#northern walking stick

[onenicebugperday]

@skarabrae-stone submitted: My grandma found this stick insect (a northern walking stick, we think) climbing on her screen door this fall (upstate NY). When I told her about your blog, she asked me to send it in for her!

Well tell grandma I said hello! And this is indeed a very nice northern walking stick :)

#insects #bugs #submission #phasmid #walking stick #stick bug #stick insect #northern walking stick

[earthmegarah]

Northern Walking Stick- Diapheromera femorata

insta ⋮ earthmegarah

#northern walking stick #phasmid #insects #faeries #nature #photography #my photography

[stranger-nature]

Northern Walkingstick (Diapheromera femorata)

#insects #bugs #stick bug #stick insect #walking stick #Diapheromera femorata #Northern Walkingstick #bugblr

[punkshort]

somewhere to run | 2. book club

Pairing: sheriff!Joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: An incident at the diner causes you to get shaken up, and Joel is there to help.

Chapter Warnings: language, slow burn, mutual pining, PTSD type symptoms, flirting, jealousy, attempted robbery, reader gets mildly injured

WC: 6K

Series Masterlist

"So you see why it's so important you keep on top of your oil changes, yeah?" Mr. Connor finished saying as you set down his plate of waffles and sausage. You nodded enthusiastically while you filled up his coffee.

"I was never really any good at car stuff," you admitted, but he shook his head.

"If you take care of it, that car'll last you five more years and save you boatloads of money," he told you, wagging his finger. "You come by my shop any time and I'll take a look at that beater you're drivin', won't rip you off, either."

You laughed as you heard the bells above the door ring and Maria greet the next customer.

"I'll hold you to it," you said with a wink before turning to put the coffee back on the burner.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the familiar outline of a man settle into Joel's usual seat at the counter, and you felt the butterflies stir up in your stomach. You glanced up to make sure there wasn't any food getting cold in the window before pulling out your notepad and walking over. As you approached, you mentally braced yourself for the onslaught of his cologne, but as you got closer, you couldn't smell it. In fact, all you could smell was soap and maybe a faint hint of oil from his gun.

When you paused in front of him, the realization dawning on you, he glanced up from the menu with a smirk. A slow smile spread across your face when you looked him in the eye.

"Better?" was all he said, and you couldn't stop the giggle from escaping your lips.

"You didn't have to do that for me," you said, suddenly feeling bashful and looking down at your blank notepad.

"I know, but I wanted to," he said, leaning back and closing the menu. He didn't even know why he looked at it anymore, he knew it by heart already. "Thought maybe it'd make you stick around long enough for me to get to know you better."

You definitely felt your cheeks flare at that comment, and it must have been visible because Joel just grinned, clearly very pleased with himself.

"Where are you from?" he asked, determined to try to make some more progress with you today.

"Pennsylvania," you said, finally looking back up at him with a smile as you tapped your pen on the pad.

"Northerner," he said with feigned disgust. "And what brought you all the way to Texas?"

"The incredible job opportunity, isn't it obvious?" you said, and he laughed. A real laugh, one you hadn't heard before, and it did something to you. Uh oh.

"You're funny," Joel said, almost as if he were saying it to himself. You grinned and decided to steer the conversation in a different direction: away from you.

"What about you? Have you lived here your whole life?"

"Born and raised," Joel said with a nod. "Our pop used to be the town sheriff, before he passed 'bout ten years back or so."

"So, you followed in your father's footsteps?" you asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Suppose I did," he told you, leaning forward. "But can I tell you a secret?"

You hummed and leaned forward as well, trying to bite back your smirk.

"Kinda wishin' now I was the one who bought this place instead of my brother," he said quietly and so close to your ear that it sent a shiver down your spine.

Still leaning in, you dropped your voice to match his and said "then who would stop those teenagers from drawing phallic images on street signs?"

He laughed again, the same deep, throaty laugh as before, and you felt your stomach clench at the sound.

"You heard that, huh?" he asked, smiling and leaning back. You shrugged.

"Lee isn't as quiet as he thinks," you told him. You wanted to say you had to learn early on to eavesdrop, that listening and anticipating danger became second nature to you, but you caught yourself.

"Howdy, brother," you heard Tommy's voice boom from somewhere behind you. You took the opportunity to sneak away and check on your other customers while they talked, but you made sure to set Joel up with coffee before heading towards the other end of the counter, his eyes trailing after you and staring a moment too long on your bare legs.

"You givin' her the business?" Tommy asked, nodding in your direction, and Joel nearly choked on his coffee. Tommy raised his eyebrows.

"She's, uh... she's a nice girl," Joel finally managed to get out after wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"He's got the hots for her," Betty whispered to Tommy as she ambled by. Joel cleared his throat loudly and gave her a stern look, but she just laughed and kept walking.

"Oh, Joel, I'm beggin' you, don't screw this up for me. She's a real good waitress, I don't wanna lose her - "

"Would you keep it down?" Joel whispered, his eyes darting around to make sure you weren't within earshot. "I ain't gonna screw anythin' up for anyone, don't worry. She's just... nice."

"'Nice'," Tommy repeated, clearly not buying it. He was about to say more, but Joel straightened up in his seat and averted his gaze, trying to wordlessly warn him you were heading over.

"Sorry to interrupt. Are you ready, Joel?" you asked him, your pen and paper in hand. He looked up at you and it was hard to fight the goofy look on his face now that you didn't regard him with such disdain.

"Yeah, sure. Let's put this guy to work, huh?" Joel said, pointing to Tommy, and you giggled. Behind you, Tommy rolled his eyes. Nice.

Joel told himself he was only allowed to think about you on his walk back to the station after lunch. You had told Betty you weren't interested in dating anybody at the moment, but he could wait. He wondered if he could change your mind, if he could make you come around to the idea of being with him, or at least give him a chance. You definitely seemed much warmer towards him today. He must have been wrong yesterday, you really must be sensitive to smells if all it took was for him to stop using that obnoxious cologne Sarah got him that he felt too guilty to throw away.

"Hey boss, how was lunch?" asked Bobby, the town's deputy and Joel's right hand man.

"Good. Anythin' goin' on here?" Joel asked, shrugging off his blazer and hanging it on the coat rack outside his office.

"Not much. I was 'bout to let Ollie outta the drunk tank. His wife was callin', askin' after him," Bobby said before rising to his feet with a groan. Although the man was ten years younger than Joel, his joints seemed to be ten years older.

Joel glanced at the time on his watch with a nod.

"Yeah, go ahead. Third time this month, though. Next time it happens, I'm keepin' him longer."

"Alrighty," Bobby said over his shoulder as he pulled the keys from his pocket and headed back towards lockup.

Joel sighed and began flipping through the papers littering his desk before giving up and leaning back in his chair to stare out the front window, watching people as they walked past. Before he could stop himself, his mind had already wandered back to thoughts of you, and it took him five whole minutes and Ollie's hungover ramblings to snap him out of it.

Maybe Sarah would want to get pizza for dinner.

It was nearly seven at night as you made your way back home from work, your feet aching and your head throbbing. At the very least, it was a cool, summer night. The breeze was enjoyable and the sun was still peeking out just enough to keep your skin pleasantly warm. All you could think about was getting home and running a bath to soak your sore muscles. It had been a long time since you held a job, let alone a job that kept you as active as this one.

Patrick didn't like the idea of you working. When he first suggested you quit your job and stay at home, you thought it was sweet. You took it to mean he wanted to provide for you so you could relax and be a homemaker, maybe even a mom one day. But after a few months, you quickly realized he just didn't want you around other people, or more specifically, other men. Without even knowing it, you trapped yourself at home without a lifeline, and it was exactly what he wanted.

Even though you were sore now, you felt good. You were taking care of yourself. Providing for yourself. And you never felt more proud.

You were juggling your keys, trying to find the right one that opened the door to the sidewalk, when you heard a familiar voice exit the pizza place.

"Well, look who it is," you heard Joel say, and you let the keys dangle at your side as you turned around with a smile.

"Evening, Joel," you replied, your eyes quickly drifting down his body. It was the first time you had seen him in casual clothes. Every other time you ran into him, he was in his work uniform, which usually consisted of some type of suit. But tonight, he was wearing dark blue jeans and a beige button up shirt with short sleeves. As he strolled over to you, balancing a pizza box in his hand, your eyes were immediately drawn to the way the muscles in his arms strained against the fabric of the shirt, making your mouth go dry.

"Tommy finally let you leave, huh?" he joked, and you had to remind yourself to laugh, your mind still too fixated on the way he looked in that shirt.

"Dad?" you heard a girl's voice call behind him, and you both turned your attention towards the voice. You remembered your brief interaction at the pharmacy and realized that she must be Sarah. Her eyes flickered from you to Joel, then back to you, clearly waiting for Joel to introduce you, but he seemed frozen in place. So, you stretched out your arm and introduced yourself with a smile, which she reciprocated.

"You look familiar," she said, tilting her head to the side the same way her dad did.

"I think I saw you at the pharmacy a couple days ago," you reminded her, and she snapped her fingers.

"That's what it is," she said, giving you another smile. "Are you working for Uncle Tommy?" she asked, looking at Joel again, who was still standing there, unmoving, watching the two of you interact. She frowned slightly at him, picking up on his strange reaction as well, before giving you her attention again.

"Yeah, at the diner. He hired me earlier this week, brand new," you told her, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. Joel's silence was deafening at this point and starting to make you uncomfortable, so you held up your keys and pointed to the door.

"I won't keep you guys. It was great to meet you, Sarah," you said with a wave, but before you could turn towards the door, she stopped you.

"Why don't you join us?" she asked, shooting Joel a mischievous look as if she finally realized the reason for his behavior.

"Oh, no, that's so nice of you, but I'm just gonna jump in the bath and go to bed, it's been a long day," you replied. Joel's body stiffened next to you when you announced your plans.

Finally, he managed to clear his throat and speak.

"We'd love to have you join us, we were just gonna grab a picnic table out back," he said, and you swore his cheeks looked a little pinker than usual.

You were struggling to find another polite way to turn down their offer when he added "c'mon, why don't you lemme serve you for a change?"

Sarah smiled as she watched the two of you. She couldn't wait to tease her dad about it in the car later.

"Alright," you said slowly, lowering your keys once again. Joel's face broke out in a huge grin before leading you and Sarah down the short alley to the small courtyard behind the building, where there were a few picnic tables and string lights draped overhead.

"Are you sure I'm not intruding?" you asked again, and they both vehemently shook their heads.

"No way," Sarah said, licking the sauce off her fingers after she picked up her piece from the box. "It's nice to have another girl around for a change."

"Sarah," Joel said warningly under his breath.

"I just mean it's nice to hear about something else other than work and football," she said to him with a grin, and he rolled his eyes, choosing to sit on your side of the table instead of hers.

"So, you live above the pizza place? That seems pretty cool. Pizza whenever you want," she said, covering her mouth as she spoke. You swallowed your food before responding.

"Yeah, it is pretty convenient. And they actually have good pizza," you said. "I think I'm finally getting used to the smell."

Joel's knee accidentally knock against yours under the table and you had to fight the urge to jump away, the contact startling you.

Sarah asked the same questions everyone in this small town inevitably asked you when you first met: where are you from and why are you here? The first question was easy, the second one always gave you pause. It wasn't until Sarah asked that Joel suddenly realized you never really answered him when he asked the same question earlier that day, so he stopped chewing to pay attention.

"Just looking for a change," you said with a shrug, taking another bite of pizza. Sarah considered your answer for a moment before following up.

"Have you ever been here before?"

"Nope."

"So you just got in your car and ... drove?"

"Kind of," you said with a nervous laugh. Joel frowned slightly.

"That's so cool," Sarah said, a smile stretching across her face. "Dad, doesn't that sound so cool?"

"Yeah," he said with a nod, finally joining the conversation. "Do you got family down south or anythin'?"

"Uh, no," you said, shaking your head. "Just always heard it was nice down here so I thought I would see for myself."

"You think you're here for good, then?" he asked, his voice a little more hopeful than he wanted to come across.

"That's the plan," you said to him with a smile.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Sarah asked out of the blue, and your eyes darted back to her in surprise.

"No," you replied slowly, heat creeping up your neck and guilt dancing in the back of your head while Joel hid his grin behind his pizza. "Do you?" you deflected, raising your eyebrows at her with a smirk, and she giggled, shaking her head.

"You better not," Joel said, and the two of you laughed.

Over the rest of the hour, you listened to Joel and Sarah crack jokes and argue over what movie they would end up watching later that night and you felt the smile slowly begin to slip from your face as you came to the sobering realization that the type of dynamic they had, one that was so obviously built on love and trust, was something you never truly experienced before. It wasn't just something you saw in the movies or read in books. People in the real world actually got to experience it, and you couldn't help but feel a little jealous. Why not you? What did you ever do to receive the type of life you got?

After parting ways and thanking them over and over for dinner, you finally headed upstairs and collapsed on your small sofa. You untucked your work shirt and unzipped your skirt, but that was as far as you got, exhaustion winning the fight.

You closed your eyes and wished you had the energy to get up and run a bath, but you just couldn't bring yourself to do it yet. Instead, you let your mind wander, imagining a life where you could call out to someone who cared for you in the other room and ask them to run the water. Maybe they would surprise you and light a few candles and mix in some soothing bubble bath. You knew that would never happen. You could never let yourself be honest enough with anybody to allow them into your life, but it didn't stop you from wishing for it, anyway. And right before you drifted off to sleep, you imagined that certain somebody had dark brown eyes and soft curls on the top of his head that you were itching to run your fingers through.

As hard as you tried to keep to yourself, the town was very small, and eventually you found it was nearly impossible to keep from making connections with people. Whether it was through work at the diner or striking up a conversation with someone at the store, you were quickly becoming interwoven in the lives of the people who graciously accepted you as one of their own.

You were particularly becoming fast friends with the girl who worked the register at the pizzeria below your apartment. Her name was Hailey and she was a couple years younger than you, but you had a lot in common, one of which was a shared taste in the same movies and books, so you were excited when she invited you to join a book club she and a couple other women in town started. As much as you enjoyed talking about books, you found you also very much enjoyed listening to all the town gossip that inevitably came out after everyone had their first glass of wine.

"So, Nikki, did I hear Sam asked you out on a date?" an older woman named Martha asked. Nikki blushed when the group turned to her, some women poking her in the side and others murmuring excitedly under their breath.

"Yeah, but it's not a big deal," Nikki said, flicking her long, dark hair over her shoulder. She looked to be a little older than you were but it was hard to guess her age.

"Not back in town for two weeks and she's already got a date," Hailey said, rolling her eyes next to you playfully. "Some girls got all the luck."

"Oh, stop it," she chided with a smirk, then paused as if she were rethinking her next statement before blurting out "kind of wish someone else woulda asked me out instead."

That got the whole group's attention, even your own, and you barely had any idea who most of these people were. But you supposed any amount of gossip paired with alcohol is good gossip.

"Oh, please, you don't gotta say it, we all know who you've been chasin' after all these years," another woman chimed in with a giggle. Fortunately, you weren't the only person in the dark.

"Who?" Hailey asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Joel, obviously," the other woman replied, and while the rest of the group groaned, everyone tossing in their two cents and offering up their favorite things about him, you remained frozen in your chair, blood running cold.

"Lord, he came into school last week to pick up Sarah, and the way his ass looked in those jeans..."

"Did I ever tell you about the time I nearly slipped on the ice and he caught me? Had to go to confession the next day..."

"... and I swear, I've considered committing a crime just so he would throw those handcuffs on me..."

"I don't know how that man has been single for so long..."

Part of you wanted to laugh at some of the things the women were saying about Joel, but the other part of you felt hot and angry. You wanted to scream shut up, don't think about him like that, don't even look at him. And through your alcoholic haze, you realized you were jealous. Jealous of all of these women, young and old, barking out comments about the town sheriff you had no business feeling jealous over.

The next day when he came into the diner for lunch, your head was still swirling with all of the comments the women in town made the day before. Distracted, you dropped your pen and pad on the ground as you made your way over to greet him, cursing under your breath.

Joel grinned when you finally approached, looking every bit as frazzled as you felt.

"Tough day?"

"Huh? Oh," you said nervously, tucking your hair behind your ear and shaking your head. "N-no, not really. Well, maybe - shit," you said when you knocked over a box of straws with your fidgeting.

Joel laughed and leaned back in his chair.

"What's got you all worked up?" he asked, and you felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Nothing," you said, shaking your head again, trying to focus. "What can I get for you?"

"Nuh uh, darlin', not so fast," he said with a tsk, and you sighed. "What's goin' on? You can tell me, y'know. I am a man of the law."

He meant it to be playful, but with your history, it had the opposite effect. You winced and swallowed the lump in your throat, and trying not to make matters worse, you caved.

"I went to a book club last night," you mumbled, and he raised his eyebrows.

"Book club, huh? Sounds like fun," he said, watching you carefully. "Maybe had a little too much fun?"

You finally dragged your gaze up to meet his and saw he was grinning at you, and you managed to force out a small laugh.

"Yeah, you could say that," you said, hoping that would be enough, but he wouldn't let it go.

"Can you get me a coffee? Then when I get back from the restroom, I wanna hear all 'bout your little book club," he said with a wink, then stood from his chair and turned around, heading towards the bathrooms while your gaze landed on his ass. It didn't look too bad in dress pants, either.

You tried to steady your breathing while you flipped over a clean mug and filled it with coffee, your mind racing and wondering what lies you could come up with to prevent telling him the reason you were so distracted.

Lost in thought with your head down, you didn't even notice when another customer took a seat at the counter until the man cleared his throat. You glanced up and apologized before bending down to grab another mug and set it down in front of the stranger.

You were pouring his coffee and telling him about the specials, your eyes glued to the counter, when he slid the barrel of a pistol across the table and into your line of sight. You froze, your hands gripping the coffee pot fiercely as you broke out into a cold sweat. You flicked your eyes back up to him. He didn't appear to be much older than you. He had his unkept hair hidden underneath his black hoodie, and you noticed his eyes looked bloodshot, his skin clammy. You knew that look. You've seen that same look one too many times.

"What do you want?" you whispered, your voice shaking.

"Open the register, gimme all the cash in this bag," he said quietly, tossing a tote bag across the counter at you. You nodded, grabbing the bag while your fingers fumbled with the buttons, desperately trying to remember how to open the drawer without a sale. You could sense he was growing frustrated with how long it was taking, and you felt the tears welling up in your eyes.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed quietly. "I-I'm new, I can't remember-"

"Hurry the fuck up," he growled, and you blinked rapidly, trying to clear your vision, the tears falling down your cheeks.

"Drop the fuckin' gun, Marcus," you heard Joel's voice call out, and a wave of relief coursed through your body. But Marcus got startled, and instead of doing as he was told, reached across the counter and grabbed you by the throat, pulling you against his chest to partially shield his body, the gun pressed against your temple as your fingers clawed at his arms.

You couldn't move. You couldn't breathe. Tears just streamed down your face as you locked eyes with Joel. They no longer carried that playful glint, his lips no longer turned up into a grin. His brow was furrowed deep and his gun drawn, cradled expertly in his large palms as his eyes shifted back to Marcus.

"I'm not lookin' to hurt anyone, sheriff. Just lemme walk outta here," Marcus rumbled behind you, his sour breath invading your nostrils and making your stomach roll.

"Now, you know I can't do that," Joel said, taking a small step forward. "But put down the gun, let her go, and we'll talk."

The grip around your throat tightened and you let out a small, pained squeak. Joel's jaw clenched when he heard the noise, his patience running thin. You hadn't noticed at the time, but the entire diner had gone quiet, some patrons slinking down in their seats, others craning their necks to get a better look.

"Goddamnit, Marcus, don't test me today," Joel growled, his eyes ablaze. "I don't wanna call your mama and tell her I had to spray her only son's brains all over the floor, but I fuckin' will." The tone in Joel's voice sent a shiver down your spine as you stilled, waiting for the stand off to be over.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the grip on your throat loosened and you no longer felt the cold metal pressed against your head. Joel locked eyes with you again as you coughed and shakily fell down to the floor behind the counter, curling yourself into a ball while you heard Joel reading Marcus his rights, the jingle of his handcuffs rang like bells in your ears.

Once Marcus was restrained, you heard Tommy bolt out of the kitchen and rush over to you. He knelt down on the ground, asking if you were okay, if you needed a doctor, concern lacing his voice but when he reached out to touch you, you flung yourself backwards violently, knocking the back of your head against the counter.

"Shit," you muttered, rubbing your head as fresh tears fell down your cheeks.

"Hey, easy now," Tommy said soothingly, glancing over the counter as Joel spoke on the phone with Bobby, ordering him to bring a car to take Marcus back to the station and book him.

"I'm fine," you whimpered, still rubbing your head as you shakily forced yourself to your feet. You watched as Joel marched Marcus to the front of the diner, his knuckles white from how hard he was gripping his shoulder as he directed him through the door. A few patrons clapped weakly as the two disappeared outside, and the diner filled with excited chatter once again.

"You alright, sugar?" Betty asked, suddenly appearing beside you, face etched with worry. You flinched and brought a shaky hand to your sore neck.

"Yeah, I just need to use the restroom," you said, and before anyone could say anything further, you tore off your apron and made a beeline for the women's room.

You locked the door behind you and slid down to the grimy floor, burying your face in your hands as you sobbed, the adrenaline wreaking havoc on your nerves.

It was too much. It was all too much. The look in Marcus's eye was one you saw too many times. A junkie in desperate need for a fix. A drunk who would say or do anything for another drink. The fingers around your neck were no longer there, but you still felt them squeezing every last bit of oxygen from your lungs, every tear from your eye until you could hardly breathe.

The door handle jiggled and you jumped, wiping furiously at your face before shouting out a shaky occupied!

"Hey, it's me," you heard Joel's voice say from the other side of the door. No longer did he have that hardened edge to his tone. The warmth and softness in his drawl had returned.

"I just need a minute," you said quietly after a long silence, and you heard him shift his weight.

"I know, but I - can you let me in?" he asked, and you could hear the concern in his voice. You slid your eyes shut as fresh tears drenched your face once again. You ached for comfort. You wanted it so badly you would do just about anything for it. But every other time, you've been let down. Over and over and over again.

"I just need a minute," you repeated, just a whisper, not even sure he could hear.

"Then I'll be right here til you're ready, alright?" his voice came back, even softer this time. You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. You heard him sit down against the door with a tired sigh, and you let your head tilt so it rested against the door. There was a small bit of comfort to be had when you knew only an inch separated you from him.

"You were real brave," he said after a few minutes of silence. You scoffed and wiped your nose.

"Is that why I'm crying on the floor of a bathroom?"

"Please don't cry," he said, his voice strained. But you didn't say anything in return.

"He wasn't gonna do nothin'. He's got troubles, is all. Bad habits get the best of him, but he's harmless," he said, trying to make you feel better.

"I don't know, these bruises on my neck say differently," you replied, and you heard his breath hitch. Then you heard his shoes scuff on the tile floor.

"Lemme see," he said, his voice firmer now. He was standing, his voice above you, waiting to be let in. You hesitated, the tone of his voice putting you on edge, but you knew you couldn't hide in there forever. With a trembling hand, you reached up and unlocked the door, then scurried backwards so you were pressed up against the opposite wall as he swung the door open and stepped inside. His gaze fell on you and his eyes went soft at seeing your wrecked state before clicking the door shut behind him.

He rushed forward and you flinched. A bad habit of your own. He paused and slowed his movements, crouching down in front of you instead. He lifted a hand to pinch your chin but you turned your face away.

"Will you show me?" he asked gently. You gazed up at him with red rimmed eyes, your knees pulled tight against your chest. Finally, you lifted your chin. Again, he reached a hand out, but you stopped him.

"Please don't touch," you whispered. He looked at you and nodded slowly, dropping his hand again, examining your bruises with only his eyes.

"Maybe you should see a doctor," he said after a few minutes, but you shook your head.

"I'll be fine, it's just sore," you said, and his gaze flicked up from your throat to your eyes. His lips parted the longer he stared at you, and you felt the tremor return to your hands. You couldn't look away, his gaze too magnetic.

"Don't like seein' you cry," he murmured, still gazing deep into your eyes, trying so desperately to read you.

"I cry all the time," you said without even thinking. He blinked and frowned. He was about to say something else when a gentle knock on the door interrupted him.

"You okay in there?" Maria called out. You sighed and stretched out your legs, standing up and waving off Joel's helping hand.

"We don't gotta do it today, but I'll need you to come by and give your statement sometime soon," he said, glancing down at you with a sympathetic look.

"Okay," you replied, your voice cracking a bit. You looked at one another, both of you wanting to say more but neither of you could. So you reached out to open the door, forcing a smile for Maria.

"Sorry," you told her meekly, and she laughed.

"You're sorry? You just had a gun pointed at your head and you're sorry?"

You laughed weakly, then stopped short in pain, your fingers brushing against your throat.

"I just wanted to bring you your purse so you could sneak out the back," she said, lifting your purse up and handing it over to you.

"But my shift-"

"Oh my god, take the day off," Maria said, shaking her head and grinning. "Think you earned it."

"Okay," you agreed, then turned to walk through the kitchen where you could leave out the back so no customers would gawk at you.

"Lemme walk you home," Joel's voice said, startling you. You had just assumed he went back out front.

"Don't you have to, you know... work?" you asked, floundering for the right word.

"He ain't goin' anywhere," Joel said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he walked by your side down the sidewalk.

The two of you walked quietly for a few minutes.

"I've never seen you like that before," you said, breaking the silence. He turned his head towards you, raising his eyebrows.

"Like what?"

"Like, all... cop-like," you said, chuckling at your terrible choice in words.

Joel grinned and glanced down at his feet.

"Yeah, well, job's not all inappropriate graffiti and speed traps."

You hummed in agreement as you kept walking.

"Do you have to unholster your service weapon often?"

"'Service weapon'?" he repeated, surprised at the term you chose. Although it wasn't wrong, it typically was not something most people said. You just looked at him, not acknowledging it, so he let it go.

"Uh, no, not really," he said, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Oh," was all you said, taking a deep breath and continued to stare straight ahead. He watched you from the corner of his eye for a moment.

"When I came outta the bathroom and saw - " he stopped short, then rubbed his lower lip with the pad of his thumb as he collected his thoughts. "You were scared. And I... reacted."

You glanced his way again, but he kept his eyes focused straight ahead. What was he trying to say?

"Thank you," you said softly, but he was quick to shake his head.

"Not lookin' for you to thank me," he said, finally allowing his gaze to drift back to you, giving you a small smile.

When you finally reached your apartment, you took out your keys and turned to him, ready to thank him again, even though he told you not to, but he spoke first.

"Here, why don't you take this," he said, holding out a small white card between his index and middle finger. You gingerly took it and flipped it over, reading the text on the other side.

"It's my card. Call me when you wanna stop by the station," he reminded you, and you nodded.

"My cell's on there, too. If you ever, y'know," he said, half a smirk playing on his lips as he nervously shifted his weight. "You ever wanna talk 'bout anythin', really. 'Bout what happened today, or... book club," he said, and you laughed. He grinned, relieved to finally see you smile again.

"Okay," you said with a nod, and turned to put the key in the lock.

He watched as you made your way all the way up the steps, and didn't leave until he saw the second door at the top of the stairs close firmly behind you.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed@merz-8@sarap-77 @nandan11 @anoverwhelmingdin @fandomscollide @survivingandenduring

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller series #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #sheriff!joel #waitress reader #STR fic

[spacebarbarianweird]

Beloved Monsters

So, it happened! I've finally brought Alethaine, Astarion's dhampir daughter, to life!

Synopsis: Domestic fluff about a small family of monsters.

Tags: fluff, comfort, dadstarion, dhampirs

Alethaine's age: 7

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

“Mum! Mum!”

As you open your eyes, the coziness of your bed with a fur blanket and the softest pillow surrounds you. It feels so comfy, like a warm hug. 

“Mum!”

A pale-skinned Elven girl with hair the color of snow stares at you like a cat. She stands upside down on the ceiling as if her legs were glued to it.

“Hi, Alethaine. Is anything wrong?”, you yawn and look at the window. It’s late afternoon and it's snowing. Winters in that part of Faerun are cold and merciless but nights are long. Which is good.

Alethaine, your dhampir-daughter, jumps onto the bed and you notice she’s already put on her warm clothes. Unlike Astarion, she is not immune to cold.

“Can I go? Pleeease!”

You sit up and hear a loud laughter from the inner yard. The town kids. Mostly humans, but Alethaine’s best friend is a dwarf boy, an Innkeeper’s son. All younger than ten, careless and brave like all the kids of this age no matter the race and social status.

“Cover your ears”, you say, making yourself get out of bed. You hate being stuck at home for so long – your body craves fights – but having a little child puts certain limitations.

“Thanks!”, Alethaine bares her fangs.

For the last month, you’ve been alone with Alethaine. Astarion left in the late month of Uktar, complaining that he didn’t want to travel in that awful northern weather and that there is nothing more disgusting than autumn. 

“It’s cold and I will have to sleep in the dirt. Besides, hags are “known” for their hospitality!”

Simple as that. A daughter of one of the noble families fell in love with someone from the common folk. He rejected her, and she made a deal with a hag to get him. The hag turned the girl into something and locked away. So, her family searched for help and eventually got to Astarion – the only person who knew how to deal with both supernatural contracts and the monsters themselves.

“Well, I will either find a loophole to save this idiot of a girl. Or I will have to fight the hag. Not the first time. Gods, good thing Alethaine is going to be much smarter than that!”

You smile. Since Alethaine was born, Astarion has been very sensitive about cases when a young woman, someone’s daughter, is trapped by supernatural forces. Astarion can deny it but he imagines Alethaine trapped the same way.

“Alethaine! Where are you?”, the dwarf boy throws a snowball into the door with a loud thump.

“Coming!”

Astarion was supposed to come back a week ago. Before Alethaine was born you had dealt with such things together. Be it a monster hunting or helping with contracts. But life changed seven years ago. 

You two became parents.

A little girl, a silver-curled elf with long pointy ears, is so delicate as if made of crystals. She has long vampiric fangs and can walk on the ceilings. A tiny copy of her father — Astarion was in tears when he realized that. 

“Bye!”, Alethaine wears her warm winter coat and hat but her long ears stick out.

“Cover them!”

“It hurts when I do that!”

You sigh. Elven ears are so sensitive it hurts to tuck them under heavy winter hats. As a half-elf yourself you can relate though yours are much smaller.

You take a scarf and wrap your daughter’s head in it. By doing that you can’t resist touching her ears which twitch a bit. The girl giggles, baring her fangs. It’s a funny image – the dhampir fangs grew up many years ago and didn’t show any signs of being “baby fangs”. They were probably a single set for all her life which will last for many centuries, growing along with the rest of her body.

But her “baby” incisors have already fallen out.

“Alethaine! Come on!” the dwarf boy waves to her. Alethaine frees herself from your hands and rushes toward her friends.

The moment she is outside, she takes the scarf freeing her ears to the cold air. 

You let it go. 

Sticking at home on your own is boring so you take out a two-handed ax and go outside to take care of it. You never know when the weapon is needed. Here, far in the wilderness dangers lurk in the dark. Wild trolls, gnolls, werewolves, bandits, name it yourself. Townsfolk aren’t people of war and they rely on you, a retired adventurer, to protect them. 

So, you always have to be ready.

The process completely takes you over as the early night falls upon the world and prickly stars start shining in the skies.

And then suddenly…

You are lifted in the air by strong hands.

“Astarion!” you exclaim and wrap your hands around his neck.

He kisses you and then looks into your eyes with love and adoration. But you can’t help but notice he is exhausted, with bruises and dark circles under his crimson eyes.

“Did something go wrong?”

“Darling, there was an obnoxious princess who could not take “no” for an answer, her brother who doesn’t process the idea that he is not as smart as he thinks. And three hags. Three, not one! And each of them had a personal contract with the girl, each contradicting the other one. What could possibly go wrong?”

“So, did you save the girl?”

“Depends. She won’t have to spend another five centuries being locked in a mirror. But she will be the hags’ servant for eighteen years, six for each of them. They also wanted to transform her into something I would call a half-rotten gnoll, but I managed to talk them out of it.”

“Two decades is long for a human.”

“Well, she wanted to make that boy her mindless lover for the rest of his human life so I think it’s fair. Her family didn’t agree, though, so I had to return on my own.”

“Did they pay you?”

“No, I stole some valuable possession of theirs”, he puts you on the ground and slips a ring on your finger. “It’s not enchanted, I checked.”

The ring is beautiful. It looks as if the fire was trapped inside it.

You two kiss again and get inside. The moment Astarion steps into the bedroom he starts undressing – he probably has been dreaming of getting rid of the dirty clothes for weeks. 

You smile. You’ve seen him undressing and naked thousands of times but you never get tired of it.

“I’ve seen Alethaine. She made those human children carry her on the sled,” he says.

 “If they don’t treat her well, who would sneak to other people’s houses to steal sweets?”

It is a common complaint. Apparently, Alethaine learned that if her feet are bare she makes no sound walking on the ceilings.

“I am tearing apart against the necessity to punish her for that and admiring her skills”, Astarion adds.

“You were a magistrate; I think you can find words to persuade a seven-year-old.”

“It’s much easier to persuade a devil than Alethaine!”

“Who could she take it from?”

He laughs and you approach Astarion for another kiss. You missed him. Gods knows, you missed him. You caress his strong shoulders ready to start something more sensual.

“Love”

“Hm?”

“I don’t want to.”

You pull away and touch his cheek. There aren’t enough words in your vocabulary to express how proud you are of him. It’s been twenty-seven years but he still has issues with saying “no” to you. And you often find yourself in an intimate situation when you suddenly realize he doesn’t want to take part in it. Maybe, not to upset you. Maybe, out of stubbornness.

“Sure. What do you want, then? Bath? Blood? Sleep?”

“Everything you mentioned in that exact order.”

“Wait, I will prepare the bath.”

… Soon enough, Astarion sinks himself into the bathtub and you start washing his curls out of dirt while he scrubs his skin. You notice some bruises and scratches. They still haven’t healed properly and you try not to think how they looked a week ago.

“Don’t worry. It’s not like I was butchered”, he answers, noticing your concerns.

“I wish I could come with you.”

“Darling. Alethaine is growing faster than a kitten – soon she will be old enough to be on her own. We will be doing this together again.”

You smile. Yes, that’s true. As a half-elf, you have much more time than humans. You are sixty-three, your human siblings are either long dead or very old. But you still look like you did when you were twenty. You have more than a century of life ahead. Plenty of time. For adventures, for miracles, for everything. Maybe, even for another child. 

You spend what looks like a pleasant eternity like this. Talking, laughing, smiling. At least twice Astarion takes your hand graciously and drinks blood from your wrists. His bruises and scratches immediately heal. Whatever blood he managed to take in the winter woods wasn’t enough.

When the water gets cold, Astarion gets out and dresses in clean clothes, a white shirt with an embroidered dragon and black trousers. 

… Together you sit in front of the fireplace. Astarion hugs you and you silently look at the fire. 

A loud thump wakes you from bliss. 

“Dad!” Alethaine cries out and in a moment the girl is on her father's lap.

“Hello, princess,” he stands up, lifting the girl in the air. You notice her ears have a purple color. “I see your teeth keep falling out”

Altethaine grins. And Astarion plants a gentle fatherly kiss on her forehead.

“Wait a moment, I brought you something” He puts Alethaine back on her feet, and she yawns like a cat. 

Astarion pulls out two books out of his travel sack. Alethaineimmediately opens the first one. You can see pictures and intricate Elven letters – despite being a half-elf you never learned how to read it, meanwhile Alethaine had learned to read and write both Common and Elven before she turned five.

“Is it Elven?” she asks. “I can’t understand what is written!”

“It’s Old Elven. A little bit different from the one we speak.”

Alethaine opens the other book and sees an image of an Elven woman with long silver hair, and dark eyes.

“She looks like me,” Alethaine says,

“Yes, that’s what I thought.”

You look at them unable to stop smiling. Monsters. A vampire and a dhampir. 

Your beloved monsters. The daughter and the husband. Sometimes you treat them like something given – besides, what is more “traditional” for a mortal woman than a child and a spouse? But Astarion never forgets, even for a moment, that these normal things are supposed to be impossible. He isn’t supposed to have a home, a wife, and a child. 

You remember him crying with the newborn in his arms. Mere seven years ago. You remember coming back from a “dragon slaying travel” in the middle of the night to see Astarion and Alethaine sliding down a hill together. You remember his stare – which he gives you every single morning. The look of adoration, love, and gratitude. 

The girl yawns once again, and you notice how sleepy she is. 

“Are you hungry?”

“No,” the girl pouts. “I wanna sleep.”

“Oh, all right then. But come downstairs if you feel hungry”, Astarion strokes her silver hair.

Alethaine approaches you and wraps her hands around your neck. You feel a soft prickle of her fangs on your shoulder. 

“Have a good sleep, kitten”, you say.

Alethaine snatches both of the books from the table and goes away. Unlike Elven children, Alethaine does sleep. Like a predator, deep in her dreams but waking up a moment something off happens. 

“So, I think we should follow her example”, Astarion lifts you up in the air bridal style. “It’s tediously boring to sleep alone, do you agree?”

You giggle. When Astarion leaves, Alethaine doesn’t let you sleep alone. She crawls into her parents' bed and hugs you from behind pressing her little nose into your back. Anyone would think the girl is afraid of darkness or monsters.

But it’s not that.

Alethaine, a half-monster herself, sincerely believes her mother needs to be protected. And if Astarion isn’t at home, it’s her duty to make sure nothing comes after you. Maybe you slay monsters with your two-handed ax but who knows what night can hide? 

You caress Astarion’s cheek.

“Yes, how could I even fall asleep without my beloved monsters?”

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @astarion-beloved @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion romance #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion x tav #astarion x tyrael #oc tav tyrael #alethaine ancunin #astarion being a dad #dadstarion #astarion fluff #astarion x you #spacebarbarian fics #astarion ancunin #astarion baldurs gate #astarion brainrot #astarion fanfic

[darkworkcourier]

You’re doing Ghost!! Can I request an exercise in sharing body heat in cold conditions that turns into *other* forms of exercise? Preferably a non-military female reader if that tickles your fancy. So excited to see you back on tumblr, I loved your RDR2 and FC5 work back in the day 💕💕💕

Hi yes I’d like to apologize that this tiny prompt turned into EIGHT THOUSAND WORDS OF PORN OH GOD

(Also, try and find all the Far Cry 5 references. :3c As a thank you for hanging out with me all this time!)

Reader works for the National Park Service and gets pulled into a mission involving guiding Ghost to go after a (wink) paramilitary organization in (WINK WINK) Montana. Things go awry.

---

“Piss poor excuse for a shortcut, Ranger,” Ghost says to your back.

Your mid-back, actually, since you’re about two feet above him on the hillside which is way steeper than you remember. You could have sworn there was a trail cut through here, or maybe that was a half mile down the ridge, or maybe— Maybe it’s good to not second guess it when you think Ghost’s about a full thirty seconds from ditching you and going off on his own.

“You wanna get shot at?��� you ask over your shoulder, voice slightly muffled in your scarf. “Because if you took the main road, that’s what you’d get.”

“I would do just fine,” he replies dryly.

Right, he’s got a tactical vest on. You have a down jacket that would just make for a really interesting display of flying feathers if you got shot. The best defense you have is the handgun he gave you for protection, and a Park Service badge that would elevate the threat of killing a federal employee. Not that Ghost’s targets would care, but it makes you feel better.

The two of you trudge through waist-deep snow, thick even on the incline. You’re practiced enough with winter weather hiking to approach it fairly spryly, but you’re also not lugging an incredible about of gear like he is.

“It’s not that far, anyway,” you tell him, just to make conversation. “It’s this ridge, then the Beaver Dam River, and then the lookout tower.”

“Real walk in the park,” he replies.

“Literally,” you say brightly.

His grunt isn’t very amused.

The biggest problem is the cold. It’s northern Montana in the depths of winter, and every shrieking sickle of wind that cuts through the mountains physically hurts. You’re prepared enough for the temperature drop, but you worry more about what happens after dark, when it goes from tolerable to goddamn polar. If it wasn’t vital for you to be out here, you would have stayed in.

For lack of anything better to do as you finish ascending the ridge, you think on the whole situation. A paramilitary extremist group hiding out in the mountains, some multinational task force you’d never heard of swooping into the park, and you getting swept up into it all and taken on as a guide. It sounds like something straight out of an action movie, but here you are and there Ghost is.

Hell, even his name and whole look makes the reality of all this seem that much out of pocket. He’s dressed in winter tactical gear, white and gray mottled camo, hood pulled down low over the skull-plated balaclava that you’re fairly sure he never takes off. He blends in with his surroundings, but at the same time, he really sticks out.

You get to the top of the ridge, pausing for a moment to take in your surroundings. Sure enough, by your reckoning, you’re about a quarter mile off from the actual trail. It’s easy to remedy, leading Ghost down the relatively level ridge to where the trail appears as a shallow divot in the snow.

Of course, he points it out.

“Got lost, did we?”

You roll your eyes. “Not lost,” you correct. “Just slightly askew on the directions. Everything looks the same in the snow.”

“Thought you knew this place like the back of your hand.”

“I do,” you say, stepping down onto the trail and grimacing when the snow goes up to your hips. Ghost is so damn huge that it probably barely goes over his knees, but you don’t turn around to look. “And I wasn’t too far off!”

“Slightly off is still off,” he retorts.

You really wish they would have sent the nice, happy Scottish guy with you instead.

Once you clear the ridge’s treeline, you see the lookout tower poking above the trees straight ahead of you. Grinning, you point it out to Ghost.

“Affirmative, Ranger. I see it.”

“You can just say ‘yes’.”

You can hear him sigh, and then, “Yes,” said like he’s punching the word out of the air.

The trail crosses over the river, cutting through at its shallowest section for this part of the park. The only problem is that the Beaver Dam River doesn’t freeze, so there’s a very real risk of soaking through your boots and defeating the purpose of having moisture-wicking socks. With any luck, you’ll have some downed trees or rocks to cross over, and the river won’t be too high.

That’s with any luck; the opposite being the luck you currently have, as the river’s clearer than you’ve ever seen it once you reach it. You hiss out a curse under your breath, glancing up and down the banks to see if there’s any easier way to cross.

Nada.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“What’s shit?”

“River’s clear, but it’s... well, it’s fuckin’ cold is what it is,” you say, watching the glacially-fed water happily rush by you.

He shrugs. “Looks shallow enough.”

“It is, except—” You look down at your boots, cringing at the thought of all the fun ways water can get in them.

Beside you, Ghost looks down at them as well. “They’re not waterproof?”

“They are, but probably not for walking through a river.”

“Jesus,” he murmurs, then steps right into the water. You see it course around his ankles, protected by his thick boots that probably cost more than a month of rent back home. Once he’s on the other side, he turns back to you, dark eyes peering out through his mask, making him look like a bizarre death motif hanging out on the banks of a very chilly River Styx.

“Damn it,” you hiss. You’ll have to be quick, not settling long enough for the water to leach into your boots and socks.

It’s probably comical to Ghost to watch you hopping across the river, up until your boot hits something—loose gravel, a slimy rock, or just a pocket of underwater bad luck. Whatever it is, it sends you right on your ass and into the water. The only good thing is that it’s not deep, but that does shit to negate the cold shock that knocks the wind right out of you. Cold pierces right through your clothes, hitting your skin like dozens of tiny knives. You gasp first, then yelp, and finally scramble out of the water and right into Ghost’s arms.

To be fair, in the shock, you didn’t see his sudden movement toward you, so you yelp again—right into his ear—when he scoops you up. His head jerks back, but he holds you steady regardless.

“Jesus fuck!” you gasp, already shivering hard. Parts of you are too numb to register on your brain’s running docket of limbs and appendages, but others hurt like shit.

“You okay?” Ghost asks, sounding a little breathless. His hands are on your shoulders, holding you in place.

Great question; you don’t have a good answer. You nod, but you’re pretty sure the uncontrollable shivering is telling another story.

“Let’s get you to that tower,” he says. His voice takes on the command form you only heard back when you sat in on the task force’s meeting. It’s solid, and strangely comforting to hear him take charge. “Sooner we’re inside, the better.”

“C-couldn’t agree m-m-more,” you manage, crossing your arms and digging your hands into your armpits.

Ghost takes the lead up the trail, which is good because your legs feel pretty damn numb. You don’t think it’s frostbite yet, but you know that’s a very real risk, especially as the clouds overhead start to darken with the oncoming evening. Because of the tower’s high perch, the trail snakes back and forth up the hill—a half hour’s walk in good weather and a steady pace, but longer in your state.

Ghost’s surprisingly patient, purposefully slowing his pace so you can keep up. He looks over his shoulder again and again, like he’s making sure you’re still there and not face-down in a snowbank. On your end, you keep your eyes fixed on his backpack, determined to keep it in your sight.

Halfway up the hill, Ghost decides to change tactics. He stops, shouldering off his backpack, then handing it to you. “Put it on,” he says. “Then get on my back.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say,” he says, brooking no argument in his tone. “It’ll be faster.”

You put on the backpack, not surprised that it weighs a metric ton. At the same time, your vision swims a little, dark shapes appearing in your vision before fizzling out like little firecrackers.

Oh, we’re in trouble, you think.

Ghost makes sure the backpack’s secure before turning around and going down on a knee to give you space to climb up. Non-hypothermic you would find this a great opportunity to make a down-on-one-knee joke, but you’re way too fucking cold to do much more than shiver and hang on to him for dear life. His hands go to the back of your thighs, supporting you while you cling to his neck, pressing your face into the back of his coat.

“You good?”

You nod.

“Need a verbal confirmation, Ranger,” he says, not without a hint of humor.

You manage a stifled, shuddering laugh and say, “Yep.”

“Good enough.”

He carries you up the hill, the incline steep enough to make the backpack feel heavier somehow. You don’t know how he’s managing it as well as he is, except for whatever freakish training they probably do in England. In your swimming, dizzy mind, you imagine Ghost hoisting crates of tea over his head, and that sends you into a giggling fit.

“What’s so funny back there?” he asks. However, you can’t miss the sliver of concern in his voice.

“H-how d’you train in Eng-g-gland?” you ask, the middle syllable briefly caught in the back of your throat.

“How do I what?”

“B-back where-e-ever you come f-from-m-m,” you say, shivering harder even though you can feel his body heat close to your core. “W-what do th-they make you d-d-do?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and all you hear are his boots crunching in the snow and the wind snapping through the trees around you.

“Vigorous biscuit lifts,” he says.

You snort against his coat, and then cling tighter, feeling your limbs prickle in the cold.

You’re silent the rest of the way up the hill, shivering and sniffling as Ghost carries you. Finally, you reach the top, and you glance up to see the lookout tower’s staircase which until now has never looked so fucking tall.

“Sh-shit,” you say.

“Just hang on,” Ghost says. “You’ll be fine.”

“N-n-no, I th-thought I’d l-l-let go,” you joke, but your arms do feel like they’re going to fall off, and you’re starting to lose feeling in your fingertips.

He grunts and adjusts his hold on your thighs, then starts the ascent up the stairs. You really do have to wonder about his physical training regimen, because you’re pretty sure you’d be dead before you reached the top in your state. He’s only panting, breaths coming out in thin clouds in front of his balaclava.

“S’it locked?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good,” he says, letting you down onto your numb feet so he can open the door. He goes in first, hand close to his thigh holster, quickly scoping the single room before letting you in. "Clear.”

Your steps waver a little as you walk in, then quickly fall onto the bed without much ceremony. You’re a shivering mess, every part of you that you can still feel trembling with the cold. It’s not much warmer in the tower, but at least the wind’s blocked out. Ghost walks over and helps you shoulder off the pack, then leaves your line of site, his presence indicated by heavy footsteps, the sound of the backpack’s zipper being opened, and then soft clanking and thumping.

Your consciousness wavers on a very dangerous precipice, and you know you really need to get out of your wet clothes. You’re not at the paradoxical undressing stage of hypothermia, which is a good sign. But that also means you have no strong desire to strip, either.

Somewhere in your half-doze, you hear Ghost working on the potbelly stove, opening it on its whiny hinges, loading its gullet with wood left over from the last restock, then striking a match. It doesn’t take long to hear the throaty crackle of burning wood, and that’s a comfort in of itself.

Ghost is back at your side, gently shaking your shoulder. “Hey, Ranger,” he says. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

“Mmn,” is your best response, and not a particularly eloquent one.

“C’mon,” he presses, then manhandles you up into a sitting position. Your muscles give a pretty passionate protest, and you blink wearily up at him as he helps you take off your gloves, then unzips your jacket. His eyes flicker up to yours, assessing you. “You still with me?”

You nod, lifting your stiff arms for him to help you out of your sleeves.

“You know the signs of hypothermia, right?”

“Y-yeah,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut as a fresh rush of pins and needles goes down your right arm.

“Alright, let me know if any of ‘em get worse.” He drops your coat in front of the stove, then gestures to your half-soaked sweater. “Can you get that off by yourself?”

You nod again, then start the suddenly grueling work of getting out of it. It’s heavy wool, designed specifically to be as thick and warm as possible. That also means that it’s a bitch to get out of when your arms feel like cooked pasta. Still, Ghost’s already doing a lot for you, so the least you can do is prove that you’re better at a toddler than taking your clothes off.

Oh. Yeah, there’s that. You’re taking your clothes off in front of Ghost. That’s a whole thing to parse through.

But you manage to get out of the sweater, and that’s a victory. You drop it next to the bed, then start undoing the laces on your boots, fingers fumbling the whole time.

“Need help?” Ghost asks.

You look up at him, and then feel a very welcome heat rush to your face.

He’s ditched his coat on a chair next to the stove, tactical vest laid aside on the lookout’s desk. He’s down to a skin-tight black long-sleeved shirt that does wonders in showing off his musculature, and his hand are— Holy shit, he’s undoing his belt.

“W-what are you d-doing?” you ask. Bonus points for you that you’re not shivering as hard. Lack of bonus points that you’re openly ogling the lieutenant like he’s a prime beef steak (and he is).

He gestures back to you, one boot off, the other half-undone. “Getting undressed,” he says very plainly. “Fastest way to warm you up. You know that.”

You do, is the problem. It’s in every survival manual you’ve read and every class you’ve taken for your job. At the same time, it’s in at least four romance novels you’ve perused. And you’ve spent nearly four full months without coming into contact with any human being for more than an hour at a time; getting naked with a gigantic, musclebound man nearly sends your addled brain into a tailspin.

You quickly undo the other boot, trying to will your hands to stop shaking.

This isn’t the time to get shy, especially as your limbs ache in new and profound ways and you feel like you’re never going to be warm again.

The boot comes off, then you peel your wet socks off and drop them on the floor with a very telling plap sound. Your feet prickle and ache as the chilled air hits them and your shivering renews in spades. The faster you get undressed and under any kind of cover, the better it is for both of you.

Snow pants go next, then your work pants, until you’re down to a t-shirt and long underwear.

And Ghost is—

Fuck.

If there was any blood left in your suffering arms and legs, it must redirect right up to your face, making your head swim in a whole new body of water. Ghost’s stripped down to his boxers and (of course) his balaclava. His back’s to you, but that means it’s on full display as he puts all of his clothing in a semi-neat pile. When he turns back to you, you see his eyes widen a little as he lifts his brows.

“Still wearing too much, Ranger,” he states.

You know that, but there’s a pretty firm disconnect somewhere in your synapses, body firmly resisting any higher command to do literally anything useful.

He seems to register that issue, because he’s at your side in an instant, tugging on the hem of your t-shirt to help you out of it. You squawk in surprise, almost falling back onto the bed. 

If you could read masked expressions a bit better, you might think he’s amused.

“I— I can d-do it m-m-myself,” you stutter out. Fighting down any urge to be bashful in a survival situation, you get out of your t-shirt, then maneuver yourself enough to take off your long johns. At the end, you’re down to just a sports bra and panties. Pointedly, you don’t look up to see Ghost’s reaction.

“Take this side of the bed,” he says, gesturing to the edge you’re sitting on. “It’s closer to the stove.”

You do so, feeling him get on the bed and go over to the far side closest to the window. He pulls up the blanket and quilt, then slips underneath them before holding them up for you.

With your back to him, you lay on your side and shimmy under the cold blankets. Behind you, Ghost grunts in what sounds like irritation.

“Turn around,” he says. 

You swallow hard, worrying that he’d say that. Reluctantly, you roll over to face him. Or, rather, face his chest, which is alarmingly close. And it’s a good chest, all muscle-y and firm, with a fine dusting of light blond hairs on his pectorals. When you look up, he’s still wearing that balaclava. You squint at him.

“H-how come y-y-you’re still wearing th-that?”

“Doesn’t come off, Ranger,” he states, although the corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling.

“Ever?”

“Affirmative.”

You groan and lean your head forward until it touches one of his collarbones. “Just s-say yes-s,” you complain.

He actually laughs this time, a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest, before you feel his arm wrap around you, pulling him close to him. It’s startling, and damn embarrassing, but you definitely can’t argue with the results. Almost immediately, his body heat seeps into your skin, first warming your hands pressed in between your chests. One of his feet brushes over one of yours, causing you to jump, and then settle with your eyes squeezed shut in mortification.

But that mortification gives way to blissful comfort as everything warms up. The stove radiates heat as the wood crackles and shifts, and Ghost is a stove in himself. The little space beneath the blankets is a pocket of glorious heat, and you start to feel the ache in your limbs recede and your head clear of its chilly fog.

You don’t know how long it is before he speaks again, but his voice comes in close to your ear. “You doing alright, Ranger?”

You’re relaxed enough that you nod and smile with your eyes closed. “Yeah,” you say.

“You ever do this in survival training?”

You scrunch up your nose a little. “I read about it. We never actually practiced stripping down and cuddling.”

He snorts. “It’s not cuddling.”

You crack open an eye, looking up into his greasepaint-ringed gaze. Feeling emboldened by the fact you can feel your arms and legs and nothing hurts, you gently shove his chest. “What do you call this, lieutenant?”

“Hypothermia prevention.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it’s cuddling. It’s easier. Less syllables.”

He doesn’t say a word.

Before long, the crackling of the fire and Ghost’s steady breathing lull you into a doze. You go in and out of sleep, deeper and deeper as the sky darkens outside and causes the fire to make strange shadows around the room. You wake once to find your arm around Ghost’s waist, your chest pressed against his, the crown of your head under his chin. You’re sleepy enough that this doesn’t strike you as odd or something you should remedy. It’s way too easy to fall asleep after that.

You wake again to Ghost moving against you, getting out from under the blankets and crawling across the bed until he steps down on the floor. You groan and roll over to watch him as he crouches in front of the stove, opening the door to add more wood to the fire.

He stands back up and looks down at you, shadows making his face look like an eyeless skull. You admire his body cast in the warm light, more than happy to openly stare at him when he walks back to the bed.

“You feelin’ alright, Ranger?” he asks.

“Mm. I’d be better if you got back in bed,” you say, heart outrunning your mind by leagues.

He lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Things that sound better outside of a survival situation,” he says.

As he crawls over you and back under the covers, you do manage to parse that sentence out through the thick haze of sleep. You turn back to face him, looking up into the dark sockets of his mask.

“What does?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“What sounds better?”

He’s silent for a thoughtful moment before he breathes out through his nose. “Nothin’. Forget it.”

Nope. You’re not forgetting it, especially as you wake up a little more and take in the sight of him laying next to you.

Briefly, you think back to the meeting back at the ranger station, when Captain Price outlined the mission to gather intel on the extremist group. You stood across the table from Ghost, watching him as he stared down at the topography map, then at the dossier in front of him. But then he looked up at you, eyes striking in his mask. After that, you felt his eyes on you all afternoon, and again in the morning when you set to head out.

At the time, you thought he was just observant. He needed to know he could trust you to lead him through the wilderness, assessing you in depth and measuring you up against the other rangers at the station.

But now? Well, now you’re not so sure. You could test it, though. Now that you have all your faculties pretty well in check, you’re tempted to see how he would react to you.

Besides, it’s dark and the two of you are isolated in the Montana wilderness. The only bad thing that could come of this is a very awkward morning.

So, in line with Ghost’s whole vibe—go big or go home.

You pull yourself into a sitting position, tucking your fingers up and under the elastic hem of your sports bra. The second you pull your bra up, you hear Ghost’s breath hitch. He doesn’t make a sound as you take your bra off, sighing in relief and dropping it off the side of the bed.

Behind you, Ghost’s voice is a dry, hot rasp. “Feel better?”

Nervousness flutters around in your chest as you shimmy back under the covers, bare chest now just a suggestion in the fabric. You force a smile. “I hate wearing a bra to bed, and you’re not wearing anything.”

“Thought you’d be warmed up enough by now.”

Taking in a breath to steady your nerves, you don’t answer but raise one of your hands to brush over his chest. He doesn’t move back, or seize your wrist. Instead, he holds still, letting your fingers explore the textures of his skin—scarring and all. One particularly rough scar catches your attention, and you run your fingers around its circumference.

“What’s this one?”

You don’t look up, but you feel Ghost’s eyes burning on you. “Bullet wound from an insurgent. 2017. Laid up in hospital for three weeks.”

Your hand goes lower, finding a raised scar as long as a pencil above his navel. “And this one?”

His breathing is steady, but you’re more aware of it now, of the rise and fall of his chest, your shadow cast across his skin. “Hunting knife to the gut from a drug trafficker in London.”

“When?”

“2012.”

“How long were you in the hospital?”

“Two and a half weeks. Most of it was from surgery.”

You nod, getting bold enough to scoot closer until your breasts press against his chest. His breath hitches, which feels like some kind of success. Something you should report back to Captain Price.

Then, one of his hands brushes over your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, down to your hip. Goosebumps rise on your arms and a shiver runs up your spine, thrilling you. His hand goes back up, then follows a line downward over your stomach to a set of small scars on your right side.

“Appendectomy?” he guesses.

You smile. “2019,” you respond. “In the hospital for two whole days.”

“How did you ever survive?”

“Ibuprofen and HBO,” you reply.

You see his mask move with a smile, and then his hand goes up to your chest, following the divot of your sternum. Below his hand, your heart beats deceptively quick, threatening to upend your calmness. Ghost notices, of course, moving his hand to rest over your left breast, your heart threatening to break right out of there like an escaped prisoner.

His voice is like liquid heat in your ears when he says, “Do you want this?”

You could ask him to clarify—play dumb, like you have no idea what you’re insinuating. But the darkness is so all-encompassing, so protective. The world outside doesn’t know about the world in this room, in this bed. You feel safe here, and there’s an opportunity literally laying in front of you.

You smile, and say, “Affirmative.”

He doesn’t jump into action. Instead, his left hand moves down, massive palm covering your breast, pressing gently as he leans his head down close to yours, hard shell of his mask pressing against your forehead.

You look up at him, reaching to tug at the bottom of his balaclava. “Can you take this off?” you ask. “Or at least pull it up over your mouth?”

Another thoughtful silence, and then he does something a little more unexpected. He pulls you close to him, chest to chest, and bodily rolls you over until you’re on the far side of the bed and his back’s to the stove. This way, you can’t see his face, his mask disappearing in his silhouette. You see him reach up and pull the balaclava off, some of his short hair clinging to the fabric before falling away. He sets it down behind him, probably within arm’s reach.

“That better?” he asks, his voice clearer now, hotter, like he’s removed a physical and emotional barrier.

You grin. “Is there anything stronger than ‘affirmative’?” you ask.

“Hard copy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, then, hard copy, sir.”

And you lean in, pressing your lips to his. In the dark, you miss a little, kissing somewhere closer to his chin; Ghost corrects the approach and kisses you in full. His kiss is like him—strong, solid, an undercurrent of ferocity as he catches your bottom lip with his teeth. Your left hand goes to the side of his face, reeling yourself into him and deepening the kiss. In a word, it’s exhilarating. Maybe it’s in part because of what you’ve gone through today, but you go at him like you crave him, and he returns the favor.

His right hand cups the back of your neck, a gentle but firm pressure. His other hand moves down to your chest, thumb brushing over right nipple, drawing a gasp out of you against his lips. You feel him smile against you, then tweak the nipple again. A small, hot shock of pleasure follows a current down your spine, relaying right into your core and sparking a small fire.

If that’s how he’s going to do it, you’ll do the same.

Pressing your hand to his chest, you bring up one of your knees in between his legs, pressing gently against his crotch and making him bite back a curse. You’re quick to kiss him harder, shutting him up before he can say anything about it. In retaliation, he drops the hand on your neck to palm your other breast, massaging both simultaneously as you moan into his mouth.

Where you were freezing before, it now feels like the room can’t get any hotter. That spark lit by Ghost’s first few touches fans into a fully-fledged flame, threatening to burn right through you. You begin rocking your knee in between his legs—alternating pressure, then no pressure—until his hips begin to move against you, his cock growing hard against your thigh.

You tilt your head back and grin. “Well, isn’t someone an eager beaver?” you tease.

He groans and presses his forehead against yours. “Your pillow talk needs work,” he replies.

Your response to his complaint is to reach down and stroke your fingers over his tented erection, earning a surprised grunt and a hissed, “Shit.”

“What’s shit?” you ask, echoing his words by the river.

His voice is all irritation and arousal in equal parts, “The fact we still have clothes on, that’s what’s shit.”

“Oh. Easy fix.”

Again bypassing ceremony, you curl in on yourself enough to pull your panties off, wiggling out of them before tossing them somewhere in the direction of the stove and hoping they don’t get burnt. Then you hook a leg over his still-clothed hip, grinding against his thigh.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, reaching up to run his fingers through your hair, then forming a half-tight fist so you’re forced to look up at his silhouette. “Now who’s eager?”

“I think it’s a firm tie,” you say, feeling another thrill of victory as Ghost reaches down to shove your leg off and pull down his boxers. Once they’re gone, all the proverbial bets are off. Aside from the shadow he’s wearing like a second mask, he’s completely exposed to you, bare and vulnerable to every touch. It’s like a drug to you, intoxicating and really fucking addicting.

Apparently, Ghost thinks about the same of you. His hand is back on your hip, but trails down to your sex, palming your mons, fingers just brushing over your labia.

You feel him look at you. “Can I?”

No further question from you, especially when your arousal is threatening some serious whiteout conditions in your head. “Yeah. God, yeah.”

One large finger slides against your slit, and you hear yourself, the slick, wet sound audible above anything else in the room. Ghost curses again, drawing his finger back and forth, listening to that sound like he can’t get enough of it.

“Fuck, Ranger. You’re so fuckin’ wet.”

“You kinda have that effect,” you manage to say, before the pad of his finger brushes over your clit and draws out a moan that you bury in his chest.

But his other hand finds your shoulder, pushing you back, before he nudges up under your chin. “No. It’s just us two out here. I wanna hear you,” he says, his voice so hot, smoldering in your ears.

He rubs your clit again, and there’s nothing to hide behind, no muffler to conceal the gasp and moan that follow. Your pleasure is completely on display, and Ghost seems more than happy to draw it out further, admiring it from every angle. He draws circles around your clit, teasing you, adding more fuel to that particular fire—the irony of feeling this way in a tower meant to watch for fires isn’t lost on you.

His finger goes lower, trailing down to your opening, going back and forth several times. The friction is damn near unbearable, and it takes every iota of self control not to grind on his hand. But your hips roll outside your control, and he catches the movement with another low rumble of a laugh.

“There somethin’ you want?” he asks, index finger running a low, lazy circle around your entrance.

You nod, shuddering when he only just dips the tip of his finger in. “Ghost, please.”

“Please what?”

You hear yourself whine, a sound you never thought to hear coming out of your own damn mouth. This man makes you feel ridiculous. And he also probably gets off on hearing you say stuff like this. “Finger me,” you say, exasperated and aroused. “Please, for fuck’s sake.”

“That’s not very pretty,” he teases, and you’re very close to shoving him off the bed. But then he pushes his finger in, and any retort you were set to say or do dies immediately, consumed in the wildfire he’s ignited and fed. He presses his lips to your cheek as you moan, now very unapologetically rolling your hips against his hand as he fingers you, per request. You feel a second finger insinuating against you, and then hear Ghost whisper, “Okay?” against your ear.

“Yes. Oh my God, yes, please.”

“Much prettier,” he says, and the second finger joins the first.

The thought that he’s done this before only just brushes your thoughts as he hooks his fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture, sending hot sparks of pleasure running through your body, using your nervous system like an electrical conduit. You rock against his hand, moaning and gasping as Ghost kisses your neck, scraping his teeth over your tender skin.

“Good girl,” he says, breath hot over your shoulder, before he presses a kiss against your clavicle. How his kisses can feel so chaste while he relentlessly fingerfucks you is beyond your comprehension. The praise just makes it better, making that hot coil inside of you turn tighter, ready to be sprung on a hair trigger.

Ghost picks up on that, too. He suddenly doubles down on the effort, fingers thrusting into you at a much more rapid pace, the wet sound of his hand against your pussy practically deafening. Only his murmurs of praise against your ear register above that.

You’re reduced to a repetitive litany of ‘god’, ‘fuck, ‘please’, and Ghost’s name. All those months without seeing people and having only your hand to keep you company make this oncoming orgasm all the more vibrant and bright, a flare launched high into the air with a huge charge set to explode.

Your hips arch up, and Ghost hooks his fingers again, saying, “Come for me,” in a firm command tone.

And you are not one to ignore a command.

You come hard, crying out and arching off the bed, toes digging into the mattress, hands grasping for literally anything solid, including Ghost. He fucks you through it, coaxing your release out with the finesse of someone defusing an explosive. You come down in fits and starts, catching on little plateaus of pleasure along the way, moaning all the while. Finally, you go practically boneless on the bed, and only then does Ghost relent and pull his fingers away.

You hear him chuckle, a dry and throaty rasp of sound that makes you feel hot all over.

“What’s so funny?” you say, although your words are slurred as endorphins run relay races through your body.

He holds his hand up so that the firelight catches it, and you very plainly see how wet his whole hand is. To show it off, he presses his fingers together, then spreads them out, showing thin strings bridging between them.

“Oh, God,” you squeak, covering your face with your hands and fighting back a round of giggles. “I am so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he says, clearly pleased. He reaches somewhere behind him, presumably to wipe his hand off on the side of the bed.

And sweetheart. This man is going to kill you, and it has nothing to do with his occupation.

You tilt your head up to kiss him again, sighing against his lips and pressing yourself close. His right hand finds the side of your face, residual dampness from your orgasm still very present. Except he treats it like a trophy, dragging it down to your neck so you can feel it.

It’s also impossible to ignore his arousal prodding against your hip. Not that you intended to ignore it.

Before you can think and reason out an appropriate response, your primal brain takes hold. “Can I ride you?” you ask, and only after it’s said do you feel any kind of horror at outright asking. He purposefully arranged the two of you so you couldn’t see his face, like a Montana wilderness version of Eros and Psyche. Now you’re asking for him to lay on his back, exposed to you in every way.

He’s silent, and you’re about to apologize and suggest spooning or something when he says, “Sure.”

You blink, almost certain you misheard. “Say what?”

“You can, yeah.”

“What about the—”

It’s his turn to kiss you quiet, taking the opportunity to pull you close again and roll on his back. You meet the movement with your own, straddling his hips and feeling his erection press against your sex with insistence. You keep kissing Ghost with your eyes closed, finding his hand next to his head with your own and weaving your fingers together. His grip on your hand is firm—a solid, warm reassurance.

You turn your head, keeping your eyes closed. “I can keep my eyes shut if you want,” you tell him, only to feel his other hand come up and run over your back.

“You can look,” he says.

It feels like a point of no return now. Seeing his face, knowing that a person who this morning was still a stranger with a codename is now going to be very real—you’re almost breathless at the thought.

Slowly, you sit up while astride him, and open your eyes.

He’s— Well, handsome doesn’t seem like a well-rounded enough word. You were more on the mark with the Eros and Psyche metaphor. Firelight and shadow play across sharp features, making him look otherworldly. There’s still greasepaint around his eyes, which makes his gaze all the more intense. But the intensity is mitigated by a plush mouth, a distinctive nose, and a firm jaw. His light hair catches the warm ember-gold hue from the fire. All his features put together make for a face that you want burnt into your memory.

“Jesus, Ghost. You hide this on purpose?” you ask.

He smiles, and it’s only hearing him speak that connects the Ghost you know to the man underneath you. “Yes,” he says. “And it’s Simon.”

You must look owlish, eyes wide, blinking, damn sure you misheard again.

Ghost seems pleased by your reaction, reaching up with his free hand to brush hair out of your face. “That’s my name. My actual name.”

“Simon,” you repeat. A human name to a human face. There’s some poetry in there, but you’re too dazzled to work through it.

“Sounds good when you say it.”

You preen a little, then lean down and kiss him, savoring the sensation for everything it’s worth. And you know he read your name on the dossier, heard it from the other rangers—still, you whisper it into his ear like a secret, and he repeats it back to you in his low voice, accent curling around it perfectly.

Yeah, you’re absolutely going to ride this man until sunrise.

You reach down and take his cock into your hand, stroking it a few times and pressing your thumb up under the exposed head. Ghost—Simon moans and tilts his head back, watching you under half-lidded eyes. Carefully, you go up on your knees and align yourself with him, slowly lowering down and adjusting as needed. He’s big, which you expected from everything else about him. But it’s not a painful fit; if anything, it feels damn good.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand stroking over your hip as he looks to where you’re joined. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”

“Neither do you,” you reply, very much enjoying the angle. He fills you up completely, the strain of him just a pleasurable ache. You moan at the sensation as you experimentally rock on top of him. “Ohhh, I am so glad you got me off first.”

“What can I say? I’m chivalrous,” he replies, although it sounds a little strained as you move your hips again.

“That’s what you call it?”

Another roll, and he looks like he’s seconds from thrusting up into you. But he’s being conscientious, letting you adjust and go at your own pace. His eyes flutter closed, and you almost want to ask him to keep them open so you can enjoy their expressiveness.

“Something, something about being a British gentleman,” he mutters, and you can’t help but laugh. Apparently, that sensation’s pretty good for him; he shudders beneath you and keeps his hand braced on your hip.

Without his mask, you want to put him through the paces of reaction, committing each expression to memory, cataloging them for future use. So you go up on your knees again and come off his cock, then bring yourself back down. You do it a few more times, watching Simon’s expression with enormous interest, the pleasure and arousal doing fabulous things to his face.

He moans your name, and you’re definitely going to use that as fantasy fodder in the future.

Your earlier orgasm gives you plenty of lubrication to work with, and so you start to fuck yourself on him in earnest. In return, you’re rewarded with a low moan and a quiet, “Fuuuuck.”

The friction feels way too goddamn good, setting up another explosive charge inside of you as Simon starts meeting the bounce of your hips with thrusts of his own. Two opposing forces working toward the same goal, and it feels incredible.

You start to rock back on his cock, using his upward thrust as momentum to hit you just right. It’s the perfect angle, apparently for both of you, as Simon’s now breathing heavily, sweat a fine sheen on his skin.

“Yes, Simon, fuck me,” you whisper, beyond turned on at the wet sound of him fucking into you. You can’t tell if it’s hearing his name like that, the command, or both that make him really lean into this, but he’s pushing up hard, groaning and pulling you down so you’re pressed to his chest.

You wonder how long it’s been for him, too—briefly thinking oh god what if he’s got someone back home and I’m a fucking homewrecker before one particular upward thrust makes you cry out, clenching down on him in a way that’s audibly very good for him. You turn your head enough to see your joined hands, and when you squeeze his hand, you don’t feel any rings on his fingers. He does squeeze back, though, and it just feels like another reassurance.

There’s no way to keep track of time, and you really wish this could go on forever. The heat generated between the two of you is scorching, all-encompassing, a forest fire caught on the cusp of the lookout tower and reported to no one but yourselves.

His pace stutters a moment, the first hint that he’s very close. He releases his grip on your hand to grab at your other hip, pushing you up and off of him before you resolutely sit down, taking his cock in full and drawing a sharp gasp out of both of you.

“No,” you pant. “No, I have an IUD. You can— Ah, fuck— You can come inside me, Simon.”

“Oh, bloody fucking Christ,” he breathes, eyes wide and beautiful. “You’re sure?”

In response, you rock back against him, squeezing hard around his cock. “Affirmative,” you say, then lean down and kiss him again. “Very hard copy.”

And that’s enough to tip him right off the edge. He thrusts once, twice, and then he moans against your mouth, one of his hands going up to card through your hair, pressing you so close to him that you can feel his heart beating against your chest. You feel him come inside you, a pulse of heat, a sense of fullness. The room seems to take on new, brighter colors, and when you look at Simon, he looks fucking euphoric. The firelight gives him a look that’s like a touch of divinity, a golden cast over his face and body.

You take your time getting off of him, enjoying the feeling of him inside you too much. That, and there’s no bathroom, no shower—the comedown also means that reality’s a little too close at hand.

Simon catches his breath, hand loosely stroking your hair, and he presses a kiss to your temple before letting his head fall back onto the pillow. “Holy fuck,” he says.

You grin and nod against his shoulder, then slowly pull yourself off his softening cock, causing both of you to groan, albeit far weaker than before. You collapse onto the narrow bed beside him, nuzzling up close to him, hand on his chest, as he pulls the blankets up over you and wraps an arm around your shoulder. Your foreheads touch, and you listen to his breaths even out, his heart rate firm and steady under your hand.

“Probably too late to ask if you have a partner, huh?” you say, smiling as you run your thumb over his skin.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t, and I also feel stupid for not asking.”

You look up at him, the orange line of firelight tracing his features. “I don’t either. You’re good.”

He smiles, and you set that expression in your memory, drawing it in great detail. “My job kind of gets in the way.”

“Mine, too,” you reply, tracing spirals over his chest with your index finger. “It’s hard to get a date when you live out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Didn’t want to go check out the paramilitary extremists next door?”

You grimace and hide your face against his chest, shaking your head. “Gross. No.”

His chest shakes with laughter, and it’s wonderful.

---

Morning comes too quick, dawning cold and gray, reminding you that there’s a whole weird world outside the confines of the lookout tower. You and Simon get up, both aching very pleasantly, exchanging one too-brief kiss before his radio goes off.

“Ghost, how copy?” Price’s voice comes through in a crackle.

“Fuck,” Simon hisses, getting up and crossing the room to his radio. You at least can enjoy that he does so fully nude. He picks up the radio and keys it, scratching at his stubble as he responds, “At location 29-B and holding, Captain,” he says, his voice a dry scratch of sound. “The ranger had a medical issue.”

“Is she alright? Do you need a med evac?”

“Negative,” he replies. “We’re moving in about an hour.”

“Rog’. Keep me posted.”

“Will do, sir.”

An hour. You groan and fall back on the bed, staring up at the bare wood ceiling, decades worth of cobwebs in the corners. Simon falls back into bed beside you, cupping your face and drawing you into another firm kiss. Then, something dawns on you, and you lean back, looking over his handsome face in the morning light.

“When you say we’re moving in an hour, do you mean moving out, or just moving?”

His brows go up, slightly crooked smile on his face. “I think I didn’t specify, Ranger,” he says. “Do you have a preference?”

You laugh, leaning in close and pressing your forehead against his again. “Affirmative,” you say.

Simon laughs and shakes his head. “You could just say yes.”

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #modern warfare ii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #prompt fill #VERY big prompt fill oh god i'm so sorry #i've spent most of the day on this!! #and it's not edited yet because it's 10pm now and i'm very tired #did i have cody in mind as the model for the reader? yes. do i kinda ship her and ghost now? YEAH

[dsireland86]

LONG HOT SUMMER

Folio x Reader

Summer in the South is too much for some of them, but not for the two if you. In the middle of the tour, he finds a place that reminds him of you and takes you there. He just wanted you to know that he thinks about you, but fate had other plans. What was supposed to be quick and simple turns into hot, deep, and sensual

Authors Note: Sequel in the works

TAGS: @embracethereaper42, @foliosgirl, @broken0mens, @pathion, @embracethereaper42

It was so freaking hot you swear you could fry an egg on concrete. You don't mind it, the muggy humid heat of Louisiana being something you grew up in as a kid. Your Grandparents used to live here and you and your brother would spend almost every long hot summer with them. So it was something you could handle. But this band; absolutely not. Their northern nature made them divas when it came to the heat and never, in your life, have you heard so much complaining and whining from a bunch of guys as you have in the last seventy-two hours. It was so bad you wanted to glue your earbuds in just to get a few minutes of peace and quiet. 

The only one who seemed to handle it as well as you was Folio, and that’s because he has what your granddad used to call “fisherman’s skin” ; special skin that allows them to adapt to any climate. You knew he wasn’t serious, but now that you think about it, maybe he was right. The memory makes you smile as you enter the tour bus. Nicholas is the only one here, sprawled out on the couch in only a pair of shorts. “It’s too hot, Y/N.” The corners of your mouth lift at his confession. “You’re a diva, Nick.” He chuckles. “I am when it comes to this freaking heat. I’ll take Virginia weather any day over this shit.” 

Shaking your head, you move towards the bunks, yours specifically, and dig into your duffle bag in search of a new shirt to change into. You settle for the dark green tank and quickly change, feeling refreshed once you're done. After a few sprays of your favorite body spray you turn around and walk right into Noah’s chest, throwing your hand over your mouth to stifle your scream. 

“Fucking hell, Noah! Seriously!” Playfully, you slap him in the stomach and push him out of the way. “It’s not my fault you’re blind.” Your eyes widen. “I didn’t even hear you!” “Okay, well then deaf, too.” “Eat shit, Noah.” “Fuck you, Princess.” You narrow your eyes in a scowl. You hate when Noah calls you that. “I’ve been trying too, but she won't let me,” Folio says, coming up behind you and grabbing you by the hips. He plants a quick kiss on the side of your neck, making your heart skip a beat. The idea of you and Folio together has always made your stomach flutter. He’s been your crush ever since your brother introduced you to him years ago and no other guy has ever compared to him. You thought by now you would’ve told him how you felt, but since he’s never said how he feels about you, you’ve kept your feelings to yourself. Others have told you it’s obvious how Folio feels, but you aren’t one to just assume because of how he acts. Folio has always been a fun, playful kind of guy, and reading the signs wrong would be an utter embarrassment for you.

He kisses the side of your head, and tickles your sides, making you squeal and you elbow him in the stomach. He keels over pretending to be hurt. “Y/N, baby, please,” Folio begs, falling to the floor while clutching his stomach. “Fuck, you hurt me,” he complains, trying to hid his smile. You cross your arms as you hover over him. “Sucks for you,” you tease. He sticks his bottom out, pretending to pout, and lowers his head. That’s when the long tattooed arms snake around you, trapping you tightly against the body they belong to, and you know you’re in trouble. “Hmmm, my little bug is caught in a trap,” Noah whispers in your ear. “Let go of me Noah, or I'll kick you where it hurts most.” Your aggressive attempt makes Noah smile and he chuckles while locking one of his legs around yours. All, if any, advantages you have on him are officially gone now. “I'd like to see you try, Princess.” You growl in frustration. “Stop calling me that! You know I hate it.” Noah laughs again. “I don’t have anything else to call you! Unless you want me to call you a pigeon, or maybe piglet.” You grunt and try to break away. “Or how about little fox or maybe little fluffy bunny? Fluffy bunny! There it is!” Growling, you slam your foot down on top of Noah’s, hoping it will make him let you go, but it does absolutely nothing except make him laugh more. 

After a few more worthless attempts to break free, you know you’re not going to win this game so you go limp, letting yourself become dead weight in Noah’s arms. “Uh, Folio, I think I broke your girl,” he says and you smile at Noah’s choice words. Folio grabs his sunglasses that fell and instantly jumps to his feet and comes to your rescue. ”You break my girl, I’ll break your face,” he asserts as Noah brings you back to your feet. You catch Folio’s reference about you and it leaves you wondering. His smile is so infectious though as it spreads across his face and you can’t help but smile back. “You're lucky today, Princess,” Noah smirks, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead before letting you go. “You’re still a jerk,” you say with a grin. “You’re still a bitch,” he replies, poking you in the belly. Not everyone is lucky enough to get Noah's playful side, but you are. That says a lot. 

“Come with me,” Nick says softly in your ear, bringing you back to reality. He slides his sunglasses on and takes your hand and leads you down the steps of the bus. The hot, humid air hits you the second you step outside, making the first outside breath difficult.

“Wait, hold up, where are you two going?” Matt questions. My eyes shift from Folio to Matt. “There’s something I want to show Y/N. It's not far.” Matt’s eyes bounce over the two of you then narrow. “Just for a few minutes Matt. We’ll be right back and then we can leave.” Matt smiles. “If I were you Y/N, I'd be worried if he makes it last only a few minutes.” You snicker, holding your hand over your mouth and turning away from Matt’s gaze. “Oh my god, will you quit already, we're not sleeping together,” Folio states. Your cheeks are red and Jolly notices. “Then why is Y/N blushing like that?” Folio turns and looks at you, grinning at the sight of your very red cheeks. He knows how easily embarrassed you can get sometimes, but it’s one thing he really loves about you. It gives him a reason to get protective. Jolly is laughing, but you can’t even look him in the face. “I’m just playing Y/N.” He detects the embarrassment in you and pulls you in for a hug. You wrap your arms around his waist as he lays a kiss on the top of your head. “Alright, can we go now,” Folio pleads with eagerness in his voice. It has you wondering what could possibly be so important.

“Fine, twenty minutes. Don’t be late or we’re leaving both your asses,” Matt forewarns us, climbing up into the bus after Jolly. You and Nick both laugh.“No you won’t, Matt. You need us too much.” You tug on Folio’s arm, and he gets the hint, leading you further away from the bus.“Don't you hurt my little sister, Folio. I will fuck you up,” Matt yells behind you. 

“Will you please slow down!” you giggle, trying your best to keep up with Nick as he pulls you through the woods, practically running. “I can’t. We only have twenty minutes; less now. I want to make sure you have enough time to enjoy it.” “Enjoy what,” huffing a laugh. He doesn't answer, so you stop suddenly, letting your hand slip out of Nick’s. A loud clap of thunder rattles the sky as he turns to you, noticing the enigmatic look in your eyes, “What?” 

You can’t see his eyes because of how dark his glasses are, but you know he’s staring at you, drinking you in like water. You don't know if it's the thunder or the sound of your heart that's so loud but when he closes the gap that separates your body from his, running his calloused fingers down your cheek and his thumb over your lips, you sigh, knowing it's definitely your heart. Fidgeting with your fingers, your knees want to buckle, but you try your hardest to keep your composure. Something is very different about the way Folio is acting around you and it should make you question his intention, but you don’t. You welcome it instead, like the thunderstorm coming you know is coming, with open arms.

As you gaze at him, barely able to breath, you let your eyes wander over his face, taking in the little things about him that make him so irresistible to you, stopping at his lips. Their shape is perfect, matching the rest of his facial features perfectly, but the fullness of them, how perfect the bottom one is for nipping and biting, even sucking when the intensity of the things you would let him do to you gets to be too much, makes the thin fabric beneath your shorts wet. You clench your jaw and your forehead furrows as you fight to push away the not so innocent visions plaguing your thoughts.

“You must be thinking of some nice things, your cheeks are flushed,” Folio points out with a smirk. Bringing your hands to your cheeks, you grin, slightly down turning your head, and when you’ve looked back up at him, your breath hitches when you see he’s removed his sunglasses and his eyes are fixed heavily on you.

Your nerves feel like they’re on fire and your knees are undoubtedly weak now. You know you look a mess, body already moist with sweat and your hair everywhere from the humidity, even though you have it pulled up, but that doesn’t seem to bother Folio. He surprises you by taking your face between his hands and leaning in, softly kissing you and stealing your breath away. It’s a long kiss, and deep, and you can’t help but notice the way Folio’s body leans into yours and presses firmly against it. You grip his red sleeveless shirt and take a deep breath even though your lips are still pressed tightly to his. The scent of him engulfs your senses and you suddenly want him everywhere on you. It’s taking every ounce of restraint to keep yourself together. 

But the moment Folio slides his tongue across your bottom lip, making you whimper, you know you’re done for. You know what he wants. Slightly opening your mouth, he slides his tongue in and captures yours, pulling the moan you’ve been holding back from your lungs. He releases his warm breath over you and between his taste and the scent, the mint toothpaste he used this morning still lingers and it makes you pull him in closer to you, wanting to feel every movement of his body against yours.  

“Shit,” he breathes when you part, but don’t let go of each other. He grins, laying his forehead against yours and slips a hand behind your head, bringing you in for one more soft kiss. “You have no idea what you do to me.” His confession surprises you and you wonder if there's a chance that he might tell you how he feels about you. Catching the twinkle in his eyes before it fades, you give Nick your best smile. He clenches his teeth together, making that tight jaw line of his appear, the one that gives you some of the best dreams of making out with him and possibly going even further, play through your mind like your favorite movie. 

“You want to tell me what you're thinking, baby, or do I have to guess?” Your panties are soaked now. If it wasn't for you still being in Nick's arms, you'd be on the ground. “You’re trembling.” “Ha, I wonder why.” A small smile finds its way into the corner of his mouth. “Do I make you tremble?” His brown eyes widen, but his expression is serious as he drags his finger down the side of your arm to the front of your stomach, resting right above the waistband of your shorts. You slowly nod in response to his question earning you another smirk before he lowers his face to your neck and drags his tongue lightly over your skin, taking a small bit of it into his mouth. The feeling of him sucking on you excites you, making your muscles tighten and the fire in your abdomen grow. You moan as you squeeze his shirt tightly in your hands again, letting the heat of the moment rip through your body. “Your skin tastes so good,” he tells you when he brings his head up to face you. “I wonder if the other parts of you taste just as good.” You feel the heart spread across your cheeks, causing Folio to chuckle. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” you retort with a smug smile. “I would, Baby.” You grin, bringing your fingers to his lips and tracing with the tips of your fingers. You can feel that familiar tingle building up in the bottom of your stomach, the one that always comes when you think about Folio; the one that makes you squeeze your thighs together. You pull your bottom lip into your mouth, biting it to keep from kissing him again, and Nick notices.  

“Come on,” his alluring brown eyes taking your breath captive as his hand takes yours again. “Where almost there.” 

You come to a clearing and hear the sound of flowing water before you can even see the river that's just up ahead. But that's not what makes you stop and hold still. It's what's in the center of the clearing that takes your breath away. Before you, a few feet away, are two trees intertwined with what appears to be a heart formed in the middle, made from the bending of their long branches and green leaves. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen and it literally has you holding your breath. Bringing your hands to your mouth, you stare at it in amazement, moving closer while paying no mind to another clap of thunder, leaving Nick behind.

“I had to show you before we left. I found it yesterday when I was looking for the river.” You are utterly speechless, not just because of the trees, but also because Nick has made it a point to show you this, admitting that two trees forming a heart reminds him of you. You know this means something big, coming from Nick. He's not one to throw thoughts and feelings around or out to just anybody. You turn to look at him only to find he's already staring at you. The look in his eyes makes your heart skip. 

“Judging by the look on your face I'm assuming you like it?” “I love it,” you croak, because speaking is proving to be difficult at the moment. Folio laughs “I knew you would.” Tears slip from your eyes and slide down your cheeks and you're suddenly super embarrassed that you're crying. “Hey come here, Doll,” he pleads, taking you into his arms. You throw your arms around his neck while he slides his around your waist, his hands finding their way to your bottom and squeezing it. His strong tug into him is just enough for you to know he’s serious about what he’s wanting; you feeling just how hard he is for you beneath his black shorts. The thought makes you forget you have knees at all and you can't help but give in to his demand. It’s an insatiable feeling, the hard thickness of his length pressed entirely against your sex. You feel him twitch, as if knocking upon your entrance,  leaving you wanting more. Folio grunts and stagers a bit, almost losing balance, but gives you his sweet lopsided grin with narrowed eyes, taking a quick look at his watch. “We still have about ten minutes.” You want to believe he's serious, but you don't want to assume. Instead you laugh and continue to play his game. “You really want our first time together to last less than ten minutes out in the middle of the woods in broad daylight? Not to mention there’s an impending storm coming.” Folio looks up at the dark cloud-covered sky just as deep thunder rolls again. He laughs, shoulders bouncing to prove just how funny it is to him and you shove your hands deep into his back pockets, pushing yourself into him. “Fuck, Y/N, if you do that again, you're gonna leave me with no other choice.” He peers down at you, suddenly staring as if you're his next meal, and every nerve in your body is instantly on fire. You didn't mean anything by it. You're just playing the flirty game with him. But you're so nervous you feel light-headed so you quickly remove your hands from his pockets. 

“Hey hold up now, I didn't say you had to take your hands away,” playfully reaching for them to shove them back in his pockets. You giggle followed by a loud squeal as Nick picks you up and spins you, putting you back down after your three persistent pleas. “I want our first time together to be someplace special. Someplace where we can be loud as fuck and no one will hear or care about what we're doing.” His expression is serious, but you know he's really not; is he? “Wow, okay, tell me how you really feel,” you say, shocked by his bluntness. “Okay, you really want to know how I really feel?” His question is more of dare than anything, but you play along anyway. “Sure, lay it on me Folio,” you tease. Leaning up against the side of a tree, Folio stands there staring at you for a minute. “I'm in love with you Y/N. I dream about you, I think about you constantly. I can’t stop. But even if I could, I don't think I'd want to.” 

Folio drops his gaze, his soft brown eyes covered by the rim of his Harley ball cap. You know he's nervous. You know he's never been this bold with a girl before. But you're so shocked by his confession that you have no idea what to do. Your forehead creases and your mouth goes dry as you try to think of something to say, but fail. Is Nick being for real? When he doesn't look at you, you can't help but feel that he is being serious, and that softens your heart. Not acknowledging him would be mean and you have no intention of hurting him. So, you make the first move. 

“Do you want there to be a first time between us, Nick?” His hesitation scares you a little despite what he just told you. Finally, he looks up at you with a small smile hiding in the corner of his lips and you swear his eyes are glistening. “I want a first, a second, a third… a million times… however many times you want until you get sick of me.” You let out a shaky laugh, floored that this is actually happening. “I don't think that's possible,” shaking your head at him. “Mmm… yeah it's pretty possible.” 

There's a quiet moment between you. “Come here,” Folio calls to you with a quick flick of his head, and you do. He brings his hand to your neck, gently sliding his calloused fingers down your soft, delicate skin, causing shivers to ripple throughout your whole body. You want those hands everywhere on you now and you're not ashamed to admit it now that you know how he feels about you. “What if I bring my ski mask, you know the one,”

“Yes,” you say, trying to hide your excitement. You've had plenty of daydreams about him and the mask. “I’m quite aware of it, but isn’t that more Noah’s thing than yours?” Folio removes his ball cap and pushes his hair back. He looks so good to you right now as you picture him coming at you with said ski mask. If he was wearing it right now with the same look in his eyes you’d be willing to let him do whatever he wanted to you. Your skin heats up and you can feel it creeping over your cheeks as your heart pounds against your chest and you can feel damp fabric between your legs as you squeeze your thighs together. Folio notices. “Thinking about it aren’t you, Doll,” he questions, licking his lips. His warm breath on your neck as he leans in to taste your skin leaves you breathless. “Thinking about you and me together, and what it would feel like having me inside you? What it would feel like getting fucked by me with just a ski mask on.” Folio’s hands that are back on your hips dig their fingertips into your skin and your muscles tighten beneath his touch as you try to keep yourself up before your knees completely buckle. “Alright, that’s enough Nick,” you say with a shaky breath, reluctantly pushing his hands away. “You know I want to, right?” he asks in a somber tone. “I do. So did I,” hoping he can see the seriousness on your face. “I want you too.” He smiles and you release the tight breath you’ve been holding. “I want it to be on your terms, not mine.” His face softens and the tension goes away, and you melt into the sweetness you now see. “Thank you,” you whisper. He pulls you in for a deep kiss and you feel a rush of relief being in his arms this way. “Maybe we should talk about this another time.” You didn’t realize how much sexual tension was really between the two of you. “Well, you're the one who brought it up,” reminding you with a raised eyebrow. “Well, you're the one who started it,” lightly shoving him away from you. “Mmm, technically your brother did.” He taps the end of your nose as you think of a comeback. You have none. “Okay, fair point.” Folio smiles at you while taking a deep breath. “Let's head back, before Matt really does kill us both.” You agree and turn to leave, but stop instantly. “Wait, take my picture,” you say, handing Folio your phone. Grinning, he takes your hand. “I have a better idea,” as he leads you over to the trees. The thunder rolls again, and you start to feel the sprinkles of rain that are quickly turning into droplets. Wrapping his arm around you so that you're snug in the crook of his shoulder, Nick says your name and you look up at him. His lips land on yours and you fall into his kiss as you hear the snap of the camera go off, signaling he took the picture. “Hey! Nick!” Folio grins and takes off running through the pouring rain with you quickly in tow. 

___________________________________________________________

After one more show in Louisiana, one in Mississippi, two in Florida, and two in Texas, the heat and humidity has all of you done for. You’re ready to go home. There is more work to be done once you get there, back to L.A., but a much needed break is first. Matt already has his entire month off planned, Noah too. Bryan will be knee deep in photos and rug making, Nicholas is flying home to Virginia, Jolly wants to sleep, but Folio has yet to mention anything. He’ll probably whisk away quietly on his bike for a long ride or a fishing trip, where you’ll be left to miss him like an insane person. But that’s okay. Everyone could use time apart.   

You yawn and pull the hood further down to cover my eyes. The merch hoodie you’re wearing was actually Noah's and you confiscated it without him knowing. But you know he doesn’t mind. Settling deeper into the couch and in the hoodie, you feel a looming presence over you, and you have a good idea of who it is.

“Up,” Folio orders, tapping your legs. You obey, laying them back down on his lap once he sits down. “Are you alive under there?” “Barely,” you mumble. Your arms are crossed over your chest and the hood completely covers your face. “Alright,” Folio chuckles. “Well, are you listening?” You sigh. “Depends on what you’re saying.” You feel a warm hand slip under the hoodie first and then your shirt, sliding across the skin of your belly while making its way further up, filling your entire body up with goosebumps. “How about now; listening now?” You shake your head while smiling, but you know Folio can’t see it. The hand moves from right below your breasts, further south to right above the waistband of your leggings, stopping as if to think, but then continuing down overtop the fabric and over your heated sex that’s throbbing with lust from Folio’s teasing. Instantly, you sit up and pull the hood off, meeting with Folio’s face mere inches from you. “How about now,” he says with that adorable smile. You shake your head once more, the familiar tingling engulfing you between your legs, begging for one more touch from Nick’s fingers. He grins, leans in and kisses you, while sliding a finger between your covered folds, feeling you squirm and wiggle beneath him. Just his touch alone is sending you quickly to the edge. “Mmm… I want to feel more of that from you,” Nick says, once he sits back. “You're such a tease, you know that?” You shake your head and grin, sitting back without the hood this time. “So, really, are you listening?” You smile big, and shake your head again, watching Folio’s eyes grow dark and wide. You know what he wants and you’re playing his tightened strings so well, that they are about to snap. “I’m kidding, yes, I’m listening,” you say, attempting to pull him away from the ledge.

You prop your head on your fist, staring at the man before you who is too busy scrolling through his phone to notice you staring at him. Folio is beautiful, with all the perfect little things that make him so irresistibly hot at the same time. From the earring in his left ear, to the hoop in his nose, the large tattoo on his neck and the massive one on his chest. From his sweet disposition, to affectionate, caring heart, Nick was everything you wanted; physically and inwardly. He always made you feel safe and you knew at this moment you didn't want or need anything else. Folio was enough.

“I know what I want to do once we're home,” he says, raising his eyebrows and smiling. You grin seeing him so excited about whatever it is he’s about to show you. “I found this really cool fishing spot up in Washington called Trout Lake Cozy Cabins. Apparently they have some of the best trout fishing there. I wanna take the bike and go.” Your heart falls at the thought of him leaving, especially so soon after getting home, but you’re not about to rain on his parade. “That sounds like a great time,” trying to mask the disappointment in your voice. “Good, because you’re coming with me.” Your eyes dart up to Nick’s and you see him grinning. “You’re serious,” you say more as an affirmation than a question. “Yeah I’m serious. We need to get away together if we’re going to give this thing between us a shot.” “This thing?” Your eyes narrow and you sit up, scooting closer to Folio’s legs. “Yeah, this thing,” he confirms, licking his lips, looking you up and down as you move closer. “And what is this thing,” you whisper over his lips. Your eyes drop from his to his lips and you’re restraining everything in you to not reach out and grab him, pull him into you, and devour every part of his sweet face that’s got you going mad for him. “Mmmmm, it’s a really great thing,” he answers, his entire body still, but his breath is shaky. “And there’s an us?” Your heart is pounding so hard you wonder if he can hear it. “I’d really, really like for there to be an us,” he whispers as you hand grazes over his hard length that’s very obvious to your eyes at the moment.   

“If you two seriously don’t quit, I’m throwing you out,” Matt barks as he walks by. You can hear the laughter hiding behind your brother’s tone and know there isn’t an ounce of seriousness in his voice. But still, you and Folio back off each other, allowing some breathing room. “So, you want to go here,” you say once you’ve taken a look at the place he’s pulled up on his phone. It’s very beautiful. It’s rural, quiet, and private; it’s the perfect place for you two. “I've already booked “The Pines” cabin for us.” Your eyes widen. “Seriously?” “Seriously.” “How far is it?” “Does it matter?” “It does if I’m going to be stuck with your ass, alone.” Folio pretends to be hurt. “I know you’re joking.” “Oh, but am I Folio?” You narrow your eyes and give him a smirk. You watch as his face grows a little anxious. You burst out laughing, earning you a ton of tickles to which your squeals turn into small screams. “It’s eight hundred and thirty-seven miles,” Nick finally tells you. “Whew, that’s a lot of miles. How many hours?” “Twelve and a half by the time we stop for gas and rest.” 

“Wow… that’s a long time alone with you on a bike. I’m not sure I can do that Nick.” You try to keep your face as serious as you can and it works. Nick’s head falls and you know you’ve made him feel terrible. “Oh my gosh, I’m kidding,” you scootch into his lap and wrap him around you as much as possible. “I’m so kidding,” you say again, placing soft kisses all over him. Folio raises his head to look at you and now you’re the one who feels terrible. “You really have to stop fucking with my head like that. My feelings too; I’m sensitive.” The baby face he’s giving you makes you fold into him and bury yourself there. “I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest.” “It’s fine. I’ll just make you pay for it later.” You freeze at the sudden change in Folio’s voice, sitting up and staring at him. “Seriously?” “Am I?” The mischievous glint in his eyes is too much and you bite your lip, wondering if maybe you shouldn’t have teased him so much. “Come with me and find out?” Folio smiles at you. “Well, I guess you’ll have to find out once we get home.” Getting up, you head towards the bathroom, pleased with yourself. “Seriously, Y/N!” “Yup, seriously, Folio,” chuckling at yourself because you already know the answer.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

#nick folio #nick folio bad omens #nick folio fic #nick folio fanfiction #nick folio x reader #bad omens cult #bad omens band #bad omens fanfiction

[intimacyequalsdeath]

Bubz's 12 Days of Ficmas: Day 3 Snow (Thomas Hewitt)

Day 3 of Ficmas coming right up!

Notes: Minors DNI, Fluffy, SFW, No specific pronouns or descriptions of reader used.

"It snows in Texas sugar, just not here". Is what Luda Mae told you when you first came to permanently live with the Hewitt's and you felt comfortable enough to pick her brain.

Once a lost college student like many others that happen upon the family, though saved by the fact that you and Thomas had grown rather attached to each other and Luda was just thrilled her baby finally had a chance to have a family.

"Thomas? can you believe it doesn't snow here?"

You had asked him one day from your spot perched onto an old work bench in the basement, while he butchered meat. He shot you a unimpressed look that spoke volumes of "Oh really, you don't say?"

"Oh well I guess you've lived here your entire life huh?"

You said, realizing your mistake. He nodded and gave a huffed laugh which caused you to also smile.

"Thomas stop! Don't laugh at me"

You defended reaching over to playfully swat at him. While laughing yourself. As someone who had grown up in a northern area where every winter was coated with fluffy white flakes, the idea of no snow at all was so foreign.

The lack of snow stuck with you until the day finally came when you stepped out of the old family house and could feel the familiar nip in the air. Luda had said that of course like most places it does get cold just usually no snow.

================================================

A hand on your shoulder shook you out of your sleep.

"Tommy stop"

You groaned without opening your eyes to look at your husband. He shook you slightly harder.

"ugh what Tommy? what time is it even?"

You asked cracking your eyes open to meet Thomas's brown orbs. Thomas gave you a grunt and pointed to the singular window in your shared bedroom. You looked at him confused.

"What is it Tommy?"

He shook his head and pointed to the window once again. This time with a commanding air about him. You rolled your eyes playfully but got out of bed never the less.

Your just haven awoken legs were shaky, so Tommy gave you a hand over to the window. You blinked the grogginess out of yours eyes and squinted to peer out of it.

You gasped when you noticed it, soft white flakes, falling out of the sky.

"Tommy" You exclaimed "It's snowing!"

Thomas made a happy noise from his spot beside you. Seeing you happy always made Tommy happy.

You should've known to be honest. The radio had talked all week about a monumental snow storm threatening to hit Texas. Even Hoyt and Mama had wanted to be prepared for it. The entire family had been prepping all week for the possible unprecedented storm.

"C'mon Tommy let's go outside!"

Thomas gave you a bewildered look, you laughed at him.

"What? you expected that you'd wake me up and I wouldn't wanna go outside?'

You both pulled on some semi warm clothes, winter clothes aren't really a thing, before slowly opening the door to your bedroom. You sneak down the hall and stairs being careful not to wake up the rest of the family as you make your way out the front door.

The only light outside is the soft glow from the kitchen light that Luda leaves on incase anyone needs to come downstairs to help them see their way around.

You walk to nearly the middle of the giant yard and gaze up into the sky, watching all the snow fall silently around you in the crisp night air.

"Tommy it's beautiful"

It was nearly a whisper, you didn't even think Tommy had heard you until you felt a presence behind you. You turned around and came face to face with Thomas.

"Hi Tommy"

He placed his giant hands onto your hips and held you in front of him as he got a good look at you. Snow flakes had begun to stick in your hair as you gazed up at the giant of a man through your eye lashes.

Thomas regularly would remember back to his childhood, when he would run home crying because of the kids who had picked on him and called him a freak over something he couldn't control.

Luda would tell him not to listen to their words and one day he wouldn't have to deal with them. She would say how one day he would find someone who would love him despite how he looked. Thomas never really believed his mother when she would tell him that, the only people he had ever interacted with had treated him cruel. Even Hoyt and Monty would have their moments.

If someone would have told Thomas back then that he would be standing in his front yard, while it was snowing with a person like you gazing up at him as if he was the best thing in the world. He would have probably thought they were the craziest person he'd ever met but despite all the odds here he was.

You laid your head on his broad chest. He brought a hand up from your hip to your head and carted his fingers through your hair.

There, in the cold winter air of Texas. You and Tommy had only two things on your minds.

Each other and the fresh fallen snow that symbolized more then just the cold.

#slasher x reader #slasher fandom #Ficmas #12 days of ficmas #texas chainsaw massacre #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt #texas chainsaw 3d

[chantsdemarins]

New Fic: Breath of the Æsir ⚔︎🏰 (Loki X Reader)

Formally (Collapsing in the Arms of Chaos) I changed the name. 😬 I know Medieval stories aren't everyone's fav but heck, I hope you like it! It has been brewing in the coffee pot that is in my head for over a year. I feel slightly self-conscious that after my first time with COVID, my brain is not the same. I hope I still have my ability to write! My last story published a few weeks ago was written while I was falling ill and I know it wasn't my best!

Thank you for reading!! If you want to comment I would be so happy and reblogs are like the most precious thing to me. All art is mine, it's a Photoshop-crazed situation.

Summary: Disenchanted with the Danes' misuse of Norse gods to sanction their brutality, Loki finds himself ostracized. Stripped of his divine powers and bearing a severe injury, he wanders into the realm of the conquered. By a twist of fate, he arrives at your manor, where you await your husband's return. However, destiny has other plans.

Warnings: Blood.

Words: 2,471

Smut rating: Not yet...but there sure will be!

Posting schedule: Every Saturday! I am going to stick to this!

Chapter 1 The Embroidery of Destiny Chapter 2 The Stranger Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

@lokis-little-fawn @lcolumbia1988 @thesoftboiledegg @anukulee @mochie85 @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @nildespirandum @caffiend-queen @mochie85 @maple-seed @mischief2sarawr @kikster606 @thedistractedagglomeration @glitchquake@simplyholl @holdmytesseract @holymultiplefandomsbatman @wheredafandomat @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @muddyorbs @vickie5446 @trickster-maiden @grymrayven

Before your family settled again, you had been travelers, moving from one darkened patch of earth to the next. Soil on your boots muddied your paths, creating difficulties in finding a home. There were many things to see, some horrors, some things magical and unfounded. Shapes shifted in the forest where you camped at night. One day your father showed you where they lowered men into the bogs, decorated with bronze. These were not the ways of your people. They did not worship like that. It might have been too much for you to know where some ended up when they were no longer living, not in graves or on pyres. Something else.

By the time you reached the northern lands, your family had negotiated your belongings down to just what the pallid horses could carry. Your croft was built into the very earth you had struggled to cross, with bedrooms burrowed into the side of a hill. It was not built for so much rain. Buckets and sluices were not enough to keep out the floods.

So, when your husband came to marry you, you packed your things neatly, placed them in a pack, and left your parents’ home without drawing a breath. You walked a distance far greater than any you had as a child to his family's land, your new home. The way your family had negotiated the marriage remained a blind spot in your mind. You couldn't fathom it. From a croft to a manor.

Over time, nothing in your marriage seemed to flourish. The land, though beautiful, yielded nothing you sowed. Too sandy or too chelated, perhaps unfortunate timing. You became a wife in the loneliest ways. No spinning of yarn would produce a cloth finer than the wool you began with. Hours of practice composing embroidery resulted in nothing more than half completed sea escarpments, knots, and birds with no flight.

The elegant window that surveyed the tenants' labors only deepened your isolation. They carried on with their duties, and you retired to your quarters, curtains drawn. The chill from your childhood followed you here. The stone walls held a dampness no fire could dispel. You knew somewhere across the hills where your parents still sleeping too close to the earth. Rooms still flooded. Though your loyalty never wavered, even as your husband wandered afar, absent for days at a time, his pursuits as obscure as the horizon beyond your room filled with half-finished tasks.

In kindness or disappointment, he had ensured your education extended beyond your lowly beginnings. Through travels and courtly audiences, barons and other titled men and women recounted their lives' poetry over each glass of mead or wine. You listened for moments when they forgot their lines, most days this was more interesting than their images they wanted you to see.

Although had you not met Isolde of Easting, you would not have thought to plant the spiky yellow gorse along the manor's borders. When the proper conversation waned, you had discovered the titled people still spun tales of their lands. The places they had come or been uprooted from. In the best conversations, you gleaned knowledge of the plants, herbs, and tokens from the first peoples, their ways overshadowed by the new cultures but nonetheless seeming to flow from them to you during the quieter moments—the men away hunting, the embroidery thread running low, the teapot empty. These things were spoken of in hushed tones so the servants would not get ideas.

You spoke of the hawthorn tree, the ravens' work, the swords warriors cast into the cold estuary, found along all the lakes' shores. The Roman merchants who brought tales of Jesus and his cross. The god Woden came from the Angles, and Odin, from the North. Their wars and bloodshed filled the spaces between village homes and now the courts. If asked if you prayed to the Christian god, you couldn't say. You longed to speak of the place where they lowered men into the bogs, the place your father once showed you. Later, in the quiet of your room, you would pull out a relic from beneath the blankets in your chest, and it would look unrecognizable. It once held meaning, but that meaning didn't travel with it.

Sometimes when you were awake much too early, the nightingales still singing, you would dip your quill into the small pot of black soot. You would unroll a small piece of parchment, discarded by the cooks, and write down your dreams. Which had room in your sleep since they were so often unimpeded by the presence of your husband. You wrote in the lais of the Frankish people, counting eight sounds to the line, braiding your dreams with your words.

Had I found a small shell, not rope I would have held it to my ear The ocean's song would have come to me Instead, I was swallowed wholly

This was how things proceeded until the day they did not.

As you came to learn, in the void and closeness of life, nothing is reliable enough to expect its continuation the next day. You should allow for change to slip through the crevices of even the dampest chambers. It just had not happened in so long you almost did not recognize it when something remarkable unfolded at your manor.

On this day, as you sipped your tea, with half-finished yards of cloth draped across your lap, and the unopened book of hours on the small, worn table, your gaze was fixed on the wind billowing the emerald curtains—silk from an era long past, traded by hands unknown. Like much of the decor in the manor, these were vestiges of your husband's family's trade in finery, symbols of their stature akin to that of minor kings.

Elinor, your companion for the last 10 years, rapped on your door abruptly, breaking your contemplative gaze.

“My lady, please excuse me,” she croaked, as the door opened before you could arrange a pretext to delay her entry.

“What is it, Elinor?” you asked, not wishing to dwell on the trivialities of the manor that day. Clearing her throat, she reported urgently of a man in a bad way, injured and lying on the steps. She hastened to your window, the portal to the land beyond your manor, and pointed to the makeshift courtyard where a man lay seemingly lifeless if not for the faint moan you heard.

“Why have you not sought my husband or some other man of decisions?” you questioned with a twinge of fear edging into your refuge of solitude.

“Lady, your husband has traveled beyond into the land of the Scots, and the aldermen are not present either,” she informed you.

“A household of women only, then? How did I overlook such an event?” you pondered.

“Lady, you are often engrossed in your own pursuits within these walls. How could you have noticed your husband's departure?” Elinor reasoned, her words not easing the panic now fully upon you. The thought that your husband had left you unprotected added another layer of anguish.

“At such a time, Elinor, how shall we defend ourselves?” you barely articulated.

“I suspect he gave little thought to the matter,” Elinor replied, her head bowed even lower than her subdued voice.

“Then it falls to me to act in their absence,” you reasoned. Not wanting this conflict or the talk that may ensue you knew you must act quickly. This man perhaps knew your husband, or perhaps it was only a small political scuffle that may have resulted in his injuries. You thought of the many reasons he could have ended up at the steps of your manor of this day. None of them added up entirely.

As you navigated the long, narrow corridors, your thin morning jacket provided little relief from the chill as Elinor aided you with the heavy door. You both stood in awe of the man at your feet. Having seen men before, chiefly your husband. This man’s appearance was now shocking at close view. He was unlike your husband in all ways you could imagine.

“Holy Jesus save us,” Elinor yelled through her missing teeth.

“He will not assist with this, Elinor,” you responded, your eyes surveying the severe wound from his stomach to his chest, the dark blood pooling around his lean form.

The man’s hair was a shade darker than the darkest night. Had night possessed more depth, it would resemble the hue of his locks. His attire suggested nobility, which only intensified the chill you felt. He had clearly been bested in whatever skirmish he had come from, and with no healer at hand, it seemed likely that a burial might soon follow—until his eyes fluttered open.

A striking blue that drew your own darker gaze, hinting at his foreign language or origins. His hand reached out feebly before falling back to his side.

He whispered faintly, “Ásjá.”

“He's alive!” you declared, as if the statement itself could reverse his fate.

“Yes, lady, he lives, I told you. Now what shall we do?” Elinor asked, concern evident in her voice.

“We save him. It is the right thing to do,” you answered.

“But without a healer, we risk much by sheltering him,” Elinor’s voice trembled.

“Then we shall tend to his needs ourselves,” you declared, your courage unusual, unfounded, drawn from the same well that had seen men saved from death at a distance. An instinct came over you. You directed Elinor to gather wood, cloth, herbs, and other necessities that seemed more from your imagination than any practical experience. You quickly cut away his clothes, exposing the dire wound more fully.

“Lady, he may not survive this,” Elinor observed with a somber tone. The unhinged flesh flapping against the seemingly unended torrent of blood emerging from him. How could there be so much blood.

“Silence, Elinor,” you hushed her. Your hands, though failed in the art of tapestry, were adept with needle and thread. So much failure had given you courage.

“We must stem the bleeding before we can stitch him up,” you instructed, asking for a branch from the fire.

“Lady, you cannot—” Elinor began, but you had already pressed the smoldering wood to the wound. The man awoke suddenly, thrashing in pain.

“Hold him down!” you ordered. Elinor, small but determined, restrained his arms.

You envisioned repairing his injury as if it were the "Galley of the Titan’s Moons," a rare piece of embroidery from the northern lands.

“I shall map the night sky upon your body, sir,” you said, speaking into the silence as he drifted further from this world. You sensed the ancestors gather, ready to welcome him, but you were not ready to let him go.

“No, not yet” you whispered, a soft rebuke to the invisible presence.

Elinor looked at you, puzzled. To whom were you speaking?

You were determined. This man would not die. Though you had sent for a proper healer, your task was to keep him alive until they arrived, hoping they would be sober enough to be of use. Much worse would be a drunk priest should your help not find any healer available.

It was not until you had finished suturing his wound that you noticed how his body appeared in the dim light of the great room. Your loneliness resonated with the landscape of his injury. It was a peculiar reaction, but there was something else broken within this man, beyond the sword wound. It was something familiar to your own. You held you own stomach for a moment, it felt as if you were the one almost slain, not him.

Eventually, his bleeding ceased, and the healer arrived, tended to him with poultices and what looked like grain spirits. You wrapped your furs around his sleeping form. He did not pass away. The stranger in your home survived. You had been told he might still not make the night. You watched him for as long as your eyes could. His faint inhalations mirrored in your own. But the exhaustion took over, and before you could retreat to your own chamber, you found yourself lying at his side.

“How improper, Lady!” Elinor’s voice pierced the quiet as dawn crept in and your eyes, heavy with sleep, opened. You hadn’t realized you had fallen asleep beside the stranger. Startled, you rose, wrapping a blanket around yourself. Quickly finding a reason that you had slept at his side.

“He remains unconscious, Elinor. The healer was unsure if he would wake,” you confided in the servant who had been by your side for so many years. She looked briefly placated. Yet you knew her mind was racing. The healer would tell the burgh folk of this strange man. Your husband was nowhere to be known. Northman had recently been subdued with heavy piles of church silver, and that arrangement was delicate at best. They would be back and this time they would perhaps sack the village since you knew the last of the silver had been promised away to visiting bishops and clergy. The wealth had run its course.

“He must stay until he awakens, until he can speak for himself,” you quickly decided.

It was better to know who he was. He would surely tell you since you saved his life.

“But what if he is a demon, my lady? Have you considered that he may have come from Hell to bring us further misfortune?” Elinor ventured, instantly regretting her words as her face contorted with shame.

“I apologize. I did not mean to imply you are cursed,” she hastily added.

You felt pity for Elinor, she was not as traveled as you had become. Had not the stories you knew, but you also could not see beyond, you had no way to know if it was safe to keep him with you. If your husband should arrive back, there would be no way to convince him that this man had not abused you in some way, but you did know something of him. There was something you did recognize.

“This man is no curse, no demon,” you affirmed, your gaze fixed on his hair, as dark as the ink with which you wrote.

“How can you be certain?” she queried.

“He spoke in the old tongue, asking for aid. Did you not hear him, Elinor?” you questioned, your voice steady.

The woman stepped back, tossing another log onto the fire, her confusion apparent. “I did not recognize the language, nor do I understand how you did,” she admitted.

The language was familiar to you, it was the tongue of your people from so long ago. From the place of your birth. The place that was destroyed till there was nothing but darkness.

Chapter 2 below!

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki fandom #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki smut #loki x reader #mcu #norse mythology #medieval fanfic #AU loki #tom hiddleston

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Die Moosweiblein

Moss Women

Moss Women are female forest spirits from German legend. They belong to the poor souls.

Moos Women occur in Saxony, Thuringia, on the Saale, in Orlagau, in the Harz mountain, in the Vogtland, in Upper Palatinate, in the Bavarian Forest, in Franconia and Upper Franconia, in the Bohemian Forest, around Warnsdorf in the northern Czech Republic, in the Giant Mountains and in Westphalia.

Depending on the region, Moss Women have a different appearance. Most often, they are as short as a three to five year old child. They have an ugly appearance, often entirely covered in moss, and are hunchbacked. They appear to be very old with grey, wrinkled faces abd blackened, blind eyes. They have long black or white unkempt hair. Their voices are high-pitched and squeaky. They are always barefoot. They often carry brushwood in a pannier on their back or in their apron. They use a walking stick to support their unsteady gait.

Moss Women are living in the forest, where they are dwelling in underground caves or hollow trees. They are sleeping in beds from moss. They are living in large families and can have children from Wood Kobolds or humans. They like to bake delicious cake, and when they do, mist is coming out of the forest. When politely asked for, they serve the cake also to humans.

Moss women know herbs and are skilled at both sending and healing illnesses. If people mock them, they send them ailments. This can happen in a variety of ways. They can squeeze people so hard that they become sick and miserable, and they can sit on them so that they become lame. They can also breathe on them, which causes people to get bumps or ulcers on their faces. Moss women also have knowledge of the future.

Moss women reward people by giving them wood shavings or leaves that turn into gold. They also give balls of yarn that never end unless you deliberately look for their end, or webs and knitted items that bring luck and blessings into the house. The moss women also show their gratitude with well-intentioned advice and warnings. They also look after children in the forest, lead people out of the forest at night without getting lost, or help them find deer and roe deer antlers.

On the other hand, moss women steal bread and dumplings. They cannot tolerate caraway bread, however, which is why they cry out: caraway bread, our death. The same goes for "piped" bread, i.e. bread into which the tip of your finger has been pressed. They cannot touch counted baked goods either. On the other hand, the moss women rightfully own some of the hay cuttings and the water that drops on the rim of the vessel when scooped out, as well as some of the linseed, flax stalks, ears of grain and tree fruit, as well as the flour that sticks to the frame of the bucket and any leftover bread crumbs. Moss women allow people to gather wood in the forest if they first receive a piece of bread or a dumpling as a gift

Sometimes moss women help people with deeds and advice. They visit people's houses and do various jobs, for example they spin flax and wool at night, they scrub, feed, milk, mow, help with haymaking and harvesting. If moss women receive food from shepherds, they bless their cows, which then produce more milk. For craftsmen, they protect their tools from thieves. As household spirits, moss women bring luck and blessings, but also require to receive food offerings in return. They detest people's cursing and vices. They love silence, hate quarrels and curses, and are driven away by them, just as they disappear never to be seen again if they are given new clothes. Whenever bast is peeled from a tree, a Moosweiblein must die.

On the river Saale, the Buschgroßmutter (bush grandmother) is known as the queen of the moss women. Strictly speaking, the bush grandmother is the mother of the moss women (here: moss girls), with whom she travels around the country, usually in a small cart. She has messy hair and a fixed gaze. The bush grandmother is also a bogeyman. The bush grandmother also appears in Silesia, where she is called Pusch-Grohla.

#german mythical creatures #moosweiblein #buschgroßmutter

[thesugarsoiree]

Of Winter’s Flame | CHAPTER SIX

It was the Hour of the Wolf when Y/n finally decided to stop torturing herself and get dressed. The lands were quiet, most asleep, but not her. The feast finished hours ago, Y/n leaving as fast as she could without sparing a glance towards her future husband. She did not know how it was possible for her to be married off without the consultation of her uncle or father, but somehow they had done it. She wrote to Cregan that evening, sending the letter out with such urgency she was sure the wax did not have time to cool before it was in the raven’s claws.

The moon was high when she shimmied through a gap in her tent, closing the cloak around her tighter as she wandered into the woods. She could not sleep, could barely think as she tossed and turned in her bed. Her only solution was to walk, perhaps she could walk all the way back North and forget any of this ever happened. 

Y/n knew she was being childish, yet she could not stop herself. Aemond was handsome, he was intelligent, he treated her with respect, and he was a skilled warrior. He was everything Y/n could ask for in a husband, yet this betrothal frustrated her. It was not the fact that she was to be married, she had reckoned with the fact that her duty to the realm lay within the marriage bed long ago, but for it to be thrust upon her in such a way? That was what infuriated her. No one had bothered to inform her upon her arrival nor in the days that proceeded. She most likely would have said yes if they had suggested it, after all, the prince was alike to her in more than name.

Y/n stomped her way into a clearing, the forest unexpectedly turning into a grassy plain. It was as if something had carved it to be so, the stumps of trees charred and torn away. Y/n felt the breath of her chest leave abruptly once she saw the giant shadow which lay ahead in the field, the unnatural way the grass was formed suddenly making sense. It’s chest moved up and down soundly, gentle rumbles shaking the earth beneath her.

Crownstealer.

Her scales were a vibrant indigo in the light of the moon, her ice-blue eyes relaxingly shut. Y/n observed the way her lighter coloured frills pulsated, as if they were glowing from within the old dragon. Dear gods, what was she doing staring at it? Y/n swiftly turned on her heels, beginning to walk the back the way she came before she was stopped dead in her tracks by a hauntingly low growl. She stood frozen in place, not daring to look back as a warm gust of what she knew couldn't be wind hit her back, throwing her cloak away from her.

Was this the way she died? Eaten alive by a dragon? How ironic, Y/n mused as she finally turned to face the monstrous beast. If she were to die here she may as well die with dignity and without fear, like the Northern Kings of old. Crownstealer’s eyes were open now, gazing into Y/n’s barely a few feet away. Her snout was but a hairs length from the girl, sharpened teeth ten times the size of Y/n peeking from the dragon's maw. Crownstealer blew out smoky air from her nose, as if sighing—waiting—for Y/n to make the next move.

Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, those words repeated in Y/n’s mind as she reached out her hand towards Crownstealer, gently caressing the rough skin above the she-dragons mouth. When the beast made no moves to bite her Y/n slowly inched her way past Crownstealer’s face, whispering sweet words of nothing in High Valyrian. Crownstealer groaned, craning her neck to watch the girl's actions. She grabbed a hold of a spike sticking out of one of Crownstealer’s scales, holding it tight as she watched the dragon for any signs of resistance. When she saw none she continued to climb, the dirt and muck on top of the dragon's scales rubbing off on her pristine white nightgown. She had others, Y/n huffed, reaching Crownstealer’s back after the dragon nudged her the final ways. 

From this high in the air the world looked small, like when she was in the highest tower of Winterfell or in her bedroom at the Red Keep. Crownstealer laid motionless, patiently awaiting Y/n’s next words.

“Sōvegon!” Fly! Y/n screamed, the dragon lifting herself up and taking to the skies with two powerful flaps of her wings. Y/n laughed as she was flown into the air, noticing how the large cracked lines upon Crownstealer’s wings looked like lightning in the night sky. Crownstealer let out a yelp of what Y/n interpreted as Joy, or more accurately, what she felt as joy. It was as if their emotions were intertwined, their minds speaking to one another yet no words were uttered between the two.

It would be hours until Y/n touched land again, and by the time they both stopped to rest the sun was barely peeking over the horizon, bathing them in a soft glow as they fell asleep in harmony.

*

Aemond was shaken awake violently that morning, blinking his one eye open to reveal a disheveled Alicent whispering his name.

“Aemond! Aemond! Wake up, Lady Y/n has gone missing.” The Queen said, Aemond shooting up in his bed.

“She has what?” He asked in disbelief.

“In the night, she must have disappeared. No one can find her—they’ve been searching for a half hour.” Alicent bit her nails, Aemond swiftly getting out of bed and throwing on his day clothes.

“Do not worry, mother. We will find her, she could not have wandered far—” Aemond’s reassurances were interrupted by his mothers rambling.

“But what if she did not wander? What if she was stolen, or worse, she wandered into the jaws of a hungry beast? This forest was not made for young maids to be frolicking about in.” Interesting, Aemond thought, given its name of Maidenswood.

“I will find her, mother. On my honour as your son and as her betrothed.” He cupped her cheek, smiling down at the copper haired woman whose eyes could resemble his own if not for their opposite colour.

“Get dressed quickly, the search will not begin itself.” Alicent squeezed his hand in hers, exiting the tent. Aemond cursed quietly, shrugging on his tunic and picking up his sword. He knew that marriage would cause some contention between them but he had assumed that she would warm to him, perhaps even come to love him as he had so desperately done for her.

Aemond gritted his teeth, leaving his quarters and beginning to bark orders to the nearest knight as his search began.

*

Y/n furrowed her brow, looking down into the forest in an attempt to find the camp she had left. It was harder than one might think, the trees covering most of the tents and game areas. Thankfully, shouts and commotion call attention to a little patch of trees near the edge of the forest. Y/n steered Crownstealer—a name she will need to amend soon—towards the noise, the commotion becoming quieter as the weight of Crownstealer’s wings battered the air. The she-dragon screeched to announce their arrival, disturbing the still earth as they landed. The trees were knocked down by Crownstealer’s massive claws, her feet and wings throwing the roots from the dirt. Y/n breathed in deeply, enjoying the stench of dragon which truly enveloped her for the first time in her life.

When she opened her eyes she was met with the shocked faces of nobles and servants alike, the knights all on guard with their swords drawn against Crownstealer. Y/n surveyed the growing crowd until her even gaze landed on a familiar figure. Prince Aemond stood stoic-faced next to his mother and siblings, hair messily falling in chunks from his sleeping braid as she knew he barely had the thought to fix his hair this morning. No one spoke, no one breathed, no one moved as Y/n made her way off of Crownstealer, her northmen and maids waiting close by to escort her back to her tent.

Y/n accepted the blanket that was offered to her, wrapping it around herself as her guards surrounded her and blocked her from ogling eyes. She looked back at Crownstealer, watching the she-dragon take to the skies again, circling above her as she entered her tent.

“Send for a raven,” Y/n told her maid, “I have news to tell my uncle.”

—————————————————————————

Taglist (Request to be added!):

@heavenly1927 @holb32 @queenofshinigamis

#x reader #x fem!reader #game of thrones #asoif/got #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #ofwintersflame

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Rebound 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, body insecurity, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Curtis Everett

Summary: after a divorce, you try to start over.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You get up early on Saturday. You’ve made up your mind, you’re not going to let your ex ruin your progress. So you missed a few days, that doesn’t mean it’s over. You can always pick up and keep going. You’re not starting over, you’re finishing what you started.

You head into town first. It’ll add some extra kilometers to your daily walk, just a small dent in what you skipped. You stop by the bakery, closer to a cafe with its steaming espresso machines, and pick up an Americano for a boost. No dairy, no sweetener, you’re sticking to that at least.

You resist the call of the strawberry tarts in the display and thank the woman behind the counter. She’s younger than you and she owns this whole place. A pang of envy nips at you as you turn to go. You feel like you missed out on the years you could’ve built something of your own.

You set off, blowing over the slot of the cup’s lid. The brew fills your nose with its rich scent as you set down the path towards the trees. Up a hill and the coffee’s cool enough to taste. You nurse it slowly as you wind around the rise and fall of the village.

You enter the woods, this time from the opposite edge and the shade of the leaves cools the sweat on your nape. You sigh and take a rest, leaning on a tree as you savour the flavour of the diluted espresso.

You nearly spill as you hear a twig snap. You turn and look around either side of the tree. You’re not used to the strange noise of the wilderness. Out there, something’s always moving, something’s always fluttering or chittering.

The trail stretches on and you follow it down to the babbling stream. You’re close to done the coffee, you hadn’t thought about what to do with the cup. Oh well. You hang onto it as you near the water’s edge.

You stare down at yourself. The ripples distort your reflection and yet, not very much. You’ve got some padding to lose around your thighs and tummy. Maybe even your upper arms. You need to put more energy into walking. You’re older and your metabolism can’t keep up.

You sigh and drain the last of the coffee, choking the bitter dregs in the bottom. You crush the cup flat and slide the lid inside. You drop your shoulder and spin on your heel. A yelp lodges in your throat but can’t escape. You grip your chest as a figure stands watching, so silent and unmoving he nearly blends in with the trees.

“I– I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you,” you gasp as you drop your hand.

Curtis blinks and doesn’t say a word. He steps forward, treading down to the river, stopping just a foot away from you. It’s like he didn’t even hear you. You stutter and snap your mouth shut, slowly retreating.

“It’s fine,” he says at last and bends to dip his hands into the water. “Ran into some skunkweed.”

“Oh, uh, that’s… cruddy,” you utter awkwardly. “I was just going.”

He continues to stir his hands in the water. You back away and look down at the cup in your hands. The tweeting of birds tweaks in your ears.

“Nice to see you back,” he says, so low, you’re not sure he truly said a word.

You stop, “pardon?”

He stands and shakes his hands off, “out here.”

“What do you…”

“I have traps,” he gestures to the trees, “for rabbits.”

You frown, “oh, I didn’t see you…”

“Habit,” he shrugs, “hunter’s instinct, I guess.”

You flick your fingers over the curled brim of the cup. You know some people like the game around here but they usually go up to the northern patch, not down here. You nod and try to smile, “didn’t think there was any big game around here.”

He just stares at you, “I make do.”

“Right,” you shiver out a breath, “anyway… I’ll be off.”

He nods, “see ya around.”

“Sure, um, enjoy your book… and your hunting.”

You slowly make your way towards the trees. You pass between an oak and slender birch before you peek back. He just watches after you, unmoving. You try to shake off the goosebumps as you turn back to the path. You stop on the trail and crane back again. He’s gone.

The smell of moss and dirt drifts up from the river behind you. You crush the cup in your hand and the lid pops out. You bend to pick it up and hear something snap. You stand up so quickly it makes you dizzy. You whip around, searching, the trees adding to your disorientation.

You stumble and set yourself straight. One foot in front of the other. Keep going. Faster. Faster. It’s just the wind, it’s just a squirrel or a rabbit. It’s nothing. Those twigs snapping, the branches rustling, it’s all just natural.

As you come in sight of the treeline and the open expanse of the fields, you’re almost running. You stop just as you escape the forest. You let the question bloom in your mind. How could he have seen you all as you had no idea he was there? Why hadn’t he said hello?

You slow but not much. Your lungs burn and your calves ache. You shouldn’t think too hard about it. Curtis is just quiet, he’s not much of a talker. Yet, the man you saw in the woods seemed much different than the one in the library. The way he looked at you, as if taking the measure of you, as if you were prey.

No, it’s all in your head. Don’t be silly. The woods are desolate and eerie, it plays tricks on you. Besides, look at you. You’re definitely not drawing any unwarranted attention. Not from anyone but your bitter ex.

#curtis everett #curtis everett x reader #dark curtis everett #dark!curtis everett #the rebound #series #snowpiercer #au #backwoods au #drabble

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

2 - Mouth of the Lion's Den

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 11.2k

Warnings: Slow Burn, strained parent-child issues, mentions of minor character death, injured/sick child mention, slight canon divergence

Notes: We're in the thick of the plot now. Based on the show but will include direct book elements. Previous Chapter Here.

You used to not travel very well as a child. The first time you left Dragonstone was right at the crux of the seasons change. Summer had ended, and it was a quick Autumn which felt far more like winter the more North you sailed. The sea was always cool, and the north was cooler. When you returned to Dragonstone some months later, Maester Cressen had said that the mix of seasons being the first time you left home is what caused you to get so ill.

What a meeting it was. Lord Stark had told you that it was halfway through your first meal with them when you collapsed. Barley touched anything on your plate which they first thought you just weren’t used to the food. That was until you collapsed onto the floor just as you stood from your seat as you burned up.

Whatever it was, it went through you fast and terrifying to the point where Maester Luwin had told Lord Stark to prepare to send a raven in case the worst happened. It didn’t though, you slept through the fever and by the time you awoke, you remembered none of it. You assumed you fell sick before arriving at Winterfell that’s how little you were really aware of anything.

It wasn’t like that anymore, but as you had sat in your room at the Inn days ago it did make you wonder what could have possibly hit Lord Arryn faster and harsher then that. Despite his age, he was more healthy as an older man then you were at the age of eight. Yet you had survived and his sickness burned through him in one single night.

Perhaps you had too much time that night to think on it, no one really was in any mood to converse after what happened. Once Lord Stark had put Lady down, he had you go find Jory. “Tell him to choose four men and have them take the body back North. Bury her at Winterfell.” He had taken the girls to their rooms, and even in the muffled quiet you could hear Sansa crying through the walls. Arya’s cries would be too quiet to hear, but you were no fool to think her chasing off Nymeria just to save her life wouldn’t leave the child in tears of her own.

So the Inn was silent, save for the low tones coming from Lord Stark’s own room. One where he laid the truth out, what Lysa has sent her sister, what it said about the Lannisters. He asked you what did you notice from before he died, and you were honest. Very little.

Your lord father had kept you away on purpose. He and Lord Arryn distant and secretive, and you had suspected you were sitting on small council meetings not just in his place but as if it would keep you preoccupied from their doings. Which it worked, but it also was not enough to dull you. Lord Stark agreed that it all worked out too seamlessly, Lord Arryn dies suddenly from an unknown illness, Stannis Baratheon urgently marries his firstborn daughter off to a far northern house as he himself flees to Dragonstone.

They both knew something, and what that was, sent your father away on his own accord. Shutting himself back on the grim island and leaving you to the wolves and the lions.

“You’re our family now. You are as good as one of my own daughters, and we protect our own. You stick by me once me get to Kings Landing. Work by my side, you’ll stay in our quarters with the girls until we learn what it is Jon Arryn died for.” Once again, that lingering feeling sat in your gut that walking out of the capital wasn’t going to be as easy as walking in this time around.

Now, sitting atop your horse once more you felt even less happy about being back then you had leaving the north. Your face flat and cold like stone as you rose through the crowds welcoming the King and his company once more. The cart behind you carrying the girls, Sansa no doubt bright eyed and taking in the awe of a place she dreamed would be for her. Arya you knew no doubt, was already wondering just how much she would explore when left to her own curious devices.

Just ahead of you, a page awaited everyone’s arrival. Calling to Lord Stark for a small council meeting at Grand Maester Pycelle’s request. You dared not move an inch thinking about how typical it was that such a meeting wasn’t called by the King himself, despite no doubt arriving before you all had. Oh the many matters of your King Uncle to attend too. So much wine to drink, and so many whores to fuck.

Lord Stark calling back, “Jory, get the girls settled in. I’ll be back in time for supper.” Calling your name, you climbed off your horse as he beckoned you. “You’re with me.”

The Page glancing over his attire and yours as you approached, “If you’d like to change into something more appropriate…” The combination of yours and Lord Stark’s unmoving stare causing him to stammer and backtrack. Any other time you may have considered it, but now you were here in place of your fathers position and spending time dolling yourself up once more looked more and more like a waste of time.

Renly had once told you every time you return to Kings Landing, you seem to be more and more of a splitting image of your bore of a father. He might be onto something in truth.

The Red Keep had not changed, and nothing passed your mind to care to think about it until the doors to the Throne room opened and right at the top looking up at the Iron Throne was just another face you wished not to see so early in the morning. Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, and twin brother to the Queen, he certainly held all the superior smugness of such titles in his very posture had seemed to arrive far earlier then yourself.

A little nod did not suffice as you wished it did, as he saw fit to open his mouth as soon as you came even slightly close. “Lady Baratheon- or, I suppose it’s Stark now isn’t it? Already quite adjusted to the northern boys afterall, aren’t you?” Barley managing to muster up the weakest of half smiles he only grinned more, leaning in to give a fake too-loud whisper in your ear. “I do hope you weren’t too broken in for your new husband, would hate to break the boys heart before he even had a chance.”

Biting your tongue, you were sure had he not found victim in Lord Stark behind you, the pressure would’ve drawn blood. You didn’t wait, making your way into the small council chamber with little care of greeting those already present, for the most part.

“Ah, the newly named Lady Stark. I must congratulate you on your marriage, always nice to see the young love flourishing. Shame to be torn apart so early on.” Nodding, you managed more of a smile this time. You didn’t particularly trust Lord Varys but considering he was the man who likely knew so much he could tell you what you had for breakfast three days ago, playing nice was better then not playing at all.

“Thank you, Lord Varys. But, he has Winterfell to run and I have my work here. I’m sure Robb understands.”

Passing to the table, you nodded to Grand Maester Pycelle, and saw fit to ignore the other party in the room without any shame in doing so. Not that you would be aware of, but to the others it really was as if Lord Stannis had walked in like normal. The man having no patience for Petyr Baelish as well. If anyone lit your gaze up slightly, it was the smirk of the younger man already waiting by the opposite end.

Renly had no qualms about approaching you with a casualness, and no need to pretend as if either of you cared to be formally civil. “I can’t tell if the north suits you my dear niece, or if it’s just being around this lot making you so much more droll.”

Arms crossed in front of you, an eyebrow quirked up as he held a smirk. You’d hit him later. “Shame you were so busy Uncle, would have been nice to have at least one other family member there to share the festivities with.”

Hardly a secret anymore, most in the court knew of Renly’s private preferences but you might be the only one who knew it without any doubt. The only one it seemed, that he trusted to know as well. Not that his brothers would despise him for it, but certainly the King a bit too crass to not be offensive and well, least to say your father was not exactly a comforting kind of man. He wouldn’t care and he certainly would make you feel as such for it.

“What can I say, so much work, so many laws to look into.”

Your eyes glint, passing right by with a tone only audible enough for him, “Swordplay isn’t a law, last time I checked.” You’d be a fool to think Renly didn’t take advantage of so much of the royal court being away, not to lock himself up in his chambers with a certain flower for as long as he could get away with.

Not that you were in such a position to dare judge.

Your father used to get annoyed constantly by the lack of work Renly was properly given, but it might be he expected too much. Renly had a tendency to be handed easy tasks and get more credit then the nights your own father spent buried in papers in his office would accomplish. Leaning your hands on the top of what was now your seat, you watched the others greet the now approaching Lord Stark.

“We are all praying for Prince Joffery’s full recovery.”

Oh the rewards the gods should bestow upon you for how little you changed your expression. He gets one bite from a barley grown Direwolf and he has the realm on it’s knees pretending to sob at the tragic wounds. You had more scars on you from being hit with sticks and practice swords over your childhood before the spoiled Prince ever reached that age.

Even in Winterfell, you watched him get angry and frustrated at how often Robb would hit him in the courtyard simply beacuse he had no idea what he was doing. The Hound having to remind him even that he demanded they spar just to show off, and he can’t stand there and whine blaming Robb for doing exactly what he asked.

Besides, not that anyone had asked, you’d have to admit that not all bites from a wolf were entirely bad. At least it took as long as it did to get back to Kings Landing, those marks having healed over by the time it became too hot to cover them up then in the northern cold.

Renly’s voice from beside you, “You look tired from the road, I told them this meeting could wait another day but..”

“But we have a kingdom to look after.” Looking over you saw a strange smile on Lord Baelish’s face and so did everyone else if the uncomfortable air in the room was honest. “I’ve hope to meet you for some time, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me.”

“She has, Lord Baelish. I understand you knew my brother Brandon as well.”

If Lord Baelish could have purposely made things more uncomfortable you think the room might have melted away just to escape it. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard whispers of his affection for her, but it was brazen of him to be so open about it in front of her husband of over twenty years.

Settling in, you sat beside Lord Stark as Renly pulled out a paper, explaining to the council that the King wasn’t exactly a common presence at the small council and most of these matters were left without his input. “My brother has instructed us to stage a tournament in honour of Lord Stark’s appointment as Hand of the King.”

Didn’t take being Master of Coin to know the money wouldn’t be coming from the surplus of the Crown. Grand Maester Pycelle’s frail voice piping up, “Can the treasury bear such expenses?”

As if ordering food from a servant, Lord Baelish waved the concern. “I’ll have to borrow it. The Lannisters will accomodate, I expect. We already owe Lord Tywin three million gold, what’s another eighty thousand.”

You felt for Lord Stark beside you, “Are you telling me the Crown is three million in debt?”

Looking firmly at the table with an irritated grimace, you corrected him for the worse. “Actually, he’s telling you the Crown is six million in debt.” Lord Stark, was in shock at the state, demanding to know how this could happen and once again, Lord Baelish acted like such debt was easily forgiven.

“The Master of Coin finds the money, the King and the Hand spend it.”

Lord Stark beside you sounded as annoyed as you felt on the inside but he was still tinged in disbelief as he looked at the man. “I will not believe Jon Arryn allowed Robert to bankrupt the realm.”

The Grand Maester for all his slowness, had the grace to speak the truth instead of washing it away like the other Lord in front of him. “Lord Arryn gave wise and prudent advice, but I fear His Grace doesn’t always listen.”

Sitting up straight, you nor Renly were quite sure if it was his voice that came out of your mouth, or the unimpressed voice of your father who held the same opinions. “The King loves tournaments and feasts, but not the conversation of money that follows. ‘Counting Coppers’ he calls it.”

You admired his determination to reason with the King. Even with both his blood brothers at his side, neither man could settle his indulgences the way Lord Stark may have the ability too. Even now you could hear the ramblings and angry ravings of your father in his office, going about how he was born the wrong family if he were to ever make his brother listen. Many had thought that Lord Stannis would take over as Hand of the King, and you would take his place as Master of Ships in the immediate aftermath of Lord Arryns death.

Your father had been sat on the small council for almost ten years at that point, and had been home less and less as those years passed. The only letters he exchanged anymore were with some of his closest men, and of course, Shireen. You envied her in that sense. Not that she was loved in the way she was, but that she had such a happy innocence about her.

Once Maester Cressen had said she was the saddest girl he had ever met, that he considered that part of his failure to cure her. But she had been cured, just not by him and clearly he took it hard, but she wasn’t sad, not in the way some assumed. She loved learning, and your father had been determined to give her the same education as he had you. Everyday she would run to him once he was in his own quarters, jump onto his lap and go on about what book she was learning to read, and were he not there, she’d scramble to write a letter to tell him.

Few people adored Lord Stannis, but she was always his biggest supporter.

As you entered the very bottom of the tower of the hand, you wondered how much she knew. Did she know Lord Arryn was dead, did she know you were acting in your fathers place, did she even know you were married? She’d be upset to learn she wasn’t there for your wedding. One day when she was just barley older then a toddler, you had been sitting on the edge of a cliff on Dragonstone with Shireen sat in your lap.

Going on about what a highborn lady would do, who she’d marry and what the wedding would be. You planned hers and yours, just two little girls by the waters edge and it saddened you to think that she wasn’t there to see yours. Childishly, you wondered if she’d like Robb.

Walking through the door, you passed some of the Starks household guard, regarding you with a familiarity as you passed. As if you really were family, not just a guest. Maybe it was for the best that she had father with her again, at least he still felt like one to her.

The chambers were quiet, and as you saw what was left of easy food on the table you hadn’t the stomach for it. Sitting down regardless, you lifted some of the plates out of your place, pouring yourself water as you stared at the little flame the light on the table wickered with. Pulling out a small slip of paper from a small pocket, you slipped the seal off, a small direwolf. Looking over the words as you sipped at the water.

Sending a raven was risky for what he was trying to say, but Robb was smart enough to not say anything of anything. Telling you of Bran, and your heart broke at how devastated the boy feels of not being able to walk again. More he tells you of how he has no idea what to even say to make it better, that Bran just needs time to get used to things but watching his little brother be so miserable and not being able to fix it just makes him angry. You knew exactly how that felt, watching your little sibling suffer and being completely useless to them for it.

A slam shook you out of your focus, pulling the letter back suddenly and tucking it away before you looked up to see a somewhat grumpy Arya now at the table with you. “I know my face usually looks like that, but what’s got yours in such a put off state?”

Sighing, she draped her arms over the top of the surface to gently lay her head in them, turned enough to still see you. “I don’t know how you stand it, being here all the time.”

Leaning forward, you mimicked her posture, looking back at her now from a tilted but even eye level. “I’m here because I have to be, not because I want to be. I have a duty, and that needs to be upheld regardless if it makes me miss home or not.”

Pushing up suddenly, Arya’s eyes were bright and bordering on an intense curiosity. “You’d rather be home? At Dragonstone?”

Moving back yourself you paused as you opened your mouth. Closed it for a second, before sighing out as you crossed your arms over your chest. Leaning back against the chair behind you looking at the nothing of importance on the table. “Honestly? I’m not sure where that is anymore.” Her brows narrowed in confusion, “Where I feel at home I mean.”

Were there not such a heavy weight in your heart you may have smiled at how quickly she reacted, and the finality of her tone. “You’re one of us now, Winterfell is your home.” Just as something crossed your mind, it clearly did hers too. Shoulders deflating as she lost the shine in her eyes. “Or, it’s supposed to be.”

Heart reaching out to hers, you knew comforting wouldn’t make it better, or change what hurt in the first place. “You won’t be in Kings Landing forever.” Her eyes flickered to you and then back did they focus into her mind. “Eventually you’ll go back to Winterfell, get restless there too and you’ll either insist someone take you there or you’ll be old enough to just head out to visit on your own. He’ll always want to see you.”

Arya grumbled out, quiet and filled with a twinge of guilt as if she couldn’t decide should you be able to hear her or not. “Not just me he’ll want to see.”

Leaning forward, your back sat straight for the most part as you leaned your forearms against the table again. “There’s five of you, Arya. You have to share your brother with all of them at least sometimes.”

Quieter so much this time, you weren’t sure if you even actually heard her speak but there was a faint sound like, “Not just us,” that you choose to ignore. As Arya herself pushed passed it as well. “Sansa won’t care. She barley ever even calls him her brother.” There was a bite to her tone, and you knew all too well that it wasn’t just about this.

She didn’t find out until the next day about the butcher’s son, and she still hadn’t taken it very well.

You tried softly calling her name, but Arya got louder. Her arms swinging a bit as she gestured in her expressiveness. “She always calls him our bastard brother, not even half brother or anything like he’s not been her brother since she was born. She doesn’t respect him, she doesn’t respect anybody who isn’t herself or the stupid prince.”

Anywhere but the safety of her own walls, you’d scold her for so freely vocalizing her insolence. But she was in her new home, and Joffery certainly was a stupid, vile little creature who got Arya’s new friend killed. People could claim it was the Queen, but you unfortunately knew her well enough that she was far more clever of a monster then that. No, that was Joffery’s angry, immature rage which sent the Hound out against a boy not even in his teens.

Glancing at the door you knew to be both Lord Stark’s room, and if his work ethic was consistent, scribbling away on the too many tasks the King left to his Lord Hand, too busy to come out and hear you. “Do you want my honest opinion? About that night?” Her head nodding fervently, brows narrowed in a manner that looked so strikingly serious like Jons. “It doesn’t matter what Sansa would have said, as soon as Joffery showed up to the Inn bleeding, the Queen already made her mind up. Sansa could’ve told the complete truth and they still would’ve blamed you and Nymeria.”

A flash of sorrow in her eyes made your heart tighten painfully before covering it up with an easier to swallow emotion, “The she shouldn’t have lied! If it didn’t matter she could’ve told the truth about Micah and-”

“And the Queen would’ve done everything the same. And she still would’ve blamed you.” Leaning forward, your voice lowered to something much more serious. “People like you, like us? We don’t do well in places like this. You’re too honest and headstrong, and you haven’t been here long enough to learn how to hold back. And people like the Queen? Joffery? We are exactly who they want to take advantage of.”

You could hear the condescension even now, “She’s as wild as that animal of hers,” And it made you mad all over again. After some time when father brought you here, he ended up being the one to help you with your sword lessons alone in his own quarters, not wanting people like the Queen, or his brothers to have any more reason to look down on you. He wasn’t a popular man, he knew it, but he wouldn’t have these people mistreat his daughter, especially as a young teenager.

“I’m not saying you have to change, or pretend to be something you’re not. But I am telling you, this place has eyes and ears everywhere. Me, your father, Jory, people like that you can trust. You can be angry, and honest and upset around.” Glancing once again to Lord Starks door, you felt ashamed for what came from you next but mincing words was not a trait of the Stannis Baratheon variety of stags.

“Sansa wants to be here, and she wants to be apart of this because she’s naive. As long as the Lannisters give her pretty smiles, and soothing words she will bend to them because she thinks they could be her family some day. That doesn’t make it right the way she threw you and your friend to the wolves,” Arya quirked an eyebrow with a smirk, and you shook your head with one of your own. “Lions- shut up.”

Sighing, she leaned back into her seat. “I don’t hate her, not really. I just..”

“Don’t trust her.”

Glancing up with a bit of a stun, she seemed shocked you didn’t tell her to do anything otherwise. In a sense, you knew what she was feeling.

You loved Renly, he was closer to your age and the two of you always felt more like brother and sister with how easily he could bring out your more playful side in this pit of a captiol. But you didn’t trust him one bit. Not with your secrets, not with your work, and not with the particular companions he had been keeping as of late.

Renly and you were as close of friends as you had in this city, but at the end of the day. It was Stannis who was your father. It was the brother which both others looked down on, the daughter which had far too much of Stannis in her blood and personality to be seen as one of them. Robert didn’t care much for his brothers, but best be said he is lying to himself if he thinks he doesn’t show preference to Renly.

Stannis had always felt he was cheated of Storms End. The ancestral seat of House Baratheon, his by rights. Many times even in your tenure here at his side, he had gone to King Robert singing the same song. Anytime it was mentioned, your father would clench his jaw so tightly, you thought his teeth would shatter. You once had brought it up to one of his men, back on Dragonstone that he seemed to take it as a slight.

Ser Davos Seaworth had just looked at you with a somber look, one that was as sympathetic to his lord as he was offended on his behalf. “I think, my little lady, King Robert had meant it as a slight.”

It was the same here. Arya suffered, was threatened and attacked, her own direwolf having to be sent away just for protecting her master, and her new friend murdered for just agreeing to play duel by the river. Sansa had lost Lady in the Queens injustice, but she still got to walk the capitol and be treated like the princess she dreamed of being. While Arya was looked at as wild, untruly, and thought less of without being given a chance.

Falling back into the present, you sighed deeply. “Why do you think my Uncle Renly fits in here, when I stand out as much as your father does?”

Arya too, glanced at the closed door. “Because he plays along?”

“And I do my duty.” Sipping at the water once more before continuing. “Sansa is your family, and you shouldn’t forget that. You need each other, but I’m not asking you to trust her. Not the way you do your father, or Jon-”

“Or you.”

In those two words, your heart missed Shireen. She and Arya were alike in a lot of ways, Shireen a little more reserved but the same eager and honest spirit. You smiled, unsure if it was warmth of how Arya saw you, or yearning for the little sister you barley had seen grown up so far.

Silence between you was comfortable for a moment, until of course, Arya found something to blurt out. “Father caught me with Needle.” Raising your eyebrows, she slunk down a bit. “Needle’s my…it’s my sword. Well sort of a sword, it’s small and thin, but it’s supposed to be for my size. Anyways, he knocked on my door and I didn’t really notice that I didn’t bother hiding it. Or maybe I didn’t care if he saw me with it. He let me keep it, but he says I shouldn’t play with swords.”

Shrugging one shoulder, your voice was strangely casual. “They aren’t toys.”

“I know that!” You laughed at how defensive she got. You had a feeling you weren’t the first or even second person to tell her that. “You can use a sword, why shouldn’t I?”

Smiling to yourself, you refrained from specifying that the only reason you started to be trained on how to use one, is beacuse a certain dark haired, grey eyed boy had snuck up behind you and hit you with a practice one when no one was around to scold you two for it.

“Will you teach me?”

The letter in your pocket begin to weight you down, you needed to ask Lord Stark about it before morning. You had another small council meeting early on and you didn’t fancy being kept out of the dark again. Standing up, you ran your hand playfully over her hair as you passed. “That’s up to your father. It’s late, go get some sleep.”

Turning to approach Lord Stark’s room, you missed the feeling glance from the small Stark watching you leave. Something in her eyes that knew things which you couldn’t have guessed she was privy too, but just added to her growing admiration all the same.

As you guessed, the man was sitting at his desk writing away when he called for you to enter. Shutting it gently behind you with a polite, “Lord Stark.”

Chuckling, his hand paused before shaking his head slightly and continuing. “You’re allowed to call me my name, you know. I think marrying my son gives you the right to at drop the titles in private.”

Nodding once as you approached, “I’ll try to remember that.” He knew you wouldn’t.

When you hesitated, he looked up at you with a questioning look. “What is it?”

You stood unsure for another moment before quickly moving to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk, pulling out the letter. “I heard from Robb.” Lord Stark- Ned, leaned forward curiously. “Nothing new, just updating me about Bran, how he’s fairing as Lord of Winterfell.”

“I’m assuming you’re not just here to make small talk.”

Well it certainly wasn’t your skill that was true. Inhaling a slow breathe, you looked straight at him to just ask what you needed to confirm. “Lady Catelyn was here, wasn’t she?” His brows narrowed deeply as he reached a hand out, taking the letter from you.

Skimming over, he smiled amusingly as he reached the end. “You two talk in code often?”

You failed to prevent the smirk on your lips before you had noticed it was even forming. “Only when we’re talking about things we’re not supposed to.”

“And how often is that, exactly?”

You only shrugged. You, Robb, Jon, and later Theon, would get into trouble a lot when you were younger. But when you would leave, you and Robb figured out a way to talk about things that would certainly get you punished if your father ever found out. So you started writing in almost childish imagery. Hence the end of his letter, saying to ask his father about “some stray kitten I saw running around the halls the other day.”

Folding the letter, he handed it back to you. “Clever. But he’s right. I shouldn’t keep this from you, and Robb clearly doesn’t want me too.” Leaning back he pulled something from his desk, what looked like a blade with a rich ornate handle to it. Placing it on the desk you leaned forward to look closer as he explained. “A man came into Brans room some night after we had all left Winterfell. Told Cat no one was supposed to be there, that it was a kindness.”

The bite in his tone was angry and spiteful even if his face remained steadfast. Like he was lost in thought, he seemed to trail off in his head before coming back. Telling you of the man trying to kill him, how he had almost killed Lady Catelyn in the process, and the direwolf which ripped the assassins throat out. “Bran’s wolf had saved his life..”

Leaning forward you felt a horror bubble up inside of you, Bran was a boy of ten who would do such a thing? Voice weaker, cracking a bit at the look of almost shame or guilt in his eyes forming. “Lord Stark?”

Head shooting up to look at you, like those words, that specific title speaking of the wolves clicked something in his head that he didn’t know how to feel. “The direwolves, when we found them in the woods…Jon had said something. That my children were meant to have them..”

Jon hadn’t included himself. There were five pups, two girls and three boys and Jon had purposely not counted himself as one of Lord Stark’s children in order to prove they were meant to go to them. He had found Ghost off to the side all on his own, so quiet Jon wasn’t even sure how he had heard Ghost’s tiny cry when not a soul other had.

Lord Stark still lost in his thought, “If the Gods sent those wolves…I killed Sansa’s..” Just as fast as he lost himself in a spiral, he took back the reigns and pulled right back out of it. “Everything adds up but I don’t know to why. Lysa telling her that the Lannisters murdered Jon Arryn, Jaime Lannister being the only man who didn’t join the hunt the day Bran fell and strands of blonde hair in the tower when I could tell you for a fact no one had been in there for a very long time.”

He tapped his fingers at the blade and you felt a weight in your throat trying to fight against the words. “The blade?”

Lord Stark laughed meaninglessly. “The blade belongs to Tyrion Lannister.”

For all that you knew him, and for as different as he seemed, you couldn’t find it in your heart to see such traits past the blood of who he was and who his family was. “How do you know?”

The answer, you liked even less. Lost in a bet to the Lannister during a tourney, the previous owner knew who it now belonged to without any doubt, beacuse it’s previous owner was Petyr Baelish.

You were finding it increasingly hard to figure out who you didn’t like more in this city. Luckily for Tyrion Lannister he in fact, wasn’t in the city so he found your newfound anger towards him unobtrusive. Not as lucky for you, sitting at the small council you found too many men in the room you didn’t trust as far as you could throw.

Lord Varys avoided much interaction with you has he did your father, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t fully aware of every step you had taken in this city and no doubt others. You dared not think about how much he really knew, not that it mattered much now, but you didn’t appreciate the concept of lording information over another head to make them dance.

Lord Baelish was as trustworthy as he was kind, meaning none. A self serving worm who had no care for anything or one that didn’t give him either money or power. Though, you did consider him to be the less offensive to look at only if in comparison to the bloated faced man standing before the council.

Lord Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch was nothing short of an insult to the eyes. Patchy facial hair that didn’t quite sit well over the slight pudginess of his face that wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t also always plastered with a high and mighty look as if he knows better. Standing before you, speaking of his struggle to keep the peace in the streets.

His voice covered itself in slime. “It’s the Hand’s tournament that’s causing all the trouble, my lords.”

An exhaustion sat in Lord Starks shoulders, his tone annoyed as his posture to the idea. “The King’s tournament. I assure you the Hand wants no part in it.”

Your father didn’t care for Lord Stark personally, but at least they would agree at such a waste of expenses. Being Master, or in your case, acting Master of Ships didn’t mean you were not painfully aware of how much spending your assets should be restricted of just to amuse the growing relentlessness of the King.

Slynt continued. “Call it what you will Lord Stark, the city is packed with people and more flooding in everyday. Last night we had a tavern riot, a brothel fire, three stabbings, and a drunken horse race down the Streets of Sisters.”

Your eyes narrowed, voice loud and yet even with little emotion behind it. It unnerved many how similar you were to the unwelcoming and bluntness of your lord Father. “Discipline should lie with the capabilities of a commander. If you cannot keep the King’s peace during something as innocuous as a tourney, perhaps the City Watch should be commanded by someone whose ability we can rely on.”

Oh the fire in his eyes as he glared at you, spit coming from his mouth as it did his worse. His chest and cheeks puffing like a frog. “I need more men.”

Lord Stark had the final decision however, and you would never dare go against or even speak up against it. Such a thing was not your place, nor would you let it be. “You’ll get fifty, Lord Baelish will see it paid for.” Your own harsh gaze, bordering on a glare peeling over to the Master of Coin seemingly surprised by the notion. Lord Stark’s order firmer then ever. “You found money for a champions purse, you can find money to keep the peace.” Turning to Slynt, “I’ll also give you twenty if my household guard until the crowds have left.”

Giving more men to the one who didn’t know how to command them with fairness was not quite how you felt about such actions, regardless of how the rest of the council didn’t agree. Was it too harsh of a stance, or was it a firm position influenced by what you already knew was incompetence. Janos Slynt was not someone trustworthy, but as long as he got paid he would do the bare minimum.

You and Lord Stark sharing a glance as he relaxed somewhat. “The sooner this is over the better.”

Lord Varys leaning forward, tone as even and light with hope as he could paint it. “The realm prospers from such events, my Lord. They give the great a chance at glory, and the lowly a respite from their woes.”

Legs crossing over the other you sat back in your seat. “It’s not glory those men need more of, Lord Varys I can assure you. They have quite enough of that to go around.”

Lord Baelish leaning far too close to make eye contact with a sly grin. “And yet it puts coins in many a pocket, my Lady. Glory has filled every Inn throughout the city, and the whores are walking bow legged with every step.”

Grin growing more detestable as you looked from him with an uncomfortable glare. Your dear Uncle did not help the matter as he spoke up, a laugh in his lungs doing so. “We’re fortunate my brother Stannis is not with us. Remember when he proposed to outlaw brothels? Robert had asked if he’d like to outlaw eating, drinking, and shitting while he was at it.”

The force to not roll your eyes tested your every power of will. Every sense of faith in a man like your father that they assumed he had suggested or done so on Dragonstone for the superficial. Many Lords in the capital were keen on keeping your father at an arms length and you couldn’t help but speculate how much was truly just his personality, and what was fear deep down.

Afterall, he had two living children, and four which had passed before they could become your brothers. Clearly it wasn’t sex itself that was what he disliked about the premises.

Lord Stark looked to you instead of bothering to even entertain this discussion, calling your name. “You haven’t heard from Lord Stannis have you? He has not formally passed is place on the council to you, I’d have to guess he intends to return from his visit at some point?”

Neither of you said it to the current company, but Lord Stark didn’t quite appreciate the treatment of his new daughter by marriage. Sending you off to be wed out of nowhere, not accompanying or letting your mother or sister come to see you married, and then dragging you away from his son after one night to act on the council in his unexplained absence.

It was unfair to you and Robb, and it also sat rather suspiciously that you had been kept so terribly in the dark with this, and whatever your father had been investigating with Lord Arryn.

Lord Baelish’s tone was as mocking as ever, looking right at you. “No doubt he’ll return as soon as we’ve scourged all those whores into the sea.” You could hear Renly laugh somewhere to your left.

Standing abruptly, you smoothed down your skirt and nodded stiffly. “Until tomorrow, my lords.” As you stepped away you muttered uncaring if you were heard or ignored. “I’ve heard quite enough about my father and whores for one day.”

Renly’s laughter bothered you the whole way out of the small council chamber. You and Lord Stark had business to inquire of Grand Maester Pycelles but you found yourself perfectly content with waiting out of ear from mocking of your lord father for one day.

Words from the night before long since burned in the light of one of your rooms candles, in your pocket now sat one of you own writing and a new one sent to you. A raven from Dragonstone had surprised you only as long as it took to see the neatness of the letters.

Shireen was outraged that she missed your wedding. Had asked a million questions, what did you wear, who attended, did Winterfell have a nicer sept then they? That one you were going to have to explain another time that in your new life, you found more peace in the way the Starks followed that of the old gods. More questions of what is the capitol like with the new hand, was Robb as handsome as she was picturing. A question which even in the privacy of your own room, made you fluster a bit.

Only your dear sister could have you ready to spill about a man your married too, in ways like you were still a girl her age with a petty crush. Her letters always long, and always excited to hear what her well travelled big sister was doing regardless of how little you ever wanted to tell the truth of it anymore.

She was just a child, a rather innocent one at that. You wondered what father told her of the reason behind his sudden return home. Thinking to the two girls you returned to the city with, they too, were too young to have to be around this den of masks and liars. At least Arya’s needle was a bit more of protection then that of Sansa’s naivety.

Grand Maester Pycelle’s office was unbearably stuffy. The scents, the thick air and the mixture of whatever liquids sat both around the surfaces and tucked away into cupboards did not make the heat of summer any easier.

His frail voice seeming having gone on for far too long, “The smallfolk say the last year of summer if always the hottest. It is not often so, but it can feel that way does it not? On days like this, I envy you northerners and your southern snows.”

Both you and Lord Stark standing by his desk, it felt as if he was ready to dismiss before why an audience was requested in the first place. “I’ve been hoping to talk to you about Jon Arryn.”

To his credit, the Grand Maester had the patience to look surprised by the subject but not suspiciously so. “Lord Arryn? His death was a great sadness to us all. I took personal charge of his care, but I could not save him.”

Eyes narrowing slightly with a tilt of your head, you considered back to your own insights. “Did he seem sickly to you before the fever hit him? He hasn’t seemed like himself for some time but it never struck me like a physical ailment.”

Considering the idea, the Grand Maester himself looked a tad shamed. You doubted there wasn’t much he could do, and yet you could see similar feelings of confused failure in like your own once Maester Cressen. “His sickness truck him very hard, and very fast. I saw him in my chambers just the night before he passed. Lord Arryn often came to me for counsel.”

Lord Stark bluntly asking, “Why?”

Your insides rolled over at how indigent and offended the man instantly became at Lord Stark’s mere question. Nothing but worry over pride and image for such people. “I have been Grand Maester for many years. Kings and Hands have come to me for advice since-”

Voice raising enough to speak over him, you cut his tongue back down with the sharpness of your own tone. “Why did Lord Arryn seek you out, the night before he died? What did he want?”

The answer, only brought more questions.

Bringing you and Lord Stark closer in his office to a shelf, many large tomes sat across them as he shakily dragged one onto his desk. Landing it down in front of Lord Stark with a thud. “The lineages and histories of the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms. With descriptions of many high lords, noble ladies, and their children.”

Watching Lord Stark pull off the metal clasp and tossing it down, the book was loose and not well made but the pages inside were vast on thick paper filled to the brim with words in many styles of writing in many degrees of faded letters. Flipping through multiple pages until he landed on one at random, Lord Stark begun reading out one of the passages.

“…blue of eye, brown of hair, and fair complected. Died in his fourteenth year of a wound sustained in a bear hunt.”

Head tilting as he sat back down, “As I said my Lord, a ponderous read.”

“Did Jon Arryn tell you what he wanted with it?”

A slight shake no, of his head. “He did not, my Lord. And I did not presume to ask.”

Skimming the pages, you barley glanced at them before looking up to meet the Grand Maesters eyes but did not find him hiding much behind them. Nothing pertaining to the conversation at least as Lord Stark continued his inquiry. “Jon’s death, did he say anything to you during his final hours.”

Instinctively he denied, “Nothing of import, my Lord.” before pausing his hand raised as if to collect his thoughts within them from his older mind. “There was one phrase he kept repeating. The Seed is Strong, I think it was.”

Your eyes narrowed, “The seed is strong? What does that mean?”

No curiosity in his eyes, “The dying mind is a demented mind, Lady Stark.”

Whatever he said right after, was missed in the brief second of childish notions, much like what Shireen always tried to dish from you. Some familiar just called you by your name, others stuck to the simple My Lady, others such as Ser Jaime Lannister only switched between names in mocking as if there was something usual about a highborn lady taking on the House of their husband.

But hearing Lady Stark so casually, shouldn’t have clicked such a second of girlish glee as it had. You pulled yourself together though, hoping neither noticed your stammer of formality. Lord Stark beside you continuing, “And you’re quite certain he died of a natural illness?”

Grand Maester Pycelle seemed taken back, alleviating guilt at how quick his confusion at such a suggestion was at least ticked a name off your list. “What else could it be?”

Lord Stark seemed like he however, knew what his answer was. “Poison.”

Unwilling to think of such a crime, he shook his head in denial. “A disturbing thought…I don’t think it likely. The Hand was loved by all, what sort of man would dare-”

Your eyes and Lord Stark’s flickered to the other for just a moment, your voice without accusing if only in pure read of your words. “I’ve heard it said poison is a woman’s weapon.”

“Yes. Women, cravens…and eunuchs. Did you know Lord Varys is a eunuch?”

The spinning of mistrust once more, not the game neither you nor Lord Stark cared to get involved with now or ever. Enough was on your plate as it was. There was no conceivable thought of what Lord Varys would gain from murdering Lord Arryn in your mind. Then again, Lysa had named the Lannisters and yet you too had no idea what would be gained by that either.

Nor what trying twice to murder an innocent ten year old boy wold gain. But the signs all pointed to the golden lions.

Finding Arya near the top of the steps balancing on one foot, you smiled. Taking the tome from Lord Stark to his office for him so he could inquire what her dancing teacher had her practising now. Earlier he had commented to you that it felt like everyday Arya came back with new bruises or scratches with a worried furrow in his brow.

You simply had held back a smirk, “If I recall that’s exactly how everyone found out I was learning to sword fight when I was her age.”

Lord Stark had laughed much easier, running a hand over his stubble. “It took us that long to find out because you and Jon would sneak out at night so neither of you would get in trouble.” The first few lessons did have a lot of Jon hitting you harder each time until you got fed up and learned to block properly. “You should be thankful it was me who caught you and not Cat.”

You were twelve at the time, Jon fourteen and even all those years ago still far stronger then you. You couldn’t have imagined how much trouble he would’ve gotten in were it now your own father who caught you two one night.

Sitting now at Lord Stark’s desk, you had been mindlessly flipping through the book. Pausing at random pages before coming across the current accounts of Baratheons. The King first, and his children, then your lord father and his. Including all four which never made it, and a sickening description of Shireen as “disfigured” from her greyscale.

Renly when he thought neither or your father in ear had often referred to Shireen as “that ugly daughter of his” and you hated it. She would’ve been far worse had your father listened to the other Lords. Send her off to old Valyria to be of the stonemen before she infected the whole of Dragonstone.

Dancing over her name with your tapping finger, you told yourself not to. Biting your tongue before your weakness overtook and flipped to the pages of the current Starks. Glancing down to Lord Eddard Stark, then that of Robb did you pause. Shireen asking if he was handsome and certainly the drollness of a Maesters documents did nothing to answer that.

But your eyes skipped down. Looking to the description of Eyes of Grey, black of hair and the beginnings of the letter ‘S’ coming into sight did you slam the book shut with an angry huff. Your best friend for so long, and now his memory tainted with feelings which you both were forced to tear away from.

You’d love to just think of Jon the way you could Theon. Fond memories that weren’t anything more, and none which made the flutter in your stomach getting used to your new husband feel shameful. Hearing Lord Stark’s footsteps you stood up from his seat, leaning against the wall to the side with your arms crossed your chest.

Closing the door behind him, “Do you know a Ser Hugh of the Vale?” Head jolting back you found nothing with such a title and name until Lord Stark elaborated. “He was Jon Arryns squire.” Your lips parting in recognition you turned to look back at him confused. “He was knighted after his murder.”

“Knighted for what?”

Tilting his head he almost smiled. “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

Ser Hugh as it turned out, was exactly the kind of glory seeker you knew didn’t need more cheers and gold bolstering his ego. Down in the open field where they set up the tourney, you recognized him at least while he was in much more average attire. Still nicer then what you recalled he wore as a squire.

“Ser Hugh?”

Your footsteps towards him quick and long, your voice not shouting and yet projecting enough to startle those around as the man turned annoyed towards you. “As you can see, I’m busy.”

Busy taking steps, yes a task needing great concentration to a man of his calibre. Your eyes narrowed in the bright sun making you look far less tolerant of such an attitude. Renly once had said that between the flowing dresses, the light fabric of an equally as long cardigan with hair that looked far nicer unrestricted by whatever styles these girls in the capital pretended were fashionable, you might actually attract a suitor once in a while were it not for you being a perfect copy of your father’s morose and drab glare.

“I’m here on behalf of Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King-”

Not giving you a second chance, he waved you off. “Well run along and tell your master if the Hand wishes to speak to me, he should come himself. Knights don’t have time for a servant girls questions.”

Turning and stepping along the path you resisted the urge to see his head smash into the wooden railing he walked beside. There was no point in arguing, he seemed unlikely to be honest if he did answer any questions, and you and Lord Stark had a much more promising visit far down in the streets of the city.

“He said he’d only be willing to talk to the hand himself. A knight such as him.”

You and Lord Stark glancing at the other with a vapid smirk, of course how could you have been such a fool to dare ask anything of a well seasoned warrior such as Ser Hugh of the Vale. Intrepid Knight of Half a Day.

“Ah, a knight. They strut around like roosters down here. Even the one who’ve never seen an arrow coming their way.” The armoury Lord Baelish had directed you towards approached quickly. Sounds of yelling and barters all around and children play fighting in every direction.

Many eyes looked towards the pair riding down the path. Either such a sight was unusual to them, or perhaps all too similar. The Lord Hand and Master of Ships travelling down the poor city streets looking in the same places for the same people, only months after the last pair did the same to no known success.

“We should be careful out here alone, my Lord. There’s no telling which eyes belong to who.” Glancing at him, he seemed unaffected by the idea. Climbing off your horse as he did too, you both steeled in a natural air of cold confidence. Working beside Lord Stark for you was easy, you couldn’t however imagine such an easy pairing in Lord Arryn and your own father.

“Let them look.”

Tobho Mott greeted you both with upmost respect, seemed to be much more relaxed with your presence then he did mention of your lord father. Lord Stark beside you prompting the conversation moreso. “What did Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis want?”

“They came to see the boy.”

Lord Stark saying he’d like to see him as well, Tobho nodded and turned into the forge where the consistent smashing of metals stopped banging. “Gendry,”

Easy to see from his demeanour, it was clear he was likely either incredibly lowborn, or even a slave must to your dismay. He didn’t look at either you or Lord Stark in the eye, standing straight and respectable, but did not think he had the right to make eye contact.

You stood still, trying to see what it is that would be on any interest to the lords before. Not just that, what was seen which scared your father back to Dragonstone, and Lord Arryn into the grave? The three men went back and forth for a while over the ornate bulls helmet which he had made himself, easing the pair into the inquiry.

His voice didn’t give much away, but a tint of attitude which wasn’t unfamiliar. Taller then, you, his hair was dark to the point of a deep brown and by your guess would be a a little younger then you. Lord Stark changed subject, “When Lord Arryn came to visit you what did you talk about?”

Not looking still, your eyes narrowed as something pricked at your skin. “Just as me questions is all, milord.” Next asked if your father had ever questioned him, was a rare moment that made you break a smirk and eyes lit up with an amusement not often seen of you in Kings Landing. “No, he never said a word. Just glared at me like I was some raper who done for his daughter.”

Mott turning and raising his voice. “Watch your tongue boy. This is Lord Stannis’s own daughter you’re speaking too.” Turning to you with sincere apology in his eyes you couldn’t seem to look away from Gendry. He apologized, but you only found yourself looking at him with a more scrupulous gaze.

You tried, but whatever pricked at your skin settled over every corner of it until you wanted to twitch with unease. Lord Stark spoke for you, sensing that you were seeing something close to what he was slowly putting together. “What kind of questions did Lord Arryn ask?”

“About my work at first. If I was being treated well, if I liked it here. But then he started asking me questions about my mother.”

You spoke up before you could stop yourself. “Your mother?” Gendry specifying he meant just who she was and what she looked like, you continued to speak first unable to keep the intensity away out of your gaze on him. “What did you tell him?”

“She died when I was little. She had yellow hair, she’d sing to me sometimes.”

You couldn’t say why it clicked, but it did. Stepping forward you were sharper with him then you may have intended, “Look at me.”

Meeting your eyes, you felt that sensation shiver through your body like you had just been tossed in a river. There was no denying what it was you were seeing. Had you not known better, you could’ve mistaken Gendry for your own brother. The green eyes wide and bright, hair so dark and thick, the strength in resemblance of his facial structure and all linking back to why the snark of attitude pinged at you.

Almost in shock you leaned back, glancing to Lord Stark who briefly flickered to meet your eyes with an unsettled understanding of what you were seeing. You didn’t like what you were feeling in any way. Lord Stark handed him back the bull helmet, “Get back to work, lad.”

Diligently, he left further into the forge and the hammering started once again as Lord Stark spoke quietly to Mott. “If a day ever comes that boy would rather wield a sword then forge one, you send him to me.”

Coming up to Renly’s quarters, your head was in a spin and something told you to go anywhere that wasn’t where all your questions had laid. Knocking on his door, you almost jumped back in surprise by the one who actually answered.

Taller then you with a darkish dirty blonde hair rung up into curls that most girls you know envied with passion, Ser Loras also stood before you shirtless in a manner you amusingly knew a certain young redheaded Stark would’ve had her cheeks turn just as red at the sight off. Luckily for you, the shock on his face and the smirk on yours already knew the story better.

Walking in as you brushed past him, you raised your eyebrows at your Uncle now rushing to cover his own chest as if you were stupid enough not to know. “My Lady, apologies we were just-”

Turning to Loras beside you, you smirked wider with a playful squint in your eye. “Ser Loras, a word of advice. If you wish your private affairs to remain private, maybe don’t answer my Uncle’s door when you’re both still shirtless and this one’s still in bed.” You nodded over to the annoyed Renly.

Loras couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or horrified, but left as soon as he could be considered half way presentable. Door closing behind him, you walked in further, leaning against Renly’s desk. “I know discretion isn’t your strong suit Renly, but maybe if he’s trying to keep it a secret at least pretend you two aren’t locked up in bed half the time.”

Rolling his eyes, he reached passed out to pour himself wine. “Aren’t you missing your tournament?”

Shaking your head at his offer of a glass to you, “Oh am I Hand of the King, now?”

Glaring, he rested beside you against the desk as he sipped. “Spending enough time with him, it’s easy to mistaken I suppose. Much like my dear brother seemed.” Glancing beside you, you said nothing as he continued with mocking joy. “Jon and Stannis spend an increasing amount of time together only to stop when one of them dies and the other runs away out of reach. Only difference is the Hand this time is a wolf, but the Stag stays the same. Or are you a wolf now too?”

Pushing off smug with himself, you crossed your arms. “I married into a house of wolves, my name is theirs now, I suppose yes dear Uncle I am a wolf now if such a distinction matters.” Titling your head you were far less amused now and much more openly accusatory. “Does that make you a rose, or just a stag stupid enough to let roses tie themselves around him?”

He glared at you, “My relationship-”

“I’m not talking about Loras. Not for that. I’m talking about the less time you spend doing your duty the more I seem to find you spending time whispering with the Tyrells.” The guilt on his face grew tenfold as you slammed more to the open air. “You didn’t hide very well what your plan for his sister was, Margaery was it?”

Oh you hit a wound. Renly face twisting into a snarl unbecoming of someone like him. “Plan?”

Crossing your arms you didn’t move an inch but your eyes trained on his with scrutiny. “What was it my father said you planned, trying to make dear Margaery, Robert’s whore?” He paled but you didn’t let him blabber. “Everyone in the seven kingdoms knows he’s got enough of those, so I have to ask why exactly try to send the pretty girl from Highgarden into the bed of our well rode, drunken King, and then you yourself having the same ride by her own brother?”

He shrugged, but did not do well at hiding his anxiety. “You and Stannis are missing out, Tyrells are quite interesting in bed.”

You raised your eyebrows. “So are wolves, I’ve found.”

“Did you come here for this or what?”

Pushing up you walked more to the middle of the room. “No, actually I came here to ask if you’re going to the tournament tomorrow.”

Renly’s eyes flickered side to side, “Most likely. Why?”

You shrugged, losing all pretense of suspicion for now. “Just wondering if I’ll have someone to talk to who doesn’t make me want to tear into my palms.” Renly laughed, telling you this was the wrong place for that.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, for a brief moment he looked actually concerned. “I know I joke about it, but the capital doesn’t suit you does it?” He smiled when you shook your head no. “You know every time you came back from Winterfell you looked miserable. You hated coming back here and each time you come back a little more fed up then the time before.”

You said nothing as you looked blankly at him. There was nothing to deny, coming back here was always the worst and it never stopped being the worst until you were back with the Starks.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to your wedding.”

You shrugged. Not the answer or even emotion he expected, but you were just looking at him.

The wide bright eyes, the shape of his cheeks, jaw, the colours in those eyes and the darkness of the thick hair he was so bad at letting grow out just like your father. All you could think of was what in those looks scared your father out of the city.

What did he find in those looks that was so bad it got Lord Arryn killed. You and Lord Stark had many clues but no hints except for one glaring one. You had returned to the horses, nearby where Jory had been waiting.

When he asked if you two had found anything, you hadn’t been quite the same since realizing what Lord Stark had. All you could see when looking at Renly now, was what Lord Stark told Jory then.

Something that had no right being a clue to such a dark mystery and yet here you were, standing before water as murky then ever only this time it was your own kin that was being told as the dangers to look out for.

Gendry wasn’t just a tiny clue of no meaning, somewhere in Lord Arryn’s death was a page about finding King Robert’s bastard son.

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #jon snow #robb stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine #game of thrones imagine

[outofangband]

I really loved @gwaedhannen ‘s post about wanting more strangeness in First Age Beleriand and I had a post awhile back about potential strange ecology for Middle Earth so I wanted to revisit it with some more thoughts!

Following up to my speculative biology ideas for elves,

Like the last list, these are more jotting down ideas, please please feel free to give me any to elaborate on!

Mammoths on the Helcaraxë and other cold reaches. Tolkien talks of all creatures that walk or have ever walked the earth existing in Valinor and throughout Arda hence prehistoric and extinct species can also exist here. I do also headcanon smaller herds of woolly mammoths and woolly rhinos in northern Hithlum and north of greater Beleriand. Stellar’s sea cows in the frozen waters:(

Early cenozoic aquatic birds such as Hesperornis off the coasts of Balar and Alqualondë.

 Enchanted orchards of Valinor; large, seemingly abandoned self containing gardens and orchards. There are fruit tree orchards hidden behind ivy covered walls; some always filled with Autumn breezes, citrus groves always kept warm and bright lined with lemon trees and deep green grass. Except for the Maia who tend them, the only beings who enter the orchards are elves who do so, usually by mistake.

There are places throughout Arda where the Music was not well, loud, enough. They can be the size of a footstep or a field and are not fully connected to the space time continuum. Those who tread on them will end up elsewhere in time or space and will never realize what had happened.

In the great expanses of unexplored Valinor, there are coves, glens, lagoons, and all sorts of other places that seem shift and change, being there one day and not the next. Even while walking through familiar, charted territory, there is always the possibility of ending up in a hidden clearing, covered in hanging mosses and with strange lights all around.

The forests of Beleriand are full of strange, sometimes dark creatures that have never been properly documented. They are the strange hybrids of Yavanna’s creations and Melkor’s corruption and a few have escaped the eyes of even the Ainur. 

The underground lakes of Middle Earth, especially around Angband contain blind, hungry beings, nourished by the volcanic soils. Strange fungi and lichen stick to the walls of the caverns and passageways beneath the fortress.

There are hot springs in several locations in Beleriand South of the Ered Wethrin (there are many in the Ered Wethrin of course but these are not exactly relaxation destinations). Namely in Himring, throughout Hithlum, north of Barad Eithel, parts of Dorthonion, in the caves of Androth, and parts of the Ered Luin. Not all of these are used by residents and not all maintain safe temperatures or conditions but some do! In many parts of Northern Beleriand, they're used for bathing and communal relaxation. There are other springs throughout the March of Maedhros and I like the idea of Himring being built around a hot spring. There are hot and warm springs in both Nargothrond and Menengroth. The definition of warm springs differs from hot springs only in average temperature

The caves of Menengroth and Nargothrond allow elves and others access to the strange wonders of the underground world of Middle Earth.  They are lit by lanterns and by certain bioluminescent plants. There are windows in key areas that allow sunlight to filter into some of the larger halls and though there are small gardens of species that do not require direct sunlight, some are stationed in the areas where sunlight filters in. A small tributary of the river Narog flows directly through one of the great halls of Nargothrond. Its flora and fauna remain untouched by the elves and algae and aquatic plants as well as small fish, salamanders in their early stages, and stranger creatures are visible to see for those who walk along it. 

In realms with Ainur or certain Eldar rule, natural life may not follow typical laws. Melian has great influence over the biodiversity and climate of Doriath for example even without meaning to.

The horror potential of the boundaries of the girdle or of Nan Elmoth. Time and space distorting, the forest becoming a maze, bird calls confusing and disorienting unwary or unlucky travelers

The Ered Gorgoroth, the eerie, mysterious mountain range, bordered to the north by Dorthonion and to the south by Nan Dungortheb. It was said the spawn of Ungolian haunted these mountains and the valley. I have some more posts on this but I've always imagined there being many pools and meres in Ered Gorgoroth, many harmless though frigid and some completely corrupted by the powers of Ungoliants spawn and other beings. Unfortunately, it’s not always possible to know which was which until it was too late.

Chemical reactions causing glimmering or colorful water. Elves learn carefully when this has occurred due to natural phenomena and when it is the result of unnatural influence or Ainur presence.

Salt lakes and landlocked waters mimicking ocean conditions. I’ve always imagined there being a lake like lake Baikal in the March of Maedhros

More Bioluminescence

The realms draped in dragon reek especially around Nargothrond. The pools of Ivrin are ruined by Glaurung and they are the source of the river Narog, the largest tributary to Sirion. The entire land could be poisoned. I imagine that plants wither or lose color, birds and frogs stay silent, animals are thrown off of their natural cycles, The orchards in the hills barren or producing foul fruit, strange happenings resulting from drinking from the river Narog or even eating animals that drank from it…

Alternatively the effects of the water where the power of Ulmo is still strong such as in Nan Tathren or the Twilit Meres

#the silmarillion #beleriand #musing and meta #Valinor #Doriath #ered gorgoroth #I hope these are ok I’m very tired

[homunculus-argument]

I think I've fallen in love with one of your characters, could you tell me some more stuff about Foxtrap-Todd/Aiden ar dsgjfdey?

Aiden ar Gar. And I think the reason for his name was one of the stories I could never quite weave into the story itself. Being at first raised in the Northlands by his northman father, who was a fur trapper, Aiden was allowed to roam pretty much unsupervised while not being taught into the trade. After his father's death he was shipped into the Empire to live with his mother - who had originally not wanted him, the Empire is a matriarchy and she had wanted a daughter for an heir, not a son.

So he went from being raised by an alcoholic recluse in the northern wilderness to being raised by the tutor slave his mother - a lower warrior class noblewoman - purchased to raise him. Still being mostly feral and largely unsupervised, he would sneak out into the streets to find something to do. And befriended a bunch of stray kids.

Having no real mutual language and no real knowledge of how to survive on the streets, Aiden still wanted to impress his new friends by showing off that he does know something, and showed them how to build a squirrel trap. Which naturally only caught rats, being in a massive city in a sothern climate like this. His friends had never seen a rat trap like this before, and by this point Aiden recognises the word "rat", and while he doesn't know the word for "squirrel", he denies that it's not for rats! And he takes a stick and draws a squirrel into the sand of the street, emphasising the furry tail.

Turns out that his new peers don't know the local word for "squirrel", either. They've grown up in the big city and have never seen one. But they have seen fox skins, and put together that this is a fox trap! So from thereon he is Foxtrap-Todd. And this is one of those stories that Todd starts telling people when he's drunk enough to start telling the truth about his life in the middle of the wild outlandish lies he usually tells for fun.

And that's how nobody knows how much of Todd's stories of his life might actually be true. Because one moment he's claiming to be the son of a Northman who was raised in the lands where people walk on water (but only for half of the year, and he can't do that now), another time he claims to be a baron - and on top of that, really being the outlaw baron Aiden ar Gar being hunted down as the insurrection writer Blue Quill - though most of the time, everyone knows that he's just that stray boy Beun Fisher's slightly insane friend who lies about everything all the time.

The part that he doesn't lie about is being Blue Quill. He was framed, as he claims, and he truly does not know how or why. The two of them just happen to have an identical handwriting, with similar quirks. The actual Blue Quill, a writer of the revolution movement, is the tutor slave who taught him how to read and write.

[saturnalmoss]

ARM-WRESTLER

CHAPTER ONE

A curious case of littering

Master Post

An arm was what had caught York’s attention.

He was taking his daily jog around Fancy Town. There weren’t much in the way of alleys here, but the older parts of town had some number of dark nooks and crannies. It was here that York noticed an odd shape on the ground.

It was still there on the second lap. He stopped and looked around. It was getting to be evening, but the brownstones remained quiet, curtains drawn or maybe empty. The irregular lots between them like rotten teeth grew wild with weeds and garbage.

York walked up to the thing on the ground: an arm - as he had thought. He had felt the call to wrestle in his hindbrain before his eyes had even registered it, but if they were lying on the ground, they probably hadn’t got the energy for a good armwrestle. That’s what he had decided on his first lap.

Now, he realized, this arm would never wrestle again. He stood a little longer, then pulled his brand new, refurbished, little flip bone out of his jacket pocket. He was reticent to get an iBone when he couldn't be bothered to memorize a bone number but Rosé way struck with inspiration after their last adventure.

York carefully pressed the buttons marked with stars in the order of the constellation. He had even written orcish on them to help practice the foreign numbers. He figured, in for a phalange in for a femur.

“York!” Rosé said happily.

“Rosé.” York said. “I found an arm.”

“Uh.”

“It’s on the ground, and ain’t attached to no one.” He wanted to hold it up, but Jancy had drilled into him that the crime scene was not to be touched until photos could be taken, and his iBone did not have picture capability.

“Oh no. Uh. Okay, Jancy isn’t in the office - she went to talk to a potential client. UH.”

“Can you call her?”

“Potential client! Her bone is on silent.”

“Can you call Grandma?”

York listened patiently as Rosé muttered something about holding and groups and beep boops.

“Grenda Highforge speaking.”

“Grandma, I found an arm.” York said. There was silence on the other end while Rosé thought of how to rephrase.

“...It’s by itself, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Also Rosé is here. On the bone, not with me. Rosé, I don't know where you are,” York crouched down on the ground to examine the lone arm again.

“Hi, Rosé!”

“Hi. I'm in the office and Jancy isn’t in the office so we don’t know what to do. Can you do your best Jancy for a minute and tell us what to do?”

“Uh! Yeah. Uh. Don’t touch anything!” York nodded; accomplished. “Secure the area?”

York looked around. Still not a soul, as far as he could tell. “Next?”

“Maybe draw a chalk outline?” Grenda suggested.

“I don’t got chalk.”

“Oh, I do! Well, with me.”

Rosé chimed in, “Grandma, I’m heading over there. Let’s all meet up.” York nodded again, unseen.

“Good idea! Where should I go?” There was a sudden silence on the other end. Rosé stopped in her tracks.

“Uh. Yeah. Uh, what do you see nearby, York?”

York listed them the landmarks nearby. The city folks insistence on naming all the places they go instead of just going was still weird to him. Then again, Northern Tribe orcs didn’t tend to plan to go places together so much as just run into each other sometimes.

The other two tell him to stay on the iBone, maybe look for a blood trail.

“Ain’t no blood.”

“What.” Grenda said.

“Don’t like that.” Rosé said. York peered closer.

“Actually, I don’t think this thing ever had blood to begin with.” He held it up triumphantly. “Yeah! It’s metal! It’s a metal arm!”

“What like a prosthetic? Or a mannequin?”

“Or a crash test dummy?” Rosé added.

“A prosthetic?” York said derisively.

“A prosthetic is a replacement limb!” Grandma told him helpfully. A dog yipped in the background.

“I know what a prosthetic is! But this ain’t no prosthetic. It doesn’t even have spikes.”

“Northern Tribes do prosthetics differently, eh, buddy?” Rosé said.

York turned the arm over in his hand. “Yeah! You just stick a weapon in there! Whose gonna make a whole fake arm to put on your arm when you can stick an ax in there?” He looked at the arm again. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Rosé asked

“Even for a leg?” Grenda said at the same time.

“Uh, no, hammer’s best if you lose a leg.” York said distractedly, putting the arm on the ground gingerly. “Swords and axes’ll just stick in the ground.” He pushed the palm a little, then pulled it back again.

“What if you just lost the front of your foot, could you get a dagger and do sick kick flip stabby stabs?”

“Yeah. Classic.” York muttered.

“I’m here!” Rosé said and York stood up sharply. She looked at him, then the arm. She raised an eyebrow. York stared.

“Ooh, in stereo! I’ll be there soon. Plus, I have a client! Maybe she can do a little sniffing?”

Rosé, Grenda, and York stared down at the hand together. A dog panted happily nearby, tied tightly to a stake. A little bowl of water glittered. “So, no blood. No body.” Rosé said. “Does that mean this is a lost item, not a murder?”

“It could still be a missing person!” Grenda said helpfully. “You never know.”

“It’s definitely a prosthetic, though? Even though it’s not a weapon?” York asked.

“I mean, I could knock someone out with that.” Rosé said. “Not that I would, because I am a good girl.”

Grenda nodded. “See the bits here? I think it’s so the arm can move. And the fingers have grippies for... gripping. And up at the end it’s kind of softer? To stick to the person. Not a mannequin, Probably a prosthetic. Definitely missing! I bet someone wants this back.” Grenada beamed up at their friends.

Rosé hummed softly, and stroked her chin. “The rules are different for a missing belonging...” York nodded, Grenda smiled. “So... what if we hunted down the owner and returned the arm?”

“And fined ‘em for littering.”

“Wouldn’t Jancy be proud of us?”

“So proud.” Grenda said.

“So proud.” York agreed.

#poscamarkers #drawfee #multi media #fanfic #writing #drawtectives #long post #saturnart