MCD Laurance x Fem!reader
TW for this chapter!!!!! Violence and death!!!
Snow starts to slowly fall from the sky.
Lightly dusting your cheeks and nose.
Cooling down the fire inside of you.
You close your eyes and embrace it.
Rather be cold than warm, you tell yourself.
Rather shiver than sweat.
Your somewhat serene moment is interrupted by the sound of footsteps, crunching through the snow.
You open your eyes, gaze falling on a figure slowly limping through the powder towards you.
Aphmau. Draped in a thick furry cloak
You rush to her, grabbing her arm to help steady her.
"Aphmau, what are you doing?" you ask, concerned and annoyed.
She doesn't respond until you both make it back to your original spot against the tree.
"Do you always run away when you're mad?" She asks, leaning against the tree for support.
"What?" You ask, you can feel your walls rising and defenses being put up.
She looks at you, amber eyes giving you an almost motherly look.
"Laurance said you did this on the ship."
You look away, the flakes sticking to your lashes now.
Of course, he told her. Of course, he made you sound like a petulant child.
You exhale sharply, watching the breath cloud in front of you.
“I wasn’t mad on the ship,” you say. “Not like this.”
Aphmau hums softly. “No?”
You shake your head. “That was annoyance. This is…”
Your voice trails off. You don’t have the right word for it.
“Laurance doesn’t mean to push,” Aphmau says after a moment. “He’s just… a little rough around the edges.”
You scoff. “I’ve met sharper edges.”
She smiles at that, and the silence stretches not awkward, not tense. Just full of the things left unsaid.
Then, softly:
“You’ve been through more than anyone should have to,” she says. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”
You freeze. Not because of the cold.
“No,” she agrees. “But I’d like to.”
You hate how much that simple sentence chips at your defenses.
Your jaw tightens, but your voice softens.
“…I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
Aphmau gives a small shrug. “Sometimes you have to scream to be heard.”
You look at her, really look at her. And for once, it doesn’t feel like an interrogation. It feels like someone is trying to understand.
You sigh again, letting your shoulder drop as you lean back against the tree.
Maybe this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe.
You feel so lost, but you would never vocalize that. You just wanna feel like yourself again.
"I think Laurance likes you. He relates to you. Even if he won't admit it." She says, wrapping the thick cloak around her more. "He just doesn't know how to approach it."
You rub the back of your neck, the cold sinking through your fingertips.
“That’s his problem,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the snow-covered ground. “Not mine.”
Aphmau doesn’t argue. She just lets the silence stretch again, respectful in a way that makes you uncomfortable, like she’s giving you space you didn’t ask for but might actually need.
You shift your weight against the tree.
“I’m not used to people giving a damn,” you finally say. “It’s easier when they don’t.”
“I get that,” she replies softly. “But sometimes the hard way is the one worth walking.”
You roll your eyes, but the heat behind it’s gone.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say, voice almost too quiet to carry.
Aphmau nods like she hears it anyway.
Then she glances back toward the village. “Come on. It’s freezing. If you stay out here too long, Rudi’ll probably try to wrestle a bear for firewood just to impress you.”
You huff a small laugh despite yourself. “He’s not my problem either.”
“Sure, sure,” she grins, nudging you gently with her elbow. “That’s why you’re blushing.”
“I’m cold,” you shoot back, but the corners of your mouth twitch.
You let her lead the way back through the snow. You do have to help her walk a little.
But maybe, just maybe, you're not alone in it anymore.
Your peace won't last for long.
As you both get closer to the long house, there's a commotion.
Raised voices, a tense feeling is shifting through the air.
Both you and Aphmau look at each other, picking up the pace towards the house.
You don't know why you're able to feel the anger in the air, but it isn't a pleasant feeling.
Opening the door of the long house, you see Laurance and Rudi.
They're standing a few feet apart, but the space between them feels tight, like it's holding something back, barely.
Laurance’s fists are clenched at his sides, his jaw sharp with tension. Rudi, for once, doesn’t wear his easygoing smile. His brow is creased, shoulders squared, but his tone is level.
“I don’t think you have any right to tell me who I can and can’t talk to,” Rudi says, voice low but cutting. There’s something behind his words, not anger exactly, but weight. Pressure. A warning.
Laurance doesn’t flinch. “I do when you’re clearly fishing for something.”
“Maybe I just don’t like seeing her being handled like some broken thing.”
The words hit the room like a crack of thunder.
They both freeze when they notice you in the doorway.
Aphmau’s presence beside you suddenly feels distant. Your eyes flick between them, and both men, grown, look caught. Guilty, even.
Laurance’s hands unclench. “That’s not what this is,” he says, but his voice lacks the heat from before. He won’t look at you.
You want to be anywhere other than here.
You want to run back outside again.
You help Aphmau walk back over to her cot.
You can feel the pressure of eyes on you, and you want to curl up and disappear.
You don’t say anything. Just sit down beside Aphmau, gently adjusting the blanket over her shoulders.
She whispers a quiet thank you, but it barely registers.
Because you can still feel the tension crackling in the space behind you. The pressure of unspoken things. The weight of being watched.
Your skin itches under the weight of their stares.
You clench your jaw, refusing to look up. Refusing to give them anything more.
You are not a thing to be handled.
And you sure as hell aren’t going to be the reason they tear each other apart.
Laurance clears his throat like he might say something, but the words don’t come.
Not a word. Not a look back. Just out the door and into the snow.
The slam echoes louder than it should.
Laurance walks down the hall to the washroom. The tension is lessened.
Aaron walks up to you and Aphmau.
"What the hell was that about?" you ask him.
Aaron crosses his arms, attention flicking between the door Rudi disappeared through and the hallway Laurance had stomped down.
"I'm not totally sure. Once Aphmau left, Rudi approached Laurance... then things got heated."
You glance up at him. "Heated how?"
Aaron exhales through his nose, voice low. "Laurance accused him of manipulating you. Said there’s something off about him about how fast he inserted himself into all this."
You look back down at your hands, the knuckles white from how tightly you're wringing them.
“Is he wrong?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “About Rudi?”
Aaron’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in his posture tightens. "I don’t know. Rudi’s been helpful, sure. But I’ve seen guys like him before. Polite, charming… knows how to say the right thing. Knows when to show up.”
You nod slowly. That nagging gut feeling, maybe it wasn’t just paranoia after all.
Aaron kneels beside Aphmau, checking her temperature and pulling the blanket higher over her. “Whatever this is,” he adds, “you need to be careful. Around both of them.”
Because you already know that.
You feel like there is an expectation for you to say something. Both Aphamu's and Aaron's eyes are on you.
The fire pops, pulling all of you from whatever that was.
"We need more firewood," Aaron says under his breath, throwing more logs in the fire.
"I'll get it!" you jump up. Unsure looks between them both.
"Hey, I'm the only one in proper clothes for this weather." You say, gesturing at Aphmau's distressed dress and Aarons bare chest.
"Don't be gone too long," Aphmau says before the masked man can protest.
You slip out into the snowy landscape once more. The wind has picked up, sending snowflakes into your vision.
Very few villagers are outside, keeping warm inside their homes.
An old man passes you, carrying baskets of fishing supplies, a bundle of rope dropping from his full arms goes unnoticed by him.
"Excuse me, sir," you say, grabbing the rope off the ground. "You dropped something."
The old man turns around, arms still full. His face is wrinkled, and his cheeks red and burned by salt.
He looks at you, then to the rope in your hands, and he smiles.
"Thank you, Missy. Not as sharp as I used to be."
You return the smile politely, handing him the rope. “No problem.”
He nods, then shuffles off down the path toward the docks.
You watch him go for a moment, then glance down at your boots, half-buried in snow. Right. The firewood.
"Oh, wait a second!" you call after him. He pauses again, giving you an expectant look.
"Where do you guys keep your firewood? I haven't been able to find a woodshed."
He points to a building, just like the others, but larger. Logs are packed tightly along one side beneath a snow-covered roof, and wide barn doors mark the front.
"We keep the firewood in there during the winter," he says matter-of-factly. "Too much snow out here otherwise."
Giving him a polite nod, you begin the trek through the snow toward the barn.
There’s a worn depression in the snow where people have walked in and out, though it’s already being swallowed up by the thickening snowfall.
You brace yourself and push against the barn door; it takes some strength, but you manage to get it open.
Inside, the space is wide and quiet. Bags of salt are stacked along the walls, and old bales of hay sit forgotten near the entrance. A ladder leads up into a dark loft above, the wood creaking softly in the cold.
There, in the furthest corner from the door, were piles and piles of firewood.
The wind makes a strange sound as it passes through the barn, almost like a low whistle. It rattles the boards in short, groaning bursts.
A strange weight settles in your stomach.
Just get the wood, you tell yourself, shaking it off.
You make your way to the pile. They're not bundled, much to your disappointment. With a huff, you start gathering what you can—one arm bracing the load while the other stacks more on top.
The wood scrapes together with a dry rasp.
You’re focused, so focused you don’t hear the footsteps.
Only the shift in air. The soft crunch behind you.
You turn sharply, nearly dropping the stack.
Leaning casually against the support beam just behind you, arms crossed, one brow raised like he’s been watching you for longer than he should have.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says with a grin that doesn’t quite match the cold in the barn. “Didn’t expect to find anyone out here. Thought I’d come grab a few logs myself.”
You don't respond right away.
You’re too busy trying to slow your heartbeat, to steady the weight of the wood in your arms.
He steps closer, just enough for his boots to crunch into your space.
“Didn’t think you’d volunteer for chores,” he says, voice smooth. Still easy. Still too calm.
You glance back down at the logs, adjusting your grip. “Figured I should be useful.”
A pause. He hums low in his throat.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says. “This place is quiet. Easy to get lost. Easy to disappear.”
He grins again, softer this time. “That’s just the fisherman in me talking. Seen more than a few wanderers end up frozen stiff when they got turned around.”
Your grip tightens on the wood.
“I won’t be long,” you say, trying to sound firm.
His eyes flick to the stack in your arms. “You sure you don’t want help carrying that back?”
He tilts his head, something unreadable behind his smile. “Suit yourself.”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn to leave.
Just stands there. Watching you.
The wind howls through a gap in the rafters, and somewhere overhead, something shifts in the loft with a hollow thunk.
You exhale slowly, not breaking eye contact.
You step past him, heading toward the barn doors, the firewood heavy in your arms.
“I did have a question,” Rudi says louder than necessary, his voice cutting through the still air like a bell toll. It echoes off the wooden beams, sharp and deliberate.
You don’t turn around. Don’t breathe. The cold no longer feels like it’s coming from outside.
A strange drumming fills your ears, your pulse matching it beat for beat. It climbs up your spine like a slow, creeping burn.
Your grip tightens around the firewood, knuckles white.
Then, with a voice far too casual:
“Why haven’t you killed them?”
Your stomach drops, fast, sickening, like falling through ice.
The firewood crashes to the floor before you even register letting go. You run.
The world tilts around you. Your legs feel heavy, sluggish, like they’re moving through water. The barn stretches longer than it should.
You're almost to the door when an arm snakes around your waist, iron-tight, and yanks you back.
Your body slams into the frozen ground. The impact knocks the air from your lungs.
For a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the distant howl of wind through the barn slats.
The ground shudders with a deep thunk as Rudi drops the heavy wooden plank into place, sealing the barn doors.
Cold air seems to vanish, replaced by the stale breath of the enclosed space.
You cough, forcing yourself onto your hands and knees, splinters biting into your palms.
“Sasha thought you might be able to help us,” his tone is a mocking drawl, almost bored, “after... Vlayd decided to throw a wrench in our plans.”
When you finally meet his gaze, the hazy grey of his eyes is gone.
In its place burns a deep, unnatural crimson.
He steps forward, the creak of the floorboards under his boots far too loud in the stillness.
You force yourself upright, your legs shaky, but it feels like he’s grown taller in the span of a heartbeat, his shadow stretching, swallowing more of the dim light.
Your fingers twitch, instinct driving them toward a fight. Weapon. You need a weapon.
Your gaze flicks across the barn hay bales, salt bags, and the ladder to the loft, desperate for an opening. But his eyes follow the movement, tracking you like he already knows what you’re thinking.
“Don’t do anything stupid.” The air thickens, pressing in on your lungs. “You won’t make it out of here alive… and I’d rather not leave you so mangled they can’t recognize the body.”
His smile is small, almost wistful, but it doesn’t soften the words; it makes them worse.
And then, with a shimmer of red light, a blade seems to bloom in his hand. Massive, jagged, the color of fresh blood, something torn straight from the heart of a nightmare.
That’s when you run. You turn and bolt. There’s nowhere to go, you know that. He knows that. But if you were going to die, you’d die moving, you’d die fighting.
The impact comes fast and blinding. He slams you into the ground again, the breath ripping out of your lungs in a broken, soundless cry.
Cold boards press into your spine. He crouches over you, boots planted on either side, caging you in. The tip of his sword hovers inches from your throat, close enough for you to feel its unnatural heat. The shape… it’s almost familiar, like you’ve seen it before in half-remembered nightmares.
“It’s a shame,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, as though this moment is only for the two of you. “You really are beautiful. But you don’t have what it takes.” His eyes narrow, crimson deepening. “Sasha saw something in you, though. Whatever it was… she said you were like a fox; quick and cunning. I couldn't agree more.” He licks his lips, a smile unnatural spreading across his face. "But I'm a wolf, and do you know what wolves do to foxes?"
You don’t let him finish. Your fingers close around one of the logs you’d dropped, the bark rough against your palm. With every shred of strength you have left, you swing.
The crack of impact rings in your ears. His head snaps to the side, a snarl curling from his lips. His sword moved away from your throat; that's all you need.
You drive your boot up hard, catching him square in the groin. His breath bursts out in a sharp grunt, and he finally tips to the side.
You’re already moving. Scrambling to your feet, you vault over a pile of hay bales, boots slipping on the packed straw.
You make it to the barn doors, you're fast, but not fast enough.
Behind you, his boots hit the ground like hammers. You don’t have to look to know he’s already up, faster than he should be, heavier than you can outrun in a straight line.
A shadow swallows the light in front of you. He’s there, stepping into your path, one hand tightening around the hilt of that monstrous blade.
“Not bad, fox,” he growls, chest heaving. “Now try it again.”
You step back, and your shoulders collide with the unforgiving hardwood of the barn doors. The impact rattles you. There’s no more room to retreat. The cold air in here feels warped, thick, every breath clawing at your lungs like smoke.
“Why did she choose me?” you ask, the words tumbling out in a rush. Your voice sounds small even to your own ears, but you need him to keep talking. Just for a second. Just enough to think.
He tilts his head, smiling wide. Too wide. It’s all teeth, no warmth, the kind of smile that says he’s enjoying this.
“Not every day you find a mercenary who was on the list for the Jury of Nine.”
The way he says it, like a sentence, not an honor, it twists in your gut. His crimson eyes flicker down the length of you, calculating. Measuring.
He raises his sword. No more time to think.
You drop low, the movement instinct more than thought, and the air hisses over your head as the blade comes down.
The crack of splintering wood explodes behind you, sharp shards raining down over your shoulders. The force of the blow rattles the doors in their frame.
You don’t wait to see if he’s pulling it free; you’re already moving. Skirting to his left, weaving between hay bales, you keep your eyes on the glint of red steel as he wrenches the blade loose.
He follows without hurry, every step deliberate. “You can run, little fox,” he calls, voice dark with amusement, “but you’re still in the trap.”
You dart behind a stack of feed sacks, crouching low. His boots scrape on the barn floorboards, the sound circling you like a hunting animal. You hold your breath, willing your heartbeat to quiet.
He feints left, then appears on your right, swinging. You twist away, barely avoiding the arc, and slam the edge of your boot into his knee. He grunts but doesn’t stop, crowding you back toward the doors again.
It’s distant, muffled, but unmistakable. Someone’s outside.
You freeze for half a heartbeat just long enough.
Pain blooms white-hot in your thigh as the flat of his blade smashes into it, stealing the strength from your leg. You hit the floor hard, a ragged scream tearing from your throat.
The sound coming from outside becomes frantic, the door shakes violently but doesn't budge.
He presses forward relentlessly, the scent of danger thick in the air. You roll away from the initial blow, scrambling to your feet despite the sharp pain blossoming in your leg. Your breath comes fast, each inhale stinging with cold and fear.
You twist, aiming a desperate kick at his midsection, but he catches it, his grip like iron, and with a savage jerk, he slams his knee hard into the side of your torso. The spot where he had stitched you up before. Fire erupts inside you, breath catching in your throat.
Gritting your teeth, you stumble back, clutching your side, every movement sending fresh pain flaring through your ribs.
Before you can recover, he lunges again, this time drawing a wicked dagger from Irene knows where. His eyes flash with cruel intent.
You barely dodge the first slash, but the second finds flesh, a dagger straight into your thigh. You falter, the ground rushing up to meet you.
Your scream echoes off the barn walls, raw and unfiltered.
Rudi looms over you, sword poised. “You fight well,” he hisses, “but even the fiercest fox tires.”
You sit up using the hay bales as a backing.
You rip the dagger from your thigh. Blood pooling on your leggings.
Pain radiates through you, but adrenaline sharpens your focus. Ignoring the fire burning in your thigh, you shove yourself upright against the rough hay bales. Your fingers curl tightly around the hilt of the dagger you just tore free.
Rudi’s eyes widen just a fraction. Surprise? Amusement? As you lunge low, aiming for his legs. The blade slices through the air, catching him off guard.
He stumbles backward, stumbling over a stray bale of hay, a flash of pain crossing his face as your blade finds its mark.
Slashing a clean line through his shoulder.
But he recovers quickly, a predator snarling.
“This isn’t over,” he growls, wiping blood falling from his head, eyes darkening with renewed fury.
You tighten your grip on the dagger, raising it once more to deliver another blow, but his boot collides sharply with your middle.
Stumbling back, you cough into your hand, blood leaving its mark on your palm.
Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to stay on your feet. Every muscle screams in protest, but surrender isn’t an option.
Rudi advances, each step heavy and deliberate, his crimson sword raised high. The flickering barn light glints off the blood dripping from his shoulder.
You spin away just in time, feeling the rush of cold air as the blade narrowly misses your side, the same side he stitched up, the wound still tender beneath the fabric.
Pain blossoms, hot and sharp, but you grit your teeth, digging deep.
Dagger poised, you circle him, searching for an opening as the snow-muffled world outside fades into silence, your heart pounding a war drum in your ears.
You feint left, baiting him forward, and as he lunges, you twist low, slipping past his guard like a shadow.
Your dagger slices along the tender flesh behind his knee.
He stumbles, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as his leg buckles beneath him.
Seizing the moment, you vault onto his back, your arms locking around his neck like a steel trap.
His crimson sword clatters to the floor, but his wild eyes scream defiance as he struggles against your unyielding grip.
“Do I have what it takes now?” you whisper, more a challenge than a question your fingers tightening mercilessly.
His resistance weakens, breath growing ragged as your grip constricts.
You press the dagger cold and sharp against his throat.
The barn falls into a suffocating silence, broken only by the rasp of gasps between you.
“You won’t do it, fox,” he growls, muscles bunching beneath you in a desperate bid to rise.
You shift your weight, pinning him firmly to his knees.
“Maybe I did underestimate you,” he admits, voice laced with raw desperation. “But you’re not a killer, fox.”
You sigh, releasing your hold on his shoulders, lowering the blade just enough to let him think he’s safe.
Then, with fierce intent, you rake your hand through his dark hair, clenching it tight.
“Sasha didn’t tell you enough about me,” you hiss, voice cold as ice. “Because I’m not a fox.”
You drag the blade from beneath his left ear, slowly across to his right.
A guttural sound rumbles from deep in his throat before you finally release him.
He collapses to the floor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Any support is appreciated <3
