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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 month

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Winter's King 21

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I am very tired.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

As promised, the king acquires you a full outfit to face the cold. A fur trimmed hat to replace your standard linen cap, a pair of lined hide gloves, and thick boots that go to your knees. He has bolstered you to face the elements but you are wholly unprepared to face the corridors as the glances of soldiers and servants meet you with a new glint of judgement.

You wear the king’s cloak as before. You keep your head low under the hood as he walks ahead of you. It is a farce. A poorly acted charade. How naive you’d been for so long not see through it all. You were the perfect fool for an intent audience.

You descend and come out to the west of the castle, through a door beneath a sharply peaked arch. The snow continues to heap over the land though the winds have relented. The king pauses as you emerge and reaches to take you by the wrist, as if he fears you might be lost in the powder.

He walks you across the yard towards the stables built across a flat of land nestled along a curved rock wall. The doors creaks as he pushes through and the heat of braziers and horses’ bodies greets you within. Sniffs, snorts, and knickers rise in the air as you walk between the stalls. There is one in which a single horse resides, the rest crowded in pairs and trios.

You look up at the steed’s dark snout, it’s eyes even bleaker as it snuffs out harshly. It’s nostrils flair at your approach and the king clicks his tongue at the beast. It raises its nose then shakes its head. It’s ebony iris fixates on you as its master touches its braided mane.

“Roach,” you murmur into the dry air.

“You remember,” he comments gently.

“Yes,” you watch the horse as it watches you. It bows its head, nose coming close to yours, fuming hot breath around you. It sniffs the trim of your hood.

“Let the animal see you,” the king advises.

You bring your hands up and push back the hood, letting it hang over your shoulders. You stare at the dark eyes. Roach continues to twitch his nose in your direction then further dips his head, pressing against your chest. Uncertain, you bring your hands to touch his soft ears.

“Ah,” the king sighs, “Roach is rarely partial to any but me. Even I receive a nip or too from the curmudgeon.” He chuckles and touches the horse’s thick neck. “others have nearly lost a finger and even sacrificed garment or two.”

“A creature so volatile, he makes a good war horse?”

“She,” he corrects you.

“Oh, apologies.”

“I doubt she minds,” he muses and pets her long nose as she raises her head. “She is restless. She would do good for the exercise.”

He lowers his hand and unclasps the stall door. He pulls it out as you step out of the way. The horse clomps through, kicking impatiently as it blows through its lips. The king moves parallel to you and draws you before him. Before you or Roach can react, he has you aloft, urging you onto the horse’s unsaddled back.

“Hold tight,” he girds and puts his hands to the horse’s shoulder, “come, Roach.”

The horse starts and you press your hands to her back, clamping on with your thighs. You rock with her motion to keep from slipping. You duck with the mount as she bends through the door the king holds open. The winter snows dusts down on you as you emerge.

The king drags his palm along the horse’s side and swings himself up with little effort. He sit behind you, Roach not missing a step or buckling at his ascent. He pulls you snug to him, tugging up your hood as the chill nips at your cheeks. He wraps his arms around you and clutches a swathe of the horse’s braids. He whistles and leans, guiding the horse away from the castle.

“She is obedient,” you remark at her agile response.

“I prefer mares for that reason,” he returns. You wonder if it is a quip meant for the queen or yourself. Perhaps both. “It isn’t very far, though the path is steep.”

You nod and stare at the white expanse, a few jutting rocks pocking out above the carpet of snow, leafless branches reaching out here and there. The horse carries you to a ledge, narrow and treacherous, and you lean back into the King Geralt as the edge has you dizzy. He slips his hand beneath your cloak to squeeze your hip.

“I have you, treasure, you needn’t fear,” he assures.”

“Yes, your highness, thank you,” you touch his knuckles and shiver.

“Sweet summer maid,” he purrs as he draws you snugger. “This winter is harsh but I will keep you warm.”

You shudder and hang your head. For so much comfort as he offers, you find little. It isn’t only the snow which chills you.

You ride on, the impact of hooves softened by the layers below, the air hollow and biting as it seeps beneath your hood. The sky ripples grey and seems to darken as you descend the curling path along the cliff’s edge. At once, you are plunged into thick blackness.

The world levels out and the king shifts, sliding off the mount to land on his feet. You peek over your shoulder and see the grim light through the mouth of the cave. The king touches your leg and you turn, letting him help you from the height. Roach kicks and spits.

The king frames your waist before he releases you. You listen to his steps as he moves through the dim. There’s is a scratch as he strikes flint and flame illuminates his shadow. He bends and takes something from the ground. He pauses and works with one hand, wrapping something around the thick stick. He lights the length of linen around the wood’s tip, a torch to see you along.

“She will stay, she is not keen on confinement, especially underground,” he girds and removes his own cloak, draping it over the horses back, “the air enlivens me, I shouldn’t need that much.”

He wears a leather coat, sewn of thick strips of black and studded with silver. He approaches you and bends his arm, offering it gallantly as a gentleman might with a lady. You hesitate and hook your arm through it, hugging his elbow as he leads you deeper, the torch flickering with each step.

You enter a tunnel with rocky tendrils stretching from top to bottom, encased in layers of ice and frost. The flame illuminates the frozen layers. Deeper and deeper you go, quiet as your curiosity mingles with concern. Where are you going?

Your boot slips on a slippery patch but the king keeps you upright. You thank him and bring your other arm across to steady yourself on his bicep. You feel his muscle bulging beneath. You do not doubt his promises. He will keep you safe. Down here, but you doubt what he might do without.

He raises the torch as the air thins and you the cave opens up. You look around as the walls lay beyond the breadth of the torches glow. Your eyes are drawn by the icy fingers hanging from the ceiling. There is one close to you. You reach to touch its pointed tip.

“Icicles,” the king says, “be careful of the thin ones, they might fall.”

He moves the torch to show more, all around you, light fangs the line the cave, lining the edges. The flame sparkles on their eerie translucence. Then the king lowers the light and you look down beneath your feet. You’re stand on ice!

“Your highness,” you instinctively pull yourself closer to him, your soles sliding as you try to walk further.

“It will not break,” he assures you as he urges you on, “this cave never thaws, even in the warmer months. They call it the Moth’s Den.” He leads you across the ice and your eyes catch on the icicles, thick and thin, some pointed, some reach to touch the floor. You hear an odd hum, almost a buzz, and he sweeps the torch before you.

You stop to gape at the wall before you. It looks soft and fluffy, almost like fur. Then you lean closer and see the wings. Pale silver moths, fluttering in place, clinging to the wall. Their fuzzy bodies line every morsel of the space.

“Snow moths. Harmless creatures. Unlike their summer counterparts, the detest the light,” he extends his arm and a circle along the icy wall is sudden bare as the moths move to avoid the glare. “When I was a boy, I always wanted to have one as a pet. I could never get one past the entrance before it escaped and flew back to the depths.”

You blink and lower your hand from his arm, though you stay hooked onto him, “I didn’t think this was your home.”

“As a boy it was. At least, that’s how I saw it. My father, king of the day, sent me here to train with Lord Vesemir. As much to keep me out of trouble. I am not unaware of myself. I was not the best behaved. Vesemir took me in and he bides no mischief,” King Geralt explains, “though he does not rule without compassion. He taught me many things more than discipline. He taught me,” the king peers over at you, “that my heart should be heard just as plainly as my mind. If you do not balance them, then it will all topple.”

You look back at him. Your chest aches deeply. Doesn’t he know you don’t have that privilege? Can he not see that you do not get that choice? Even for a king.

You might never had cared for Lady Rezlyn and her gossip. You think it cruel and unkind. Often you wonder if she spoke less of others, if she might gain more friends. You never engaged much in Merinda’s whispers either. But you heard them and you know what becomes of mistresses.

The other woman. That’s what you’ll become. A whore. A name to be spat. A figure to be avoided. A maid might be ignored but she neither favoured or despised. She just is. She has her purpose. A mistress only has the stain put upon her. The one who taints who my walk away, but she never will.

“The ice becomes you, treasure. The cold it... pales to your beauty,” he smiles down at you. His gold eyes are vibrant and his fine features are even more admirable in the limn of the flame.

He lifts his chin and takes steady steps away from the wall and leads you towards a jutting stone at the other end of the cavern. He bends to plant the torches base in the crevice at its foot. The torch leans but stands on its own.

He faces you, untangling from your arm, and puts his hands on your shoulders, “I want to know what you think. Tell me. Do you like my homeland? Do you like the winter?”

Your lips part and you glance up. Your eyes wander around the space and you turn your head. You raise your hands to touch the king’s leather gloves.

“I think I do,” you answer. You can’t deny the beauty even if it is deadly. “I might think differently should I meet a bear or a wolf.”

“It is why you must stay close, treasure, I would never let a beast get anywhere near,” he avows, “I refer to all beasts. Be it man or animal. You will always have me. You needn’t be afraid.”

You lower your eyes. You can’t say the truth. He knows it but he refuses it. His is a king, he might bend even the world to his whim. You let your hands trails down his forearms. He drops his hands and takes yours.

“Will you tell me more? About when you were a boy?” You ask, hoping to forget the present a little longer. You are intrigued to think of this man as just a child. It is a rather impossible concept.

“Hm, well,” he lets go of you and moves around you. He comes behind you and presses himself to your back. He rocks you as he turns you to admire the cave, “I would come to these caves and talk to myself...” he laughs rockily, “you see, if you holler loud enough, your voice bounces back at you. Lord Vesemir, he is not always in the mind for conversation and horses can be just as finicky.”

He continues to turn you with him. Even without his cloak, his warmth seeps into you.

“And I would gather bouquets of frostwart and white willowrods for they are the closest to flowers that grow here. I would put the bunches all around, as if I was too be coronated. I was told every day I would be king and I wanted to be ready, but mostly, I’d pretend I was at tourney. I would have my practice sword and I would parry with the air. The air was not so mean as Vesemir with his jabs.”

You listen, closing your eyes, trying to see it in your head. A white-haired boy with his golden eyes and flowers and swords. Now a man who’s marched through blood and dirt. How time changes more than the seasons, it transforms all.

“What of you, maid? I want to know of you. When you were a child, did you frolic with the rabbits and the squirrels?”

You go rigid. You try to pull away but he has you caught. You lean back and exhale heavily.

“The life of a maid isn’t very interesting,” your murmur.

“You were always a maid? Even when you were young?”

“Always,” you affirm. “I emptied pots, brought Lord Dustan his boots, though at times, Lady Jazlene required a playmate...”

He’s quiet at the mention of his wife. You feel the crack in your heart. Your nose is numb and tingling.

“Yet, how did you become a maid? Before that, was there nothing?” He asks.

“Please, your highness--”

“I bid you call me by my name.”

“Geralt,” you utter, “please, I beg you, I wouldn’t speak of before.”

“Did you have parents? Siblings--”

“None of it,” you hiss and elbow away from him, throwing your arms out to keep balance. You spin and shake your head, “please. My parents are dead. Long gone. And the memories I have of them are nothing more than that. They’ve only ever been dead to me.”

He is taken aback, his face pale and cheeks tight, “treasure, forgive me, I only... I want to know everything of you--”

“You know what I am. I am a maid. That is it. That is all I can ever be. I am not a lady, not a wife, not a queen,” you clap your hands together, the impact softened by your mittens, “you cannot make me anything different, king as you may be. I will only ever serve, and you will only ever command.”

His lips part and he steps towards you, “that isn’t true.”

“It’s what must be true,” you look to your feet, “might I make a request?”

“Anything,” he says.

“Take me back to the castle,” you raise your eyes.

He nods solemnly and reaches for you, “as you wish.”

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #the witcher #winter's king

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mischievous-thunder · 2 years

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A shopkeeper: So, what's the occasion?

Geralt: I'm looking for something to cheer up the wife.

The shopkeeper, glancing at Yennefer: Why don't I ask the missus?

Yennefer, pointing at a fuming Jaskier in the distance: Do you think our wife is in the mood for a conversation?

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fandom-junk-drawer · 1 year

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The Witcher Headcanon - Accent

Jaskier has a Northern accent that he works really hard to hide. He learned early on that most people, especially among the nobility, considered Northerners to be lower than peasants. A Northern accent was a black mark on the person, labeling them as bumpkins or hill folk.

Jaskier saw how anyone with an accent even remotely close to Northern was ridiculed and bullied both inside and outside of Court. So he spent a lot of time practicing speaking in a Court accent until he perfected it.

By the time he went off to study in Oxenfurt, he had become comfortable with the new accent, and it sounded completely natural. He didn't have to worry about being looked down on, or ridiculed, and he discovered that a lot of people found a Court accent attractive.

But there was always that fear that he was going to slip and some one would find out about his Northern accent. He was terrifed when he started following Geralt, and when he met Yennefer.

Geralt never said anything, but he could hear that Jaskier's accent wasn't natural. There were slight differences in inflection, and pronunciation, and tiny inconsistencies that normal humans would never notice but a Witcher's sensitive ears easily picked up on. Whatever the reason was for the affectation was none of Geralt's business.

The more time Geralt spent with Jaskier, the more he noticed the little slips in this Court accent. He figured out the reason for the fake accent when he started hearing his real accent come through.

Geralt remembered the first time Jaskier's accent had slipped out.

The had made camp after a long day of entertaining at the town festival. Jaskier had been very tired, and he was upset about a few things Valdo Marx had said to him. He'd laughed it off, turning the insults and insinuations into an improv song that had the crowd laughing and cheering him boistrously before sweeping him away to the closest inn for a round of drinks while Valdo stood fuming impotently.

But now that they were alone, he'd allowed himself to feel the hurt, and his accent had taken on a sing-songy quality, and he'd gone hard on his T's for a second when he referred to Valdo Marx as "that b**tart!"

Oh, f**k!

Jaskier internally panicked the second he realized he'd dropped his affected accent. Ok, calm down! Maybe he didn't hear. You know he tunes you out most of the time. Act natural, pretend like everything is normal!

Jaskier continued rummaging through his pack, sneaking a quick glance at Geralt while continuing to insult Valdo as he shook out his bedroll, flapping the blanket aggresssively before laying it out. Geralt seemed oblivious, his attention on gathering deadfall for the fire and digging out the fire pit.

Jaskier allowed himself to breathe a silent sigh of relief. The Witcher hadn't noticed. Thank all the gods!

Geralt was scraping out a little pit for the fire when he heard Jaskier drop his accent for just a second. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bard freeze for a split second, and Geralt calmly continued with his task as if he hadn't noticed. All the while he was thinking "He has a Northern accent! No wonder he sounds off sometimes!"

From then on, Geralt started really listening, intrigued and wanting to hear more of his real voice. He caught little snatches of it here and there, mostly when Jaskier was drunk, tired, upset, or excited. Or when he thought he was alone, and was composing a song or poem.

Geralt was always careful to never let on that he noticed when that lovely, sing-songy accent slipped out. It was hard, forcing himself to keep that big stupid smile off his face that threatened to come out whenever he heard Jaskier 'go Northern'.

When Yennefer came into the picture, Jaskier was on edge, constantly on guard to keep his Northern accent hidden. She was the last person he wanted to find out about it.

She already hates me. No reason to make her think I'm stupid, too!

He did an excellent job of hiding it, not wanting to give the witch any ammunition in their perpetual war of words. He finally bonded with her, saw her as family like he did Geralt, and he doubled down on keeping his accent a secret.

He could talk to her about anything, show her every side of him, like he could with Geralt, but the accent was one thing he did not want to share. He was terrified that she would look at him differently. That both of them would. He didn't think his heart would survive that.

Yennefer had been fighting for her life the first time she heard Jaskier's Northern accent come out.

Jaskier had caught a fever while performing in one of the towns. He was delirious, and Yennefer had been getting him to drink a potion and he'd just completely dropped his affected accent as he started talking random nonsense to her.

She had paused as she was tucking him back in, staring at him in disbelief as he chattered on.

Yennefer had squealed in lowercase.

"Oh! My! Gods! He's, he's got a-!"

"Northern accent. I know. He's been faking a Court accent-!"

"I know what it is, and it's f***ing cute!"

"Gods you sound like a giddy little maid!"

"Like you can say anything, Geralt, when you're standing there grinning like a boy who's just gotten his first peek at a pair of tits!"

Yennefer and Geralt never let on that they knew, and it bothered them that Jaskier didn't seem to feel like he could trust them. They understood why he was hiding it, though, so they satisfied themselves with enjoying the rare times when it slipped out.

It was not heavy, like many Northerners' accents were. Jaskier's accent was lighter, more delicate, but it did tend to get heavier when he was in an emotional state.

They did their best to pretend they didn't notice the little lapses, but they couldn't help but smile when it happened. And Jaskier eventually figured out that they both knew--had known for a while.

Yennefer had run into them in town, and they were having dinner in their room at the inn. Jaskier had been chattering on about how one of his sets had gone, and he'd gotten a little too excited. Yennefer's eyes had gone soft and...and sparkly, and she'd glanced at Geralt, whose face was lit up with the sunniest smile which he was desperately trying to hide behind his tankard of ale.

OhHhH f**K, tHeY'd hEaRd iT!!!! He froze, going stock still. Any minute now, they were going to start lauging at him.

Geralt just smiled and took another drink while Yennefer just kept looking at him with that, that adoring look. That was when he knew.

"When?" Jaskier had asked, mortified after he realized.

Geralt had swallowed his ale with a thoughtful 'Hm' and replied. "A few days after you started following me around. Your accent sounded off, but I wasn't sure why. Figured it out after you started b*tching about Valdo Marx one night."

Jaskier mentally kicked himself. Of course a Witcher would have been able to tell!

"And you?", he asked Yennefer

"That time you had that bad fever. You babbled on in the most intriguing accent about everything under the heavens. We got to listen to it for two whole days!"

Jaskier hid his face in his hands, dinner forgotten as he slid down in his chair with an embarrassed groan.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because we knew why you were hiding it, Lark", Yennefer said, "I've been in Court. I know how the nobility are."

"You don't have to hide it anymore. Not around us," Geralt said.

"You...you don't think I sound...stupid?"

Yennefer tapped him on the head with her empty plate as she walked by, "No, you little b*llend! It's sing-songy and cute, and you sound adorable!"

It took him some time, but he was finally able to let himself relax and stop using the adopted accent with Yennefer and Geralt.

He would forget sometimes, because he was a performer, and an act could be hard to put aside. Especially if it had helped you survive for so many years.

It would sometimes take an hour or two after a long day of performing for the public for Geralt and Yennefer's 'Sing-Songy Twit' to relax enought to drop the Court accent and be himself. And when he did, one of them would always say warmly "There you are, Jaskier!"

#the witcher #the witcher headcanon #the witcher netflix #twn #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #geraskier #geraskifer #geraskefer #yenskier #yennskier #yenneskier #yennaskier #accent headcanon #henry cavill

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fangirleaconmigo · 1 month

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Geraskier kink prompt: (I have too many WIPs so pls smut writers pls if it inspires you, write it and tag me I beg)

Geralt is a stoic paladin assigned to patrol purgatory. When demons get out of hell, it is his job to chase them down and take them back. It would be disastrous if a single one made it to earth to do evil.

Geralt is successful because he works quietly. He does not speak to them or allow them to try to plead, trick, or make deals. He has a special method of subduing them. Geralt quietly stalks them, then he simply grabs them by a horn with one hand and their tail with the other. He tips them on their sides and hogties them before they can blink.

Jaskier is a demon and lurks in the shadows of the border. He watches the perversely attractive Paladin bring back his trussed up brethren and plop them over the wall. He hears them fume and wail about the indignity, describing the process in detail. How dare he treat them like humans treat their stupid cattle.

They are so affronted that they do not notice Jaskier is having a very different reaction to their stories than they intend.

The next night, Jaskier gets out on purpose.

#the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #fic prompt

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raccoon-eyed-rebel · 2 days

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Part 25

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 24 🟣 Part 26

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: Fluff, ongoing vampire shenanigans, mentions of drug abuse/overdose, mention of attempted suicide, addiction, tragic backstory, more of August's completely unwarranted hatred of jellybeans, angst, Mike being an idiot.

Word count: 4.5k

A/N: So... we'll finally find out about that 'queen' thing, and some more about Mikey (who's also going to cause another angsty moment...) We'll also meet another coven member...

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @summersong69 @mis-lil-red

@sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld @proud-aroace-beastie

@plaidcat4815 @wa-ni @lovemusicpart2 @lizzystuffsthings @manysecrets2020

@sarcasmoverlordxo

“Queen?” you blurted out as you stood there, practically nailed to the floor, eyes wide, mouth open, shocked. Next to you, Mike had his fists clenched tightly at his sides, and a look on his face you couldn’t quite decipher.

“Vampires are a dramatic bunch,” Melot explained patiently. Yeah, you’d noticed. “I’m sure you’ve become at least somewhat familiar with your role in the coven hierarchy?”

You nodded quietly.

“Ours is a small family,” he continued. “But there were — and there undoubtedly still are — covens so large they could populate an entire town. Which they did. In those cases, the coven hierarchy was of paramount importance to keep the peace, and it functioned much like a court, hence the name.”

“As I have told you before,” Sherlock added, “the job of keeping a coven in check typically befalls two individuals. It is common for those individuals to be the eldest vampires in the family.”

“Or,” Charles continued, “as appears to be our case… a pair that connects on another level.”

“No,” Mike muttered in a broken voice. “No!”

All eyes turned to him, but it was you who asked. “What’s wrong, Mikey?”

“He doesn’t get to have you like that, I don’t want it,” he whispered, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

“There’s not much you can do, Mike,” Melot said. He reached for Mike’s arm, but it got slapped away by a very upset Mikey.

“Why do I never get her? I found her! Without me, you wouldn’t even know her! And I don’t even get to… Why am I nothing special to you?” Oh, good grief!

“Mike,” you hissed angrily, “not this again!”

“But—”

“Shut up!” you cried out, feeling the strange tinge to your words only after you’d spoken. “You do not get to stand there like a whiny little child and accuse me of lying!”

“I’m not accu—”

“What part of ‘Shut up!’ do you not understand?” You were fuming. Beyond angry. But before you could give Mike the tongue-lashing of the century, you had a chuckling August to deal with. You whipped your head around to look at him and stared him down. “Clearly you won’t act your age, so I’ll have to take a page from Sherlock’s playbook. August, go to your room, and stay there until I’m done here. Now.” He vanished immediately, accompanied by a frustrated groan, and you turned your attention back to Mike.

“When I found out you were all vampires, I pushed everything I’d ever been taught about your kind since I was a child aside in less than a day because I didn’t want to lose you. And when the others asked me to enter into this arrangement with you guys, I held it off because I didn’t want to hurt you. I asked Sherlock if I could give you boyfriend privileges to make this whole thing easier on you. When you ran away because you were shocked I kissed Sherlock, none of them would feed because they missed you, and I suffered because of you. And when August un-vampire-married me from you, I was scared to death because — again — I didn’t want to lose you.” It was a miracle you weren’t crying yet.

“And you have the fucking audacity to ask me why you’re nothing special to me? Are you fucking serious? I owe this all to you, Mike! You are the reason I have my family! You brought me home!” Your voice broke on that very last word, and your next words came out as no more than a whisper. “When I tell you I love you, I mean I love you exactly as much as everyone else. Not in the same way, no, but exactly as much. And every time you try to say that I don’t, or every time you act like you don’t believe that, you’re accusing me of lying. And I don’t appreciate it. So, there.”

He looked at you, but didn’t say anything for a while. “You’re right,” he finally mumbled. “I know you’re right, I just…”

“Shh,” you said as you gently trailed your fingers over his cheekbone. “It’s okay. You can’t help that you feel this way, I know that. But the way you communicate it needs work.”

He leaned into your touch and smiled. “Can I stay with you tonight, please?”

You glanced around at the others, until your eyes reached… August. “I thought I told you to stay away until—”

“You were done here, yes,” August snapped. “You’re done here. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be here, princess. I physically couldn’t leave that room.”

“Sweetcheeks please answer my question or I’m going to get really annoying,” Mike said, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

“You’re always really annoying, Mike,” August grumbled.

“Stop saying that! He’s not, and you know it! You love him too, August!” You reminded yourself that he’d just dodge whatever object you’d hurl at his head, and stood still. “It wouldn’t kill you to tell him that every once in a while!”

“It just might,” Melot chuckled. “We’ve never pushed it, we have no idea of knowing what would happen.”

“Well, I’m pushing it! You, August” — you poked his cheek — “are going to be nice to my Mikey, or it’s wrist and couch for the foreseeable future, because I can guarantee you I won’t be in the fucking mood!” Yeah. You just said that out loud. In front of everyone.

“Speaking of feeding,” Charles intervened before August could blow up at your threat — and maybe rightfully so; threatening to withhold sex was immature and manipulative, sure. But you didn’t want to sleep with a bully, and that was your right, right? “I’m not asking for your services, sweetheart, I’m merely suggesting we relocate to the kitchen, because the two of us are starving, what with Priya feeling under the weather and all.”

It stung, in a way, that Charles wasn’t asking for your services, despite having only just met him. Melot’s polite nod didn’t help much, because one look in his eyes revealed that he would be more than happy to request your assistance. It bothered you that he didn’t ask…

The kitchen was beautiful; bright, spacious, modern, opening into a large yet cozy dining room with the biggest table you’d ever laid eyes on, with more chairs than the family would ever need. One of them was occupied.

“You must be the new addition to the family,” he said as soon as you saw him, and he rushed towards you, faster than humanly possible, but slow enough for you to see him coming. “Napoleon Solo, enchanté.” You got a hug and a kiss on each cheek from him.

“I must say I’m almost disappointed I’m of a dissimilar predilection than my brother,” he said as he let go of you, only after inhaling deeply. “You smell divine.”

“Eh…” you stammered, feeling heat rise up to your cheeks in a staggering tempo.

“Tone it down, Napoleon,” Melot said. “And nice to have you here, we didn’t hear you come in. Please use the front door next time.”

“I’m sure you knew I was coming, darling,” the man teased. Everything about him was smooth to the point of being slick, and maybe even a little beyond that. “Though it’s incredible what you two little hermits fail to notice when you’re off in your own worlds.” He gestured at two large takeout bags on the kitchen island.

“How…” In a house full of vampires, Napoleon just managed to sneak in himself and a mountain of food, completely undetected?

“Incubus,” August said softly. “They — we, if you must — have a tendency to fly under the radar. No one sees an incubus unless they want to be seen.”

“Oh, God knows I have no problem being seen,” Napoleon said with a flirtatious smile. “Though I’m unusually dressed up for the occasion.”

“You mean you’re wearing pants for a change?” you said before you could stop yourself. What the hell were you doing? You didn’t even know this man! The laughter from the others around you, Napoleon included, told you that you were right, though.

“Please, join us!” Melot gestured at the dining room before reaching for the bags on the counter. “This should be enough food for everyone.”

While a seemingly endless stream of boxes and containers emerged from the bags, your curiosity got the better of you, and you asked a question you’d been carrying around for a good while now — ever since August had mentioned that there had been no need to call Charles and Melot about your visit.

“Oh, that,” Melot himself answered when you finally asked about all the ‘already knows’ that had been thrown around. “I am blessed with the excruciatingly splendid gift of clairvoyance.”

“As in; you can see the future?”

“See would not be a technically apt description, I suppose,” he answered in between greedy bites of the dumplings on his plate, “it’s more of a feeling. But in essence; yes. That’s why there’s a room ready for you. Feel free to do whatever you want with it.”

“Wait… I get my own room?” You’d more or less expected to be sharing with… any of the guys, really.

They all looked at you, clearly confused by your confusion. The silence was a little awkward — something that hadn’t happened in a while back at the apartment.

“As far as we’re concerned, darling,” Sherlock answered, “this is your home as much as it is ours.”

“And we understand the need for privacy and your own space as much as anyone else,” Charles added. “Perhaps even better than most. No matter how close your family is, it’s nice to be able to retreat to a space that is completely your own.”

“Use this summer to make it right for you,” August chimed in. “Melot wasn’t kidding when he said, ‘whatever you want’. Paint, furniture… Just let us know, okay?”

They had to be joking, right? Not that it looked like they were strapped for cash in any way, but… Panic suddenly reared its ugly head, and your thoughts were spiraling. Why did it suddenly feel like you were being abducted by five vampires and two incu— eh… Incubi? Incubuses? Either way… In a big, scary-looking house in the middle of nowhere? You didn’t even know exactly where you were… How would anyone ever find you here? And it’s not like you had family to go back to… You—

“It’s alright, love,” Marshall said, gently patting your arm. Mike, who was sitting to your right, took your hand. “It’s a lot to take in, I suppose?”

You could only answer with a nod.

“Okay, so, you’ll just stay with me tonight, and then we can take a look at the room tomorrow, and we’ll give you a tour of the house, if you want?” Mike squeezed your hand, making you look at him, his bright smile almost bringing you to tears.

“That sounds great, Mike… It’s kinda been a long day.” You sighed, squeezing Mike back before letting yourself fall against him and leaning your head on his shoulder.

“We can watch movies in bed?” he suggested. “I’ll scavenge for snacks!”

“Jelly Beans are in their usual place,” Melot noted dryly while August, clearly fighting to hold back a response, dropped his head into his hands with a loud groan. “Dip is in the fridge, tortilla chips are in the drawer opposite it.”

“How did you kn—” Right. Clairvoyance. Melot smiled back at you. He was handsome, he seemed kind, but he looked so… “How old are you?” you blurted out, much to everyone’s enjoyment.

“I’m sure they’ve mentioned I was born somewhere in the seventh century,” Melot answered, an amused smile faint on his lips. “So I assume you’re referring to my age when I was turned into a vampire?”

You nodded quietly, still scared that you had in any way offended him with your question, even though his behavior suggested nothing of the sort.

“I was just about nineteen when that happened,” he answered, his smile widening. “Don’t worry, I get that question a lot. I’m technically younger than Mike.” August couldn’t hold back a scoff on that one. “August, that’s not fair. I’ve had fourteen hundred years and change to grow up. And to say I grew up in a different time than he did would be quite the understatement.”

“Right. Seventh century…”

“I’m from Cornwall, born and raised in the Dark Ages,” he continued with a smile. “I’d been married for nearly six years when I died. Or… didn’t die. Ask me about all of it, later, I’ll gladly answer any of your questions. Right now, I’m fairly sure Mike needs you.”

Mike’s room was everything you expected it to be: Dark walls, LED-strips in rainbow colors, and more tech than was reasonable for anyone but a guy in his late teens or early twenties. The only thing missing was a TV, but upon closer inspection you formed the suspicion that the outrageously expensive-looking piece of furniture at the foot of the bed would play a major role in the solution to that problem. Seconds later, Mike reached for a remote on the bedside table and… yep. TV ascension commenced immediately.

“Hey,” he said almost apologetically when he saw your ‘this is fucking outrageous’-look. “I used to have one just standing there, but it broke!”

“And what were you doing that caused it to break?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t hard to guess, but it was always fun to watch him squirm and wriggle his way out of the predicaments he created for himself.

“Ehm, I’d rather not say,” he tried, but you were having none of it.

“Who were you fucking?” His eyes widened at the question, and his ears turned red the same way they always did when he was world-class embarrassed.

“Don’t get mad, but…” The perfect recipe to make someone mad in advance, honestly. “I don’t remember their names. It was years ago.”

“Their? Their? Names, plural?” you squealed, hoping the others wouldn’t hear too much of this conversation. Before you left the kitchen, August had been kind enough to let you in on the fact that this house was significantly more sound-proofed than the apartment — it wasn’t much of a surprise: the apartment was a rental, and the walls were barely thicker than a slice of prosciutto — but you weren’t entirely sure what that meant…

“I’m really not sure how you didn’t expect this at least a little,” Mike teased you as he dropped the snacks on his bedside table. “Oh no, the kinky little fucker I’m dating has experience with the odd threesome. Foursome… Actually, I’m pretty sure some of them qualified as orgies, or at least gangbangs, I—”

You lunged forward, pushing him down on the bed and sealing your mouth over his. “Shut up,” you said when you eventually had to come up for air. “I don’t need to know the names, or the stories! You’re mine. You’re my kinky little fucker, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a serious voice that he could hang on to for about a tenth of a second before breaking down laughing. “Come on, Sweetcheeks, let’s get snuggling!”

You ended up in a familiar position: snuggled into Mike’s side, in the middle of a comfortable pile of pillows and blankets that he had gathered in the blink of an eye. For the first time since you had arrived at the house — mansion, whatever — you felt at home, although your thoughts kept racing as you tried to process everything that had happened that day. But it was okay. You had your guys, no matter how confused you were on the subject of exactly how many of them there were at this point.

It wasn't too long before one of the ones you were sure were yours — Marshall, to be specific — knocked on the door of Mike's room.

“Everyone dressed?”

“Even if we weren't, you could still come in,” Mike answered.

The door opened slowly, and Marshall carefully stepped into the room, as if he was afraid to disrupt whatever you had going on in here. “Hey,” he said to you, “how are you doing? It's a lot, we know… Maybe we should have given you more of an introduction?”

“I'll be fine,” you assured him. “I just wasn't expecting this house, and then Priya, and the fact that I now have my own room here…” You weren't entirely sure why that got to you the way it did, but it was weird to you in a way. When you moved into the apartment, you'd had your own room —although it had taken some serious work to convince Jenelle and Rose that you weren't, like, moving in-moving in with Mike. Not in that way, anyway. It had been a matter of convenience; they’d had a spare room, and you'd needed one since your bitch of a landlady had decided to kick you to the curb. Back then, you had even insisted it was a temporary solution. It wasn't. Not anymore. And especially not now that you had been given a second room in another house. One you also didn't have to pay for…

“Please don't worry about the money,” Marshall whispered. He was next to you, his arms wrapped around you, and his head resting on your shoulder. “I'll just leave the two of you to it. Get some sleep. Oh, and… Sherlock wanted me to tell you to take any time you need to get used to this, and to get to know the others. No need to rush into anything.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, and then he was gone.

“I know you're already starting to feel it with Mel,” Mike said softly. You couldn't help but feel that he was judging you somehow. “I do get the feeling you're not entirely sure about Charles.”

“August would be ecstatic if that never happened, right?” you chuckled nervously.

“Oh, I don't doubt it. But everything will work itself out on that front in whatever way,” Mike replied. He pulled you closer, tracing soft circles on your back with one of his fingers. It tickled, made you shiver — which, in turn, made him laugh.

“Mike,” you started, somehow almost desperate to change the subject. “Why is your bed in the corner?” Back at the apartment, his bed was in the corner of his room as well, but that was to make room for his desk. This room was big enough to fit a desk on either side of the bed if he put it in the center of the wall.

“Eh…” Mike hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with whatever story was attached to the answer to your question. “Alright. I was homeless for a while, before Marshall turned me. It was right after things went south with Hedwig. I guess I just feel unprotected when I don't have a wall behind me. Or in front of me, that's okay too, weirdly enough.”

“That sounds fair,” you said. “It's not that I thought it was weird, by the way. I was just curious.”

“I know, Sweetcheeks,” he chuckled softly. “Can I tell you the rest of my story?”

You nodded furiously — you were in a curious kind of mood, after all, even after all the information that had already come your way. You just didn't seem to be able to stop yourself.

“I'll spare you the tale of Hedwig and the Downward Spiral, if that's okay with you? It's mostly drugs and partying, anyway… There was this one night that's kind of important, I suppose.” He sighed. “It was May 24th, 1985, I don't know why I remember that, but I do. Things were bad, really bad. You can't imagine how bad, honestly… That particular day, I OD'd on heroin. And before you ask: It wasn't an accident.”

It was like the ground — the bed, everything… — had been taken out from under you and you were freefalling into darkness. “No my God, Mikey!” Turns out that, entirely conform your every expectation, fighting back tears was pointless when the love of your life — one of them, anyway — told you that he'd tried to take his own life at some point.

“It's okay, Sweetcheeks,” Mike said as he put a hand against your cheek, wiping a tear away with his thumb. “In the end, it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Until you showed up, anyway.”

“That's really sweet,” you said, not wanting to ignore that comment, but there were more pressing matters, as far as you were concerned. “But what happened next?”

“Marshall found me,” he said with a smile. “I'm still not entirely sure how I'm still alive… I don't think he knows, either. I remember waking up in his bed. He told me he took me home because he didn't want me to die there. He never really expected that I would survive.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered after you finally sucked in a breath. It was Mike's turn to cry now, and you gently kissed away a tear that ran down his cheek.

“After I woke up, I begged him to kill me. I just couldn’t do it anymore… Obviously he didn’t. Instead, he offered me a way out — a real one. A permanent one. Said he couldn't bear to lose me.” When he inhaled, you noticed how shaky his breath was. It wasn't something you'd heard in his voice yet. “He promised me forever without drugs, and I knew he meant ‘forever’ literally.”

“So, that's when he turned you?” you asked breathlessly.

Mike nodded almost solemnly. “Yep. When we got started, anyway. He helped me stay clean during the process, too.”

“Process?” It only just occurred to you that you'd never bothered to ask how ‘turning into a vampire' actually happened.

“Okay to make this totally weird for a second, because I need that after this complete sob fest of a story,” he said, smiling as he wiped the tears out of his eyes. “You have no idea how accurate your description of garlic as a ‘vampire contraceptive' was. You have to kind of… try. Like you would be trying to conceive, except the end result here was not a baby, but me as a vampire. I'd personally say that's preferable to having a baby, but I'm not sure all the others would agree with me.”

“I’m fairly sure August would propose there's absolutely no difference between the two,” you laughed. “But at least there's no pain involved, right?” Right?

Much to your dismay, Mike laughed. “Ask Marshall about the first time I took a bite out of him. That'll answer your question.” He ran a hand through his hair. “As for the transformation… I can't say it's pleasant, but it sure as hell felt a whole lot better than the aftermath of an overdose of heroin.”

“What does it feel like? Turning into a vampire, I mean. Not overdosing on heroin, I don't think I really want to know.”

“Understandable, it’s pretty brutal — the, eh, the overdosing. But I love your curiosity regarding the other thing.” He winked at you, a cheeky smile on his lips. “I can't explain to you what happens, exactly — but we have a professor who definitely can, so ask him if you want to know — but it kinda feels like… I don't know, it's uncomfortable. The first part feels like the flu, but I got it especially bad because I was also going through withdrawal. That's usually the stage in which people end up at the clinic with Sherlock. The process can be reversed at that point.”

He paused for a moment, screwing his eyes shut, as if he was trying to remember. “After that, I remember the fangs. Wildly uncomfortable sensation, by the way—”

“Your teeth changing? I can imagine…” you interrupted, shivering at the thought. Little did you know…

“Hah! You wish! They're brand new, baby! Which means your old canines are super-duper totally in the way. Remember the last time you lost one of your baby teeth?” You shook your head. That was ages ago. “Right, I didn't remember it either, until it started happening again. And then I also remembered that for those baby teeth it had sucked about ten million percent less. And the amount of fucking time it takes to gain any control over them…”

“How long before you have like… fully functional fangs?”

“Happens over the course of, like, a week, maybe two? Apparently you can feel them forming in your skull, when you're not preoccupied with withdrawal symptoms. Ask Marshall or Sherlock about that. Or Melot, if you dare. I know he had his pulled and/or filed down on several occasions.”

“Sherlock mentioned they grow back,” you remembered.

“They'd fucking better, or you'd starve to death if you lost them,” Mike reminded you. “You need the venom. Can't just suck blood through a straw and hope for the best. Like, with the supplemental approach thing Marshall talked about a while ago, they supplied bags of donated blood, and we had to bite those. It was messy and… Alright, doesn't matter.”

You noticed not only that Mike's storytelling became more and more animated and enthusiastic as he explained more about the process, but also that he'd switched to saying ‘you' — as if he was speaking directly to you. Maybe he was. Maybe you wanted him to.

“So, after they've wormed their way out, your whole face is sore — and then you're left with two completely unmanageable, uncontrollable murder weapons in your mouth… I ate ice cream and apple sauce for at least a month after they first came in: I bit my tongue several times a day, and my lip, too…” He chuckled. “And here's the smart part: The gory cravings kinda stay away until you're mostly done. As if your brain waits for all the equipment to be installed before it flips that switch.”

“And then you ambushed Marshall in a dark alley?” you joked.

Mike shook his head. “Can't ambush him, he can read my mind. Which I didn't know about at that point, by the way. He let me suffer for a week before I finally dared to admit to him that the human food wasn't cutting it anymore.”

“And then you mauled him?”

“Something like that. He told me to give in to my instincts. Apparently, they're usually correct — and they were for me as well, but… In my defense, the instructions were not exactly idiot-proof. When he told me to give in to those instincts, he didn't mean ‘unleash the kraken', but more like… ‘follow the teeth'. That sounds crazy, but I promise… You'll see.” There it was again. You. As in you-you. And you-you wasn't ready to make any promises just yet.

#mike hellraiser fic #mike hellraiser #mike (hellraiser)#hellraiser mike #mike hellraiser fanfiction #henrycavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill #henry cavill characters #walter marshall #hc sherlock #henry cavill sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes #august walker #august walker fanfiction #natural fic #naturalfic

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all-or-nothing-baby · 1 year

Text

LAVENDER MILK AND BLACKBERRY WINE

The first time they share a room together at an inn, Jaskier is, unsurprisingly, completely at ease with—well. With everything.

The bard is so comfortable in these surroundings, obviously much more at home with soft bed linens and oil lamps than a patch of damp grass and only the light of a yellow-y moon. Jask is seemingly still so at ease with Geralt, too, even in such close quarters. He's apparently also completely unbothered by his own stark nakedness as he now shamelessly strips down entirely, readying himself for a warm and replenishing lavender milk bath and a cup or ten of blackberry wine.

The witcher watches the bard, whilst trying not to.

Geralt's cat-eyes very much struggle to stop following pale and slender limbs as they swirl around like dragonflies in the fragrant steam that now sits heavy and hot in the midst of their small room. Jaskier prances and preens and eventually melts like jam in porridge into the bath's soothing waters. The eternal bard then, of course, proceeds to prattle on and away about something and nothing and everything, occasionally breaking out into broken verses of half‐baked songs.

Geralt—sat sharpening his blades— sometimes grunting in occasional outward acknowledgement, sometimes not, keeps trying his damned best not to look.

He fails.

Jaskier sips long and often from his cup, the wine leaving his full mouth lacquered. Plum‐stained. Inviting.

Geralt watches still, swallowing whole cupfuls at a time of the sweetened fruit wine, thickly and far too fast.

The bard is then nonchalantly asking Geralt if Geralt would like to maybe join him in the tub?

Geralt pulls a face with fake disdain, huffing and puffing his cowedly decline.

Very obviously trying not to smile, Jaskier purses those berry‐smacked lips of his and merely blinks at Geralt for a few moments, just. Looking. Or looking back, seeing as Geralt—even red-faced and fuming as he is—simply cannot look away.

Jask allows himself a small, secretive smile, like he knows something Geralt wants to, then shrugs it off and says, not unkindly, "Suit yourself."

Geralt immediately hurls himself out of the room with the force of an enraged Archgriffin, the excuse of purchasing more wine a most welcome gods-send.

"Hurry back, dear witcher!" Jaskier's torment floats after him.

On his way down the staircase to the main part of the inn, Geralt bites into his bottom lip so fucking hard he's tasting iron for the rest of the hellish evening.

#s l o w l y moving stuff over from my old blog #here's another ficlet #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #witcher fic #geraskier fic #geraskier ficlet #white wolves and blushing bards #the witcher #aonb writes #all-or-nothing-baby

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poledancingdinos · 1 year

Text

Lightweight

Pairing: Young!Syverson X OFC (Maddie)

Word Count: 2K

Warnings: Angst, Alcohol, Hurt/Comfort

Taglist: @amberangel112 @utterlyhopeful-fics @marantha @kebabgirl67 @littleone65 @omgkatinka @luclittlepond @elizabetharegina @enchantedbytomandhenry @narnianaos @geralts-yenn @peaches1958 @avengersfan25

A/N: Working my way through my abandoned WIPs. This one was originally a milestone celebration challenge based off the prompt "Should you be drinking that much?"

Masterlist

Sy’s friends had insisted that on his last Friday night of freedom, a bonfire party was compulsory. He could think of a few other things he’d prefer to be doing like having dinner with his mama or spending the night with a certain little lady, but at least the thrum of the party crowd would keep his mind occupied.

Maddie was the only person missing and Sy knew as soon as he heard the car door that she’d finally arrived. He approached from behind as his oldest friend poured copious amounts of liquor into a red plastic cup.

“Woah there, lightweight, you might wanna pace yourself,” Sy teased, throwing an arm around her shoulders. He’d intended to pull her into a hug but Maddie instantly jerked away from his touch, slamming the forty ounce down on the table and turning to face him. “I can drink whatever the hell I want, Sy!”

He was fixed in place, mouth agape, as he watched her storm off to the porch. Her best friend, Ashley, walked into the kitchen just as Madison left, pulling a beer from the fridge.

“What the devil’s gotten into her tonight?” Sy asked, frowning in the direction Madison had run off. She was normally so quiet and reserved — he could count on one hand the number of times she’d raised her voice at him and it had never been undeserved.

“You mean she didn’t tell you either? I thought for sure you’d have been the first one she confided in. I had to drag it out of her in the car.”

Sy finally broke his gaze away from the yard, looking over his shoulder at Ashley. “What are you talkin’ about?”

Her beer hissed as she twisted the top off the bottle and wordlessly offered one to Sy. “You know that position she interviewed for at her work? The promotion?”

Sy nodded, accepting the bottle. “Yeah, I remember her sayin’ it was a good raise, better benefits…”

Ashley leaned her forearms on the counter, picking at the corner of the paper label with her nail.

“Well, she got passed up for it. They gave it to some other guy and the explanation was that she was ‘overqualified for that specific position’.”

“What kind of bullshit is that? If she’s overqualified for a promotion, isn’t she then also over qualified for her current job?” Sy demonstrated his annoyance by downing half of the cold liquid in one go.

“I agree, it’s bullshit. For now, she’s stuck as an entry-level associate with no insurance, shit pay and working twice as much as the people above her in the food chain. I keep telling her to quit but she’s convinced nobody would want to hire her.”

Sy was silently fuming, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t she tell me any of this?”

He was angry at her dumbass boss for not realizing how amazing she was, but he was also hurt that she hadn’t told him herself. Didn’t she know that she meant everything to him? Did she think he wouldn’t care?

Normally when he was home on leave they spent every spare second together. This last week she’d been uncharacteristically withdrawn and now he knew why.

“I don’t know, Sy. You’d have to ask her that.” She gave him a sympathetic smile, stepping away to join the rest of the guests.

Sy looked out of the little window over the sink, eyes trailing over the yard until he found the girl he was seeking sitting in a chair on the far side of the yard. It was already getting late, the warm mid-summer sun having fully set. One of the guys was adding another log to the glowing embers in the fire pit.

He fought with himself, debating whether he should go talk to her, but the opportunity was lost when the rest of the girls gathered around the fire and took up the remaining camping chairs. He watched from afar, seeing her take a sip from her overfull cup every other sentence. In only a few minutes, the cup was set upside down on the ground and one of Sy’s friends shoved a shot glass full of tequila into her hand.

Sy’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his name being called. Realizing that he couldn’t spend his going away party hiding in the kitchen, he downed the remaining beer, setting the empty by the sink and trading the quiet of the kitchen for the medley of excited voices of the yard.

About an hour later, more camping chairs were added around the fire and the boys settled between the ladies. Of course, yet another round of shots was passed around and Maddie threw back not only hers but the one meant for the girl beside her as well.

Sy knew it wasn’t his place to say anything, that she was her own person and fully capable of making her own decision, but the look on her face compelled him to speak up. She was normally a happy drunk. Give that girl a few glasses of sweet wine and she turned into this cute, giggly ball of sunshine but instead she was hunched down in her chair, not really paying attention to the others around them except when they waved alcohol in her face.

When she stood on shaky legs to head back into the kitchen, Sy followed.

“Should you be drinking that much?” he asked, startling her so badly she dropped the liquor bottle which landed on the counter with a loud bang. Thankfully, it was still screwed shut and didn’t shatter on impact.

“I— I can do wh’tever the hell I want.”

“That’s true,” he conceded, moving closer. “But just ‘cause ya can, don’t mean you gotta make yourself sick.”

“Fuck off, you’re just ‘nother guy trying to tell me what I can or can’t do. Only time guys ever talk t’me these days is to bark orders.”

Sy had never seen her act in that way before and, frankly, he didn’t know what to make of it. He had a hard time believing it was only her job making her so upset. Or maybe she had more to drink than usual and this was just what excessive alcohol did to her.

Whatever the reason, he hated seeing her so upset. “I’m not barkin’ orders, Squirt, I’m looking out for your safety.”

He’d meant his tone to be soothing but it had the opposite effect.

“Don’t call me that!” Maddie snapped. She secretly hated when he called her “squirt”, it was a constant reminder that she was nothing more than an annoying little sister to him.

“Been callin’ ya Squirt for damn near fifteen years, that ain’t gonna change now.”

She scoffed, attempting to march away but only making it two feet before stumbling and nearly falling flat on her face. Sy caught her just in time but she was less than grateful.

“I don’t need you… I don’t need your help.”

He sighed, getting frustrated with the bratty behavior.

“Look, I heard about the job and I’m real sorry about that but you’re actin’ like it’s me you’re angry with, and for the life of me, I don’t know why.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter does it?” She hiccuped. “‘Cause you’ll be gone and I’ll be here and I’ll be stuck with just myself! I don’t even like my job, I just wanted to have something, fucking anything, in my life to keep my mind off the fact that I’m stuck here worrying that the guy I love, who doesn’t even love me back, might never come home and that then I really will be all alone!”

The young woman sobbed in his arms, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breath after her furious ranting. Sy went over her words in his head, his mind playing catch up.

“What was that about a guy?”

Maddie’s eyes went wide but she didn’t answer, instead planting her palms against Sy’s chest and slipping out of his arms. She made a beeline for the front door and Sy chased after her, hoping like hell she wasn’t thinking about getting in her car and driving off.

“No, we’re not goin’ that way,” he said as he wrapped an arm around Maddie’s waist. “Come on, let’s get you to a bed.”

Had it been anyone else, those words would have sent a terrified shiver down her spine but this was Sy.

Sy who’d been her friend since they were kids.

Sy who knew her better than she knew herself.

Sy who gave all her boyfriends the “if you hurt her, I’ll beat your ass” speech.

Sy whose embrace made Maddie feel like she meant something yet always looked as disinterested as if he’d hugged his sister once he let go.

“Fine,” she eventually agreed.

Maddie allowed Sy to lead her up the steps and into the house’s only guest bedroom. He always stayed with a friend when he was on leave since his mama had moved out of state.

But if she slept in Sy’s bed, where was he going to sleep?

“Right here to make sure you don’t suffocate in your sleep.”

It seemed she’d asked that last question out loud.

Maddie dropped onto the mattress, immediately regretting it when her head spun from the bounce. She turned her back to Sy, intent on ignoring his presence but then the bed dipped and Sy pulled her into his chest.

They hadn’t shared a bed since they were children and his mother had to work the graveyard shift. Though she had fallen asleep with her head on his lap a time or two and they had always greeted each other with hugs, cuddling was not something they had ever done before.

“That guy you said you love,” Sy whispered, pressing a cheek to the top of her head, “why do you think he doesn’t love you back?”

“Because he doesn’t. He never has. If he did, he’d have asked me out by now.”

Sy tightened his embrace, stroking a soothing hand up and down Maddie’s arm. “See darlin’, I think he loves you just as much as you love him. I think he didn’t want to tell you because he thought it would hurt too much to leave you behind.”

“So I was right. I am alone.”

“No,” he said. “You’re never alone, Maddie. He loves you. He’s loved you for years. Even when he’s away, all he can think about is you.”

Sy prayed that her alcohol addled brain could understand what he was trying to say. He’d already spent that long chickening out every time he got the chance to confess his feelings, he wasn’t sure he would be able to do it all over again.

“Then why does he keep leaving?”

“‘Cause lovin’ ya also means he wants to keep you safe.” Sy gently tipped Maddie’s head up catching her gaze. “This is just somethin’ I gotta do right now, Sweetheart. I wish I didn’t have to leave you but I do have to go.”

Finally getting a good look at her, Sy realized she had dark circles under her eyes, suggesting she hadn’t gotten much sleep in the last few days. He hoped that his impending deployment wasn’t the cause but based on what she had just said, it might very well have been. Her eyelids kept falling shut but she seemed to be fighting hard to stay awake and finish the conversation.

“Get some sleep, Sweetheart. We can finish this in the morning. I’ll be right here all night, okay?”

“I’m scared for you, Sy,” she mumbled, nuzzling into his chest and clinging to his shirt.

He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I know, I’m scared too.”

How could he not be scared? It was his first deployment, he had no idea what to expect. He looked down at the woman now sleeping softly on his chest. At least now he had something to look forward to once he returned home.

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