to sink in. She takes that time to scan over his body, purposefully.

He couldn’t quite tell if she was looking for something or if she was deciding whether or not to believe him, but then again, what other explanation could he give?

He works over his options in his head, considering just how difficult it would be to pass this all off as a terrible joke, but just as he’s about to open his mouth to start on damage control, he hears Evelyn heave a deep sigh. She lowers her weapon, then tosses it to the side, massaging her eyes in frustration.

Oh. Well, alright.

After some time, he watches her expression soften into understanding as a few notable things dawn on her. He’s never really eaten any meals with them, has he? Then there was the drained boar, which he so carelessly left out by the road. The damned beast hadn’t even taken the edge off that night, and he was so desperate to quell the nagging ache in his stomach that it lay there forgotten until she found it the next morning. He admitted to her himself that it had been drained by a vampire, after all…

A bit of silence follows.

Astarion doesn’t say a word, doesn’t dare move a muscle. He just allows her the time to process whatever she’s feeling. What’s important is that he’s still alive, she hasn't run him out of camp, and she hasn’t screamed for help.

He may be able to salvage this, yet.

She scratches the back of her head, carding her fingers through her hair to ease her irritation before finally meeting his gaze.

“Astarion.” The sound of his name leaving her lips pulls him from his thoughts. He can see the disappointment on her soft features just as plainly as he can feel it humming through their psionic link.

He didn’t think himself capable of guilt, but there was an emotion akin to it brewing within his chest. Ugh. He breaks eye contact, searching for anything to pull his attention away from his discomfort. The miscellaneous bags of clothing and trinkets she had scattered about her tent were just oh so fascinating. And was that a new hairbrush? Hm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He’s taken aback by her question. He expected a more offensive reaction. A few insults, maybe ones pertaining to his sharp teeth or bloodlust, but an olive branch?

After all the lies, the invasion of privacy, and the failed attempt at assault?

She really is just full of surprises.

“Well, we aren’t exactly close, you and I. Though, you must admit, I’ve made several attempts to…” He waves a hand between them for emphasis, “mend the gap, so to speak.”

“Well, have you ever considered maybe not being such an asshole?”

Ouch.

But in fairness, no.

“I…” He thinks carefully about what to say next. The buzzing behind his eye socket acts as a threat, reminding him of the very fragile barrier between their minds. Should she choose to dig her claws in and pry the information out of him, she may find more than he's comfortable sharing, so Astarion makes a decision that surprises even himself.

He chooses to be genuine.

“At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs.” He gestures towards the dagger at her side. “But believe me, I’m not some monster. I’ve never killed another person.”

Evelyn raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well, not for food,” he quickly corrects. “I’ve been subsisting on animals. Boars—like the one you found the other day—deer, kobolds, whatever I can get my hands on.”

“And what exactly was the plan here? You were just going to kill me and expect the others not to notice?”

He recoils at the accusation but fights to keep his expression neutral. “I had no intention of killing you. I would never do such a thing.” He leans in closer to her and lowers his voice, as if letting her in on a secret. “We need each other.”

Evelyn shifts to lean her weight on her arm as she listens, dark hair falling to the side of her shoulder. With the new level of exposure, he can hear her pulse settling into a more comfortable rhythm.

He swallows. Hard. His hunger is rearing its ugly head again, just at the sound of her.

Oh well, might as well lay all the cards out on the table while we’re at it.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and continues, “As it stands right now, I’m too slow. Too weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.” There is a question hidden in his words, a favor to be asked.

She seems pensive as she considers him, mulling over everything he’s said in her mind. She lifts a thumb to her mouth and starts nibbling on her nail, no longer looking at him. Nervous too, no doubt. How could she not be with what he’s asking of her, as if he had any right to ask in the first place?

“I understand you detest me, but-”

Evelyn appears to snap to some conclusion, sitting up straighter and placing her arms to her sides before she responds.

“No, I should detest you, Astarion, but I don’t. You just don’t impress me.”

Wow.

It feels as though he’s been slapped. He barks out a laugh that’s a bit too loud for the intimate setting, trying to mitigate the damage to his ego. “Excuse me?”

She has the nerve to shrug at him. “I’ve seen every trick you’ve used to fill your little black book, probably a thousand items over. I’ve used them all myself. So, frankly, I'm uninspired.”

For the first time in his undead life, he’s totally speechless. His face contorts in indignation, disbelief. This devil.

There is something dangerous in her expression as she leans further forward, neck tilted, exposing herself to him. Her eyes are hooded, with long lashes casting shadows over her cheeks. Her shoulders relax as she lifts her chin to stare down her nose at him, sneering.

He works his jaw, clenching the muscles unconsciously.

“Astarion, men are idiots. I’ve spent my entire adult life toying with them and robbing them blind. I’ve heard and seen it all. You really believed a few empty praises and mediocre jokes would have me jumping into bed with you?

Wha- Mediocre?

He opens his mouth with every intention of retaliating, but Evelyn’s palm unexpectedly rests itself on his calf, and the action stuns him into silence. She begins leisurely dragging her nails up towards his thigh.

His body responds involuntarily; eagerly, frustratingly, the delicate little motion leaving his skin prickling with excitement.

She regards his chest, admiring the hard planes of muscle. Then, her attention slowly inches down the toned curve of his abs until, finally, they stop at where his cock hardens disobediently beneath his pants.

“Your pretty face doesn’t detract from the fact that you’re still just a man.”

It finally clicks.

She’s baiting him, attempting to get a rise out of him.

Hm. Impressive.

Normally, at this point in her little game, he assumes most men would take her flirtations at face value. They would likely mistake this performance as an enthusiastic plea to bed her, but Astarion is not like most men. He sees her little game for what it is and recognizes it with ease because he has spent lifetimes playing it himself.

She leans back, satisfied with her little show, and smirks at him.

“So, you admit I have a pretty face?” He teases, his own smile twisting, becoming more mischievous.

She rolls her eyes, but this time she laughs. It’s a soft sound, genuine.

A pinkish hue crawls up her face and paints the tips of her pointed ears, but he can’t discern if that's supposed to be part of the act or, more likely, an unfortunate side-effect of the living experience. He’s finding it hard not to admire her dedication, regardless.

Well, that’s quite enough of that. Back to business, then.

“It’s settled,” Astarion clasps his hands together, “I’ll just need to impress you with my more eclectic talents if I am to earn your favor. We can start by gracefully slaughtering a few goblins, depending on how the rest of tonight goes. Which is entirely up to you, of course.”

The tiefling squints at him. “Oh no, if you want something from me, darling, you’re going to have to ask politely. With manners. You have those, don’t you? Familiar with them, at least?”

Under normal circumstances, he would find this amusing; nothing like a little role reversal to spice up the evening. But this feels different, heavier, as if her feigning indifference will alleviate the weight of what he's asking of her.

Fine. He supposes relinquishing a little bit of his pride is a fair price to pay.

He takes a deep breath. "Please."

"Please, what?" She lifts an eyebrow at him expectantly. "Come on, Astarion. Use your words. I know you’re quite fond of them."

He scoffs at her shamelessness, and for a moment, he honestly considers whether this is worth it, but he can't back out now. He'll make it through this, surely. He's been through worse.

Through gritted teeth, he barely spits out, "Please, may I drink from you?"

Gods. He's going to be sick.

"Good boy. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He’s going to fucking kill her.

There is an uncomfortable silence that follows. So many unspoken questions and a rising suspense that makes Evelyn adjust herself uncomfortably where she sits. Astarion is also musing to himself, still wondering how it's all come to this. Why did he choose her, again? Something about her not killing him right away? Death may have been preferable to this, actually, but he is pulled back to reality when she finally speaks up.

“So," she's picking lint off one of her pillows, avoiding his gaze as she asks, "how exactly should we do this?”

Well, it occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know. He understands the mechanics behind it, of course, but how exactly were they supposed to go about this?

Should he tell her that he’s never actually fed from a person before? Would it make her more or less comfortable to know that he’s just as clueless about this as she is?

No. He decides against it. Astarion has always done best when he’s playing the role of the confident seductor. This should be no different. He’ll just treat this as if he’s bedding a virgin: guide her, take things slow, and she’ll no doubt be begging him for more soon enough. It’ll be easy. All she has to do is behave.

“Lie back and get comfortable.”

He moves himself closer to her, settling at her side as she does what she’s told. The flap of the tent remains open, letting in the faintest amount of warmth and illuminating Evelyn’s features. With such close proximity, he can see the gold flames within her irises flickering and dancing, a genetic trait attributed to some luckier members of her race, and a feature of her’s that Astarion would have never otherwise noticed.

He can hear her pulse quickening as he closes the space between them, lifting himself a bit to settle above her, once again caging her between his arms. One of his knees parts her legs, and he can tell in the quietness of her tent that she’s struggling to hide her uneven breaths. Her stare is intense, but he can’t read the meaning behind it.

He decides to give her another out, just in case. Better safe than sorry.

“We don't have to do this, you know,” his voice is composed, as if his body wasn't currently screaming with anticipation. “I appreciate the consideration, regardless.”

“I’m fine.” Her response is clipped, dismissive. Her face remains stoic though her fingers fidget with the blankets at her sides. She had moved the furs to give him better access to her body. The darkness inside him preens at the concept.

Best get on with it, then.

He leans down and, unable to help himself, takes in the scent of her: woodsmoke and the faintest hint of vanilla, which he had watched her pick up from a merchant in the grove just the other day. “For Gale’s cooking,” she amended, when he gave her a questioning look.

He gives her one more moment to stop him.

She doesn’t.

A bit of pressure on the skin before it snaps and gives way, his fangs finally sinking into her. He can feel Evelyn’s body tense at the sudden intrusion. She hisses through gritted teeth, her arms involuntarily raising at her sides, reaching for him, but she stops herself before she touches him. He wants to tell her it's fine, expected, even, the need to ground herself, but all of his higher thoughts are plunged into complete chaos when he finally registers her taste.

Every cell in his body awakens.

The iron flavor of her floods his throat and sets his nerves ablaze. Its heat fills, expands, and splits every crack in his self control into deep, cavernous fissures.

A groan escapes Astarions throat before he has the chance to quell it. Of course it would be like this - drinking from a thinking creature. Drinking from her. He understands now why Cazador forbade this. Before, he had assumed it was a matter of keeping his spawn weak and compliant, but this was entirely different. This was far more than a method of control. The bastard had been withholding ecstasy greater than he’d ever known.

A feeling swells in him, crashing like waves through his veins. Warmth. It invades him and fills every fiber of his being. He wasn’t naive enough to believe his first time wouldn't have some sort of great, emotional impact, but this?

This was everything. How was he ever supposed to come back from this?

"Agh - Astarion," he barely registers her pathetic little whine through the haze. She finally allows herself to grab onto him, the loose sleeve of his nightshirt tightening in her fist. For purchase, he tells himself with what little is left of his consciousness, practical. That is until he lowers himself fully onto her in an attempt to relieve the strain on his biceps.

With no space left between their bodies, he doesn’t anticipate the blazing heat of her core on his thigh, even through the several layers of clothing. She gasps at the sudden pressure, fingers twitching, nails digging little crescent shapes into his skin. What surprises him most, though, is when the taste in his mouth melts into a flavor so much sweeter.

Something primal within him recognizes it instantly; it twists in his gut and sits there heavily, as if the emotion were his own: arousal.

Oh.

She is burning for him.

Good.

After all of that teasing, the woman he’s spent weeks enduring endless lectures from actually does desire him, or at the very least desires his body. Which is just as favorable, in his opinion. It’s just nice to know all his hard work hasn’t gone to waste.

If she lets him live, he's going to spend every waking moment tormenting her over this. His lips vibrate against her skin as he chuckles to himself, causing some of her blood to run down his chin in hot rivulets, blooming new stains onto her sheets.

He knows he’s had enough. He means to let go, he truly does, lest he end up draining their groups' only hope of survival. Surely that wouldn't go over well with their companions. Pitchforks, and all that.

But her whimpering, her heat, coupled with the ferocity of his hunger, all provoke a feeling that has been building beneath the surface which he’s unable to name; it's desperate and possessive, a predator guarding its kill from hungry scavengers. The monster in him casts a dark shadow over his mind as he feeds. His body no longer feels as though it is his own, betraying him; a slave to the demands of his appetite.

He needs her, needs all of her, and he cannot will himself to stop, too lost in sensation and the sound of her mewling to bow to his higher thinking.

He mindlessly rocks his weight into her and grunts—a slow, unintentional grind against her mound. The motion comes easy to him, like breathing - instinctual. The blunt edge of his clothed cock drags deliciously through her parted thighs. Evelyn’s breath hitches at the feeling, her squirming beneath him giving him the sickest form of satisfaction, but the animal within him demands her compliance.

His hand gathers her loose hair and pulls, growling, warning her to keep still. She whines at the force, back arching. The other grabs her arm, pinning it down, and tightens, thumb gently stroking against her wrist.

"Astarion,"

She’s no doubt making a mess in her smallclothes as she quivers beneath him, all flushed cheeks and furrowed brows. She may deny it later, but her taste tells him everything he needs to know.

Her body is burning against his cool skin, and her gasps are only spurring him on. He laps at the wound, dragging his tongue up the length of her throat, indulging himself in her. It's too much.

He feels her pulse weakening, her rhythm slowing.

It isn't enough.

He's about to latch on to her again, teeth at the ready and blinded by his eagerness, when he suddenly feels a piercing sensation behind his eye - the tadpole, he assumes, writhing in panic. Screeching at him to open himself to it. The discomfort is just enough to pull him back into his body. Then Evelyn's voice invades his mind.

‘Astarion, enough!’

He disentangles his limbs from hers, practically jumping off of the poor woman. He’s gasping for breath as he comes to his senses, the mix of her blood and his saliva staining his lips pink. It dribbles down his chin. He wipes his face with the back of his knuckles and licks them clean.

But then, the cold realization of what he’s done is thrust upon him like a bucket of iced water, shocking him back to the present. He’s going to need to come up with one hell of an apology to get himself out of this one. Or maybe he should just run? Baldur’s Gate is really only a few weeks travel at most.

“Shit,” he whispers, more to himself than to her. "Are you alright, dear?"

Evelyn's eyes meet his. Her pupils are blown, almost entirely overtaking the gold of her irises when she glances away from him to assess the damage.

"Gods damn it," she quietly groans and applies pressure to the wound, thankfully finding that it isn't too deep or particularly painful. She tends to it, wiping the thin sheen of sweat from her brow. She searches for a rag as she avoids his concerned stare

A deep purple bruise spreads across her pale skin. Small red droplets trickle down the length of her nape, dampening her black breast band before soaking into it and disappearing entirely. He collects himself, willing his mind to cease its incessant urge to lick the damned liquid from her neck. She is flushed and sweating, unbalanced, panting from exertion as much as her own embarrassment. Her dark hair is a tangled mess from his attention. She looks ravaged.

It… suits her.

Astarion clears his throat, trying his best not to get caught admiring his handiwork.

She was right about one thing. He was, at least in some respects, just a man...

“Here,” he insists, grabbing one of the smaller furs and holding it up to her. She takes it from him without acknowledgement.

“I -” He begins, but he’s at a loss for words. What does one say in this situation? ‘My sincerest apologies. I don’t know what came over me! I must have gotten swept up in the moment!’ as if that pitiful excuse would overshadow the fact that he manhandled and almost devoured her.

He wants to laugh, but the sound dies in his throat.

He begins to worry that she really may not forgive him. He fears she'll wake the whole camp, or maybe finally cast him out like the monster he is. He wouldn't blame her. She took a great leap of faith in trusting him with this, and he rutted against her like some horny bugbear. Or worse, a teenager, he sneers.

Evelyn pulls the rabbit skin away from her neck, examining it. The brown hairs are matted and crimson, but the bleeding has stopped. She runs her fingers over the puncture marks, feeling the skin dip slightly where his fangs pierced her. She sighs with resignation, surely thinking about how the others will approach her with a plethora of questions tomorrow morning, face reddening at the idea.

“You could have warned me, you know.” She rolls her eyes at him. “I didn’t realize I was agreeing to…all of that.”

His heart sinks.

Of course she thinks it was on purpose. I mean, look at him. He’s all but thrown himself at her since the moment they met. He’s spent this entire time playing the part of the rake. It's only natural she assumes the worst.

“Evelyn, darling,” speaking her name aloud brings her focus back onto him.

The gravity of it is suffocating, condensing the already small space they shared. The tension pulls at something undefinable within him that he thought was long dead—a sincerity that betrays the character he’s been crafting for as long as he can remember.

It sways him.

More truths to forgive more transgressions, then. A fair transaction.

“I’ve had this condition for over two centuries, but, truth be told,” he clears his throat again, because ugh this is awful. And why does she have to stare at him like that, with her earnest, wet eyes? “You were my first. I’ve only ever fed on beasts.”

The implication is there: how could he have known?

His confession takes her by surprise. “You don’t…” she pauses, taking everything that transpired tonight into consideration. He must be giving her a look akin to pleading, because she takes mercy on him and disregards whatever question she was about to ask.

“Please tell me you didn’t do that to the boar.”

Seriously, a joke?

He barks out a laugh before he can stifle it. Whether it's from the sheer ridiculousness of the question or the disbelief towards her acceptance of it all, he truly doesn’t know.

“No, my dear. Just you, and you were delectable.”

Her expression is difficult to read. She’s not looking at him; refuses to, when she replies, “So then, did it work?”

Astarion moves to stand, peering down at her form. He exhales in relief, feeling as though he is a century younger. His muscles are lax; all the stress has been drained from his body. A novel experience. “Yes, I would say so. I feel stronger. My mind is clear. I feel…happy.”

He adds the last word in an effort to appease her, but it does ring true. His main source of joy since he contracted this affliction has been causing others pain, ripping out throats and such. This feels distinctly different, less exhilarating, but pleasant all the same.

“Well, I look forward to seeing you fight.”

He acknowledges her, then stretches his back out, extending his arms to the sky with his hands clasping behind his head. The motion pulls the rest of his nightshirt out of his trousers and tugs it upward, exposing the hard edges of his hips. He can’t confirm it, but he swears he sees her eyes flit quickly towards them before making an expeditious retreat.

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing.” He lifts the flap of her tent to peek outside. No sign of anyone stirring, and the night is still young. Knowing the wildlife in this area, he may still have a chance to sate himself. With his newfound strength, he may even be able to wrangle up a bear. What a feast that would make.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.” He bows his head to her in thanks.

He’s about to step outside, one foot exits the canvas before the rest of him, when it hits him that he feels…odd, uncomfortable leaving her like this. He can’t place his finger on why. He’s ridden atop many women and left without saying a word.

But, he supposes this is dissimilar.

Evelyn listened to him tonight, heard him out when anyone else would have carved him into pieces without second thought. She let him drink from her, forgave him for getting…carried away.

The most shocking part of it all is that regardless of her dismissiveness, he now undeniably knows that she’s attracted to him. Yet, she didn’t capitalize on the opportunity when it arose to take advantage of his altered state; of his needs. With that, she’s shown him more kindness in the last hour than he’s experienced in his entire undead life.

He likely owes her for this, of course, but there are worse fates he could endure.

The elf looks over his shoulder at her and catches her watching him intently, as if she wants to continue this conversation but can’t quite figure out what she wants to say. The intensity of her gaze almost forces him to turn back towards her, drawn to her by an unfamiliar ache; a thrill in his spine, the compulsion pulling at his chest like some sort of spell.

“This is a gift, you know.” The words escape him, hanging in the air between them with raw authenticity. He means to make himself sound more frivolous, but before he can edit them in his head, more truth spills from his lips, “I won’t forget it.”

His throat tightens. He considers her for a moment, wondering what he might find if he does turn to meet her eyes.

But, Astarion resists.

She must be exhausted. He shouldn’t take up any more of her time.

He leaves before she can respond. There wasn’t anything left for them to discuss, and he’s desperate to break free from the uneasy weight of her presence.

The second he steps fully outside, he feels as though he can breathe again, not that he needs to, being undead and all.

What a strange feeling, that was.

One he decides he’d rather forget. Best to not burden himself too much with it.

The taste of her lingers on his teeth. He finds himself savoring it for a moment too long before stalking towards the forest, confident. Ready to hunt.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion fic #astarion x tav #fanfic #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 astarion #baldurs gate 3 oc #im muting every bit of social media i have after posting this lmfao #evelyn

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cloveroctobers · 10 months

Text

Carmy Berzatto — summer prompts 🍋

A/N: heavily influenced by this TikTok [user: addamsfilms] that put out the idea of bringing Rory culkin onto the show as Carmy’s blood cousin so here it is. Always liked rory so I thought why not? Also watched the show with Rory’s character they mashed up with Carmy’s “the expecting” and it was definitely weird af but I’m not really taking it in that direction lol. Definitely ended up completely different than I originally started! Some light hearted moments from a light hearted OC/Reader with a touch of heaviness because it’s still the bear after all.

*GIFS BELONG TO: @quinzelgifs + @pranink & @thepunkpanther

PROMPT from this list here: Making popsicles.

WARNINGS: kinda lengthy if you have the time, platonic carmy relationship? You tell me. Language ofc + things get physical somewhere towards the bottom, let us pray for Carmy 👀

✧ ˚✩‧₊˚ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ✧ ˚✩‧₊˚ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ✧ ˚✩‧₊˚ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ✧ ˚✩‧₊˚ ⋆·˚ ༘ *

there’s this dull feeling that sits in the center of her chest but after a couple of breaths and the longer she stares at the boarded building, it goes away for now. The air is misty, the sky grey with a faint of yellow behind it; in the shape of the sun begging to be released. She’s not sure how long she’s been rotating her view of staring at the becoming of the bear and the sky but after awhile her body moves her inside.

Inside provides better warmth from Chicago’s spring that she’s peeling off her trench coat. She smells plaster, paint, and dust first before she studies the new layout that’s in mind for the restaurant. It feels much more open than the last time she set foot in here and although it’s only been a few weeks, she still feels like she might have missed out on a lot.

It’s loud inside the bear, drilling, the talking—yelling—it’s the same thing around here and knocking filling her ears as her brown eyes drift back to the only greenery inside. Her eyes go wide as she slowly steps forward to the potted Strelitzia, birds of paradise—if you prefer simpler terms, leaves beginning to droop and tan, later also finding no other than a used cigarette in its dry soil.

She lets out a scream, gaining the attention of Manny and Angel first who are quickly alerted with her presence, wearing their protective head gear before footsteps follow.

“Hey, there she is!” Richie yells as she stands up straight from her leaned over position, “welcome back to the hell hole, starstar!”

She blinks and places a small genuine smile on her face, “It looks great so far but tell me why there’s a cigarette just chilling in my plant?”

Richie glances at the said item and raises his hands in surrender, “wasn’t me this time! Take it up with thing 1 and 2.”

She dips her head, tongue pressing to the roof of her mouth until Richie brings her into a embrace, lightly shaking her from side to side. She swallows the smidge of annoyance for now, a simple hand going around to place on the 6’1 man’s back for a moment.

“Good to see ya!” Richie clicks his tongue just as more faces appear from the kitchen.

First it’s sweeps followed by Tina and Tyler who halts at the door.

“Starla! Sup girl! How’s that stomach treating you?” Sweeps holds out a fist for the girl to bump who snorts as her knuckles touches his.

She knows the man is lightly teasing her, as he analyzes the wall before taking a comfortable lean against it. Starla picks up on this and makes a mental note to ask about it later but she’s still a little annoyed that her baby is slowly failing.

“Yes, mama. How are you?” Tina wraps her arms around Starla, tenderly rubbing her back before moving to stand beside her, arm still wrapped around her waist.

“Eh…a lot better.”

Sweeps comments with a chuckle as he munches on some chips, “We told you not to eat that shit.”

“You did. I just didn’t want to be rude you know?” Was Starla’s reply as Sweeps shook his head.

“And where that get you huh?”

Richie sneezed and sniffed, “Yeah, starstar! You’ve got to kick that people pleasing habit out the way!”

This the young woman already knew, even when Tina nodded her head and continued squeezing her to her side. It was two weeks ago when she decided to try out this new “gourmet” food truck probably six blocks over and ordered some curry goat. She sent pics to the group chat and you already know that shit was fired up—except for the lack of response she received from Carmy.

Not that it mattered anyways, Starla still ate the meal in front of the owners because she was simply starving and on lunch break. Food poisoning was not fun or a good feeling but for the sake of not embarrassing the cooks on the truck…Starla ate the meal. It originally wasn’t horrible at the start, it also wasn’t the best flavor wise but it was ultimately the after that utterly destroyed Starla’s insides.

Which ended up with a nice trip to the hospital and a ugly bill in the mail a week later. Yes she was a woman down for a little while, which sucked for the bear since they needed all the help they can get. It was crazy to not only Starla but to be aware that the goal was to be open in May was mind-boggling. There was so much to do on the list and with Starla being around part-time, she helped out when she could.

Now she was back and she still didn’t know what she was stepping into.

“Hey Star,” Tyler takes his opening as he smiles at her from across the room.

Star smiles back, “Hey, Ty.”

“Glad you’re feeling okay.”

“Thanks, me too.”

Tina hums up at Starla who shushes the older curly haired woman as Tyler moves where the main counter used to be.

“I thought I heard a familiar voice in here,” Sugar greets as she leads the way with Carmy and Sydney not far behind, “how are you? Doing okay? Missed you.”

Starla lightly laughs as the blonde ambushes her with questions and hugs, “I’ve missed you too, Nat.”

“Jesus, let the girl breathe, will you?” Richie calls out while Sugar turns a icy glare to the man with the sledgehammer.

“How’s billy?” Sydney asks afterwards, “…you know the goat?”

“Wow, that joke was awful. Hi, Syd.” Starla says with her usual smile full of laughter lines as the girls share a high-five in greeting.

Starla adds, “I’m definitely vegan now and I’m also wondering why no one’s been looking after my plant.”

Of course Starla knew this was a big request to ask of anybody here and she asked numerous of times if it was okay to leave here. She was met with lots of reassurance from the Berzatto siblings and Sydney that it was fine, just to be met with her dear Cecil fighting for his life here.

“Oh fuck.” Sugar hisses as she peers over at her brother who holds a hand up from his crossed arm position, “I knew we were forgetting to do something.”

Starla pouted as she shifts her jacket from one arm to the other, “It was my mistake for thinking that this currently boarded up place had enough light for my baby.”

“It does—

Carmy starts…

“It will!” Sugar and Sydney say at the same time as Carmy starts speaking a word to Starla.

Tyler raises a finger, “I wish I would have known that was your plant, I would have taken it back to mine and my mom, who’s in town, could have looked after it. She’s good with things like that.”

“Oh no, you’ve done more than enough,” Starla fans her hand at the bandana wearing man, “Thank you though.”

Tyler dips his head with a smile again and Carmy picks up on this. It was no secret that Tyler’s been the most hands on when it came to Starla falling ill. Starla was not expecting this and appreciated the rest who did reach out to her considering they were all under intense pressure. A simple text was fine every now and then just to check in but Tyler felt the need to show up with remedies of self-care packages with the time he did make for her.

It was also no secret that Tyler had his eyes on Starla. How he would get caught just staring at her adoringly from across the room, completely checked out from any conversation he may be having with anyone else. He reached out to Carmy after hearing from Uncle Jimmy about the “shit ton” of help he was going to need in rebuilding the family business.

Carmy was reluctant on bringing Tyler in but he knew he needed more cooks and sure Tyler was only used to preparing diner meals (since that’s all he worked in back in Massachusetts and what he was familiar and comfortable with) but breakfast was Tyler’s specialty, he was eager to learn the ropes, and he had his own special craft.

Who was Carmy to deny that?

Carmy and Tyler weren’t the closest growing up, with Tyler only being a year older but it’s not like they saw each other a lot back then either. If Carmy told you that his mother, Donna Berzatto was a lot…then you can only imagine her younger sister, Lydia, who happened to be Tyler’s mother.

Donna was three years older than Aunt Lydia and once upon a time they were proven to be very close growing up from the bits and pieces Carmy remembers. Apparently Lydia was a, “Prissy man stealing whore and if she had the chance she would have stolen your father if he wasn’t in love with me instead!”

Whatever transpired between his mother and Tyler’s had nothing to do with Carmy’s relationship with his cousin. They just never saw each other, Tyler was heavily into science as a kid, with aliens being at the top of the list, and easily socializing with others whereas Carmy had a stutter that made him shy, studying denim along with ways to style jeans snd preferred world travel books. They emailed a couple of times as kids until Tyler started going to camp and Carmy rather stick to seeing what Michael was up to.

“Look uh, Star. I’m sorry about the plant—

“Cecil.”

Carmy blinked, “what?”

“His name, it’s Cecil.”

Carmy looked around at all the other faces in the room with him right now, resulting in wide eyes from Sugar, a shrug of shoulders from Syd, a stern look from Tina, amusement on Tyler’s face and Sweeps just continued eating unfazed.

“Show some fucken respect, Carmy. StarStar said the things name is Cecil. Cecil the plant! so address it as such!” Richie yelled out to the stressed man.

Starla thought she saw Carmy’s eye twitch and she was expecting that to become an argument between the two men—like usual—but Carmy simply just ran his hands over his face in distress. Exhaling he stepped forward to rest his hands on Starla’s shoulders.

“Want to catch up in the kitchen for a sec, Star?” Carmy asked, peering at the woman.

Starla answers, “sure.”

And with that they exit the deconstructed room to head into the kitchen together but not without a set of wondering eyes. Starla follows Carmy into the office where he awaits for her to take a seat while she’s stops, staring at the hole in the wall.

She pointed while Carmy exhales, “just another thing to add to the list.”

“Okay…so fill me in.”

“Have a seat first.”

“Oh god.”

“No, it’s not anything like that.”

Starla takes a seat, eyes going over some paint swatches for the new office and tilted her head at the sight, trying to fully picture it.

“First and foremost, how are you holding up?”

Starla wiggled in her seat, fixing her imaginary bow around her neck, “Oh! Just dandy, Mr. Berzatto. I sure do appreciate your sentiments.”

Carmy snorts, reaching forward to lightly shove her knees away playfully, “okay, wise ass. No but seriously, you’re doing okay?”

“Always! Of course,” Starla beams with a fan of her hand, “When am I not?”

Carmy presses his elbows into his knees, “uh two weeks ago when you were puking and shitting your brains out?”

“I don’t need the throwback visuals. I lived it already, thanks.” Starla crossed one leg over the other.

Carmy clears his throat, “uh right, yeah. Sorry.”

“Uh huh…are you okay, Chef?”

Carmy shifts his eyes back from the tunnel that wants to set in, a flash of white almost appearing above Starla’s head as he focuses in on the question that’s asked of him.

“Hm?”

“Is something bothering you? Want to talk about it?”

“Oh no,” Carmy frowns with a brief close of his eyes, “I didn’t bring you back here to talk about me. I wanted to check in with you because I know I haven’t been as attentive as I could have been when you were down and I want to apologize for that.”

Starla shrugs, “all I care about is Cecil. His growth should be much bigger and that was a bit of a let down.”

Carmy begins bouncing his leg, “And I don’t ever want you to feel that way because of me, especially when it was my responsibility to at least look out for the damn plant.”

“Talk to it, water it, give it sunlight, and breathe it in.” Starla listed.

“…that salt you’re throwing…stings you know?”

Starla let’s out a small laugh, “well there was a cigarette just lingering in his soil. How is he supposed to grow if there’s nothing but toxins being placed on his roots?”

Carmy couldn’t say much to that since he couldn’t recall if he was the culprit who may or may not have thrown the stick in there on his way out. He also felt like Starla was giving him some philosophy lesson since she tended to do that without notice sometimes. And whenever he pointed it out, she’d just whisper her grandfather’s name who was a retired philosophy professor down at Columbia College Chicago.

“Heard,” carmy remembers to breathe, “I fucked up.”

“Kinda but that’s okay. I won’t hold it against you,” Starla placed her hand on top of Carmy’s, who briefly stares down at their hands together, “We all do sometimes and I’ll get Cecil back together.”

“I have no doubts about that,” Carmy answers, “you’re the one with the green thumb.”

“And apparently Tyler’s mom is too.”

Carmy sits back at that, suddenly quiet which makes a frown attempt to make it’s way on Starla’s round face.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That thing you just did with your face.”

“I just look like this, what do you want me to do?” Carmy was confused and Starla can’t help but to snort out a laugh.

Starla gets to her feet, brown coat held in her hands, “okay car…”

“Are we good?” Carmy stares up at her.

Starla pauses, pretending to think about it, “Duh! I don’t know if you know this Carmy but i consider you family and you’re stuck with me.”

Carmy felt a crooked smile itching to break onto the corner of his lips but he just shakes his head at the brunette. He’s not sure how to feel about that or if he should feel a way about that but at least it’s something.

At least she’s not pissed at him.

The thing about Starla is you’re never sure when she’s upset. She’s usually the happy go lucky one in the restaurant, the soft spoken one. Carmy quickly learned why Michael liked having her around. She brought a sense of peace during the chaos. Starla was as interesting as it comes since she had the culinary experience but didn’t feel the obsession with it.

Cooking became a hobby and once it became a profession she learned it wasn’t something she was in love with like other chefs. She wasn’t ready to devote her entire life into the craft and respectfully she stepped away from it. Until she came across Chicagoland, ready to order until she heard Michael Berzatto yelling about the lack of ingredients. She stepped in with a suggestion and from there, Michael wanted her in the shop for her quick thinking but gentle nature.

It wasn’t a done deal by any means, she proved herself in the kitchen with her out of the box thinking. Yes she went to school for a year, almost two, which she learned a lot spending time in the Netherlands but that didn’t feel like her purpose. It just felt like a experience that she was grateful for and could share with others from time to time but she enjoyed the roots of culinary arts in different spaces.

Which means most of her time was spent working at farmer’s markets and tending to farms (yes in Chicago!) and community gardens. That’s where her heart lay but she had to be honest and say a piece of it would always be here too.

“Good, Good.” Carmy states as he’s now on his feet, resting his arm across Starla’s shoulder, beginning to lead her out of the office while his phone buzzes.

Starla sighs, “you know what would make this tense energy better?”

“What’s that?” Carmy searches his pocket for his phone, peeking at it but continued holding it in his hand.

She rests her head against his shoulder in deep thought, “Making popsicles.”

“Marcus is still in Copenhagen.”

“Please. I’m well aware, that’s my other bestie. Location on at all times.” Starla stares at Carmy as if he’s just offended her.

Carmy scratches at his brow, thankful that his phone stopped buzzing, “that’s a thing?”

“Heck yeah it is! You can’t just send my bestie away to another country and not expect me to not keep consensual tabs on him! And I would do the same thing for each and everyone of you if they decide to leave for awhile.”

Carmy stops walking as he looks at Starla, “and what if you decide to leave?”

“Then…I guess that means I’d truly wouldn’t want to be found. Which would take a lot for me to do, I’m sure.” Starla faces the wild-haired man who pinched at his bottom lip in thought.

Carmy recently had this dream—or nightmare of Starla calling it quits. He summed it up as Starla breaking free—and that’s on high school musical! There were haunting cellos, the setting was iridescent but gritty and Carmy couldn’t see Starla’s face. He just knew they were sitting face to face on a white solid floor that turned into milk and he kept wanting to reach out to her but couldn’t. He felt his mouth moving but couldn’t hear anything but the cellos.

carmy didn’t know what that would mean if that became reality.

“Popsicles in the middle of April? I don’t know about that, we’re still trying to get the repairs done because we really can’t fail another inspection.” Carmy informs Starla who grips his shoulders.

“Listen, we can all use a beach day.”

“I’m not going to beach.” Carmy’s nose scrunched in distaste.

Starla pokes at his chest, “Okay fine! We don’t have to physically go there but I’ll bring the beach to you.”

“How is that going to work?”

“You have all this extra space now.” She taps her temple.

“There’s mold in the back room, holes in the walls, Syd and I are still working on the menu, walls that still need to be painted, inspections that need to be approved, new furniture that’s been placed in storage—

“And we will get to all of that. I’m sure all of the progress that you’ve made still counts for something and I can’t wait for you to realize that.” Starla told Carmy as she squeezed his shoulders, “and I’m gonna make you a appointment with my mom so she can get those boulders out of your shoulders but first…popsicles!”

Just like a flash of a camera, Starla whirls by him, pushing the kitchen doors open as she claps her hands getting the attention of everyone, “friends! May I have your attention, please?!”

“Guys! Star’s talking!” Tyler calls out to the rest, eyes solely set on her.

Starla winks at the round blue-gray eyed man across the room in thanks before clearing her throat, “Carmy and I are proposing the idea of a summer’s day.”

“Which means what? I don’t follow.” Tina asks, figuring that maybe a new culinary term she may have missed out on.

“I’m gonna go striking?!” Richie raises his fist in the air with a wide grin full of teeth.

Sydney immediately shields her face, “Oh please no.”

“Hearing that is making me nauseous again.” Sugar covers her mouth.

“You better not, don’t nobody want to see that.” Tina points at the taller man who just kisses his lips at the Latina.

“What?! I’ve got a great body,” Richie defends, “Just ask Freya!”

Fak pokes his head out from around the corner, “I believe you buddy! I’ve accidentally walked in on them once—

“Whoa! Hey! Shut the fuck up, please.” Carmy scowls, not wanting his old time friend to finish that sentence.

“Love you man, thanks for having my back! Unlike some people.” Richie slaps Fak on his back while glaring at Carmy who sneers at him in response.

Starla puts her hand on Carmy’s shoulder while sending a look to Richie who stands back on the balls of his feet, slowly putting his F U motion down from his chin once he realized Starla’s brown eyes were on his.

“As I was saying…we’re bringing summer to the bear a little early! Which means—

She lightly bumps Carmy’s shoulder to finish, “which means uh, making popsicles.”

“Making popsicles?” Sweeps asks, “I’m down.”

“And what else?” Carmy whispers to Starla.

Starla tells, “and we’re gonna have a beach day basically.”

“How are we gonna do that? Are we actually going to beach?” Tina questions.

Carmy quickly tossed in, “No. we don’t really have the time.”

“But we have time to make popsicles?” Sydney holds her arms out in bafflement.

It’s Carmy’s turn to stare at his partner considering her very valid concerns, “Look I know this is unexpected coming from me. However I’m taking my conversation with Star into consideration and will allow this break as a uh—as a learning experience for us all. I’m not the best at desserts and treats so this’ll give us the chance to bond and get inspired by your inputs by contributing this to the menu.”

“Wow, Carmy. That was beautiful.” Fak cradles his wrench to his chest while Carmy just shrugs, briefly glancing at Starla who smiles at him.

Sugar lifts her shoulder, “whatever, I can use a beach day.”

“You just pulled that out of your ass but I’m fucken tired of looking at these walls so why not?” Richie tossed the sledgehammer over his shoulder, making Angel quickly side-step out of the way.

Carmy ignores Richie again, “Angel, Manny. You guys can head on home and we’ll save you some of the popsicles for you to try tomorrow. Thanks for your work today.”

“You got it boss.”

“Good luck!” Angel chucks up the deuces as he leads the way through the kitchen.

Tina raises her hand, making Carmy point at her, “Jeffery, you said you’re not much of dessert guy so who’s gonna lead us on this?”

“Is it gonna be you, Star?” Sydney asks.

It’s Tyler’s turn to raise his hand, “Um, I can show everyone.”

Carmy blows out a breath, “I was hoping you say that.”

Everyone found themselves gathered in the kitchen, the heart of the bear as Tyler awkwardly held everyone’s attention. Breakfast maybe his specialty but slushies counted as breakfast just as much as smoothies. And popsicles were in the same category right? Tyler knows what he was doing, he swears! Starla stood right beside him, resting a hand full of comfort on his arm which made him stand up a little taller.

“Walk us through the steps, Chef.” Carmy tells his cousin, swaying from one foot to the other as Tyler swallows his nerves but nods his head.

Tyler clasps his hands together, “Okay so popsicles. It’s a lot easier than some might think and I believe we have all the tools we need…depending on what type of popsicles we’re interested in making.”

“I’m sure whatever you choose will be tasty.” Sugar encourages as she leans against one of the tables.

Tyler smiles a bit at his family member, “okay so what you would do is select the fruits you want as your main flavors. I know we have some fruits we can spare, perhaps the raspberries and pineapples?”

“Whatever you need, Chef.” Carmy replies.

Tyler continues, “Thank you Chef. We’re going to chop those fruits up and set half of them to the side but depending on the consistency you want, keep to the side or you can blend the other half or the entire fruit if that makes sense. From there you want to pick your liquid, I personally think rice milk is fire and also your safe bet if you’re serving to a party of people for the first time.”

“Rice milk? That’s a choice.” Sydney hums as she takes this in.

“Yes, Chef. I think it has the best consistency out of all the milks but I’m sure you and Carmy will figure out the best options if this becomes a keeper.”

Sydney glimpses at Carmy who holds her stare before they both turn back to Tyler. Starla also takes notice of this but figured that their thing and has nothing to do with her so she gives Tyler her time.

He goes on about selecting a sweetener of choice, he likes agave nectar, and possibly a hint of something cool, which is optional, like mint whether fresh or with syrup along with a splash of lime. Tina, Sydney, and Richie are on chopping duty while Tyler, Starla, and sweeps tend to the liquids.

Carmy is supervising it all, watching syrup come together as one in a pot before they have to get combined with the fruit. Tyler asks carmy for a few important tools, curious if that was something the restaurant owned for this snack since it’s not what he used back home at the diner. They don’t have the right machine to freeze the popsicles in minutes, which is okay Starla notifies, saying that they can actually venture off to the beach day as she disappears for a good twenty minutes while the rest carry on.

Starla spins around Carmy, seeming brighter as Tyler is using a stainless steel confectionary funnel to pour the soup like popsicle into the molds that sat on the counter. He then encourages everyone to do the same with the set of molds before bringing them to the freezer.

“That shit looks good as fuck, how long do they have to sit for?” Tina asks with a lick of her lips.

Tyler is wiping his hands on a rag, “I’d say at least six hours.”

“Six hours?! It’s already three o’clock.”

Tyler pursed his lips but appears apologetic, “If we had those huge instant freezers then we wouldn’t have to wait as long but time flies fast.”

“I’m leaving at six by the latest, make sure you guys save me one.” Sugar orders with a smile.

“What’s next?”

Fak exhales, “Man, That was shortest break ever.”

“It’s not over yet,” Starla places her hands on the counter, “please head to the beach oasis where the lockers once were.”

Murmurs fill the kitchen area as everyone heads in the direction mentioned. There sat a few beach chairs, towels, decorative sand, a umbrella, a projector that showed the ocean, along with the nagging sound of seagulls, and finally LED studio lights that mimics the hot sun during a summer’s day.

“Whaaaat!” Fills the room as everyone stared around the space in awe.

Starla calls out, “Welcome to a beach day at the bear, friends!”

“There’s actually a cooler here full of beer, hard lemonade and sandwiches. I’m sold and I love you, kid!” Richie yells, ready to yank his arms out of his shirt but not without yanking Starla’s cheeks to place a kiss on her forehead before stalking back to the sand.

Starla watches in peace as everyone makes themselves comfortable from sitting down or lounging in the faux sand.

“You really went all out,” Carmy says from beside Starla, “how long have you had this planned?”

“It’s been on my mind for awhile actually but it really came into effect after I learned about all these inspections,” Starla confesses, “Go on, look at the water, listen to the waves and the seagulls. Really enjoy it and be one with nature.”

Enjoyment? What’s that?

Carmy scratches at his hair, “…I’ll try as long as you officially promise you’re gonna be with us on opening night?”

“Do you really want another chopped on your hands?” Starla inquires.

Carmy looks up at the ceiling thinking about it. He’s heard about Starla’s unaired episode on chopped and how that was the third straw on her not wanting to seriously cook anymore. He figured it was traumatic enough especially since there’s footage that’s not been seen. He felt for Starla truly but he wasn’t afraid to push because he felt she needed to be on his team. If Michael saw it in her then, Carmy definitely saw it too.

“You’re better than that.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“Nothings perfect and I accept that.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Carmy, Starla’s said before that she doesn’t know if she’ll be with us in the kitchen on opening night and we should just respect that. Im sure she’ll still be here to support regardless if she has on a apron or not.” Tyler cuts in, making them both realize that he had been right beside them this entire time.

Carmy turns his stare to Tyler then, “I didn’t really ask for your input on this, Tyler. I’m the one that gets the say on building this team.”

Tyler sighs, “I’m just saying if you’re trying to keep your team then maybe you shouldn’t just only see your point of view. That’s all.”

Carmy’s tone is clipped now, “I’m sorry, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Starla’s been saying that she doesn’t feel enjoyment in cooking anymore. It just a hobby but Michael wanted her here and you’re kinda forcing her to still be here, although it’s part time. Don’t you get that it sounds like guilt tripping?”

“Are you serious?” Carmy glared at Tyler now, “do you honestly think I have to force anyone to be here? Like I’m not building this to actually be worth something? Worth something that people want to work here, put their soul into? Anybody can fuck off, including you.”

“Hey, Car.” Starla steps forward pushing his finger down as she looks back at Tyler who’s brows are raised, “Ty. Let’s calm down.”

“Honestly…screw that.” Is Tyler’s retort, “Just because he owns this place doesn’t mean he gets to shit on everybody else that may see and think differently from him. He doesn’t really appreciate you, Star. Not enough to let you go.”

“What’re you saying, you asshole?”

“I think you know what I’m saying, you’re just choosing not to hear it or deal with it.” Tyler is calm but his voice holds weight to it.

The sound goes right out of Carmy’s ears as Starla and Tyler share words. He didn’t know why Tyler thought he can come in here, after Carmy allowed him to be here and try to talk shit to him? Tyler didn’t know anything. He was just as new to this place as Carmy once was and he didn’t understand why Tyler felt the need to come at him right now? He’s been as patient as he can with Tyler, picking up on his weaknesses easily in the kitchen but kept them to himself.

He was family after all.

They didn’t get the chance to talk much when it came to Tyler’s personal connection to the kitchen or anything really but here he was speaking on Starla. Like Carmy was a crap person for wanting to see Starla reach her potential. He couldn’t fathom that Tyler was trying to tell him about her. Carmy’s been around Starla much longer than Tyler was and he didn’t miss how he was all puppy dog eyes whenever she was around.

He couldn’t blame him but he also couldn’t stand it.

Carmy usually wasn’t the impulsive one and tended to disassociate from all situations that ended up being too much. He was used to people belittling him and talking at him instead of with him. So he may have been triggered and didn’t realize that he pulled Starla out of the way to get to Tyler.

Until the sound entered his ears again.

“Carmy!”

It was sugar’s voice that brought him back into the scene. He was held up against the wall by Richie, with Sugar trying to get his attention but his eyes continued to search around. Tyler was getting up from the ground, holding his throat while Tina and Sweeps checked on his well-being.

On the floor sat Starla, holding her side, steel table slightly pushed to the side as her eyes swam with tears and Sydney stayed crouched in front of her. Both women turned their gaze to Carmy who was fighting to remember to breathe.

What did he do?

“You tried to rough him up, cousin.” Richie declared as Carmy’s glaciers fought to settle on Richie.

Sugar grips her brother’s face, feeling a bit of déjà vu, “ I love you, Carmen. Please…just calm down for me.”

And as he looked at his sister, he somewhat was.

“You good?” Richie asked, arm still pressed against Carmy’s chest but it was almost like he felt nothing.

Not until he noticed the swinging of the doors, signaling that Tyler was now out of the kitchen and Starla shakily beginning to collect her things.

“Star,” Carmy croaked out, “I’m—

“No!” Starla hissed before slamming her hand on the counter as Carmy almost moved to step towards her, “NO! You don’t get to act like that and expect me to be fine, it’s not right Carmy. This isn’t. I’m tired too and I don’t know how much more you think I can give.”

Carmy feels his stomach turning, like a washing machine off track—much like his own mind, “Don’t leave.”

A watery smile appears on her facial features then and she struggles to suck in some air, making a dull ache appear in Carmy’s chest at the sound.

He was the reason, he didn’t do enough.

“That’s the problem friend,” she gets out before she walks off with her things, taking the light right with her.

Carmy wants to be left alone, hours after that. He silences Claire, Sydney is at a lost for words and that’s another feeling he can’t describe as she leaves with his sister, Tina gives him a squeeze and a look to Richie who just nods his head, before she also leaves with Sweeps accompanying her as the night falls.

Richie knows that this moment was a huge one because he’s had plenty. Carmy needed help and if what he had with Starla is truly broken, he was going to need all the support he can get. Everyone in the bear has never had that on the outside and that’s one of the reasons why everyone’s connection is so strong on the inside. Perhaps that’s what brought them all together.

He doesn’t want to stare at the younger man for long, knowing that carmy would turn his anger on him so he leaves him in the kitchen and takes a seat on a bucket at the front of the restaurant, his desired spot.

That doesn’t stop richie from yelling that he’s here for carmy if he needs him.

He hopes one day he will as he lights up a cigarette and browses Facebook, seeing a picture of Tiffany with Frank on that jackoff’s page.

Richie should block him but can’t bring himself to.

Carmy is back in the freezer, door pinned back with a box full of beef stock as the light inside flickers above his head while he checks on the popsicles. He doesn’t have the energy to find a wooden stick, so he brings the mold back into the kitchen and pushes the frozen treat from the mold.

The popsicle slides against the steel table, leaving a light trail of its liquid behind. With shaky hands, Carmy scoops up the biting cold popsicle and let’s it sit against his skin for a minute before shoving it into his mouth.

It’s the right amount of sweetness and barley tart, as it melts against his tongue while he buries his head into his forearms that rests on the counter.

Blocking out the view of the kitchen and everything in between.

“Let’s go out.”

Starla doesn’t feel like it’s appropriate given the situation but the look in Tyler’s eyes at the front door of her apartment, she doesn’t argue much on it, tossing the ice pack into the nearby sink.

Sure she has words for Tyler too, like sticking his pointed nose in her own battles when it came to her friendship with Carmy but for tonight, she needs something else.

It’s raining hard as Starla sits on the passenger side of Tyler’s beat up pick up truck and he lets up off the gas as they locate a bar. He keeps close, attempting to shield Starla from the rain with his Jean jacket but it’s like she’s on autopilot, walking at ease; almost ahead of him as bits of rain falls over her, trying to knock her down.

Starla and Tyler both share that they aren’t much drinkers (Carmy too) so they limit themselves to two to three shots before Starla’s on the dance floor. Tyler doesn’t want to be a creep but he can’t help but to keep his eyes on the woman who gets lost on the dance floor, dancing the night away and keeping her distance away from anyone that tries to share this personal time with her.

How unlike her.

“She your girlfriend?” A brown skinned woman suddenly to his left asks with bangs.

Tyler stumbles, “ah, no. Just a friend.”

“Her lost.”

“No, it’s mine.” He sternly says to the woman who nods as she rests her hand on his chest in understanding.

Starla moved to the pulsating beat, tequila running fire through her blood with each twist of her body until she feels nothing. And when she opens her eyes to the shimmer diamond lighting along with the numerous of dancing bodies surrounding her…

She should feel alone like she commonly does in a room full of people but the gleam that outlines the frame of her being, tells her otherwise and the standstill in her movements gets her going to the beat again, head held back and arms raised high up to the ceiling with a smile splitting onto her lips.

Fear will no longer be welcomed here.

✧ ˚✩‧₊˚ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ✧ ˚✩‧₊˚ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ✧ ˚✩‧₊˚ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ✧ ˚✩‧₊˚ ⋆·˚ ༘ *

Continue along with my summer anthology series here.

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arkiwii · 6 months

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ME WHEN I'M FINALLY DONE WITH MY ARKNIGHTS OC

my god it took too long for literally just a fullbody. usually i do them so fast but i guess here i was lazy. anyway information and stuff and story and whatever below!!

Real name Fortuna, code name Kochosen, is a Liberi (azure-winged magpie) born in Laterano. She had been growing up and thriving to become a doctor. However, after contracting Oripathy in an accident, she has been forced to leave Laterano. Surviving in the wastelands on her own, she discovered her Originium Arts, to manipulate water, which greatly helped her in her journey. She finally joined Yan, where she was able to find some help for her cause, then later, joined Higashi, after helping a whole village from a Catastrophe.

She later accepted to help Rhodes Island as a Medic operator, precisely an Incantation Medic.

Fortuna is what can be said a bad omen... And also a good omen. Back in Laterano, due to her clumsiness, she quickly won the reputation of bringing bad luck around. Her Infection is what truly made her the nemesis of the Leterans, and due to the rules in the city, has been seen as an occasion to get rid of a bad luck bringer. This convinced her that she was indeed one who only cause suffering around, bringing her morale and self confidence to the lowest as she barely managed to survive in the wilderness.

However, when she arrived in Higashi, after catching the first signs of an incoming Catastrophe and having alerted the nearby village, she has been seen as a savior and a good omen. Her help and contribution to the village as a doctor also contribued to this good reputation, and the villagers quickly started to appreciate her presence. After this event, and seeing that her powers and own hands were able to save lives and not hurt them, she questioned herself.

But she doesn't remain less clumsy. It seems all the worst happen to her, like a bad luck magnet. But it seems like it happens to her and only her, and nobody around, quite the opposite even - people around her seem to live rather fortunate events. Maybe by attracting the bad luck to her, the other persons around are left with only good luck...

It's because of her clumsiness that her body is rather... In a bad state. Under the layers of clothes she wears is a wounded, bandaged body, covered in minor scars, bruises, and of Originum crystals. She seems to be used to this however, her only complains are about how her sleep is uncomfortable.

Despite her serious and calm personality, she's not one to be on the smarter side. She still struggles a lot with Yanese for example, and the culture of Higashi. After all, as a Lateran, she finds the food of Higashi "dull", and would much prefer their sweetest snacks instead.

As well, it seems that her Oripathy has caused kleptomania, as she was often caught taking on objects of her interest for no other reason that she felt the urge to take them.

___________

i love birds, i love magpies, i love arknights, boom

here she is

The main ideas for her design and story is... Well, about how Magpies are absolutely dual?? in occidental cultures, they are seen as bringer of death, bad luck, nasty, quite like crows. but in oriental cultures, it's the total opposite, they're seen as a symbol of luck, of love, of balance and such! that's why i wanted to make her being so contradictory. she seems serious but is dumb. she came laterano where she was seen as bad luck, she moved to higashi where she is seen as good luck. her outfit is quite literally a mix of lateran and higashi culture

as for water arts, it's a reference to how luck and fate are like a river, but also to how water arts are both very dangerous and benefic, and also it's a reference to the magpie bridge in chinese culture

anyway, she tries her best, and that she's clumsy and a bit strange doesn't change that she has a very kind heart

#arknights #stalkiwiart #stalkiwi oc #i like bimrbds

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lathalea · 9 months

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The White Raven 6/9

Yes, it's happening, I'm back with a fresh new chapter of this fic, and I'm so nervous! It took me a while to get here but I hope you'll like the next part of Thorin and Carra's story.

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being an amazing and insightful beta reader and helping me out with Very Important Things Like Commas and Temporal Issues In Middle Earth😍🤣 Extra special thanks to @legolasbadass (yes, again, OMG, you're so popular! 🤣) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and very deep discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚 Thank you everyone who showed their support for this story, you motivated me to continue writing 💙 You are the best readers in the world 🤩🤩🤩

Khuzdul: Lulkh - fool Yasthûnê - my wife ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam - [the] greatest sacrifice Adad - father Tharkûn - Gandalf

Thorin did not know how much time had passed. A few heartbeats? An hour? An eternity? Vaguely familiar shapes circled the darkening sky above him. Ravens? Eagles? He did not know that either. Thinking did not come easily any longer. His thoughts were muddled. His wound pulsed in pain with the rapidity of trickling blood. And he could not move. His foe’s blade had pierced his body. Some unknown solid weight pressed him to the cold, unforgiving surface. It was difficult to breathe. His nostrils filled with the stench of Orc blood. The icy chill spread through his limbs.

He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out before Thorin lost the internal battle with his own body.

“Carra…”

Silence. Bird-shaped clouds in the sky. Snowflakes on his cheeks. Or perhaps tears. He could not keep his eyes open any longer. His mind slowly drifted off into the darkness.

***

“Uncle! Uncle Thorin!” A faraway voice invaded Thorin’s mind, stirring it awake. This voice sounded familiar. But he was tired. Too tired. The darkness beckoned, offering the comfort of oblivion. He needed to rest. Sleep.

“Look! Kili! He is here!” another voice replied, slightly deeper than the previous one. “Under that Orc carcass?” the first voice asked.

“There is so much blood… Isn’t that Azog?”

“Aye! Or what’s left of ‘im,” a third voice joined in. Older. Raspier.

“Look at his back!”

“Either that’s Orcrist’s tip or I’m the Goblin Queen! That son of a goat did it! Quickly now, lads, help me take that beast off Thorin. Fili, on my mark, pull!”

There was movement. More voices. Piercing pain. A dull grunt filled Thorin’s ears. Was it his own voice?

“He’s alive!”

“Thank Mahal! Uncle Thorin, can you hear me?”

“He’s unconscious, you lulkh!” “We need to get rid of that filthy Orc blade first. It’s stuck in ice.”

“Slowly now!” A sea of pain washed over Thorin, his whole body stiffening with each wave. But the darkness patiently waited for him and took him in its merciful arms once more.

***

“He’s still breathing!”

“Thorin, wake up! Wake up, ye lazy bastard!” someone growled straight into his ear. “Damn it!”

“Dwalin, look, we stopped the bleeding.”

Those voices again. Pulling Thorin back into consciousness. Into the pain and emptiness.

“Let’s finish dressing his wound and then we’ll take ‘im to Oín,” the growling one said.

“What’s that, Fili?” the young, familiar voice said. “Where?” “Over there, by that pointy rock on the other side of the river.”

“Looks like a dead Warg to me,” the one very close to him rasped out. A pair of hands kept on doing something to his chest. It hurt. He wanted it to stop.

“Too small for a Warg, Dwalin. It’s… by Mahal’s beard!”

“Where are you going, Fili? Wait for me!” The first voice sounded irritated.

A sound of hurried footsteps. Iron-heeled boots against ice.

“Those two can’t sit in one place in peace if their life depended on…” the raspily-sounding one grunted. “I tell ya, Thorin, when ye’re better, we’ll send them on guard duty. First morning shift for a month. That’ll teach ‘em!”

Somehow, it made Thorin want to smile. But now, even smiling hurt.

“It’s a raven! So big! Look at its wings! Why are you staring, Fili?” the youthful voice reached his ears again.

“I think it’s… the White Raven.”

“What?! It’s just a fairy tale!” “I’ve seen this raven before, Kili,” confidence rang in the second voice. “I think it followed us on the way to Erebor. It helped me fight off a Warg-rider in the Misties just before the eagles came.”

Thorin took a reluctant breath. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. There is so much blood… Is it dead, Fili?” “Let me see… That’s a nasty wound.”

Thorin’s muscles tensed. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to speak. But his body didn't want to obey.

And then he heard two gasps at the same time.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you see it too, Fili?”

“It’s… it’s magic!”

“No, it’s a shapeshifter!”

“Look! Look!”

“A woman?!”

Both voices intermingled in Thorin’s exhausted mind, making less and less sense. He needed to act. He needed to… He breathed in. The air smelled like snowdrops.

“Thorin! Ye’re back! And here I was thinkin’…” A tattooed forehead and a bushy moustache appeared before his eyes. “Stop squeezing my hand so hard!”

“Carra…” Thorin managed to rasp out. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“What are ye sayin’?” Dwalin demanded.

“Help…. her…” He tried again. “She is…” “What? I can barely hear ye.”

The last wisps of strength were leaving him. He could feel the darkness beckoning to him once again. “Yasthûnê…” Thorin articulated slowly. “My… wife.”

***

Warm rays of sun gently caress Carra’s cheek, and she enjoys the sensation for a short while before opening her eyes. It takes her a moment to adjust to the bright light. She lays on soft ground, the strands of her silver-white hair interlacing with the lush green blades of grass. A multitude of colourful flowers adorns the meadow around her, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air, intertwining with the lazy buzz of bees. She rolls onto her back and stares at the perfectly clear blue sky above. Then she takes a deep breath. A distant echo of pain rings out in her mind, but there are no bruises or wounds on her body.

When a puffy white cloud drifts into her blurred field of vision, Carra wipes off the wetness from her cheeks, stands up, and looks around. The endless meadow seems to stretch for miles in every direction. A soft breeze kisses her face, bringing the faint sound of water lapping against a distant shore. She follows it, and soon, a sparse grove of trees appears in front of her. Beyond it, she sees a stream, its silvery current sparkling in the sun. For a brief moment, an orange butterfly dances just above her nose and then flies off towards the meadow behind her. Carra’s eyes follow its flight when a curious harmony of sounds draws her attention back to the stream.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

It seems to be coming from across the stream, and Carra decides to find its source.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

As she walks through the grove, she encounters a young doe nibbling on a nearby shrub. It glances at her curiously and then trots away, as if deciding that Carra’s presence is disturbing its meal.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

Carra walks on, her bare feet sinking into the silky soft moss, step after step, until she finds herself at the edge of the grove. The stream is only several steps ahead. Its murmuring waters bring a hum of voices.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Ta-tap. Ta-tap. Tap.

An irritated sigh.

“Another broken thread?” A warm, feminine voice asks. It makes Carra think of spring in full bloom.

“Too many of them. It seems like another busy day for my husband.” Another woman speaks, her voice as melodious as the nearby stream.

“And you? You have been weaving since dawn,” the first one says.

“This pattern grows ever more complicated. It changes much too often for my taste these days.” The other woman sighs again. “Tell me that at least your work bears fruit.” “Some of these seeds refuse to sprout. The taint is spreading. I feel it in the earth.”

“The Fallen One is regaining his strength,” a third voice joins in. Deep and resonant. “I see his traces beyond the veil.”

Carra takes a careful step forward and focuses all of her attention at the opposite side of the stream. There, a garden of breathtaking beauty blooms before her eyes. Within it, she notices three silhouettes, the owners of the voices she hears. At first, their appearance seems similar to Elves, but soon after, Carra quickly understands her error. They are taller, their posture and movements are even more graceful, and there seems to be an otherworldly glow about them. Whenever she tries to look up into their faces, Carra has to squint—not only because of their radiance but also because their features seem to be ever-changing, fluid, like water in a mountain stream. Each of these noble figures is clad in finely ornamented robes that sway slightly when the same gentle breeze that brought her here plays with their hems.

One of the ladies kneels on the ground, ignoring the dirt stains on her garments. Their fabric is as green as her eyes. Her right hand rests over the brown, freshly turned soil and wisps of chestnut hair fall over her eyes. The other lady, her hair wavy and black as night, sits by a strangely-looking wooden frame with numerous threads attached to this elaborate contraption. Their colours form an intricate, multi-level pattern that seems to grow—bloom—in all directions in Carra’s eyes. She immediately feels dizzy and has to look away. Then her attention focuses on the third figure that joined the others a mere moment ago. A strapping man, his aspect equally stunning as those of his two companions, strolls towards them, his movements measured and dignified. As far as she can discern, he is clean-shaven, unlike Dwarves, and his long, white hair flows freely down his shoulders. In his hands, there is a silver jug, its surface glistening in the sun.

“Even though you bring morbid news, you are a welcome sight, brother-in-law!” the black-haired lady says, clasping her hands and moving away from her loom. “May I offer you some refreshment?” He bows reverently to his companions, and before they respond, he fills three silver cups with the contents of the jug.

Carra licks her parched lips.

“The sweet water from your fount!” The Green Lady stands up graciously and takes one of the cups.

“I know how fond you are of its taste.” The man’s hair dances in the wind as he speaks. An orange butterfly flutters among his flowing strands. “You come bearing gifts but it is not why you are here.” The Weaver looks into his eyes.

“I have simply come to admire your weaving skills,” he offers.

“Dear Dreamer, you are curious about my winged children, are you not?” The Green Lady gives him a nod.

“It is only natural,” he refills her cup. “Some of them bear our blessing, do they not?” “Indeed they do.” The Weaver approaches him with her cup and states, “How interesting that you chose today of all days.”

“My visions are blurred. Inconclusive.” He stills, gazing up into the sky, and then turning his attention back to the two women. “Tell me, have our gifts to them remained a blessing or have they rather turned into a curse?”

The Weaver sits back at her loom and looks closely at the glistening fabric; her fingers run along some part of the pattern hidden from Carra’s sight. “Your children have been fulfilling their duties well. Although the youngest one tends to make my work a tad more challenging.”

“The youngest one?” the man frowns.

“The one with wings dusted with silver.” The Green Lady takes a sip from her cup, her features schooled in a neutral expression.

“Silver? That certainly explains quite a bit. Your husband and his experiments…” The Weaver shakes her head. “Why now? Why this one?”

“I truly cannot say.”The Green Lady gives her an enigmatic smile and takes another sip. “But perhaps you would rather see her for yourselves.”

“Perhaps we would.” The Weaver’s fingers hover above the countless threads of her loom while the man nods. The butterfly lands on his shoulder, folding its orange wings.

“Very well. She has been listening to us long enough,” the Green Lady says, taking a look at the dark patch of planting ground under her feet. “Come, child.”

It takes Carra a blink of an eye to realise that she is not standing in the grove any longer. She gasps and blinks twice, but her eyes do not deceive her. Now she faces three luminous beings—in their garden across the stream.

“Great Mother!” she whispers and falls on her knees in front of the lady clad in green, bowing her head. In the presence of these great figures, blinded by their magnificent splendour, she feels like a feeble, featherless fledgling that fell out from its nest.

“Rise, Carra,” the Green Lady addresses her softly, and Cara does what she is told. “Do you know why you are here, my child?”

“I…” she croaks faintly, unable to stop staring into Great Mother’s incandescent face. A kaleidoscope of images fills her mind. The freezing ice. Thorin’s face when he notices her and his widened blue eyes. The Pale Orc, his teeth bare, with his blade pointed at her mate. Her bloodied talons clawing at Azog’s face. And then—darkness.

“I have died.” She hears her own voice.

In a blink of an eye, the images are gone, dispelled like a wisp of smoke on the wind. Only the orange butterfly swirls around her head.

“Do you know, child,” there is a frown on the Weaver's face when she turns to Carra from above her loom, “how thin these threads are? How delicate? Even the slightest whiff of wind can change the pattern—or destroy it as if it was a spider’s net.”

“I have only tried to protect the pattern,” Carra swallows, feeling three pairs of eyes on her.

“You have saved some vital parts of it, that is true, but I hear that you also left us with tangles in the weave,” now her life-giver speaks, her eyes glistening like emerald waters of a fathomless lake.

“Forgive me, Great Mother. The line of Durin had to stay unbroken. I did my best. But I have failed,” Carra hears her own trembling voice. “Darkness clouded my dreams…”

“And so you staked out your own path, Silver One,” the Weaver speaks as if to herself, patting her index finger against her lips in reverie. “Which left us with all those new thread combinations.”

Then she exchanges a glance with her companions, and the man called Dreamer speaks.

“See for yourself,” his eyes, grey like a wolf’s fur, rest on Carra. First, he raises his eyebrow but then motions her towards a small rock basin. She can swear that this object has not been there a moment ago. He takes the silver jug and fills the basin with a narrow, glistening stream of water. The orange butterfly dances above it and then rises above their heads. The water’s surface resembles a mirror, and Carra’s eyes are drawn to the movement she seems to see in its depths.

Countless veins of silver run through coarse stone walls of a cave, glittering like gossamer strands that cover foliage at dawn, but instead of dewdrops, tears flow down from a Dwarf-woman’s cheeks, following the crevices of her wrinkled face. She wears a crown of snow-white braided hair and a dark blue robe with golden ornaments. In her weatherworn hand, she holds a piece of parchment with a green, rectangular seal at the bottom. Beside her sits a slightly hunched elderly Dwarf with bushy, grey whiskers and rows of faded tattoos on his bald head.

“Now we are the last ones, Dwalin,” the Dwarf lady sobs. “My boys… My brothers… And then Balin… Dain and his son… Gone.”

“Aye,” the old warrior gently closes his hand over hers. “But they will not be forgotten.”

“Gone…” Carra’s lips tremble as she stops herself at the last moment from touching the water. As she moves her hand back, a curtain of ripples falls over the image, changing the scenery.

The image of the familiar green and black shape of the Great Gate of Erebor fills the rock basin. An army of Dwarves rides to battle on their war rams, led by the King Under the Mountain. Carra recognizes his blade at once. Orcrist. It is Thorin! She gasps. The Raven Crown graces his temples frosted with grey. And his beard has the same colouring as her feathers. Silver-white. As the events unfold, she recognizes them from her past dreams. The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills join forces with the Men of Dale. The battle is long and bloody, but the allied forces ultimately crush their enemies. At that moment, the vision changes. She does not recognize this new detail. An armour-clad warrior rides from Dale on a white war ram. As soon as Thorin sees him, he dismounts, and soon both men greet each other with a strong embrace.

“The city is safe, adad!” The young warrior grins, taking off his helmet. The wind plays with his entangled hair, which seems to glow in the setting sun.

“You did well, Thráin,” Thorin replies, his gaze softening. He presses his forehead against Thráin’s and whispers, “You made me proud, son.”

A faint whiff of wind kisses the water’s surface, transforming it into a flurry of silvery ripples.

By a gilded cradle sits a young Dwarf-woman. Her chestnut hair glints as if enchanted with fire, contrasting with the snow-white laces of her sleeping gown. The mithril beads in her braids clink when she takes her babe into her arms, and a smile brightens her heart-shaped face.

“You will be a king one day,” she whispers lovingly, kissing her little one on his forehead. Quietly humming a sweet lullaby, she adjusts the blanket her son is wrapped in. Carra notices that its hem is embroidered with little black and golden ravens.

A sudden wrinkle on the water disturbs its surface, making the water glitter like diamonds.

A cold, pale sheen illuminates the green marble walls when the King Under the Mountain ensconces on his throne. The source of this light comes from a jewel of unmatched beauty set over the king's head. The golden and obsidian crown rests on his raven-black hair. But the ruler of Erebor, Thorin II Oakenshield, is not smiling. A deep, menacing frown darkens his face. In his hand, he holds a wide dwarvish sword. Blood drips from its tip onto the cracked marble floor. There is no red-haired Dwarf queen beside him. There are no children playing at his feet. There is only deathly silence. And the shadow he casts is that of a dragon.

When the visions finally fade, Carra finds herself staring into the bottomless depths of a pair of grey eyes. She does not notice when the orange butterfly lands on the edge of the empty jug.

***

“Carra…” her name sounded like a helpless croak. Thorin’s throat was parched.

It took him a while to regain all of his senses and open his eyes. He lay on a large cot in a spacious tent that looked suspiciously like a work of Elvish hands. He grunted. Every single part of his body seemed to hurt. Bandages covered most of his torso, and he could not move his arm without inducing even more pain.

A louder groan left his lips when he tried to sit up and failed. Something in the nearest corner of the tent moved.

“Your Majesty…” A young Dwarf in a healer’s tunic appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “You are awake!”

“Where…” Thorin coughed. Even breathing drained his strength.

“All is well, my lord. Try not to speak, please. The enemy is defeated. Erebor is once again ours.”

“Is… my…” His attempt at speaking failed once more.

“Your kin and companions are alive and well, Your Majesty.” A mug was pressed against his lips, and Thorin greedily drank its contents. He welcomed the sweet taste of water on his tongue. It probably came from the spring at Ravenhill.

Ravenhill.

His heart sank.

“Carra…? Where…?” he whispered. Every word felt like a struggle.

“Forgive me, my lord, who?” the healer frowned.

Thorin did not respond. He was already asleep.

***

“The White Raven?” Dain Ironfoot’s brow furrowed as he clutched a tankard in his hand. “Here, in Erebor? Are ye drunk, Fili?”

“It’d take more than a mug of ale to make me drunk, Uncle!” the young dwarf protested. “I swear on Mahal’s beard. She fought the Pale Orc together with Uncle Thorin and…”

“She?” said Agnarr, one of Dain’s captains who sat on his left, raising his eyebrows, which resembled a thick, black caterpillar.

“Aye! I found her myself! And then Tharkûn said… well, he didn’t want to say anything about her at first, but I convinced him to tell me…” Kili started with a mischievous smirk, only to be interrupted by his brother.

“He followed the wizard day and night and bombarded him with questions, until Tharkûn had enough,” Fili whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards Dain.

“Well, I convinced him, didn’t I?” Kili huffed. “The wizard said that if not for her, Thorin’s fate would have been very different! You saw that wound of his.” “Aye, if that orc blade went in a bit lower, he’d be resting in the catacombs together with the kings of old,” Ironfoot muttered under his breath.

“Exactly. Besides, before he left, Tharkûn mentioned something about treasure, too!”

“A treasure?” Dain Ironfoot asked.

Kili shrugged in response, “I don’t think he meant the gold in our mountain…”

“Wizards and their riddles…” Dori sighed, pouring himself another mug of ale.

“So ye’re telling me,” Dain demanded, “that a creature straight from our legends appeared out of thin air and fought the Pale Orc with Thorin? And that the White Raven is a woman?”

“And a pretty one, too!” Bofur winked. “That hair of hers…! White as snow!”

“More like silver-white to me,” Fili puffed out a cloud of pipeweed smoke.

“Was she not supposed to be a great bird? Like the legends say?” Dain grunted.

“She is!” Kili nodded eagerly. “I mean, she was a bird, but then she turned into a woman, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Now she looks more like a Dwarf,” Fili added.

“A raven looking like a Dwarf?” Vari, son of Nari, another of Dain’s soldiers, scratched his bald head.

“And a bit like an Elf, too,” Kili grinned and waved his hand in the air. “She has pointy ears, you know. Ouch, Fili, why did you kick me?”

Dain groaned, “Pointy ears…? By Mahal’s beard, I think I need another mug of ale.”

“Are ye drinkin’ without us, ye sewer rats?” Dwalin appeared by the table, followed by his brother.

“We’re all celebratin’ our victory over the orcs and wargs!” Captain Agnarr pointed at the multiple groups of Dwarves gathered around them in one of the least ruined halls of the Lonely Mountain.

“There’s nothing better for a soldier’s morale than a few casks of the Iron Hills ale,” Balin sat beside him and poured two mugs—for himself and Dwalin. “What would you say about a toast?”

“To victory?” Ori proposed.

“We drank for that last time,” Vari shook his head.

“If all you said is true, lads,” Drengi, a large dwarf, said, two golden teeth glinting in his mouth, “we should be toasting the White Raven.”

“To the White Raven!” strong voices echoed against the ceiling of the cavern as more dwarves joined the toast with their mugs raised into the air.

“To Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!”

“To King Thorin!”

“To the Lonely Mountain!”

“To the Longbeards!”

In the growing racket, Balin turned to Fili and Kili.

“What did you tell them, lads?”

“Nothing much besides what we saw when we found Uncle Thorin after the battle,” Fili said.

“And that the White Raven helped us during the Quest,” added Kili. “Fili, I completely forgot! Remember what Uncle Thorin called her when we were taking him back to the Lonely Mountain?”

Fili nodded, but before he answered, Balin put his hand on Kili’s shoulder.

“That, my boy, is better left unsaid.”

“But Uncle Dain said that the King Under the Mountain will need a queen now and that he has a perfect candidate for Uncle Thorin. How can Uncle Thorin marry her if he…” Kili continued.

“This is the conversation that Thorin—and Thorin only—needs to have with Dain. Do you understand?” the elderly dwarf searched their faces solemnly.

“Aye, Uncle Balin, we do,” Fili reassured him.

***

“...since we moved his majesty into the Mountain. His fever has dropped and the wounds are healing well but he keeps on asking about someone named Carra.”

“Thank you, Nari, you were most helpful. Try to catch some sleep. I will stay with him now.” Words spoken in a soothing timbre of voice reached Thorin through the haze of dreams.

“Balin?” he blinked a few times, trying to chase the drowsiness away.

“I’m here, laddie,” a familiar silhouette in a burgundy robe stood before him. “You gave us a scare for a wee moment there.”

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling at the sight of the familiar face of his old mentor. As he attempted to sit up, an intense spike of pain ran through the left side of his body. The only thing he managed to do was lift his head slightly. At that moment, an additional pillow was placed beneath it. He grunted. At least the Dwarvish beds were much more comfortable than the Elvish ones.

“Carefully now, laddie. No sudden movements. Your foot needs time to heal properly. Your left shoulder and arm were badly injured too. The healers had to use a splint…”

It was a challenge to focus on Balin’s words, but as the dizziness subsided, Thorin’s thoughts became more coherent. Various parts of his body ached, his left leg felt heavy, and he could not move his left arm—it was indeed encased in a splint, exactly like Balin said—but he was able to take a look around the room. Even if he did not recognize this particular place, he recognized its walls hewn from the same greenish rock as the walls of the old chambers he used to live in as a young prince. A lifetime ago. And now, he was home again. Home.

“Tell me everything. Is Erebor safe?” With a pained grunt, he turned towards Balin.

“Aye. Worry not, the Mountain is well-protected. Dain is here with his warriors. We are working on making our home liveable again,” Balin replied, patting Thorin’s right hand, which lay on the bed. “You did well, laddie. The corridors and caverns are echoing with stories about the return of the King Under the Mountain who killed the Pale Orc and avenged his esteemed grandsire.”

Killed. He swallowed, attempting to ignore the memories of that fight that came back to him like an unstoppable flood—and of the price he paid to survive. Or rather, the price someone else paid for him. He lost her.

“King? Me? A Dwarf who succumbed to the curse that plagues his house? Who valued hoarded gold over…” With a sneer, Thorin looked away, his voice hollow. “I am not worthy of that title, Balin. Not any longer.”

“Do you remember that audience in the throne room when King Thrór met with the refugees from the White Mountains? You were still a prince at that time.”

“How could I forget? Not only did I break protocol, but also I interrupted Grandfather. I declared that if he would not send his troops, I would fight the Orcs who invaded their homes—on my own. Mother was truly ashamed of me on that day. And Father would not speak to me for a month.” “Ah, the impulsiveness of youth,” Balin nodded. “But you have always had your heart in the right place. Do you remember what I told you on that very day?”

“Life is like a battle. When you fall, you have to rise again and fight. Otherwise you lose,” Thorin said under his breath. He recalled the countless nights when he whispered those words to himself, lying on the hard ground, far from home, when the thought of retribution was the only thing that drove him forward.

“We reclaimed our homeland thanks to you. You overcame the curse and led us to victory. You have fought and won this great battle, Thorin,” the elderly Dwarf spoke softly.

“I did not. Not alone,” Thorin admitted, unable to look Balin in the eye, his throat constricted. Something ached in his chest, and it was not his wound. “I had help.”

“Indeed. I saw the Pale Orc’s corpse. It bore marks of dwarven weapons… and others that bore resemblance to talons and a beak,” the older Dwarf said.

Thorin did not reply. Not because he chose not to speak but because the right words would not come to him.

After a pause, his mentor added, “Fili claims that he heard a deafening sound, like a large bird’s screech, only moments before they caught sight of you on the frozen river.”

“A screech…” Thorin repeated to himself. Something stirred in his mind; Azog’s hideous grimace, the ice beneath him reverberating with a strange sound that filled the air, and the moment when the tip of Orcrist’s blade plunged into the Orc’s chest. He blinked several times. His own words rang in his ears.

“Carra, no!”

He remembered the darkness that came afterwards. And pain.

A life for a life.

It should have been him.

Balin’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“... I heard the guards retelling the old legends of the White Raven. And a new tale is spreading through Erebor: a story about a large, white-feathered raven that bravely fought by the King Under the Mountain’s side at Ravenhill,” he said.

Thorin remained silent, staring at the white sheets that covered him. White as ice on that day. White as the feathers in her wings. He felt cold.

Silence seemed to stretch between them like the bottomless chasm beneath the Mountain until Balin spoke again.

“Help me understand this, laddie.”

Reluctantly, Thorin’s fingers found the leather band strung around his neck and pulled it from under the blankets that covered him. His old friend’s eyes widened at the sight of a silver-white feather.

“The White Raven…” The words in Thorin’s mouth tasted like ash. “Carra. I have known her for most of my life. After Smaug's attack, she left her nest behind and followed me to the Blue Mountains.” Thorin met his mentor’s eyes.

“The White Raven... The stuff of legend, eh?” Balin hummed, examining the feather with reverence.

“I am aware of what it must sound like. Legend or not, she is real. She was,” he corrected himself, swallowing hard. “At Ravenhill… Had she not intervened, Azog would have taken my life. She chose ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam and gave her life for me instead.”

“Thorin… By Mahal’s hammer, laddie, what are you saying?” The feather fell from his mentor’s hand onto the bed. “’Ugbalul ’uhaskhajam, the act of sacrificing one’s life in battle to protect another, is only performed by one’s kin!”

“Or a spouse,” explained Thorin flatly.

Balin looked down at the silver-white feather and then glanced towards the door before speaking again.

“Dwalin told me that you spoke of a wife,” the elderly Dwarf said. “We thought it might have been your feverish mind speaking, nothing more.”

“It was not. She is… Carra was my wife, Balin.” His own whisper sounded hollow.

Balin stayed silent for a few heartbeats and then cleared his throat, as if deciding on something.

“That certainly explains quite a bit—including a very curious occurrence. You see, Thorin, after the battle, we did not find any signs of this revered bird at Ravenhill. Instead, there is a strange woman of mysterious provenance in our infirmary, and the healers…”

“Here, in Erebor?! Alive?” Thorin grabbed Balin’s sleeve, seeing him nod. “Tell me, what colour is this woman’s hair?!”

“Her hair is like this feather: white, dusted with silver,” his mentor replied. “She lives and is under good care. We brought her into the Mountain together with you, but...”

“Thank Mahal!” Thorin rested on his right arm, lifting his upper body as much as he could. “Balin, take me to her at once!”

Swiftly, he moved to the side in an attempt to rise from the bed while a pang of pain shot through his body, sudden like lightning. He fell onto his pillows, taking deep breaths and fighting a wave of dizziness.

“I am afraid you are in no shape to walk, laddie,” Balin rested his hand on his uninjured shoulder. “You are on the mend, but the healers say that you will need time to…”

“Balin! By Mahal’s beard!” Thorin fisted his hand, trying to curb his temper and ignore the pain. “Do you not understand? I need to see her!”

“You are as stubborn as your grandfather,” the elderly Dwarf shook his head in defeat. “Let me talk with Nari and see what can be done. I will be back in a jiffy.”

Balin’s jiffy felt like an eternity to Thorin, but he waited, albeit impatiently.

Carra was alive.

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hellhound5925 · 2 months

Text

HERE IT IS 🙌🏻 THE MOMENT LONG AWAITED

Cyare Verd

*OC Raven x Hunter

A/N: Welcome back! I apologize for taking so long but ☝🏼 I edited my original story up to the fourth chapter only to decide I still didn’t like it so guess what I edited the same four chapters again 😅

I’ll start by saying, yes it still follows the season two storyline of The Bad Batch (unoriginal I know) but I did change it up quite a bit. If your looking for Omega (lol) shes gone 👋🏼 I was never a huge fan of her so I wrote her out 🫣 otherwise, I hope you enjoy the new version of my fic. I will be taking it off Wattpad and AO3 in the meantime so I can finish making edits.

Oh, one last thing. If you would like to be tagged please drop a comment or send me a message ☺️ Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking time out of your day to read this. It means the world to me.

Anyways. Without further ado 🤲🏻 I present to you my updated fic 💖

Prologue/Background

Raven (If you see this. It’s the Pov for the following)

Before order 66 went down, I spent my time on Kamino training new batches of clones for the Grand Army of the Republic. I met many of the troopers who lived there during the time including Sargent Hunter of the infamous Clone Force 99. Our interactions were usually quite brief but there was a certain charm about him I enjoyed from our very first encounter. However, I was there to perform my duty to my clan and that always came first.

It was an honor to continue the legacy my father - Kal Skirata - left behind. He and my brothers - the Null ARC’s - have been off trying to thwart a plot they didn’t realize would lead to order 66.

During that time, Kal’Buir had asked that I stay on Kamino not only for intel but also to get out any defecting troopers.

A friend of mine, who is another Mandalorian by the name of Aspen, posed as a supply ship for myself. She would drop off supplies or bring me an array of random items I asked for to validate her being there. Aspen would then smuggle troopers to Mandalore where they were to live out their days as they wished. A part of our clan. Clan Skirata.

When order 66 did finally happen, my brother Ordo had warned me to prepare for something big that would be happening soon. Whether or not he knew exactly what I’ll never know.

For the first few days, I lingered on Kamino waiting for any one of my brothers or Kal’Buir to contact me but it didn’t come. About a week later a droid appeared in my quarters with a message. ‘Get out now. You’re in danger Sen’ika (little bird).’ Kal’Buir was the only one who ever called me Sen’ika - mostly because I hated it but he could get away with anything.

Shortly thereafter, I packed my things discreetly and called for Aspen. She came within a rotation claiming the usual - that she was here to deliver supplies for me - and to my surprise they let her in.

The minute I was on her ship, the two of us left. We ended up on the planet in the mid rim. Where Ord Mantell became our temporary home.

Chapter One: Cid’s Parlor

Raven

Standing out in the busy streets of Ord Mantell, the sun beats down on my beskar fighting the darkness that rests on my shoulders. I will my feet to move it’s as if this weight is too much for them to carry.

My irritation radiates off me as the thunderous pitter patter pounds in my head each time a citizen passes by - must be nice to live so carefree - I think to myself. Yet they pay me no mind, even though the very nature of my armor is intimidating.

The dull black shein of a well-worn helmet that sits upon my head, with the infamous T shaped visor. The rest of the plates are the same color with a few iridescent feathers poking out from underneath. Ironic right.

This armor is my pride and joy. It was a coming of age gift - if that's what you want to call it - from my father. Kal’Buir was by far one of the greatest Mandalorians in the history of our people - though my opinion might be biased.

A wave of sadness washes over me at the thought of him, my family, my brothers, and my best friend Aspen. Shaking the thoughts from my mind I tell myself they wouldn’t want me to sulk. Aspen would smack me if she were here. Unfortunately, the two of us had to go our separate ways after getting into some trouble. What else is new?

Aspen has always been the friend I can count on for anything. We met as kids on Mandalore and practically grew up together. Once we were old enough, the two of us would drink - a little too much - and run our mouths. Sometimes I’d come home with a black eye and Kal’Buir would say ‘I hope the other guy looks worse’. With a osik (shit) eating grin he knew I could handle myself.

Eventually that trouble caught up to us. When I had been on Ord Mantell before, she and I got into it with a group of merc’s and Cid saved our skin. Usually I didn’t pick fights we couldn’t win but that time I did.

That was just after our home was bombed by the Empire. My family. My clan was there as far as I know. Rumor has it the surface is no longer safe. The blast destroyed everything and killed everyone. Grief does funny things to people.

Since then Cid feels we owe her every time she calls. Aspen was smart enough to ignore her but I can’t leave business unfinished. I don’t like owing people anything.

Bitterness courses through my veins and I find my feet moving through the doorway.

Hunter

Cid's Parlor is loud and crowded - as usual. Which for enhanced senses is why I prefer the solitude of the ship. Let’s not even get into the stench of hot bodies and alcohol might put me over the edge.

I take a deep breath to steady myself and push out the overwhelming sounds and smells, in an attempt to tune back into my brother's conversation. Echo and I were discussing whether or not the Marauder needs maintenance. Which is true it does. However, we don’t have the credits.

One glance over at Wrecker and its obvious Tech is beating him - again - at dejarik.

With a sigh and a gentle swirl of the pint in my hand, I watch as the amber liquid spins like a world pool. The sickly-sweet smell of blood orange and yeast reaches my nose. I let myself get lost in it for a moment, the scent totally washing over me.

The weight of the things we have had to endure begins creeping in. My men. Their safety and well-being are my responsibility. Crosshair.

Before I’m sucked too far into the void, my senses pick up something that wasn’t there a moment ago. Dark, sweet raspberry, rose. I’d recognize that scent anywhere after the hours I’d spent committing it to memory.

Lifting my gaze from my glass, it’s pulled like a force of gravity as a Mandalorian female enters the parlor. A warmth washes over me mixed with a little relief at seeing that all too familiar T-visor. I can’t contain the shock that creeps on my face at her presence or the memory—

‘Alright everyone, today we go over the basics.’ Her voice is crisp but not cold, giving orders and yet…silky smooth. I could listen to her speak to the regs all day.

She continues barking out orders which I recognize as the basics for hand-to-hand combat. I stop listening about half way through just to commit her to memory.

Covered head to toe in dark black beskar, her visor drifts over the group of men before her. The small frame is quite a contrast to the 6ft Clone troopers in formation. She has such a commanding presence, exuding confidence. My eyes roam over her curves and stop at the dual westar -35’s attached to either side of her thighs. For a moment I swear my heart might leap out of my chest—

Raven Skirata.

My trousers suddenly become constricting forcing me to shift uncomfortably. We only ever ran into one another a few times on Kamino. Mostly casual conversation about war efforts. The sound of her laugh when I told her about some of the things we’d improvised on missions, is one my brain never lets me forget. I never did get the courage to ask her about herself.

Raven crosses over to the bar and my eyes follow her every move. It’s only now that I notice she’s skinnier than I remember. Her complexion is quite pale in comparison to the dark circles under her eyes. The sight causes my chest to tighten. What the hell happened?

"Long time no see. I was starting to think you wised up" the Twi-lek bartender says by way of greeting. There's a long pause as the Raven drops her shoulders considerably.

"Unfortunately, I'm a little low on rations to be wise" she shoots back, that silky smooth voice taking on a sarcastic tone.

Having caught the attention of a rather large man - whose been talking loud enough for everyone in here to hear - he leans over to speak to her.

"Wow, that must be real beskar.......Wonder what kind of price someone would pay for th-that...." He slurs a little at the end.

In one smooth motion, Raven ejects her vibro-blade from her vambrace - the steel practically sings - slamming his head into the bar top with the other hand. A loud thud follows. Some of the patrons stop talking to stare while the Twi-lek laughs.

Pressing her blade to his throat she leans in close she sneers, "Try to take it from me and I'll find out how much someone will pay for your head.”

The man proceeds to mumble and she cocks her head at the bar tender as if in annoyance. Letting go of the man he slumps to his knees before getting up and stumbling away, hand pressed to his temple.

I have to work had to suppress the smile that threatens to creep onto my face, the corner of my mouth twitches anyways.

"Don't mess with Mandalorians" Echo chuckles, drawing attention. Raven glances our way tensing. Mentally I command myself to look away but I can’t. For a moment I swear, even through her visor we make eye contact.

Raven

After I’m satisfied I’ve put this man in his place, I let go and he slumps to the floor. Comments fly from over my shoulder but there’s that voice I’ve heard thousands of times that stands out.

I can’t help but turn and that when I see them. The red and white plastoid. Thanking my ancestors for the helmet, I roll my eyes at just how ironic it is they are here. Sargent Hunter and the Bad Batch. He and I have spoken a few times on Kamino but the others I’ve never officially met.

Frozen in place, I stare for a second. The Sargent doesn’t take his eyes off me with an unreadable expression. If I’m lucky he won’t recognize me - I think to myself. Forcing myself to move, I turn back to the bartender with a finger in the air, signaling I’d like a shot.

My gloved hands make their way to my helmet and gently slide it off, letting my messy blonde braid at the back of my head fall. Lately I find myself caring less and less about what I look like.

Placing my helmet on the bar top, I take a breath to steady myself before taking the shot. The burning liquid a welcomed punishment if nothing else.

The bartender nods over my shoulder and I sign knowing what's coming.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes" Cid says, throwing an arm over me like we are old pals.

I roll my hazel eyes "I'm not here because I want to be. Lets get on with it" I grumble.

"No 'Hi Cid, how are you?'" She asks.

"Nar'sheb (shove it)" I say in my native tongue with a polite smile on my face. She has no idea what I said to her but there's a snicker from someone close by.

————

"Remember what happened last time you threw your attitude around like that? " Cid scolds me as we enter her office.

Picking dust off my flight suit I sass, "I'm not here to discuss my 'attitude'. What's the mission?"

Cid moves behind her desk and crosses her arms "Fine, I need you to help out a group of fine gentlemen." She starts to explain, her tone a little too...chipper.

I raise a brow, shifting my weight and hum my dissatisfaction.

Cid immediately gets defensive, “Look it’s not my fault you mandos like to find trouble. You’re just lucky I was there to bail you out. Besides, these guys could really use someone with your skills. Dooku's private stash is being relocated by the Empire and I want you to help them get as much as possible".

The fact that she said Empire had my attention and attitude immediately shifts.

"I thought you might like that and I promise I'll give you 20%" she continues noticing my mood lighten.

"30 and it's a deal" I counter.

"Hey! I gotta pay those other guys too. I feel I'm being quite generous.”

I guess for considering who I’m speaking with… "Fine 20%, Now who are these guys?"

"They call themselves the Bad Batch. Wait here I'll go get them" she doesn’t give me a chance to respond before she heads out the door.

For a moment I stay where she left me and contemplate my next move. I can either play it like I don’t know them and take the chance their Sargent will recognize me or…

With an annoyed sigh, I stride over to her desk and set my helmet down before scanning the book shelves. Most of these I’ve read during my ‘spare time’ when Cid let me crash here before. Not surprisingly, there’s nothing new.

Leaning my back against one I take my gloves off and unbraid my hair. The blonde waves fall loosely over one shoulder ending just below my breast. It’s a wonder I ever let it get this long but a part of me just can’t bring myself to cut it.

I make myself comfortable at her desk, leaning back and kicking my boots up on it, When Cid flings the door open and scowls at me. My stomach ties itself into knots but I try to seem disinterested by playing with my hair.

There’s a chance these guys decided like the others to side with the Empire. But the odds they did and they are here? Slim but not zero.

Pushing off the desk I stand and stroll around to the front, leaning against it. A few golden strands fall into my face with the movement. My hands naturally side down towards my blasters holstered at my sides. A defense position that’s become muscle memory. The Sargent eyes follow my every move.

"Take it easy there Mando these are the good guys."

Cid rolls her eyes after seeing my body language. Once again in typical Cid fashion she hid this from me, likely knowing I wouldn’t come.

The largest one of the 4 pushes past.

"I'm Wrecker! I like to blow stuff up!" He says very loudly, sticking out his hand. My body is further tensing.

I hesitantly shake his hand, which compared to mine - even with gloves on - looks like it could easily crush it.

"Wrecker, I feel that last part was not necessary" says the one holding a datapad.

"I am Tech by the way.”

Nodding by way of greeting, I quickly glance over at their Sargent. Had I blinked I would have missed the split second of recognition before the mask of a leader slid into place.

The one with a socket arm glances over at him. Probably from the tension radiating off of me. Those amber eyes see me for exactly who I am.

My breathing picks up, but I quickly get it back under control. The former doesn’t seem to notice, not taking his eyes off me.

I decide to meet his gaze with a challenging one. Hoping to hide whatever it is he sees.

Shaking his head like he’s having a difficult time dragging himself from thought, introduces himself.

“I'm their Sargent-well was their Sargent...Hunter and this is Echo" he gestures to socket arm.

Echo waves at me with his socket and a soft smile. I nod slowly and clear my throat.

“I know who you are.”

Tech lifts his eyes from his datapad to look at me once again. Before he or anyone else can I say anything I continue,

“Raven. Raven Skirata.”

————

When I start towards my ship - alright so it's not really my ship, I stole it - I was so deep in thought I almost didn’t hear someone call out to me.

"Wouldn't it just be easier if we all went together?"

I stop not bothering to turn around "How do I know you won't leave me behind?"

If these are the clones I’ve heard so much about, there’s a good chance I can trust them. However, my instincts are telling me not to. Echo, almost like he is reading my mind says,

"You can trust us, we aren't like the others".

The sorrow in his voice fills the space between us, making me uncomfortable. I roll my shoulders, hands flexing at my sides.

Without saying anything I head up the ramp to my ship, gather a few things in my pack, and come back out to see Echo standing where I left him. The rest of the group must have gone to their ship. With a small nod he leads the way.

As we approach, I stop for a moment before heading up the ramp to admire the hull before me. An Omicron class attack shuttle but it’s been modified. It’s just as impressive if not more so in person. My brothers - specifically Mereel and Jaing - would have loved this thing, I can practically hear them fighting with even Ordo for who would pilot.

With a few steps up the ramp, I peer inside and it’s notably clean. Briefly I take in the surroundings noting the others up front in the cockpit area. Echo glances back at me sensing my hesitation.

“I’ll show you around”

I tip my visor towards him appreciatively, without saying a word.

————

Echo finishes the tour with the bunks, two on the left and two on the right. He gestures to the right, showing me which one is mine and offers me a gentle smile. With a quick glance I realize there are only 4 of them.

“Hunter usually stays up in the cockpit. You get his bunk.”

Great.

I nod my appreciation again and take my pack off my shoulder. The only things in it are a couple changes of regular clothes and some rations. I've not got much to lose that isn't my beskar these days.

Placing my pack on the lower bunk, the mythosaur skull on the back of my gloves stare back at me with hollow eyes. It’s almost like they know. Our people are gone. For a moment I wonder if anyone will even remember what it means.

I forgot Echo was still standing there until his throat clears. He says carefully, “Your father is Kal Skirata.”

My heart starts to thunder in my chest at the mention of his name. I finish settling my pack before I turn to face him. A part of me wants to answer but it feels like my mouth is full of cotton. I mentally thank my ancestors for the visor between us.

“He was one of my instructors. In my early days I mean. He was always really good to us. I heard about what he did...he got some of us out.”

Silence fills the space. I slide my helmet off, tucking it under an arm. Unable to look him in the eye, my boots seemingly interesting all the sudden.

“He’s gone.” My voice almost doesn’t sound like my own. Distant.

“Too many good people have been lost because of the war. I’m sorry to hear that.”

In his kind words, the galaxy feels a little less lonely. I finally lift my head and meet his gaze, seeing the loss there.

“I’m sorry for your loss too.”

Echo only offers me a somber smile in response. My walls go back up and I decide to change the subject. It comes out a little sassier than I had intended.

“So, you all have enhanced something or other right? I mean I was on Kamino and spoke to your Sargent a few times but mostly what I know is what I’ve heard.”

”Each of us had a unique quality. Wrecker is brute strength, Hunter has enhanced senses, and Tech is really smart.”

”Wasn’t there another member? Crosshair?”

Another sad look from him, “He chose the Empire.”

“Ah” I nod my understanding. “How do you fit in here?”

He rubs the back of his neck and chuckles.

“I was originally with the 501st under General Skywalker. We were on Skako minor and I was blown up. Captured by the Techno union and they made me mostly a machine.” Echo lifts his socket arm as a reference.

“My Captain. Rex. He and the Bad Batch rescued me. I owe them everything.”

That name. Captain Rex. It sounds familiar. ”No offense but you just met me and you trust me enough to tell me all this?” My sass once more evident.

He smiles and says “Your father spoke highly of you.”

My throat closes up at the same time pride washes over me. When I don’t respond he continues.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in” and with that he turns and heads toward the cockpit.

I watch as he reaches the others and takes a seat. Unable to do anything else other than process what he just said.

————

It takes me a while to recover from the conversation. A part of me hesitates to comm Aspen but I can’t risk compromising her.

Instead, I take my time to check my weapons (two blasters at my hip, vibro blade in my vambrace, and the various blades stashed in my boots and under my back plate). No one bothers to check on me, which is just as well. Finally, I end with checking the HUD in my helmet - which seems to be functioning fine.

Discarding my helmet on the bunk, I head for the cockpit where the others are chatting quietly. The hushed tones likely to prevent me from overhearing. Hunter stiffens as I approach which only confirms my thought.

The four seats at the front were taken up by each of the members. Leaning against the doorway I cross my arms over my chest plate.

"We don't have a reason to trust each other but once this mission is over and I'm paid, I'm gone. You won't have to worry after that.” The annoyance plastered on my face is visible to all.

They all glance at one another except Hunter, his eyes fixed on my face like he’s trying not to look anywhere else. He almost looks hurt at my comment.

"That seems reasonable" Tech says very matter of factly.

”Great. So, what's the plan?”

“Get to Serenno and scout the area." Hunter says turning his attention to space zooming by at light speed.

I sigh, "That's not much of a plan but I can improvise."

Wrecker chimes in, ”Ahaha you’ll fit right in!” Awkward silence fills the space before I break it.

“Right. Well I guess we should all rest up so let me know when we land.” Spinning on a heel, I head for the bunks.

Next Chapter here.

Wattpad link here.

Taglist: @cloneloverrrrr @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @idoubleswearimawriter @savebytheodore @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @jediknightjana @techs-goggles9902 @clonethirstingisreal

Lemme know if you wanna be tagged in the future!

#the clones #star wars clone wars #the bad batch #tbb hunter #hunter the bad batch #the bad batch tech #mandalorian oc #tbb hunter x you #tbb hunter x reader #the bad batch hunter #bad batch hunter #hunter #hunter bad batch #hunter x reader #clone trooper hunter #Sargent hunter #clone force 99 #starwars the bad batch

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totally-not-trolls · 2 months

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Hiii! I already made posts about these separately but I realized the timeline is totally wack and wanted to do just one big post to hopefully kill two birds with one stone.

(Side note: I changed Jet's age and now he has more kids! HAZZAH!!)

Once again, gonna go over some basic stuff about Jet and jump into the specifics of relationships and kids later on.

Jet is a former hard rock troll who was forced to form his own genre due to the negative effects it's hard rock lifestyle started having on him. It's pronouns are he/it, which he uses pretty equally but it isn't bothered if someone uses one more than the other. That being said, his kids call it Dad. Speaking of kids!! He has seven (7) now! His oldest are the twins he adopted, Briar and Wren, who are goth, his second oldest is Rex who is glam rock, then there is Kandi, a scene troll (really creative name, I know -_-), after her is Clash who is grunge, the second youngest is Ramone, a half-funk and officially punk troll, then the youngest, who is still an egg, Junior. It is also Queen Barb's god-father

Jet began feeling the consequences of his hard rock lifestyle after Rex hatched but didn't leave the genre until after Barb hatched. Some of the lasting effects include, but are not limited to: the dulling of colors, drooping of the ears, joint pain (specifically the knees), severe tinnitus, and muscle spasms in the neck that sometimes leave it unable to lift it's head for an undetermined amount of time.

Jet, however worse off his body is, wouldn't change anything about his life.

As for relationships, it is a bit complicated because Jet has actually never had a proper "dating" relationship. Jet experiences many types of love and loves so much that sometimes feelings get a little complicated and overwhelming. But here is a timeline with all those he has had a particularly strong bond with and when his kids came about. You can make your own assumptions about what the corresponding times mean.

Timeline:

Life long friendship with King Thrasher

Age 17-21 - Bandmates with classical music troll

Age 21 - Rex’s egg appears

Age 24 - Adopt’s the twins, Briar and Wren, at four years old

Age 25-27 - Brief but strong friendship with John-Dory

Age 26-27 - Massive crush on Julien (@felsicveins's OC)

Age 27 - Kandi’s egg appears

Age 28 - Barb hatches, Jet is appointed god-father

Age 29 - Forced to leave hard rock

Age 34 - Thrasher develops the need for a wheelchair, Jet and him bond over being disabled dads

Age 34 - Clash’s egg develops

(I don’t want to give Ramone another parent, you decide what happens here)

Age 42 - Ramone’s egg develops

Age 47 - Rekindles friendship with John-Dory

Age 48 - Junior’s egg develops

This would end up with Briar and Wren at 28, Rex at 27, Kandi at 21, Clash at 14, and Ramone at 6. And, of course, Junior is an egg

@90svn thank you for the ask :)

@spooky-circuits thank you for the ask and I will be going into more detail about how the kids feel about each other in another post later on that I will tag you in if you'd like :)

#trolls #trolls band together #dreamworks trolls #trolls world tour #trolls movie #trolls 3 #trolls oc #trolls oc jet #trolls oc rex #trolls oc briar and wren #trolls oc kandi #trolls oc clash #trolls oc ramone #trolls oc junior #trolls oc julien #<- only mentioned #trolls john dory #john dory #john dory trolls

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porcelain-thyme · 3 months

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The Herbalist (Tree Sentinel x fem!OC) - Chapter One

(I put it as OC but tbh it could be a reader insert since I leave the character description light and also she just goes by one name Morte)

My first ever fanfic lol, I saw someone on here lament the fact that there was no Tree Sentinel fanfic and I agree, so I decided to write one lol, this is the first chapter and I will probs be updating every week or so lol. I might write for other characters too. Added a read more so it didn't take up the entire feed cause its long lol

You heaved against the solid wood, the crisp morning mist embraced you. Limegrave's fair beauty, covered with a veil of golden rays, held you still as your eyes scanned the vast field of grass waltzing with wisps of wind. The hushing of the trees lulled the falling Erd leaves to the ground as you hesitantly stepped away from the door.

In the distance you could hear the songs of birds echo and the salty waves crash against fine sand.

‘It feels too good to be true compared to what they prepared me for.’ you thought.

Scanning your surroundings you noticed the cute little critters hopping around and on the edges of rocks perched some proud birds, both animals you had never seen before. Your own town was too dimmed in an everlasting mist for anything cute to survive, like the gloom sucked out all the fun of living. The shadow of the ruined building covered the left. Bushes and trees scattered around. Beside you, a few steps away, a flower glowing softly stood, swaying in the sea breeze which hit your sinuses, dry and pungent with salt. You crouched down, putting your weight on the balls of your feet. You were enraptured by its beauty, your gloved hand reaching out to caress the delicate petals. This wasn't enough, so you peel the fabric from your hand to freely examine it.

It's soft and full of life, nothing like the plants you have back at home, where the endless dull skies leaves the ground barren of flowers. But here is different, you have never felt such a lively and soft material, the small indents of the veins running the white velvet flesh leaves you giddy with wonder.

Your head swivelled for more wonderment, finally landing on a group of vermillion star-petalled flowers. You rushed over, breathless with awe, the joy vibrating in your chest, as you once again examined a new specimen.

“I was waiting for you to approach me. Seems like you didn't even notice, strange considering I'm the only other person here.” A voice from behind you greeted, full of mirth and sass.

You startled so much that as the breath finishes its course out your mouth, you already had your sword ready.

“I would suggest against striking me, Tarnished. It will certainly not end well for you.” His voice lilted with a slightly gravelled tone.

You turned red and heated with embarrassment, this was not how you wanted to greet what you presume to be a fellow human.

“My apologies, Sir. You startled me.”

He huffed lightly, though you couldn't see his face you could see his chest rise and fall. Which relieved you. At least you were not completely alone.

‘You seem to take a while to think, Tarnished. Should I take a seat and wait.”

You eyed this stranger with suspicion, as he took a seat on the soft grass. There was no harm in keeping your guard up around here.

“Might I ask who you are, Sir?”

“I will once you put down that sword. I have no intention of harming you. In fact, I am here to guide you.” You saw the crinkles around his eyes as he smiled. He sat there, leisurely with no care in the world. You decided to heed his request, awkward and overwhelmed by everything.

“You certainly look different from the other Tarnished that come here. Have you any training at all?” He was looking at you with what seemed to be concern, like he can see right through the bulky armour and linen cloth.

“I have been trained, thank you very much. What’s more of a concern right now is that fact that you still haven't answered my question.”

He huffed out another chuckle. The sun had now warmed your skin in comfort at this point, as it climbed to midday.

“Varre. My name is Varre and I'm your one shining hope in this land, despite the fact that you are maidenless.”

‘Maidenless?”

His head tilted towards the Erd tree, eyes distant as if this was nothing new.

“Yes, well, you need a maiden to help you on your journey. A patroness of sorts.”

Your head whirled in confusion as you sifted through your memories. You had heard nothing of maidens from the high priests who taught you.

“You're thinking again, Tarnished. It seems to be a bad habit.” There he goes again. Like the matter was some joke, like you were a joke.

“I have a name too, Varre.” You were sharp with your retort.

“Oh, yes? And what would that be?” He seemed to have been mocking you still.

“Morte.”

“Morte. Seems fitting considering your chosen vocation.” Hazel eyes piercing right through your armour.

“I… I didn't choose this path. It was chosen for me.” You said heavily, eyes downturned in shame with your heart layed on top of your guts.

“Oh? And here I thought all Tarnished were here for their own selfish reasons.” He seemed surprised.

The sun was past its throne, starting its journey back to his chamber. Like he could feel the ensuing uncomfortable talk.

“The High Priest from my town said it has been my duty since birth to find the Elden Ring. I never wanted this life and frankly I'm too physically weak to even fight a wolf off. But they seemed to have insisted that since it is my duty, that I will find a way.”

He was silent, listening intently with the still physique of a statue.

“If I am to be completely honest, after hearing that I am not the first nor the last I feel as though this path is moot to me now. Surely, there are people more fit for the task than I.”

He seemed to be in thought for a while, like the cogs in his head were turning.

“It seems that I am not the only one who’s a slow thinker.”

He let out a small chuckle, mercifully moving his gaze to the ground.

“This situation does seem to need more thought than I expected.” He has straightened his posture, his legs crossed.

“Aha! Now you know how I feel.”

Things go quiet after that. It wasn't awkward silence but more of a perplexing one. Around us the world kept its cycle. The moon had started to tuck the sun into bed with blankets of dusk clouds. The shadows were more prominent as they covered the rolling fields and in the distance ruins glowed with slight warmth from what seemed to be a fire. Still even with the golden veil gone the land before you held its beauty with pride.

“You know… all throughout my life people have directed me, never left me alone. Now that I'm here, I feel lost, even though they gave me instructions. I need to find the Elden Ring, but I just want to explore this place now. It's not like they can find out what I'm doing, but I still fear that they will.”

He was back to staring at you now. our legs were crossed and hands held your head, like a saddened child.

Suddenly he got up, stretched his popping spine and then let out a groaning exhale.

“Follow me. I might know a way to help.”

He's held out his hand now, keeping a respectful distance as you use his arm to pull yourself up. His hand was warm and his grip firm compared to yours.

The back of your legs slowly forced themselves to straighten after lack of use while you stretched your arms out above your head in a Y shape. Bones and muscles expanded and settled back with a similar exhale.

He turned around and headed down the slight hill, his footsteps were heavy and his clothing swayed slightly with his confident movements. You followed behind, timid and on edge. Following a stranger could be very detrimental, but that was your best option so far. The further you walked down the more you could see the fields, to the left were ruins of what seemed to be a rounded coliseum.

To the centre was a path that led to the lit church, which seemed to be guarded by a large armoured man on an even larger horse. You were surprised that you did not hear the thudding hoofs of this majestic beast nor the scrape of metal against metal.

“It's best to keep your distance from the Tree Sentinels, let them do their jobs and they will let you do yours.” His voice level as though this sight is normal in these parts, and for all you knew, it was.

You continued down the hill to a glowing pile. Wisps of gold gilded around it like a campfire, as you stand next to it. It’s pretty and it illuminated the surrounding environment and you had this pull to touch it and to know if this light is warm and if it felt like the wind softly caressing your hair.

“Go ahead. Raise your hand towards it and let's see what it does.”

“What happens when I do?”

“It's a site of grace, it will; be able to tell you where you need to go. For most of you Tarnished, if not all that I've met so far, it leads you to Stormviele castle.” He had this tone of excitement, like a child anticipating a treat.

“It won't hurt me, will it?”

“Not in the slightest, Morte. If anything it will feel pleasant.”

So you heeded his wishes and crouched down. This must have been the magic that the high priest talked about. It held warmth to it and in the centre, levitating, was a tear shaped orb. You reached your hand out towards it, not knowing what exactly you were doing. The warmth from the grace site passed through the material of the glove with ease to finally touch your skin. It was like you could feel every particle of grace fit into the imprint of your skin, like gold filling cracks of pottery.

Like wading your hand in a pool of water, you could feel the movement of the grace as your hand shook still. It was textured like fine sand, almost powdery but the coarseness still gritted slightly against the fingerprints and dried valleys of your hand.

You focused on the feeling and all of a sudden you felt something shift, like movement in water. Opening your eyes you look over to see Varre staring at you intently.

“It does feel pleasant.” You were breathless, the awe of the situation holting your mind.

He still didn’t answer, but he leaned close to the site, like he was looking for something. Through the grains of grace you felt something, like uneasiness embodied. It felt like the grace of wavering slightly, like his pulsing heart's increased rate was felt by it. You felt nervous now, something was wrong. You realised that he said this would help guide you but you can’t feel nor see anything to suggest a path. If anything it just swirled like usual, only glowing brighter with you connected to it. It felt homely and warm, it was a comfort you never wanted to let go of.

He finally spoke, though there was hesitance and confusion tinting his usual teasing tone.

“I haven’t seen something like this before. How do you feel?”

He was looking at you now. His eyes were intimidating even with the concern behind them. You felt like he should have the answer to this, but seeing someone who has supposedly been doing this for quite a long time look at you like a lost pup had you in a bit of panic. The thumps of muscle against your sternum became more noticeable by the second. You look down at your hand then back up at Varre, then repeat swiftly while you conjure up your answer.

“Great? I’m not in any pain. Isn’t this supposed to happen?” Laced through your answer was confusion and a drop of fear.

“Move aside for a bit, dear.” you were taken aback by the pet name but still did so.

He degloved himself and moved his hand towards the grace. It did exactly what it did to you, only next came a glowing string that danced towards you with, well, grace. It circled around you and when you lifted your hand toward it you could still feel the grains of grace against your skin.

“You're supposed to see something like this, the grace is supposed to guide you on your path. This is different, it was static like you have no path to take.”

You froze when he said this. Though the thread of grace still warmed you, the shivers of anxiety began to wracked your body. This could not be happening, you need guidance. You’ve needed it ever since you were born and now you're being told that there was no guidance left for you. As though it was possible to run out, you used it all up during childhood and now your bank was drained. You took a tiny step back, tears birthing from your wide eyes as you start to feel the air crawl from your lungs.

“No… that can’t be.”

It came out as a pathetic whimper and the sobbing began. Your frame was shuddering, bones and flesh unsynced as you panicked right in front of a stranger. You felt the grace leave as he got up to move towards you. The hand that was once outstretched towards grace was now stretching towards you.

“Don’t panic, we will sort this out. There is certainly a reason for this, grace sites can not make mistakes.”

He closed the distance with his hand moulding to your shoulder, he had bent slightly to try and catch your pathetic eyes. You were in hysterics, the very reason for your existence was denied from you. How could you ever face your town now? You were to be the high priestess once you acquired the ring and now you will be nothing more than a pariah. You did not know what to do with yourself, you felt drenched in cold water, hands stretched out to your sides slightly, you shook from the very core of your being. Your muscles had already become stiff and crowded, the clothes and armour you wore felt constricted, the very hemming of your collar felt like it was strangling you.

“You still have grace, dear. It just seems to be wanting you to do something different with yourself. It’s telling you that your destiny is not the Elden Ring. Shouldn’t this be good news to you considering your hesitance?”

He was logical, and finding the Elden Ring certainly wasn’t something you wanted.

“But I need to do it. My very existence was created on that fact.”

You were still shaking, but the embers of anguish and wrath had started to glow. It felt unjust to you, that this would happen so late in your journey. All that training since birth, gone to waste.

“Oh Lambkin, It will be okay. Why don’t we talk to a friend? They might know something of this.”

“But I have none.”

“Ah, but I do. Come now, it’s only a short distance. Just down to the church of Elleh.”

You could tell he was panicking slightly, but he tried to keep it in for your comfort. You were a spirit in limbo, all directions felt too far for you, but you still crawled your way out of that burrow of self-pity to take the hand of Varre.

You both trudged down the hill towards the glowing church, the closer you got the more you saw the ruins it was in and the site of grace. But that was not the only thing illuminating it. The warm glow of fire encompassed the back wall of the ruin dancing ever so slightly. It was easy to see in the darkness of the night. Looking up you realised that this is the first time you’ve seen stars. The fog surrounding your home town only allowed for the moon to shine through, but tonight you realised that there was more than just the moon up there. It was close to distracting you from the contortions of your heart and the headache that throbbed at your crown.

You glanced over at the Sentinel making his rounds, you were walking closer to him. This prickled your skin especially with his foreboding helmet of gold following you as you went past. The horse he sat upon was well behaved and only flicked its head slightly to shake away a glowing bug that landed on its nose. You looked around the land, to find specks of glowing bugs everywhere and the soft caress of the moon shining on every surface. The air was chilled, but that was comforting against the heat of your distress. The air filled your lungs with renewal, it woke your mind up from the maorose sea of sludged guilt and bleakness.

Even with the current circumstances, you had not felt this alive in a while. In fact you never had felt so much in your lifetime. It was like something inside of you was awoken in this land. Like it was breathing with you, and moved with you. You were like a stormy planet, violent swirls of rain and rocks moving across your surface while your core stayed unchanging.

You were now just hiccupping and the cold air of the night had dried your tears for you. The soft cling of grass grounded you and the warm grip of Varre led you to the entrance of the ruins.

Inside was a grace site in the centre and to the very back right corner camped a man and a mule. He stared at you two as you made your way over, timidly you hid behind Varre.

Once you reached the grace site, Varre told you to wait there and play around with it. He continued on to greet the stranger, standing together and talking in hushed whispers.

You crouched down to take off your glove only to realise you left it behind. It stung your heart a bit to have done so but you continued on and reached towards the illuminated wisp. Once again connecting to the pool of grained grace, you felt calmed and comforted. It was like it felt your sorrows and held you close. You tried something different this time, you tried to empty your mind, like the monks back in your hometown. It was hard to untangle your mind from the self-pity and thorns of wrath that caught you, but once you had somewhat cleared your mind it happened.

You felt the pool increase around you, you could feel the boundaries of the walls and the movements of all the livin things around you. In the distance the rocking of the large horse caught your attention, then the slight movements of Varre and the stranger in the corner. You could feel one of the hopping creatures stir in its sleep in the burrow by the ruin. The grass danced in waves and the cool air complimented the warmth of grace. Everything felt alright.

You then felt Varre and the stranger walk towards you, you focused on that movement of grace. It was like you could feel their curiosity, the tilt of their heads and the glances between them.

“I have not seen this before.” It came from the stranger. Just a quiet whisper but it was like the grains were moving his voice closer to you. You opened your eyes to see them just a few feet away staring at the glowing of your arm.

Your arm should not be glowing like that, like the very flesh and bone had been replaced by the ethereal. Disconnecting from the grace site did not stop it either, for it kept glowing slightly, whorls of grace making up your skin and pure gold your bones. The sensations were still there as you tried wiping it off with the linen cloth of your skirt, but nothing came off except for the ever-present glow.

Varre moved closer towards you, you could feel his movements and went to examine your arm. The stranger stood close to him. Varre turned your arm this way and that, he then gave you a pinch.

“How did that feel?”

“Fine, I guess. It didn’t hurt, if that was what you meant.”

“I pinched your arm pretty hard.”

“I felt the force, just not the pain.”

“Hmmm…”

He seemed deep in thought as the stranger went up to have a look. He was gaunt and covered half his face with a cloth. His clothing was strange, red with tufts of white fluff around the borders. His skin was ashen grey dry from the sun, joints and ligaments showing through as he moved his hands.

“This is Kale, he’s a merchant that wonders these parts. I thought that he might have some information to help us, but it seems as though I was wrong.”

“You are certainly a peculiar Tarnished.” His voice was soft and pleasant.

“Her name is Morte. She doesn’t like being called Tarnished, and at this point I don’t think she is.”

“You’re right, Tarnished aren’t usually blessed with powers like this. I heard whispers that near the Erd tree there used to be maidens with similar powers. They would dance around at night and by day they care for the surroundings of the tree.”

“But she’s not from here, so how could she have acquired something like this.”

Kale took a while to think.

“I don’t know, maybe that’s her path.”

“If it was then she would have been led to the Erd tree by a path. It just keeps her there at the sites.”

“Maybe that is the path? Maybe her’s is the land she’s on.”

You were standing there, letting them discuss amongst themselves while you examined your arm. You felt more assured now that you have two people trying to aid you, but at this point you just wanted to focus on something more elating than the point of your existence. So you started to rock side-to-side as you thought of the Erd tree maidens. Their life seemed so joyful and simple, much more simple than finding the Elden Ring. You started to wish that you were born an Erd tree maiden instead of some small girl from a fogged land. To be with sisters with the same goal, dancing around with fits of laughter and murph while by day you took care of the grounds of your home in contemplation and ease.

“Can we continue this some other time? I feel tired.” Your voice was small but they still heard your plea.

“Certainly, Lambkin. Let’s get you some rest.” His voice was soft and warm and you realised that you can still feel everything in grace. It was pleasant.

They wanted to set you up by the fire where you could be kept warm, but you insisted on staying by the grace site to play around with it more. So there you were, sitting cross-legged with your grace arm outstretched. Focused once again. You can feel the familiarity of Varre and Kale’s conversion as they sat by the fire, the very shifting of their bodies could be detected through the grace. You could perceive everything but it was not overwhelming, nor was it confusing. You just could and it felt right.

Just maybe you could exist like this, instead of a high priestess with the Elden Ring. After-all, power never excited you.

You lay down, curled on your side by the site. Eyes fixed on its glow as you felt true peace. The anguish was replaced with assurance and you were fortified with the knowledge that there were people similar to you. Your face relaxed and so did your body as you reached your hand towards the site, playing around with the wisps of grace as you dozed off. Turning your head towards the sky, the stars held your eyes in their celestial hands as the Earth cradled your drifting form.

…

You woke from your slumber with the tickle of dew covered grass and the light of the waking sun. You still faced the sky and clouds clothed in dawn greet you with a good morning. The birds were chirping and through the tree the wind rushed. The crackling of the fire behind you told you that last night was real. Usually the morning after you cried there would come a headache, but you felt the opposite this time. You felt like you were made anew. Stretching as you sat up, you let out a sigh and looked around. The ruins were just as beautiful in the light. Reaching your new hand to the site you connected with it once again, it felt comforting to do so. You felt the land around you move as you breathed in and out, it felt nice just being able to exist for once. Even though you panicked last night about the lack of a path, you felt better now and more assured.

Varre and Kale were snoozing by the fire, you could sense their chests rising and falling. The mule was laying there with his head on Kale’s lap, ear flicking every once and a while. The morning air was fresh and the sunrise warmed your back. You were now under his veil too.

You decided to get up to look around by yourself. You made your way out of the church, running your new hand along the cool stone. Grass covered the ground in clumps that had you walking carefully, the sun had fully emerged from the horizon, its golden rays glittered in the dew drops covering everything. It looked like everything was covered in grace. The sky was clear with fluffy clouds sparse in its field, coloured in pastels that you had never seen before.

There was a rising deep inside of you, as though a metamorphosis ws taking place. The muscles of your heart snuggled together. Your whole body felt the exhilaration of finally understanding what a new day was.

You started to giggle, legs giddy as you pranced around. You grabbed your skirt in your hands and began to sway. Slightly to your right lay the colosseum ruins and before you was the ruins you came from. The wind twirled the locks of your hair between their fingers as you floated around Limgrave.

You felt like you belonged with the roots of the trees and the dancing grass, it felt like you were home.

You pranced around a bit more when you felt a presence behind you, one that was very familiar. Stiffening up you slowly turned around to face the Sentinel. He was even more intimidating up close. He towered over you, armour glistening in the morning sun. His horse was by his side and let out a huff of curiosity, staring and your small form. You did not move a muscle, as if he would not perceive you. It was sickening, the fear you felt, the way your gut contorted and your heart pressed itself against your spine. The horse stretched its head towards you, snuffling the air for your scent. It was gentle as its nose grazed your arms with huffs of air.

Your eyes were tearing up, you could not die this early. The Sentinel had not moved, but you knew he was staring right at you while his horse investigated. Finally he huffs and a fog of air escapes his helmet. Tugging the lead of his horse, he moved past you. You fell to the ground with relief, the Sentinel seemed to have not been interested in you, a small victory for the morning.

#elden ring #elden ring fanfic #elden ring x reader #elden ring oc #elden ring x oc #fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #x oc #elden ring tree sentinel #tree sentinel #tarnished x tree sentinel

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call-sign-shark · 1 year

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Heaven in Your Eyes || Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC

Summary: This is when things seem to get better with the Shelby family —at least with Polly— that a drunk client crosses the line with you at the Garrison. Haunted by his past insecurities and his burning jealousy, Arthur snaps. And he snaps very bad. For the first time since you've met, he reveals the beast he hides inside... And Tommy obviously uses the incident to blame you.

Words: 5k

TW: Angst, Obsessive behavior, extreme jealousy, graphic depiction of violence, murder, lot of blood, canonical violence, witch trial, allusions to smut, allusions to blood!kink, Arthur being an emotional and slightly psychotic mess

Notes:

✞ I don't condone Arthur's behavior. Also, keep in mind that Heaven is certainly a bit twisted too.

✞ Heaven is OP's original character but written with the use of « you » (Moodboard here).

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || Masterlist || NEXT

The sound of your heels hammering the cold pavement of Small Heath echoed in the nocturnal streets as you walked to the Garrison. Even though the expansion of the Shelby Company led the family’s interests away from the pub, they still hold the place dear to their hearts and sometimes they liked gathering there for old times' sake. Especially Arthur. Hence, rather than staying at home, reading in front of the fireplace, and dwelling on Polly’s odd behavior at the last family gathering, you decided to occupy your buzzing mind by surprising Arthur at the pub. A raven flew above your head and cawed, its presence stirring interest in you for he had followed you from the moment you had left your house. As you walked to the Garrison, you took a quick glance at the black bird’s silhouette, which was perched on a roof a few houses away.

"Silly boy, want to tell me something?" You told to it, amused. The animal, dressed with dark feathers, replied with another caw. You chuckled and kept walking.

The white dress and fur coat you were wearing contrasted so well with the dull night that the few people you passed were not sure what they had just seen. Indeed, the moon's glow reflected its light on your porcelain skin, adorning your frail body with an almost supernatural aura. That was why some of them thought they had caught sight of an angel, just like Arthur did the first time you and he met.

When the dark wooden door of the Garrison opened, its noise overcoming the laughter, chatting, and sounds of glasses clinking against each other, a soft wave of warmth caressed your cold face. You had barely stepped inside when people almost all turned around, many pairs of eyes weighing on you. Curious and dumbstruck gazes looked at you, wondering what such a holy-looking creature was doing here — but you did not really care. Your petrifying aquamarine iris swept the room to become familiar with the place before you headed to the counter behind which you saw Arthur’s tall frame. The man was back to you, talking with his little boss-brother Thomas. Awesome, you thought, little King Shelby is here. Sarcasm filled your head at the mere sight of him. To be true, you were well aware that Thomas was always doing his best to avoid you, but it did not annoy you. Quite the contrary, you were more than satisfied with never seeing him — you still did not come to terms with him trying to strangle you after all. Nevertheless, you leaned over the counter, arms resting on its varnished wooden surface, and parted your juicy lips to speak.

“Good evening, Mister Shelby. Care to serve me a drink?”

Arthur’s whole being shivered with delight as soon as he recognized the enchanting and oh-so-peculiar tone of your voice — the same voice that had led him to you one bleak and sleepless night. Shaken to the core by your presence, he forgot about Tommy the moment you had started to speak and turned around to face you, the corner of his lips stretching in a genuine and blissed smile. Each time his steel blue eyes fell on you, it was as if God's grace struck him — even though you were living together. The thrills you gave him never left.

“Good evening, love. What is such a delicious little Angel like you doing here? It’s a bad town for such a pretty face ye know.” He almost cooed with his hoarse voice, his hands on the bar and his eyes sparkling with a teasing gleam.

“Fell from the sky and got lost in these streets, so I just followed the light.” Your fingers grazed the back of his hand and went up its skin, leaving pleasant tingles in their trail, until they reached one of the many rings he was wearing. The simple gesture, barely touching him, lit up a blazing fire in his soul. Thomas looked at Arthur and quickly understood that no matter what he would say or do, he held no power over his older brother anymore, “Evening, Tommy.” You said, finally acknowledging him.

“Thomas. It’s Thomas.” He retorted with a voice as cold as an arctic blizzard that could freeze Hell’s inferno itself. He stubbed out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray and left without any single word, his shadow disappearing in the streets as he left the Garrison, for your sole presence seemed to bother him. Well, at least his opinion about you did not change. However, the lack of peculiar reaction from him reassured you: Polly had not told him what happened to the tea party yet.

“Don’t mind him eh,”

You did not.

“I should probably give you one hell of a strong drink if you fell from Eden… Miss?”

“Heaven Lavey.” You winked, enjoying his silly way of hitting on you as if it was the first time you met, “A glass of red wine would do the trick… And the barman’s heart.” Your teasing grin widened, unveiling perfect white teeth. Arthur let out a long exhale through his nostrils, enraptured by your whole being. From your smile to your bratty pout, you got him on his knees. Each time he would dive his eyes into yours, his heart would quicken in his chest and dopamine would rush through his veins — who would want to keep taking drugs after tasting you? Not even himself. He was already high enough by your presence in his life and God knew he never wanted to sober up from you.

“As you wish.” He leaned over the counter to lay a tender kiss on your forehead. The way his mustache gently tickled your skin made you chuckle. How sweet he was, not afraid to lavish you with sweetness even in front of other people. Then, he gathered all his strength to pull away from you and take care of your order — which was nearly impossible to do, for you were both attracted to each other like two powerful magnets. But still, he did and then poured the finest red wine the Garrison had in a glass before putting it in front of you. Then, he leaned a second time over the counter to bring his face close to yours again, “as for my heart,” he paused, his eyes abandoning yours to drop on your full lips he watched with utmost desire, “You already snatched it, angel.”

“You’re incorrigible, Arthur Shelby.” You could not help but laugh when you noticed that, as you spoke, his focus was still fiercely anchored to your lips. The urge he had to devour them was almost palpable, electrifying the air around him. Yet, you resisted the need to kiss him, rather bringing your small hands to his neck to fix his bow tie with indescribable tenderness. The pair of eyes that were watching you since your arrival could not believe that you had managed to tame the brutal Arthur Shelby — how he behaved with you was so different from the way he was with the others it almost scared them, “I hope you like this little surprise.”

“You can’t imagine how much I do.” He purred, grabbing your hands and putting them on his cheeks. How he loved feeling your cold skin against his. You cupped his face, looking right into his fair eyes with a never-ending love, and he instantly melted. His eyelids half-closed, for you had brought peace to his scorching soul again, “Lemme clean a few things and we’ll go back home eh.”

“Take your time. Je t’attends mon amour — I’ll wait for you my love —“

“Yer comfy here?”

“Arthur,” Your eyes rolled, amused.

“Want a cushion to sit on? Want to wait in a quieter room?”

“That’s okay.”

“Mmm’kay”

You freed his face from your sweet grip, leaving him lingering for more. When he reopened his eyes he could not hold the little growl that escaped his lips for you had not kissed him. He blinked several times, trying to chase away the charm you had cast on him with your sole presence, and reluctantly left you. Stars still danced in front of his eyes because of your intoxicating beauty — so hypnotizing he struggled to come back to what he was doing before.

Waiting did not bother you. In fact, you preferred to wait for hours here, in the comforting warmth of the pub and its hullabaloo, rather than being left alone with your thoughts in the quietness of your house. Sipping on your red wine, you were minding your own business when a man sat next to you, his body collapsing on the stool as if walking had been quite a struggle for him. Which was probably the case considering he was drunk. Only a few people were still at the Garrison, the others went home stumbling or dragged away by a fellow friend. The suffocating smell of whiskey and sweat that was emanating from the newcomer made you wrinkled your nose.

“Hey doll, all alone by yourself? ” The man said, bringing the whiskey glass to his chapped lips to gulp what was left in it. You glanced at him and simply nodded, not really wanting to do any kind of conversation, “Your glass is almost empty. Lemme buy you another one.”

“I really appreciate it but that’s fine.” You answered with a polite smile — but even when doing the bare minimum your angelic traits never failed to captivate your audience. The man noticed your strong accent and saw the opportunity to carry on with the conversation.

“You come from France eh? I fought in France! Bloody hell, still got the mud of this country under my nails!”

Maybe he talked a little bit too loud, or maybe Arthur’s senses were as sharp as a wolf’s, but the fact remains he immediately raised his eyes from what he was doing to watch over you. His steel blue iris shifted their attention from you only to cast their furious fire on the drunk man that was talking to you. His woman.

“You know, I always thought it was kind of sad that all the people here only link France with the war. This is a beautiful country.” You answered, taking another sip of red wine. Somehow, you allowed yourself to talk with the man. At least time would probably fly faster that way.

“If France’s as beautiful as ya, I’ll rush back to it by tomorrow, doll. The name’s Jim.”

You silently replied to him with a light smile, gently shaking your head at the fella’s attempt to compliment you.

You smiled at Jim — And Arthur broke the glass he was holding in his hand. It had been crushed by the pressure with which he had tightened his grip around it until it shattered into bits. Sharp pieces of glass had pierced Arthur’s flesh, blood dripping from his palm, but the tormenting anger that was building within him was so overwhelming he did not even feel the pain. As seconds passed, his face contorted with rage and his eyes darkened with jealousy. You. Smiled. At. Him.

That was definitely not okay — the man did not deserve your blissful smile.

Deafened by the sound of his own heart pounding in his tight chest, Arthur swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat in a vain attempt to keep control. To not let his anger issue show. The rational part of his mind was telling him to keep calm, for he knew you loved him and only him. You had told him plenty of times, after all. And he trusted you, really. But the other part, led by his insecurities and his mental instability, whispered foul insinuations to his ear.

Why would she stay with such a criminal like you? You’re sick. You’re old. You’re broken — and no one loves broken men.

You’re stupid, far less clever and charming than Tommy. HE is a real man.

You either scare or repel women. Linda told you. You don’t deserve Heaven.

Useless. So useless… Broken. Crazy, you’re fucking crazy. She’ll see what you are. A monster. Monster. Monster.

Arthur’s jaw clenched as his mind spiraled into a never-ending maze of whipping thoughts and insufferable feelings. Self-loathing was becoming too much to bear — so messy it had started to drown him. He felt his sanity slowly slipping through the cracks of his skull and the only thing he could to do make it stop was to break things. And by things he meant Jim.

“Listen, Jim. I think you should go back home and rest. This is the whiskey talking.” You stated.

“Only if you come home with me, doll.” He ought to say, his grin widening.

Breathless with rage, Arthur felt the heat pooling in his face. A few drops of sweat beaded on his forehead as he shook his wounded hand to clear his flesh from the shards of glass.

“You really should —“

“Come home with me and I’ll make you beg.” He cut off before you had time to turn his invitation down , bringing his hand on one of your thighs to strengthen his point.

Destructive anger flowed through his veins like lava, exploding at the moment the man laid a finger upon you. Agile like a wild cat, Arthur jumped over the counter and rushed toward you, his shoulders tensed and his arms swinging as he walked. Earth shook under his feet, opening the gates of Hell more and more at each of his steps.

“AL-FUCKING-RIGHT THEN,” He blurted out, standing fiercely behind Jim. Arthur’s thundering voice almost made him jump — and it was enough for him to take his hand off your thigh and turned around to meet the Devil’s eyes. You froze on your stool, astounded by your man’s anger.

His face distorted with both fear and confusion at the sight of Arthur Shelby, green with jealousy and maddened with fury, “What the fookin hell did ya say, pal? WHAT THE FOOK DID YOU SAY TO ME WOMAN?” He roared, blue eyes shining with a threatening glow. At this point, Arthur was almost choking with rage.

“Oh my God Arthur, I did not know she was your woman. I’m sorry! I really did not —“ Jim could not finish his sentence for Arthur had grabbed him by the neck and dragged him away from you in front of the few last clients' terrified looks.

“You TOUCHED her! You bloody touched her, ME ANGEL. ME HEAVEN. I can’t fucking believe it,” He spat, his words coated with bitter venom. Swirling in the chaotic vortex of his own fury, he did not hear the man’s bargains. And somehow, he did not care. There was nothing he could say to stop him anymore. Jim tried to utter another apology.

He had barely opened his mouth when Arthur’s fist crushed his nose with such a violent blow the sound of broken bones echoed through the Garrison. The man, almost knocked out by the uppercut, crashed on the wooden floor, a jet of blood gushing from his face, “Oi! Thought you fought in France. Come on, bastard! Fight me!” He snarled, teeth bared like a wild animal.

He’s going to kill him. That was what crossed your mind when you came back to your senses, overcoming the shock of seeing Arthur in such a frenzy state. You got up from your stool, “Arthur… Stop it please.” You called him, trying to be as soft as possible not to fan the flames of his anger.

“I AM NOT GONNA STOP!” He barked, looking at you.

He looked at you

and you saw the Hell in his eyes.

“Heard how he dared to talk to ye? Ah, you wanted to make me angel beg eh?” Arthur kneeled over the whimpering man, almost straddling his quivering body, to grab him by the collar of his coat, “Yeah that’s what you said right. But trust me, you sonofabitch, I’m the one who’ll make you beg!” He yelled, sending another powerful blast to the man’s face with his fists as sole weapons, adorned with thick silver rings. “BEG, YOU BASTARD!”

“P-please—“

Another disgusting sound of torn flesh and cracking skull filled the room. “By order —“ A third punch. Breaking teeth. Jim spat three of them at your feet. “Of the —“ Fourth. Fifth. His knuckles bruised and split under the strength of his blows but Arthur could not care less. All he wanted was to reduce Jim’s face to an unidentifiable slop of flesh. “Peaky —“ Dislocated jaw hanging loosely. The horrible sight was accompanied by the cacophony of bloody gurgles. “Fookin — “ Jim had lost count of the punches that rained down on him. All he knew was that his body was giving up. At one point Arthur Shelby had stopped beating him, only to unstrapped the combat knife he kept in his holster, “BLINDERS!”

“ARTHUR NO!!!” Running to the scene and falling on your knees, you managed to grab his hands and keep him from stabbing the drunk man, “Don’t do that, please I need you. Please, please stop it.”

Please.

Your voice, like a light piercing the thick veil of his darkness, snatched him from his murderous craze. Waking up by the smell of blood mixed with your sweet spring-like perfume, Arthur stopped in the midst of what he was doing and realized he was holding a knife above his head, ready to plunge it into a man’s chest. He took a look at you, noticing the shocked expression on your holy face, and all his anger disappeared into a void. His fingers loosened around the knife, which fell on the wooden floor with a metallic noise, “please Arthur, calm down… Call down, Mon amour.” You whispered, begging him with your eyes. Silence fell on the Garrison, as well as in his mind. The maddening voices had stopped and the buzzing hatred had vanished. Arthur left the unconscious man and collapsed in your arms, panting and shaking. Adrenaline made you shiver too, but you gently hugged his frame, one hand stroking his hair, “That’s okay… I’m here …” You repeated just like a healing chant as a few men grabbed the severely injured victim and took him away from the pub.

“I’m … I’m sorry— Heaven, oh my god —“ Arthur stuttered, slowly realizing what he just did. He buried his face in your breasts, for comfort as well as to hide the blood that had splattered on him. He barely dared to hug your frail body for fear of breaking you. Sometimes, he swore he had hell in his hands and he did not want to bring you down in the flames with him.

“Shhhh… Breathe in. Breathe out. You can do it.” You said with a soothing tone. With divine softness, you ran your fingers through his hair, not minding the blood he smeared on your clothes and bosom, “that’s okay, you’re a good boy..” But as you were trying to chase away your man’s demons, a far too familiar voice echoed in the room.

“What the fuck is this mess?!” Thomas Shelby exclaimed for he had just entered the Garrison, John by his side. His freezing blue eyes looked at you from above. The king was here and he hated what he saw.

“John, bring Arthur home. Everyone OUT.”

This was all it took to empty the Garrison from its remaining clients. When John gently put his hand on his older brother’s shoulder, Arthur’s embrace tightened around your tiny silhouette for he did not want to leave you. “No,” he managed to beg between two heartbreaking sobs. His face still hidden, not daring to look at you for fear of seeing disgust and anger in your eyes, Arthur refused to let you go. Somehow, he was convinced you would not go back home — why would you after what you had just witnessed? “Don’t take me away from her!” He said, a bit more fiercely, which resulted in John taking a few steps back and looking at you, silently begging you to help him. In the midst of the chaos, only you could bring him back to his senses. A brief sigh escaped from your lips before you gently forced Arthur to look at you.

“Listen, chéri. I need you to go back home and calm down. I’ll be very quick.”

“No, no, you won’t come back.”

“ I’ll do,” You wiped away his tears with your thumbs, accidentally smearing more blood on his face doing so, “and when I do, I’ll take care of you alright? I’ll keep you warm and loved.” Punctuating your sentence with affection, you slicked his hair back with a frail but oh-so-loving grin on your face. He finally accepted.

When he left alongside John, your smile vanished and you got up from the floor, legs still slightly shaking. Thomas was still standing in the middle of the pub, towering you with all his height, and looking at you with his cold eyes. His chilling stare followed your movements as you walked to the bar and poured yourself another glass of wine.

“I told you to keep a low profile,” He began. Thomas Shelby’s voice was dressed in an apparent quiet, but something in his tone was threatening — and even though he did not display any sign of emotion, you knew his blood was boiling.

“Oh come on Thomas, all I wanted was to make a surprise to Arthur.” You took a mouthful of wine — the much-needed alcohol calming your anxiety.

Thomas closed his eyes for a few seconds and pinched the bridge of his nose to stop his dawning headache, “ A surprise… I hope you like the result then,” He retorted, before shifting his eyes back to you,

“Listen, I know you don’t like me but — ”

“He nearly killed someone for you. What the fuck are you doing to my brother, eh?” Tommy slightly tilted his head to the side, a spark of resentment lightening up his icy iris. You remained silent, still not believing Thomas was really blaming you for Arthur’s outburst. Of course, you had not reacted immediately, but the shock had petrified you for a few long minutes — but was it your fault if he had beaten the man? Certainly not. At this point, Tommy was just lashing out at you for all the issues his family was facing. It was far easier than admitting his own flaws and responsibility. Visibly infuriated by your silence, Tommy walked to you and stopped only a few inches from you, trapping your body between the counter and his own strong frame. He was close — so close your breasts were almost pressed against his chest, “Look me in the eyes when I fucking talk to you, Heaven.” He spat your name with disgust, as if he had just bitten into an apple filled with maggots.

“Get my pretty name out of your mouth,” You looked dagger at him, anger rushing through your veins at such an unwanted proximity. Yet you did not flicker.

“You fucking white Devil,” He hissed through his teeth, his low voice still calm in spite of his blooming hatred, “Are you happy to spread chaos in our life? What do you want from us ey?” He leaned over you, bringing his face closer to yours. With his brows slightly furrowed, Tommy’s sky blue eyes were probing yours, trying to understand the mystery they hid behind their aquamarine wonders, ”What do you want from me?! After Arthur is this me you want to control??” He growled. Your heart raced in your chest — shivers ran down your spine, and goosebumps appeared on your porcelain skin, for his unpredictable behavior was starting to worry you.

“I don’t want anything from you Thomas Shelby. Whether you like it or not I’m being honest with your brother. You know Arthur’s emotional, you can’t blame me for that. You take away his meds, turn him into a killer, and now you’re surprised he snaps?? How. Fucking. Unbelievable! Do you know what I think? Well, I think you need me to be your scapegoat . You need to blame me for your sins. For everyone’s sins.”

“Fucking burn in hell,” He spat again but could not find something to retort properly. It seemed like the skies gave you the gift of shutting Thomas Shelby's mouth. Instead, one of his hands grabbed you by the neck and forced your face to get closer to his. His breath fanned over your skin, as burning as a dragon’s fire.

“Be careful with the Rule of Three, Thomas. For each spell you cast always returns to you three times stronger.” You whispered. Then you gathered all your remaining strength to push him away from you, his musky and peculiar perfume almost making your head spin. Not wanting to stay here any longer — and also longing for a hot shower to wash away the blood from your skin —, you headed to the Garrison’s door. Obviously, Tommy’s eyes followed you but he did not say anything, muted by his resentment. Admittedly, he was torn between the urge to bounce on you and the desire to see you leave. You were about to disappear, the cold breeze of the night jumping at your face and rushing into the pub as you opened the wooden door. But your instincts kicked in. After a few seconds of hesitation, you finally decided to warn little king Shelby.

“By the way..." You looked at Thomas from above your shoulder.

"You should keep an eye on Charles. You really should.”

He froze. Confused and infuriated.

You left. Hurt and bitter.

When you came back home, you crossed your reflection in the corridor’s mirror. Your body refused to work anymore and forced you to stop in front of it. Facing your own person was something you hated. With trembling fingers, you brushed the blood stain Arthur had left on one of your cheeks.

Mom! Mom, no!!

I’ll fucking kill you all!!

You clenched your jaw at the memory it triggered, but still, you kept looking at your tainted ivory skin as if you were slowly learning to come to terms with what you did and what you were. Your fingers trailed down your throat until they grazed the top of your bosom, where the blood had accumulated the most. Another painful memory assaulted your mind, replaying the aching, almost inhuman screams of your little sister when her flesh had been eaten alive by the hungry tongues of the pyre’s flames.

Only God knew how you managed to keep your mind from spiraling into the darkest pits of your trauma, but you did — maybe that was because Arthur needed you. That protective instinct was stronger than your own pain. That was why you tricked your body into moving away from the mirror and went upstairs to take a hot shower before joining your man in bed. John had probably managed to convince him to sleep. Or his body had collapsed on the mattress, exhausted by the energy poured in his latest outburst.

As the running water of the shower was filling the bathroom with its regular and soothing noise, you slowly let your white dress slip along your body until it fell on the floor, as well as your lace panties. You stepped over the pile of clothes and, without waiting any longer, you hopped under the shower and welcomed its warm water with utter joy. A sigh of relief escaped from your lips as you tilted your head back, water hugging your body and raining down on your long white mane that cascaded down your lower back. You almost managed to empty your mind when, suddenly, one gentle calloused hand brushed your hip. Jumping in surprise, you turn around and saw that Arthur had joined you under the shower. His hands, arms, and face were still splattered with half-dried blood he had not cleaned. To be true, he had been too busy curling up on the bedroom floor, panicking about at the idea of you leaving him after what you had witnessed.

“You’re here…” His gravel voice said, water falling on his naked body whose millions of freckles drew magnificent constellations on his skin.

“Told you I’d come back.”

He smiled, softly. His steel blue had stopped avoiding you and was now firmly anchored in yours.

He took a step toward you.

You stepped back in response until your bare body met the cold shower wall.

Your pulse quickened, fascinated by the way Arthur looked. He had something in his eyes — a mix of limerence and pure madness who, combined with the crimson stains on his face, made your legs weak. His breath was slow but yours soon became erratic, even though he had barely touched you yet.

“You ain’t scared, love? Please, tell me you ain’t scared of your Arthur…” He said, his lower lip trembling as his body perfectly interlocked with yours. A small growl escaped from his throat at the intoxicating sensation of yours curves pressed against his skin. But despite his inextinguible desire, he still looked at you with hesitation and genuine guilt — his puppy eyes would surely break anyone’s heart.

“No, I’m not scared,” You replied, not shifting your gaze from him. The corner of your juicy and honey lips stretched in a small grin, “You…” You paused, bringing one hand to his stained cheek, “you look pretty with blood all over your face.”

Arthur’s eyes lightened with both surprise and ravaging desire, for you had witnessed the beast’s violence but still thought he was attractive. A twisted wave of arousal shook you to the core when he bared his teeth in a vaguely dangerous but oh-so-seductive smirk.

“Oh bloody hell, angel…” Not finishing his sentence, his lips captured yours in a fury kiss for he could not wait any longer. The need to possess you, to feel you, was too devastatingly strong to resist. At first, his lustful kiss surprised you, and even though you burnt for him l, a part of you felt it was wrong to feel this kind of twisted attraction. Last thing Arthur needed was someone encouraging his violence — but your brain soon shut down at the thought he did it for you. Only you. Your arms locked up around his neck to deepen the waltz of your tongues, sending fireworks in your loins. It was far than enough to turn Arthur on who, all of sudden, lifted you from the ground as if you weighted nothing.

You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, already suffocating with the hungry way he devoured your mouth and the shower’s steam accumulating around you.

As water rained down on your two intertwined bodies, it washed away the blood from your skins. The tainted liquid disappeared down the drain, leaving pale red stains on the bathtub's immaculate marble.

You kissed him harder. Rougher. Until his flesh dived into yours in an explosion of pleasure and shooting stars.

For you had seen the Hell in his eyes, and loved it anyway.

Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

Each chapter of this series can be read as stand-alones but I advise you to read everything if you want a better understanding of details.

Tagging those who might be interested: @areyenotfondofmelobster @meowtastick @babayaga67 @sired-to-hybrid @shelbyssins @kxnnxyasdfg @adaydreamaway08

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