Part summary: You arrive at Liljasborg, where you hope to find Geralt.
Word count: ca. 6.3k
Warnings: Angst, violence, more corpses, alcohol. It's a viking AU, okay? 🤷♀️ Melancholy, jealousy, longing, fluff.
Looks like the gods aren’t that well-disposed toward you after all.
The downpour started as you saddled Björna in the early hours of the morning, and it hasn’t stopped yet. As you reach Liljasborg in the afternoon, you are soaked to the bone. Even Björna, who usually couldn’t care less about rain or cold, lets her ears hang to the sides as she tiredly plods up the hill toward the town.
Your wet cloak seems to be weighted with stones, and you arduously raise your head, looking out from under the dripping hood as you’re about to pass the town gates.
Your eyes linger on the battlement and the spears left and right of the gates, and as your gaze wanders higher, your stomach churns.
The ends of the spears are adorned with heads. Human heads. There are six of them, horrid mugs without exception, with holes instead of eyes and traces of the battle, the corvids, and the beginning decay.
You’ve never seen them during their lifetimes, but you’re sure that these are the remains of Jarl Harald and his commanders. And just like on the battlefield, you force yourself to look at every single one of them. The sight makes you shudder, and you’re barely able to breathe a sigh of relief after you assured yourself that Geralt isn’t among them.
From the corner of your eyes, you see a movement in the guard house, and you hastily avert your gaze, holding your breath as you urge your mare to pass the gate.
They say Jarl Erik is a cruel leader who expects nothing less from his men. But thank gods, you either didn’t arouse the guards’ suspicion, or they’re just not keen on getting out and wet to the skin in that rain.
Anyway, there aren’t many people on the road, and those who are, hurry around puddles, mud pools, garbage, and the dirt on the streets to get back inside.
Lady Lilja - Erik and Harald’s mother - is said to have been a true beauty. However, this place her husband named after her after she died in childbed could hardly be more disgraceful to her remembrance.
The air smells like the filth on the streets and the smoke of too many hearthfires. The bedraggled houses within the town walls are built so close together they look almost squashed, and a confusing warren of streets and paths runs up the hill. Even from here, you can see Erik’s castle on top of the hill, with high walls and guard towers, built from dark stone and overgrown with moss. It looks gloomy, and still it’s the place where you need to go in order to find Geralt.
But there’s no way you could just go up there and knock on the gate. No, you need a plan first, and before that, you and Björna finally need to get into the dry.
You descend and walk her through the streets as you try to ask the few passersby for the way to an inn. Try because the first and second person you address don’t even meet your gaze. They just hurry past you, and only the young maid you address next stops and listens.
“Stay on this street until you come to a well. Turn left and then take the fourth left again. You’ll see a bakery backmost, and the Bear’s Den is just behind it. The innkeeper is all right. You’ll also pass The Sun on the way, but don’t even think about going in! It’s a shithole and a brothel. One of the worst kind.”
And you just about manage to thank her before she hastens away.
You find the way without problems, giving the drunken bodies and pools of vomit in front of the Sun a wide berth. The Bear’s Den looks just as bedraggled as the Sun, but the noises you hear from the inside sound slightly calmer, and the stable in the outhouse looks somewhat decent.
As you set about tying Björna to the rail under the eaves, a little head with tousled red curls appears at the stable door.
“If you plan on drying before you continue your journey, you can bring her inside,” the boy offers, curiously eying you up.
“Looks like that might take a while, doesn’t it?” you mutter, looking down at your drenched clothes, which have already left a puddle on the ground.
“Yeah, the rain stands like rods on the hillside today,” the boy states.
“I’ve never heard that one before!” you smile.
“How about, it’s raining like it could drown the ducks?”
“Either."
“It's raining like a tall cow pissing on a flat rock?” he suggests, and his smile turns into an adorable gap-toothed grin as you laugh out loud.
“Those are good,” you nod appreciatively.
“Thank you,” he replies casually. “Can I take her inside now? I could dry her and organize some better fodder than hay in exchange for a tip, you know?”
You involuntarily smile at the boy’s business acumen.
“What’s your name?” you ask him.
“Kári.”
“Listen, Kári,” you smirk at his eyes going wide as you show him a little silver coin, holding it out of his reach. “This is what you get now. For the biggest and cleanest box you have. For drying and grooming her, for the extra fodder and fresh water. I’ll probably be staying for a few days, and you’ll get a half coin every day for taking care of her, and another coin like this one if I’m satisfied with your work at the end. Can I count on you?”
“You can count on me,” the boy responds, proudly drawing up his small frame.
“We’re in business then,” you nod, handing him the coin.
He fails to suppress a beaming smile as he tucks it away in his pants pocket before he receives the reins from you. “What’s her name?” he asks, expertly petting the mare’s neck.
“Her name is Björna,” you explain. "She’s a good girl who won’t bring trouble to you.”
“Yeah, I saw right away that she’s no troublemaker,” Kári agrees. “C’mon Björna, let’s get you inside.”
The Bear’s Den might be less of a shithole compared to the Sun, but it’s definitely not a place you’d stay any longer than necessary. Nevertheless, you rent a room for four nights. That should be enough to find out where Geralt is held captive and… well. Whatever you’re going to do then.
This is where your undertaking admittedly lacks detail, but you’ve made it here, and giving up is simply not an option. But right now, your head is spinning, you're exhausted and freezing, and your stomach growls like a bear - not the best time to forge plans or reckless maneuvers.
You abandon the attempt to wring out your clothes further and just hang them over the chairs in front of the fireplace in your room. The spare clothes you fish out of your wax cloth bundle aren’t dry either, but they're at least drier, and you simply can't afford to be fastidious right now.
The same goes for the salty dried fish and porridge you scarf down as you sit in the taproom shortly afterward. It’s still early in the evening, but the inn is already crowded with men and a handful of women, and their conversations and laughter blend into an ear-deafening noise. You found yourself a vacant seat at a long table where a group of handcraft helpmates drinks their ale, sounding off about the rich asshole they build a house for. But as they get onto the latest events, they lower their voices.
“And I tell you, the jarls in the north aren’t happy about Erik,” one of them says after taking a big gulp from his ale mug. “And why should they? He’s an asshole spreading terror-”
“Sshhh, not so loud!” hisses one of his companions, “Shut up, Ulf! Or do you want everyone to hear you?!” another one.
“But it’s true,” the one called Ulf protests, just to be cut off again.
“Tell that to his bootlickers up there!” mutters the man to his right, nodding his head toward the castle on the hill, and the others hum in approval.
Ulf mumbles something into his beard before he begins anew, this time leaning forward and lowering his voice further.
“Anyway, I bet they’ll come for his insane ass soon.”
“You might be right about that,” another one chimes in. “But it won’t give him the shivers. Because he’s insane, as you said.”
“And because he’s confident in his victory, now more than ever since he has the White Wolf on his side.”
Your hand with the spoon, absentmindedly stirring in your bowl, freezes in mid-movement.
The White Wolf!
He has the White Wolf on his side; that’s what the man said.
Has. Not had.
So Geralt must be alive!
And you sit stock-still at your place while you silently send a thousand fervent prayers of thanks to the gods and the three Norns.
“Well, Harald had him on his side before, and look what it got him,” Ulf objects.
“True. But gods, you should have seen him on that battlefield! He fought like Odin himself before they knocked him out cold.”
“They let him have it for sure! The guy was bleeding like a stuck pig when they carted him away. More of a red wolf than a white one.”
You feel blood draining from your cheeks, and their words and their laughter hurt as if you were the wounded one. And like a wounded predator, you want to go on the offensive and shut them up. But instead, you force yourself to set your hand into motion and bring another spoonful to your mouth.
Don't let it take control, Little Bird.
“Has anyone seen him at all since they brought him here?” asks the youngest of them, who has been silent so far, and once more, you hold your breath.
“Well, not that I know of. But as far as I heard, he’s alive and kicking, having the time of his life up there. They make a feast every night, and our dear jarl seems hellbent on spoiling him with wine and tidbits. And with tits! They say Erik’s finest whores scramble to get laid by him.”
“Lucky guy!” The men mutter, all of them agreeing, while you suddenly feel as if someone had slapped you in the face.
You put the spoon down, shuffling the bowl off even though it’s not empty yet and you should really eat.
It can’t be, you try to reassure yourself as you choke down the last bit. It can’t be, as you stare down at your wedding ring.
It can’t be because he loves you. It can't be because he’s yours. Until Ragnarök and beyond.
However, a slight pain remains. The words have left a little stab, not bigger than a needle prick. Nevertheless, it's big enough to let doubt seep into your heart.
You remain sitting for a few more moments, waiting for them to say more about Geralt or the castle. But the men’s conversation now revolves around the most wantable whores in town, and after finishing your ale, you quietly get up from the table and return to your room.
As the darkness descends outside, you begin to clean yourself up.
You change into the best dress you brought with you, the one with the contrasting colored top and the beautiful embroidery along the neckline. It might not be the most fashionable dress, but Geralt loves seeing you in it. He always smiled when he spun you around, making the long skirt swirl, until you were dizzy and giggling, and then he pulled you into his arms for a long kiss.
You fix your hair. And then, you wrap yourself in your dark cloak. The fabric is still a little wet, but it’s still raining outside, and you have a premonition that you’ll soon look like a wet rat anyway.
The way up to the castle is easy to find, and you walk up the hill in measured steps, casually letting your eyes roam the walls and the guarded gate ahead of you as if the sight is nothing new to you.
Shortly before you reach the square in front of the gate, you turn into an alley on the right. And after a few more yards, you crouch down in the darkness, pretending to tie your shoe.
In truth, you need a moment to catch your breath and gather your thoughts.
There is every indication that Geralt is there in Erik’s castle, not far away from you. Just how on earth are you supposed to get to him?
The same possibilities you already pondered and scrapped a hundred times cross your mind again. But you still can’t just request admission, you still can’t look for a secret passage, and you still can’t climb those darn walls. So, how? How, how, how?
It is only a few minutes later, just when you’re shy of returning to the inn, when you finally receive an answer.
A crashing noise, then shouts and curses, draw your attention to the square in front of the gate. As you come closer, you see that an oxcart has got bogged in a hole on the muddy street.
The cart is heavily loaded with ale barrels that are, without doubt, intended for the castle. And the carter on the box swings his whip at the two oxen, who moo loudly as they brace themselves into their harnesses.
At the back, where the wheel is stuck, a small, skinny form pushes against the cart. It’s a child, probably the man’s son, and he pushes with so much force that he almost slides away in the mud.
However, the efforts of both humans and animals seem to be in vain. The wheel moves slowly, bit by bit, but every time it’s almost free, it skids back into the roadhole.
At some point, the carter champs with rage, flailing at the oxen and yelling at the child. Even as the boy slips and falls, almost getting caught under the wheel, he wins nothing but cusses and threats.
You rush over to them, along with a few other passersby. Together, you brace yourselves against the heavy cart, and with united forces and under curses and groans, you finally manage to free the wheel.
The little boy has bobbed himself up, his clothes and his face caked with mud and wet. He hurries to keep in step with the rolling cart, and you quicken your pace as well, reaching for a handkerchief in your pocket.
“Here,” you mumble, holding it out to the boy.
He hesitates to accept it at first, but then he mutters a thanks and quickly wipes his face. As he hands you the dirty piece of fabric back, he darts a careful glance at you, and his eyes suddenly go wide.
“You?!” he asks, bewildered, and that’s when you recognize him as well, giving him a smile.
It’s Kári, the stable boy from the Bear’s Den. Now that his face is more or less clean, you see that he looks pale and exhausted. He must have been up and slogging his guts out since the early morning. And he’ll probably be more than glad when they finally arrive at the castle.
And that’s when you finally hit on an idea.
A suspicious frown appears on Kári's face as he notices you walking alongside him as the cart approaches the gates.
"What-"
“Not a word! It’s not what you think,” you admonish him in a hushed tone, and for the blink of an eye, he actually remains silent.
“I wasn’t going to say something,” he retorts then, almost a trifle annoyed. “Besides, you have no idea what I’m thinking.”
And you can’t help but smile at the little smartass.
“Stooop!” a voice shouts before you can reply.
Then, the cart lurches to a stand in front of the gates, and the jolt makes the wooden cart and the barrels creak alarmingly.
“I have a load of ale for Jarl Erik. Twelve barrels,” the carter declares.
“Check that!” orders the same voice that stopped them before.
“Really? In that rain?” grumps another one.
“Yes, in that rain,” the first one scoffs, imitating his voice. “Now move, slackass!”
“And don't bother about the wet, little rat back there,” the carter shouts as the guard begins to inspect the load.
“Your father?” you ask Kári quietly, and the boy lowers his gaze as he gives a little nod that seems somehow resigned.
The barrels are stacked so high his father can’t see you from his spot on the box, and you hope and pray that he won’t descend right now.
Lucky for you, it has begun to pour down again, and neither the carter nor the guards seem keen on drawing this out.
“Wet, little rats, indeed,” the guard just mutters as he sets eyes on Kári and you behind the cart, and you politely bow your head before he continues his inspection.
Maybe he didn’t hear Kári’s father speaking of one rat. Maybe he reckons you as the boy’s mother. Who knows...
As a matter of fact, the guard signals to open the gate, and you and Kári brace yourselves against the cart once more to help it set into motion.
And then, you’re inside, behind the high walls, following the cart further, around the castle to a back entrance.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?” the boy whispers to you, holding your gaze as you eye him up for a moment. “You can trust me, you know? After all, I didn’t betray you. And I’m not going to either.”
“Fair enough,” you mumble before you take a deep breath. “I’m looking for someone. I don’t want to harm anyone, I swear. I just need to find him.”
“And do you know where you can find him?”
“They say there’s a feast he joins every night,” you say, more of a question than a statement.
“Ah, I bet that’s in the hall. Listen, we'll be right there. When we stop, just walk past us and through the door. On the left are the storerooms, on the right is the kitchen. But you go straight down the long corridor, okay? Then up the stairs. And there's the hall. Just act as if you belong there!”
“Kári!” his father shouts from the box. “Come here, rascal!”
“Good luck!” the boy whispers before he runs to the front. “Yes, father?”
“Run ahead and let them know we're coming!”
“Of course, father!”
And you see him take to his heels, disappearing behind the next corner. You, however, continue to walk behind the cart until it stops at the wide door that was obviously built as a passage for goods and supplies. And you manage to scurry into the building while the carter climbs down from the box with stiff legs.
Inside, dozens of attendants and servants scurry along the corridor, carrying boxes, trays, mugs, and plates, some empty, some full of steaming food. And the delicious scent instantly makes your stomach growl.
You quickly remove your wet cloak so as not to attract any attention to you. But where to put it? On the left are the storerooms, said Kári. And you arbitrarily enter one of them.
Inside the storeroom, your eyes need a moment to become adjusted to the darkness. But then, you recognize the barrels, boxes, and sacks, carefully arrayed along the walls. And without missing a beat, you chuck your cloak behind a barrel and make your way back to the corridor. As if you belong there, as Kári said.
As you mount the stairs, you quickly skim over your appearance. Your hair is wet, but at least it’s not dripping. And the carefully arranged hairstyle hasn’t come apart yet. The fabric of your dress shows traces of the rain as well, but as far as you’ve seen, you’re not the only one.
At the entrance of the hall, you’re tempted to flinch as you see the armed guards, but you force yourself to keep walking past them without batting an eyelash. And instead of pausing at the door to orient yourself, you immerse in the constant flow of servants scurrying between the tables and the guests of the feast.
The part of the night when food is served seems to be almost over. The long tables, arranged along the walls, are full of empty mugs, plates, and platters with leftover food. You step to an abandoned table and begin to clear up and pile the plates while unobtrusively looking around.
The hall looks beautiful with its massive ceiling beams, colorful tapestries on the walls, and richly carved tables and chairs. A fire crackles in a large fireplace, and countless candles on the tables, at the walls, and in chandeliers light up the room.
People dance and stand together while a group of musicians plays against the laughter and exuberant conversations. The guests’ clothes and jewelry are the most sumptuous ones you have ever seen in your life. And you involuntarily think of the bedraggled houses and huts down the hill. Of the people in your village and all the others who don’t even have a home anymore. And of the battlefield and the graves, and of the men and boys who lost more than their homes.
And there, at the high table, sits the man who is responsible for all that.
You’ve never seen him before, but there’s no doubt that the man sitting in the middle of the long table is Jarl Erik.
His hair is long and blond, arranged in dozens of braids and adorned with silver beads. His beard is long and braided as well, almost covering the front of his richly embroidered tunic.
One might have been tempted to call him good-looking with his brawny frame and weather-beaten features, if there weren’t something cruel about him - something cruel and chilling, even as he just sits here, settled back in his chair, with a petite young woman on his lap.
He holds a glass of wine in his hand, locking eyes with her as he brings it to her mouth. The hint of a smile plays on his lips, but as the woman opens her mouth, his free hand grabs the hair on the back of her head. And he holds her in a chokehold as he tilts the glass further, forcing her to swallow the content to the last drop.
The woman gasps in shock and chokes, red liquid spilling from the corners of her mouth. As Erik finally releases her, she coughs while he runs his hand over her face and her throat to smudge the wine all over her skin and down to her cleavage. You can hear his booming laughter despite all the noise in the hall, and the woman joins in, drunkenly swaying and giggling as he gropes her breasts.
Hate seethes in your guts, and your hands clutch the plate and the fork as you fiercely scrape gnawed-off chicken bones, sauce, and a bitten slice of bread onto a platter. You let your gaze roam along the high table, but none of the men and women sitting there seem to care about what is happening next to them. Moreover, similar scenes take place all over the hall.
The only point of calm in the picture is a figure sitting motionlessly in the shade of a pillar at the end of the high table, and as you look closely, the plate almost slips from your hands.
Geralt!
You carefully put it down, and your hands tremble uncontrollably as you step to the next table. A little closer to him. Even though you know that you mustn’t cause a stir, not on any terms, you can’t help but stare at him, trying to take in every little detail. And as you fumble around with the plates and the silverware without actually perceiving what you’re doing, it takes everything you have not to run to him.
He is dressed in a tunic and a cloak you’ve never seen on him before, but the pendant with the wolf dwells on his chest as usual, the silver gleaming light against the black fabric. He looks pale and exhausted, his golden eyes oddly dull. And the sight of the barely healed scar running over his forehead makes you swallow hard.
You know all too well how dangerous head wounds can be, how painful and prolonged, especially if they’re not treated correctly. There should be a bandage on his wound, ointment, and for a certainty, he should rest instead of sitting here and… drinking?
You involuntarily knit your brows as you notice his unsteady hand and posture as he raises a glass to his mouth. His eyes, however, are fastened on Erik, who has pulled the woman on his lap at this point, grabbing and squeezing her butt for the whole hall to see as he captures her lips in a heated kiss. And it is only when the woman sitting next to Geralt leans in that he averts his gaze.
You haven’t really noticed her before, but now you see that the woman looks stunning, and her showy dress emphasizes her beauty even more. Her appearance is the complete opposite of you, and a lump forms in your throat as you watch her put her hand on your husband’s arm in an almost intimate way.
She leans closer until her breasts nearly brush against him as she whispers something into his ear. And she giggles as his lips curl into the hint of a smile. He doesn’t touch her, but he doesn’t push her away either, and his features seem distinctly more relaxed than before.
Erik’s finest whores scramble to get laid by him - that was what the men in the inn said.
So, is it true? Is she his chosen one for tonight?
And then, you suddenly feel as if someone twisted a knife in the stab wound the men's words had already left.
As you turn away, you struggle to stand upright. And you start walking without looking where you’re going, slowly at first, then faster, and then you bump straight into someone rushing toward the high table.
The clash makes your teeth knock together, and then something drops and smashes to pieces on the ground. For the length of a few heartbeats, the lanky servant and you struggle for balance. Then, you gaze down at the shards and the puddle of deep-red wine on the floorboards in horror. And everyone flinches as an infuriated yell echoes through the hall.
“Go get her!”
Blood prickles in your veins as you run off, but even before you reach the entrance of the hall, a guard pounces on you. His armor-clad body crashes against you, sending you flying. And you yelp in pain as you hit the floor.
The man’s hands capture you in a painful grip as he heaves you to your feet and drags you to the high table. To Erik.
And the imminent danger makes you struggle, makes you fight with tooth and nail, and the guard howls with pain as your nails dig bloody lines into his skin. But then his fist meets your stomach, pushing the air out of your lungs. For a moment, you go limp in his chokehold, gasping for air and trying to choke back the bile rising in your throat while tears cloud your vision.
In front of the high table, you hit the ground once more, and just when you’re about to bob up, another hand grabs you by the throat, pulling you upward. Its grip is painful and merciless, and once again, you struggle for breath.
As you stand on your feet, you find yourself eye-in-eye with Jarl Erik. His features are distorted with rage, his teeth bared, and his nostrils flared like a mad bull. But the most terrifying thing are his eyes. Their color is a pretty, light blue, but they’re cold and hard, and there’s not a spark of compassion to be seen in them.
“My, my, look who we've caught here,” he casually says into the deadly silence in the hall, whereas his hand squeezes your throat so firmly that your lungs scream for air.
And just as you see sparks at the edge of your field of vision, you hear a familiar voice.
“Let go of her!”
And your eyes stray until you finally see him.
Geralt shot up from his seat, standing upright at the high table without any signs of drunkenness, while his gaze seems to pierce straight into Erik’s head.
“Witcher!” Erik says with unconcealed surprise. “Why should I? She wasted a whole jug of wine. Don’t you know how expensive that shit is? I should whip her! One stroke for every glass she wasted, what do you think?”
“Let go of her!” Geralts growls again.
This time, the threat in his voice is clearly audible, and then he slowly steps down the platform and toward you and Erik.
His gaze only brushes you, and you clench your teeth so as not to show any reaction that could give you away.
Erik, however, pulls you closer to him, manhandling you in front of him like a shield, and you involuntarily shudder as his chest presses you against your back, and his breath sweeps along your neck.
“You’re serious, huh? But so am I. However, I’m might be willing to negotiate... let’s say… if you could give me a bloody good reason why I shouldn’t tan her hide. Maybe she could serve me in a different way and work off her debts. So, tell me, Witcher, why should I let her go?”
“Because she’s my wife,” Geralt says slowly, fastening his golden eyes on you, and no one who has heard or seen him here would ever dare to doubt his words.
As the words are out, the whole hall seems to hold its breath. However, immediately afterward, a soft murmur of voices sets in, just to fall silent as Erik grabs your arm and spins you around to face him, with so much force you almost stumble and fall.
For a few excruciatingly long moments, he squeezes your arm so hard you almost whimper, and you can’t help but feel like a mouse in the claws of an eagle.
“Your wife?” he drawls as his piercing gaze eyes you up, and yet it’s not you but Geralt to whom his words are directed. “I didn’t know you had a wife. You never even mentioned her,” he says with a mocking smile, and even though you clench your teeth, something in your face must have given you away because a wolfish grin creeps upon his face.
The grin doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s rather a grimace - the grimace of a man teetering on the verge of lunacy, and it makes your flesh crawl.
“Which is a shame indeed. Look how pretty she is! I mean, she could definitely use a bath,” he says, scrunching up his nose, and now you really get a good mind to spit on his face despite everything, which in turn doesn’t go unnoticed. “And so feisty! Look how she’s glaring at me!” he chuckles, and before you know it, he pushes you off, sending you flying once more.
This time, Geralt is there before you hit the floor. He catches you, pressing you against his chest for the tiniest moment before he maneuvers you halfway behind him, so his broad form shields you a bit from Erik’s gaze.
“Well, I bet she’ll be a joy to have around,” Erik continues nonchalantly, “and she’ll enjoy my hospitality as well from now on. And none of you should ever forget how hospitable I’ve been toward you!”
And then, you suddenly feel as if you’re trapped under a heavy rock threatening to crush you alive. You’re a captive. A captive in Erik’s castle. And your fingers involuntarily dig into the fabric of Geralt’s tunic as you nuzzle closer, as if your body seeks his protection.
“We won’t forget it,” Geralt replies. His voice is calm, his tone dry, and there’s a tang of ambiguity and irony in it.
It's so typical and incorrigible that you almost roll your eyes. And there’s no doubt that Erik heard it as well.
“Good,” he states, and once again, a lunatic grin flickers across his features. Like a man who just picked up the gauntlet, looking forward to the bloody fight.
And then, he chuckles, sloppily waving his hand. “You may show her to your room now, Witcher. I bet you two have a lot to… talk about.”
He winks at you, and then he turns away, signaling the musicians to start playing again.
Within a few moments, the hall looks like a colorful hustle and bustle again, but in contrast to earlier, the wanton mood around you arose from Erik’s command. You hear the whispering, and you see the sneaking looks dwelling on Geralt and you, and yet, none of it matters to you.
Because he is here, right next to you, and so close that your bodies touch, and somehow you miss him even more than before. Your whole body hurts from the encounter with Erik and his men, and maybe your heart hurts even more. Still, your hand is more than reluctant to ease its grip around Geralt's tunic. And just when you finally made it, he reaches out, clasping your hand in his.
His skin feels almost hot against yours, suddenly making you aware of how cold you are, and you fail to suppress the shiver running through your limbs.
“Come with me, Little Bird,” he mumbles softly, and you let him usher you out of the hall without objection.
You carefully take step by step as you walk up the stairs, along a corridor, and up the stairs again. The corridors are as cold as the winter and manned by guards, and you’re more than aware of their vigilant eyes never leaving you unobserved.
As Geralt unlocks the door to one of the chambers, you tremble in every limb, and you would have probably fallen to the floor if he hadn’t drawn you inside, backing you up against the closed door. And then, he clasps your smaller form in his arms, forcing his forehead against yours.
You feel his panting breath against your lips as his mouth hovers over yours, moving without a sound coming out, and all you want is to kiss him, kiss him and taste him and his love that you’ve been so certain of for so long. Until tonight.
A sob escapes your lips as you turn your head away, and another one follows as you see hurt and confusion seep into his eyes, mixing with concern and longing into a restless maelstrom.
“Little Bird,” he whispers urgently. “Please say something. Anything! I need to know how you got here. I need to know if you’re okay. I need… I missed you so much!”
“Did you really?” you manage to squeeze out.
“What?”
“M-miss me.”
“I missed you day and night. I missed you in every single moment. Why would you even think that I didn’t?” he inquires, cradling your face in his hands.
“The woman next to you in the hall…,” you mutter with trembling lips. “And… and they say down in the town that… that Erik’s w-whores scramble to get l-laid… by you.”
“No!” he objects fiercely, shaking his head. “No, that’s not true! I’ve never been unfaithful to you!”
Nevertheless, tears begin to roll down your cheeks, and your gaze shirks from his.
“Please believe me,” he mutters, agonized, and then he drops to his knees. “I would never do that! I did take one of them to my chamber every night, but only to let them sleep here. I guess you’ve seen what happens in the hall, and tonight, it was downright tame. And the reason they scrambled to come with me was because they knew they had nothing to fear from me. I let them sleep on the divan while I slept in the bed, and I swear I have never touched any of them.”
His hands clutch your hips, and as you remain silent, he lets his forehead sink against your belly. “I’m all yours, Little Bird. And I love you so much. Until Ragnarök and beyond!” he mumbles, his voice muffled and almost imploring.
The warmth of his breath and his body begins to penetrate the fabric of your dress until you can feel it on your skin. And you begin to feel him again, his pain and his genuineness, his longing and his love. And that's when you know it.
You slowly raise your hand and put it on his head, and it trembles ever-so-slightly as you gently stroke his hair.
“I love you, too,” you say softly.
You feel his broad shoulders quake with a silent sigh of relief, and then he hugs you tighter, wrapping his arms around you as he nestles his face against your belly.
As he raises his head to look at you, you want to drown in his churning eyes. But you also long to soothe the maelstrom, and you cradle his face in your hands.
“Until Ragnarök and beyond,” you reassure him, brushing your fingertips over the stubble on his jawline.
And you feel him shiver under your touch, longing surging up wildly in his gaze, and this time, you can not, do not want to, withstand.
You drop to your knees as well, throwing yourself into his arms, and as he grabs you, pressing you to his body, your lips find each other like they used to and like you know they always will.
Author’s Note: When I decided to continue this story after the first part, this is where I thought it would end. But now that we’re here, I’m afraid it isn’t over yet. Therefore: to be continued, lovelies!
Part summary: After escaping from the village, you’re on your way to look for Geralt. You have to overcome a few obstacles along the way until you find a trace of him.
Word count: ca. 5k
Warnings: 18+, NSFW, angst, a monster, description of a battlefield and bodies. Melancholy, longing, sweet memories, mention of sex.
Author’s note: Thanks for your patience, lovelies! This story lives in my head 24/7, but it takes me a while to capture it on paper, so to speak. I'm still writing outside of my comfort zone, and I'm very curious and nervous to see if you like this chapter. Happy reading! 💕
The tall firs have grown so dense that the path in front of you seems to lead straight into the night, even though dusk has only begun to fall. And you see Björna’s breath wisp in little clouds, white against the darkness.
The mare snorts, nervously shaking her head. And as you pick up the reins, gently spurring her on, you can tell she’s reluctant to carry you deeper into the forest.
You lean forward to reassuringly pat her neck, but even you must admit to yourself that the forest has something utterly unsettling about it. And you certainly wouldn’t take this route if it weren’t necessary.
After leaving the village behind yesterday, you decided to avoid the primary route to the east. The road there is broad and solid enough to carry Jarl Erik’s men and their large war horses, and now it cuts through the land like a swath of destruction.
Instead, your way leads southward at first, then to the east in a wide berth. And the hidden paths you take are narrow and rough, but they’re still passable and you’ve already lost count of how many times you thanked the gods for the cold but dry weather.
The route is a detour you must put up with in favor of a tad more safety on your way to the nameless valley where the battle took place and where you hope to find some trace of Geralt.
And at this moment, it's hope that keeps you from turning on your heel and fleeing from this place here.
The refugee family who crossed your way at a spring earlier today, had stared at you with round eyes and genuine concern when you mentioned the forest you intended to traverse. And while you filled your bottle with cool, fresh water, the father of the family told you about the house in the middle of the forest, where an old woman lives in a hut on a clearing, with a few goats as her only company. It’s the only place far and wide you could take shelter tonight, and the man urged you to hurry up.
“Ride as fast as you can and rest only if necessary. You must be there before the darkness descends,” he warned in a hushed tone so his children wouldn’t hear him. “Because otherwise- you know,” he trailed off when his oldest son approached, darting a wary glance at you as he pressed his pale little face against his father’s coat.
“I know,” you replied, and you exchanged a glance and a silent nod over the boy’s head.
Although he hadn’t said it aloud, you knew what he wanted to tell you. You’ve heard the tales before. About the forest of the shadows. Where everything has eyes.
They say it’s a place where you’re never alone, never unobserved, from the moment you set foot on the ground behind an invisible border. And from this moment on, it’s not on you to decide whether you will get to see the light on the other side of the forest.
What they say is true. You can feel it at this very moment. A prickling sensation in your neck. In the pit of your stomach. Oppressive and sinister.
A cold shiver runs down your spine, goosebumps rising all over your body while your heart begins to beat faster. And faster. Like the hoofbeat of a galloping horse you can feel in your throat.
You wonder if that’s what a mouse feels like, in the last moments of its life before a ravener grabs it out of the blue and sharp claws dig into flesh as they carry it away. Is it fear they feel? Is it fear that you feel?
Recognize what it is that you’re feeling, Little Bird. Name it. But don’t waste your energy on fighting the feeling. Accept it, and make use of it instead. Like fear. It’s good to feel it. It helps you to be vigilant. It helps you to flee. Or to fight if you must.
And you roll your shoulders back as you force yourself to take deep and slow breaths into your belly. Your hand tightens its grip on Björna’s reins while your other hand reaches for the hunting knife underneath your cloak.
And you let your senses swarm out in all directions. To Björna, who is nervous and tense like a bowstring, trembling as she carefully takes step by step. To the path ahead of you, barely visible among the shadows of the trees left and right. To the silence surrounding you.
The silence. As soon as you perceive it, a hot lightning shoots through your stomach. It’s too silent. As if the forest and the world itself held their breaths. As if someone or something took a moment to ready itself. The last moment of calm before the predator attacks its prey. And the prey is you.
You hastily look around, unable to recognize more than the blurred and restless silhouettes of trees and bushes.
And then you hear it coming.
A bluster. Like wind, like a storm. Thunderous and out of place in the middle of a forest on an almost windless day, and all the more threatening.
Without skipping a beat, you spur Björna on, who instantly takes a leap forward as if she had just waited for that command. And the two of you gallop off, despite the narrow trail and the almost-darkness, just away from here, as fast as possible with the bluster hard on your heels.
It’s a breakneck ride, and still it seems futile, a pathetic attempt to escape the doom chasing you. As the path bends uphill, it has almost caught up on you. And then, its howls and roars surround you, bending and leaning the trees, ripping the hood of your cloak off your head. The gust tugging at your hair is colder than ice, colder than anything you’ve ever felt before and it threatens to engulf you, to suck you in. A piercing screech echoes through the forest, and as something brushes along your neck, a high-pitched whimpering escapes your lips. You hastily duck and lean forward - the only way to escape if you don’t want to fall off. And you hold on for dear life as Björna winces and darts off, with a panic-stricken neigh that sounds almost human.
You recognize the furcation ahead of you almost too late, as well as the glimmer of light somewhere to your left, and in the last nick of time, you manage to turn Björna in this direction. The glimmer between the trees is still a fair way off, but it becomes more and more recognizable, and it takes everything you have to focus on the course of the path instead of mindlessly heading for the light.
Another bloodcurdling screech fills your ears, and a storm gust makes a heavy tree branch crash down on the path in front of you. At the same moment, something violently tugs at the tail of your cloak, clinging with force and deadly greed, and it wouldn’t have taken much for it to tear you down your horse.
Björna, however, reacts as fast as lightning. She takes a dauntless jump over the edge of the branch, and then she just manages to negotiate the next bend of the path.
Time seems to stand still as the two of you struggle for balance, and just when you fear to fall, you manage to steady yourselves.
Then, the light is only a few yards away from you, and you cross the distance at a heart-stopping speed while something snatches at another piece of your cloak, higher this time, and a scream falls from your lips, defiant, furious and desperate, all at once.
And then, you're there.
The thick cover of treetops above you suddenly disappears, revealing the sky that, although almost dark now, radiates a twilight. And the glimmer of light is amplified by the lanterns surrounding the hut in the middle of the clearing.
As soon as Björna sets foot into the weak light beam, the grasp on your cloak disappears. A final gust shakes the trees and the house, ending abruptly as the door of the hut opens and a figure steps out.
The old woman is short and bowed, and still, her voice sounds like a leader on a battlefield as she shouts a few words in the old language you don’t understand.
Then, the forest falls silent.
The woman stares into the darkness for another moment, before she utters something under her breath, turning around to return into the house. As she sees you, she stops dead in her tracks. And she crosses her arms as she gazes at you with narrowed eyes.
“Fools! Nothing but fools today!” she finally spats, shaking her head.
You, however, are still speechless, slack-jawed and shaken by the encounter with… whatever that was. And you slump in the saddle, still clutching the reins tightly while your chest heaves with hoarse and arduous breaths.
And then, the woman's features soften just a tad.
“Let’s hope you’re the last one for today,” she says resolutely. “You can bring your horse into the barn. And you can also sleep there tonight. There’s no more spare place in the house, but come inside and get a bowl of stew if you want.”
And without waiting for your reply, she turns around and shuffles back into her hut, shutting the door with a bang.
For the length of a few heartbeats, you remain sitting on your horse before you plunk yourself down, with shaky legs and probably in the least graceful way possible. And you wrap your arms around Björna’s neck, pressing your face into her thick fur for a long moment before you recover your voice, barely enough to mumble your thanks.
“C’mon, my brave girl,” you finally manage to say with a tiny smile as you pick up the reins. “Let’s see where we can sleep tonight.”
If only you could sleep!
The barn already hosts a few goats and two more horses, but there’s still enough room for Björna and even some bales of straw you can sleep on. The hot stew and tea which the old woman thrusted into your hand without further ado as you entered her hut warmed you. And the firewater which one of the refugees crowding the hut passed you, dispelled the trembling from your hands. But none of it could soothe your buzzing nerves. And so you lie on your improvised bed a few hours later, wrapped in your cloak and tired to the bone, but still awake.
And how could it be any different, given everything that happened since yesterday? Your dream of the bleeding white wolf. The news of the lost battle. The flight from the village you called your home for so long. The lonely night you spent in an abandoned fisherman’s shed by a lake. The long ride, always in fear and rush, always on guard. The monster in the darkness. The forest of the shadows surrounding you here on this little island of light. And above all, Geralt's uncertain fate.
Geralt.
His name is always there, always on your mind, always in your heart. You try to rein it most of the time. But now, here, in the silence of the night, you allow yourself to let it echo through your body, to let it spread, to let it suffuse you from your hair roots to your toes. Until all you can think of is him.
And it hurts. Every thought, every image drifting by in your mind’s eye hurts.
It doesn’t hurt like a sharp blade cutting into your skin, through muscles and flesh. The pain you feel seems to come from deep inside, straight from your heart, and it hurts more and more with its every beating, eating you up.
You curl up into a ball, burying your chin in the woolen fabric, as you listen to the sounds surrounding you. The rustle of straw and the sounds of the animals next to you in the barn. The silence outside, so peaceful and yet so treacherous. But even though you listen carefully, with closed eyes and keen senses, the one sound you yearn to hear isn’t there.
The sound of Geralt’s heartbeat you heard so loud and clear when you were standing on the village square, keeps now silent while the doubts in your head grow louder.
Maybe, you think to yourself, maybe it was nothing but imagination. A ghost made from black despair, capable to eat you alive, and therefore maybe just as dangerous as the monster in the darkness.
The strangers in the hut seemed to agree that you’ve already lost your mind anyway when you told them where you’re bound for.
“What on earth do you hope to find there? There is nothing but death,” another refugee asked, and you saw his eyelid twitch frantically.
He was a trader, a rich man draped in expensive furs and bangles. However, none of his treasures had been able to spare him and his wife from Erik’s thirst for blood and revenge, and their wide, bloodshot eyes still bespoke the horrors they had experienced.
“I’m looking for my husband,” you said softly, and the long silence that followed was only interrupted by the hoarse laugh of the old woman.
“Love has always spawned the greatest follies,” she sneered without looking up from the carving tool and the leg bone in her lap.
After that, no one said anything. And you made your way back to the barn soon.
Maybe she’s right and you’re nothing but a fool in love. But yet, you have no choice. Because your love for Geralt does not end. Not when he’s gone. Not at death. Not even when everything else ends.
Until Ragnarök and beyond.
He used to mumble those words, in that deep, raspy voice of his. His voice can sound so harsh and cold as ice toward others, but never when his words are directed at you. And you will never forget how soft yet urgent it had sounded on that day, maybe a week after he had kissed you for the first time.
His wounds had almost healed, but he didn't seem to think of leaving yet. But as a trek passed the village that day, their leader offered Geralt more silver than you could have imagined, if he’d escort and guard them on their way north.
Geralt followed you inside your hut to where you escaped as you overheard him say he’d think about it. He found you there at the table, nearly blind with tears as you cut wild carrots to cook with the venison you shot the day before.
You didn’t turn around as you heard him say your name. But you let him take the knife out of your trembling hand, and you let him put his hands on your hips. As he turned you around to face him, you kept your head low, desperately trying to think of something to say. And even though you yielded to the gentle pressure of his fingers under your chin, tilting your head back, your eyes still took flight.
“Look at me. Please!” he urged. And the tiniest touch of a catch in his voice made you raise your gaze.
The genuine concern in his eyes spoke louder than his words as he reassured you that he wouldn’t go with them, not for all silver in the world, if it meant leaving you behind. That he would stay with you - his destiny - if you didn’t want to leave. And he told you he loved you. Until Ragnarök and beyond, Little Bird.
Later that day, long after the trek had left the village without him, he whispered those words again when he made love to you for the first time. He whispered them as he paused, fully sheathed in your heat, to let you get used to him and to everything that felt so new and unfamiliar back then. While you melted in his arms, he leaned his forehead against yours. And you drank the words from his lips, along with his hot breath and his groans, as a heated shiver rippled through you and new and unfamiliar turned back into yearning and lust.
And it was the same place, your bed, where he held you in his arms every night when you fell asleep. You recall how he felt. The weight of his arm wrapped around you as he pressed you to his chest. His warm breath on your scalp as he nuzzled his nose into your hair. The slow, steady beating of his heart and the reverberation of his contended hum against your back. And you recall how you felt, warm and safe and engulfed in his love, as you drifted off to the realm of dreams.
The contrast to the here and now could hardly be sharper, cold, alone and scared that you are, but still, the memory is at least a little solace, enough to lull you to a fitful sleep.
This night, just like last night, your dreams are rather incoherent shreds, weightless, drifting by without leaving an imprint. The only thing you notice, even as you’re floating between sleep and wakefulness, is that the white wolf is not there.
The next morning, you felt numb as the bright sunlight creeping into the barn woke you up. It wasn’t the cold that caused the gravity in your limbs and the fog in your mind, even though it has already settled so deep in your bones that you wonder if you will ever feel warm again. No, it was rather the hope to find him alive that has begun to vanish.
And even now, as you leave the edge of the forest behind, stepping into the bright sunlight, your relief feels only chastened.
“The gods seem well-disposed of you,” the old woman muttered earlier, rejecting the silver you tried to give her as you said your goodbye and thanked her for shelter and food. “The shadows are faint and weak on days like this. But hurry, nevertheless! Because they’re also erratic and unpredictable.”
“What… are they?” you asked hesitantly, involuntarily shuddering as you thought of yesterday’s encounter.
The old woman remained silent as her eyes pensively wandered over your face.
“Nothing you need to know,” she finally said brusquely. “Now, skedaddle.”
And with this, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the barn.
The way down into the valley is lined with the first flowers of this spring, tiny buds and white blossoms raising their heads - the same flowers that had once adorned your hair on your wedding day.
Geralt’s golden eyes shone with adoration as he carefully put the flower wreath on your head, and their delicate scent filled your nostrils as the priest bound your hands together.
And now, you can’t help but wonder if these flowers also line the way to his grave.
Down in the valley, the narrow path meets the main route leading from west to east. And it is long before you reach the crossing that you see the traces Harald’s army has left: a broad slip of muddy ground, trampled and teared up by hundreds of horses, oxcarts, and men.
Some of those traces were left by Geralt and Roach. And the thought pulls you out of your numbness, as you let your eyes wander over the same things Geralt had seen. Over the road ahead, over the hillsides, bushes, and trees, still brown, gray, and mostly leafless at this time of the year.
The road runs through the valley like a straight line until the hillsides on the eastern end narrow to a passage. The next valley was supposed to be the place where the two armies would have clashed. But Harald’s men never arrived on that battlefield. Instead, the battlefield came to them.
It had been an ambush, as Gorm had said and as one of the men in the old woman’s hut had confirmed. The passage between the two valleys is barely wide enough for an oxcart or for two men riding next to each other. And as Erik and his army were the first ones to arrive, they had made full use of that advantage.
They had lied in ambush on both sides of the passage and on the hill itself, and as half of Harald’s army had already passed the narrowing, they had attacked them from all sides. Harald’s men were blindsided, suddenly divided into two and without a chance to form or to turn to bay, and their blood soaked the ground.
As you come nearer, you can see the ravens and crows wheeling over the battlefield. And then, you see the men.
You instantly bring Björna to a halt, squinting as you try to recognize what they’re doing.
There are maybe fifteen or twenty of them. They’re not wearing helmets or have brandished their weapons, so they’re probably no warriors. But that’s all you can see, and how could you be sure? It’s better not to risk being spotted and attacked as long as they haven’t seen you yet.
You turn Björna around, leaving the road behind as you head for the left side of the valley, where trees and bushes grant at least a little guard. And under the cover of the trees, you slowly approach the passage.
As soon as you can hear both raveners and men, you decide to walk the rest of the way.
After you bound Björna on a tree, you scratch her behind her ears and briefly lean your forehead against hers.
“It won’t be long, okay, my brave girl?” you promise, rubbing her neck. And as you climb up to the range of the hill, you have to force yourself not to look back over your shoulder.
Even though you carefully move your feet forward as you cautiously approach the passage up there, you can’t prevent the dry leaves and little branches from rustling and cracking with every step you take. And never have such quiet sounds sounded so loud.
As you’re only a few yards away from the spot where the ground plunges, you lay down on your stomach, slowly crawling forward to the edge of the cliff. Even up here, traces of the battle are visible. A drinking bottle. Broken arrows. A shred of fur. A bloody cloth.
Erik’s archers probably shot from here as they had Harald’s army trapped down there in the valley, and you’re certain that many arrows homed in on a target. The mere thought is enough to make your stomach churn, and your heart is in your mouth as you crawl closer to the cliff until you can just peek over the edge. And what you see makes you gasp.
The battlefield is littered with bodies, some scattered, some on top of each other. Even from here, you see grotesquely-frozen features. Dead eyes staring up at the winter sky. The birds picking at the bodies. And a faint scent of decay reaches your nostrils.
A group of men, probably fishers or farmers from neighboring villages, wander around the battlefield, heaving bodies on a cart. They groan and curse as they pile five or six of them before they brace themselves against the heavy cart to put it into motion on the muddy ground. After a while, they disappear behind a cluster of trees, and you can’t see where they’re going.
You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for what you’ll have to do next. And then, you slowly turn your head toward the east until you gaze at the furthest body on this side.
Greenish pants. Tall and slim. Not Geralt.
The next one is a beefy man, his dark hair shaved on the sides, the top artfully braided. His hand still clutches the hilt of his bloody ax. Not Geralt.
On his legs lies a man with short red hair and a furlined vest. Two arrows protrude from his back. Not Geralt.
A few feet away lies a rather squabbish man, his body unnaturally distorted, in a heavy leather armor that could have done nothing against the ax that cleft his right leg into two. Not Geralt.
There are old and young men. Tall and short. Poor and rich. Some are brutally battered, whereas others look almost unscathed. However, they’re all dead, and you force yourself to look at every single one.
As your gaze has arrived in the middle, you crawl a little closer to the edge, pressing your body flat to the ground as you try to get a better look at the dead lying in the passage. But your motion is abruptly stopped by the sharp, cold metal piercing into your nape.
“One move, and you’re next!” a husky voice croaks behind you.
You freeze on the spot, whereas your heart thunders against your ribcage and blood begins to sing in your ears. And you silently curse your - in relation to Geralt - poor senses and your negligence that caused you to leave the hunting knife in the sheath on your belt and your bow in the quiver on your back.
“Turn around! And don’t get any ideas!”
The leaves under you rustle as you slowly turn over onto your back. The point of the sword disappears only for the blink of an eye before it is pressed firmly against your throat, and you fail to suppress a whimpering as the iron cuts into your skin.
The man at the other end of the sword is not a warrior. That you can see right away.
He is old and skinny, with a gray, shaggy beard and scarred, bony hands showing at the sleeves of his blood and dirt-stained tunic. His dull, blue eyes are wide, and the battered sword in his hand trembles ever-so-slightly.
He is scared, you think, maybe just as scared as you are. And for a moment, you just stare at each other.
“Please!” you finally manage to whisper. “I’m just looking for someone, and then I’ll be off again. I swear!”
For the length of a few heartbeats, he holds your pleading gaze, unabated, raising his chin as he presses the sword further against your throat. And you feel a warm runlet of your blood trickle down your neck where the blade had pierced your skin.
Just as you grit your teeth in an attempt to keep your lips from quivering, the sword disappears from your throat.
“By all the gods, girl! What were you thinking?!” the old man growls. “Now, get over here! Stay down, so they don’t see you.”
He takes a few steps backward behind a bush, always keeping his eyes glued to you as you carefully crawl toward him.
“You need to get out of here!” he admonishes you in a hushed voice after you straightened up. “If the others see you, there’s nothing I can do for you. Let alone if the jarl’s men return.”
“I know, but-”
“Whoever you’re looking for, you won’t find him here, girl. The wounded ones are either gone or dead by now, and most of the dead ones are already buried.”
“But I need to find my husband. P-please! I need to know what happened to him!” The words just tumble from your lips, and you clench your fists and your jaw as you feel desperate tears flood your eyes.
The man keeps silent for a moment. But then, he utters a quiet sigh. “What does he look like? Maybe I have seen him.”
“He’s tall. G-golden eyes and long, white hair, but not old. No beard. Black leather armor w-with silver rivets. He wears a pendant with a-”
“With a wolf,” he finishes your sentence.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Have you seen him?”
“That I have. But as I said, you won’t find him here.”
He is dead. You are almost certain that this is what he’ll say next.
A hot tear rolls down your cheek as you squeeze your eyes shut, desperately wishing the ground under your feet would break up and swallow you. And it takes you a few moments to notice that the man has continued to speak.
“The jarl’s men captured him. They strapped him to his horse, and took him away. That’s all I know.”
His hushed voice reaches your ears, but his words take much longer to get through to you.
As your eyes fly open, the ground seems to sway, and you begin to wonder if the gods answer your wish when you realize you’ve been holding your breath.
“But he’s alive?” you finally manage to gasp out.
“At least he was when they rode off. His head was bleeding heavily, but he was alive.”
Alive.
The cold air and the hasty breath you take hurt, in your windpipe and in your lungs, but it hurts so good, and it cuts through the dizziness and the fog in your head.
“Where did they take him?” you ask, just about keeping yourself from grabbing the man's arm.
“I don’t know. But I’d look for him in Liljasborg if I were you.”
Liljasborg. The large town in the east, that was named after Erik’s and Harald’s mother and that Erik chose as his headquarter.
“That I will,” you give him a nod. “Thank you.”
“Good luck, girl. Chances are you’ll need it,” the old man says after a moment’s hesitation.
And both of you wince as a booming voice echoes through the forest at this moment.
“Olaf! Where are you? Bloody, useless dodderer…”
Without hesitation, Olaf grabs your arm, hastily pushing you behind the next bush.
“Hide!” he hisses. “Wait here until I’m gone, and then scram!” And then he raises his voice. “Shut up, Leif!” he yells down the hill. “I’m coming. Can’t a man take a dump in peace?!”
Without paying further heed to you, he spins around and makes his way back into the valley, disappearing from your sight.
Apparently, Leif waited for him, and you hear them bicker as their steps and voices fade.
You wait for a few more moments, listening carefully, and as you’re sure they're gone and won’t return, your shoulders heave with a tiny sigh of relief.
And then you come out of hiding.
Hope and resolve speed up your steps as you sneak back to the spot where Björna patiently waits for you. If you hurry up and the gods are still well-disposed of you, you’ll be able to reach Liljasborg tomorrow at noon.
I will find you, Geralt, wherever you are! I promise!
Part summary: While Geralt is gone, you do your best to hold your ground. Until the day when the villagers and you receive word from the ending of the battle.
Author’s note: Lovelies. This chapter may be a little different from what you expected. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll enjoy how the story of Viking!Geralt and his Little Bird unfolds 💕
As you straighten up to put the kindling you’ve just collected into your basket, you see him.
The big black raven sits on a branch of the old oak on the edge of the forest, stone still, its head slightly crooked, and its dark eyes fixed on you. You poise too, and for a moment, the animal and you lock gazes.
You know you should chase him away like everyone else does whenever a bringer of bad tidings crosses their way. However, you can’t help but marvel at the bird’s beauty - its shiny plumage and intelligent eyes, black as midnight.
Just when you turn your head to look around, a second raven alights on the branch - a female, slightly smaller than her mate. She greets him by briefly preening his feathers, and you involuntarily smile at the sight of them.
Did you know they do almost everything together, child? They even soar wing by wing, and their bond lasts a lifetime. And when one of them dies, the bereaved one mourns their mate.
You can still recall your foster mother’s quiet voice. She had caught you cowered down behind the corner of your hut, where you secretly watched the ravens instead of picking herbs in the garden as she had told you to. But instead of scolding you, she crouched down next to you to share everything she knew, as she always did.
It’s moments like this, when you remember something she taught you, that it feels as if she wasn’t gone. As if she was still here, within your reach.
As a stone zips past your ear, so close you can feel the draft of air, you flinch. And while the ravens flush with noisy wing beats, you spin around to the direction the stone came from.
“You must scare them off! Or are you trying to invoke bad luck upon us, woman?” Edda, the armorer’s wife, snarls, and her admonitory gaze pierces into yours.
You involuntarily raise your chin, looking straight into her narrow eyes. I have a name, you’re tempted to say, but you choke it down. Her word counts for much in the village, and you remember just in time that it’s probably better to keep your head low.
“Of course not,” you mutter instead.
However, you fail to keep your voice free from contempt, and you compress your lips with amusement as you see Edda’s face turn beet-red with anger.
“Good,” she puffs like a grampus, and then she rushes past you in a berth, as wide as possible, so as not to brush a tail of your cloak.
You, however, remain standing on the narrow path, gazing back at the empty spot where the raven couple just sat. And for this one moment, you allow yourself to miss your mate. You allow yourself to miss him so much that your heart aches and it speaks his name with its every beat.
Geralt. Geralt. Geralt.
Don’t let it take control, Little Bird.
You remember his words, and his deep, mellifluous voice. How his lips felt when he mumbled into your ear. And you remember the promise you made. The promise to go on.
I haven’t forgotten, Geralt.
The memory gives you enough strength to draw yourself up. And a deep breath fills your lungs with crisp, clear air.
The air is freezing cold, but the sun is shining, and you can feel her bright rays on your face. And you hope that he can feel it too, that gentle touch of warmth, wherever he is.
On your way back to the village, an indistinguishable mix of conversations and laughter, clanging and clopping reaches your ears long before you reach the first longhouse. It’s the first sunny day in weeks, and the village seems to be twice as busy as usual. Women, children, and the few elderly men who stayed behind - apparently, everyone is outside today.
When the other men rode out of the village almost two weeks ago, they left silence behind, oppressive and full of uncertainty about the things that would be. However, not even an hour later, the daily routine had already eaten up the silence. Life just went on, and how could it be any different? Even though the men are gone, there are still meals to cook, clothes to wash and to mend, children and animals to care for and things to repair, and if anything, there’s even more work than before.
Work and routine keep you going, and the children keep you on the run. They romp around the village with the dogs, they yell with laughter and they argue, they fall off trees, knock their heads, and scrape their knees, and the blacksmith’s daughter even broke through the ice of the pond behind the longhouses last week.
Sooner or later, one or two of them end up in your hut, and you listen to their blithe chatter while you patch them up - at least as long as their mothers aren’t around. If one of the mothers is with them, all it takes is a stern look, and your little patient falls silent. And the familiar silence draws a veil over your hut as you continue your care under watchful eyes.
You can’t even recall when the silence around you started. Or maybe it had always been there. You remember playing with the other children when you were little, but also being aware that you were different.
You always knew you were a foundling, barely older than a few days when you were abandoned at the healer’s doorstep. The elderly woman was unmarried and childless, and yet she took you in and raised you.
Nevertheless, no one in the village ever forgot about your unknown parentage, and while you grew up, your features, the color of your hair, and your eyes were compared to the villagers in an attempt to spot some kind of semblance. Of course, assumptions were made, but they were never confirmed. And still, you stayed an outsider, even more so when your foster mother began to teach you the art of healing, and there was no longer enough time for you to play.
“Witch child,” the villagers whispered behind your back, and in their minds, it wasn’t even repugnant to the fact they still knocked on your door to seek your help if no one else knew what to do.
The days were full of work and downright endless sometimes; the years, however, were short, and your foster mother died of an inflammation of her lungs in the winter when you were just considered an adult.
After her death, you had learned to take her place. And you had learned to fill the days and the years and the silence. You had learned to be alone.
But not your heart. Your heart had been cold and frozen, and it only began to thaw on the day when Geralt threw himself between you and the claws of the monster in the darkness.
You still recall its beating in your chest as the forest was suddenly quiet again, both beast and man lifeless on the ground, and you kneeled beside your savior. He was bloody and beaten up, and yet he was, without doubt, the most beautiful being you had ever seen. At this moment, your heart didn’t race with fear, but with anger and revolt against the gods and the Norns themselves. And an iron determination to save him, to not let him vanish to Valhalla yet, suffused you from head to toe.
During the long weeks it took for his wounds to heal, you got to see him in all his beauty. And even though you hadn’t thought it was possible, you soon realized he was even more beautiful on the inside - full of willpower, wisdom, and sensitivity. You sensed that the insights he granted you bit by bit, were rare and precious, and you cherished them as such. And all the time, you were dreading the day when he would set off and step out of your life, while never doubting that it was bound to happen.
Little did you know at this point that his heart had been just as cold and numb as yours and that he felt as if your every touch and every glance, every word you spoke, made the ice melt. And it melted further until you were left all warm and raw and open for each other, and your blood began to sing with longing.
One night, when both of you sat on the edge of the bed where you applied ointment on the cut on his eyebrow as you had already done so often, your hand refused to withdraw. And his gaze locked with yours as your fingers dwelled on his forehead before you tentatively brushed them along his cheek.
As he reached for your hand, you first feared he would pluck it off his face. But instead, he carefully clasped it and brought it to his lips, and you couldn’t prevent your breath from hitching in your throat as he planted a kiss on the tip of your thumb. Then on your index finger, and on every finger of your hand, while his golden gaze held yours. He still held your hand as he leaned in. And as he bestowed a tender kiss on your lips that had never been kissed before, your heart fluttered and danced in your chest, wild and free.
Now that he’s gone, you feel the ice creeping back upon you. It coats your heart in frostflowers - stunning and unique patterns made from the memory of his love and the fear that memory is all you have left of him.
The cold seems to haunt you, even at night in your bed, no matter how many blankets you envelop yourself in or how many logs you put on the fire. It keeps you awake, and the little sleep you get is haunted by the white wolf showing up in your dreams.
You see the strange and beautiful animal stroll over meadows and clearings, through mountains and woods, its conspicuous fur disguised by the snow. You see it lurking and running, always silent, always on guard. And then, you lie awake for hours, shivering with cold while you feverishly try to read every little detail of your dream.
One night, not long after the last sunny day, you don’t wake up cold to the tips of your fingers. Instead, you feel as if you’re burning as you startle out of your sleep, and the remnant of your scream seems to echo in the silence of your hut.
You sit up in bed, desperately gasping for air as you throw back the blanket. And your fingers tremble like an aspen leaf as you hastily wipe the beads of sweat from your forehead.
There was blood, is all you can think, shuddering as the cool air creeps into your nightgown. There was blood. In your dream.
And there were claws and teeth, sharp and bared. Mercilessly digging into skin and flesh until crimson tinted the white snow and the white wolf's fur.
“Geralt,” you whisper into the semi-darkness, and your chin quivers with effort as you struggle to choke down the sob rising in your throat.
You numbly stare at the small crack next to the doorstep where blueish light tells of the approaching daybreak. And the edges of the Web of Wyrd dig into your palm as you clench the pendant in your hand, and a sense of foreboding settles deep in the pit of your stomach.
The day has come, you think to yourself. The day when things will come to an end.
The first thing to end is the darkness. And the second one is the silence. As soon as the eyes are able to make out outlines and silhouettes in the light of dawn, the first refugees trek through the village. Most of them are women and children. Some of them ride on horses and mules, but most of them walk. They’re heavily loaded, and still, they carry only the bare necessities.
With them comes the message. Of the lost battle marking the bloody end of a feud that had lasted for decades.
It was an old story, almost as old as the nine worlds themselves. Many years ago, a jarl had ruled over this swath of land reaching from one of the great lakes to the other. He had two sons, Harald and Erik, and as he died, he bequeathed each of them as much land as a man could traverse by foot within two days. In his eyes, it must have been a fair distribution since both parts had fertile ground, woods, and even fishful waters. However, the two brothers had never had anything other than envy and resentment for each other, and after their father’s death, envy and resentment became blind hatred. Over the years, battles were fought, and land was won and lost, sometimes by Harald, sometimes by Erik. Sometimes, there was peace for a few moons until the hatred kindled anew.
Now, Harald’s army is defeated, and Harald himself is dead, smitten and beheaded by the sword of his nephew - his own blood - and Erik was the sole ruler over his father’s land. But his hatred outlasted his brother’s death, and he issued the order to raze the area in the middle of the two realms to the ground. It had sometimes been his, but recently his brother’s territory, and now he intended to punish the inhabitants for their putative perfidy.
The villages in the East are already burning, bereaving people of their homes, and still, there can’t be a greater bereavement than the one of husbands and fathers, brothers and sons.
The refugees don’t know much; not about what has become of their own relatives and most certainly not about the men from this village. The only thing they know is that Erik’s men showed no mercy - not in the battle, not on their revenge campaign - and that too many lives were lost.
The news travel fast, from door to door, and around midday, most of the villagers have already set off toward the West. A few families, however, have stayed behind to wait for the men, hoping they'll return before Erik’s men invade the village.
Hope is what made you stay as well. Because you know about the exceptional swordsman and horseman Geralt is, and about his abilities that set him apart from every other warrior. And you hope and pray with all your heart that he’ll come back.
At the same time, your dream is still present. The blood on the snow. The bleeding wolf.
It has settled in your mind and deep under your skin, gnawing at your viscera. It whispers to you that you clutch at a tiny, fragile straw that’s about to break any minute.
And the only way for you not to lose your mind is to keep your hands busy.
After packing up necessities and a few memorabilia, you make your way to the barn. As you open the door, you already hear your mare’s nervous snort. She obviously senses that something is off, flicking her ears back and forth and pawing the ground as she looks toward you.
Where Geralt’s Roach is tall and elegant with her shiny, pitch-black coat and her long flowing mane, Björna is the exact opposite: short and sturdy build, with a dun-colored fur that is downright fluffy now in the winter.
“Are you sure this is the one you want?” Geralt had asked you at the horse market back then, raising his eyebrow with a skeptical smile.
“Yes, this is the one,” you replied determinedly with a fond look at your new friend, who contentedly munched on her hay. “She’s strong and hardy. And just look at her eyes! She looks so kind, doesn’t she?”
“She looks like a bear with hooves,” Geralt muttered, gently picking a straw from her wild mane.
However, it would have never occurred to him to make you change your mind. And apart from that, you sensed that he secretly doted on her already.
On your way home, he was the one who gave her her name. Björna. She-bear. Ever since that day, she had proved her value more than just once. And ever since that day, you had to keep an eye that Geralt wouldn’t spoil her too much.
“You miss him, too, don’t you?” you mumble, slowly rubbing her neck. “You know, we mustn’t abandon all hope. At least not yet. But I’m going to be honest with you; it might take a while until we see him again. We need to leave this place very soon, you and I.”
Your fingers sink into Björna’s thick fur, and as she gently nuzzles your cheek and blows on your hair, a tiny smile tugs at your lips.
After carefully grooming her, you bring her fresh water and an extra-large helping of fodder. You know you should eat something, too, even though the mere thought makes your stomach twist and churn. Nevertheless, you finally put a kettle on the stove and fill it with milk and oats, enough to feed you and enough to provide a warm meal in case some of the refugees knock on your door.
Your guess had proved itself true, and at some point, you suspect that the villagers living in the longhouses don’t even try to help but send everyone straight to your hut instead. There are so many mouths to feed that the kettle is soon empty, and those who don’t ask for food ask for a place to rest or for your art of healing. You try to help as best as possible, providing food, improvising beds, resetting a dislocated finger, and brewing teas against the cold and the ever-present cough.
The afternoon has just broken when you suddenly hear the noise of galloping horses dashing into the village.
You hastily straighten up from the edge of your bed where you had just spread another blanket over an exhausted mother and her three little children. From outside, you hear calling, a squeal, and sobbing. Nonetheless, it doesn’t sound like an attack, and you hastily wrap a warm shawl around your shoulders before you rush out the door.
Just like you, the women and children who stayed behind swarm to the village square, and so do the refugees since they, too, are hoping for news.
A group of horsemen has arrived, familiar faces without exception. They look exhausted and ragged, with dirt and blood all over them - other’s blood as well as their own.
“They’re back!” voices chime from everywhere. “The men are back!”
Are they? Well, at least some of them are back. A few. Barely a dozen men and horses have arrived, not even a third of the warriors who had set out. They have jumped off their horses to clasp their wives and children in their arms. And you’ve seen at the first glance that Geralt is not with them.
You and so many others stand on your tiptoes and crane your necks to see if there are more riders coming behind the bend.
But the path is empty.
With every second passing by, you realize that it will stay empty.
And you feel more and more blood drain from your face.
“Is that all of them?” someone asks in disbelief, speaking out loud what all of you are thinking.
And then, silence descends on the village.
Deadly silence.
All eyes turn to Gorm, the armorer and Edda’s husband, who had always claimed to be their leader, loudmouth that he is.
He puts his youngest daughter back on her feet, drawing himself up to his full height while he solemnly looks around the crowd.
“Yes,” he finally declares, “that is all of us.”
It takes the length of a heartbeat for his words to sink in.
And then, the silence ends as sudden as it came.
Everywhere around you, voices surge up. Shocked gasps and sobs, whimpering and calling to the gods, a muffled scream, murmurs and whispering.
However, in your ears, all those noises sound oddly muffled. And none of them gets through to you.
You suddenly remember the summers of your childhood when you and the other children went swimming in the pond.
You remember how quiet everything sounded as you dove under, and the water dampened all noise. So quiet you imagined you could hear your own heart beating. And how calm and weightless you felt in those moments.
Now you stand there, alone on the square amidst all the villagers and the strangers, and so benumbed you feel almost weightless again.
And you force yourself to keep breathing, whereas at the same time, you desperately wish you could just dive under and disappear.
As you close your eyes, the things that were drift by your mind’s eye. Along with the things that could have been.
Your hand involuntarily reaches for the pendant next to your heart, absentmindedly tracing its outlines with your fingers.
Was that it? you silently ask the three Norns. Was that really his destiny? To die in that pointless battle when all the skills he has were meant for something bigger? When there were so many plans he had? Plans that he and you had.
But maybe that’s just what death is like, you think to yourself. Bitter and merciless and without a care about the skills or the plans or the possibilities one still has. And about what you leave behind.
The dull rushing roars in your head, and just when the ground begins to sway under your feet, you hear it.
A sound. Blending in the rushing.
At first, it is only quiet.
Then louder.
And louder.
Until you can hear it clearly.
The sound fills your head, and for a moment, you lose yourself in it.
It’s the sound of a heart beating.
But it is not your own heart.
The heartbeat is steady and much slower than any other heartbeat you ever heard. It’s one of your favorite sounds in this world, along with Geralt’s calm voice, his laughter, and the way he whispers “I love you, Little Bird!” against your skin.
It’s the sound of strong muscles pumping fresh blood through a body.
It pulses in your ears.
It sounds fleshly.
Alive.
As if…
Your eyes fly open.
And you gasp for air as if you had actually been underwater, on the verge of drowning, and now you briefly managed to get to the surface.
What if.
What if the blood in the snow wasn’t the end yet?
And you greedily suck in breaths of fresh air.
As if you were trying to swim.
As if you were trying to not get dragged back under the surface.
Not as long as you don't know it for certain.
It takes a few moments until you manage to come back to the here and now, and then, you realize that the crowd around you has dwindled a bit.
Some people have adjourned to the longhouses. Some have probably set off toward the West. And some gather around the warriors. To ask them about their loved ones. Driven by the need for certainty, just like you.
And you, too, manage to abandon your numbness, walking over to them.
You ardously put one foot in front of the other, and every step, every movement seems to take forever.
As you finally stand in front of Gorm, he just gives a nod to Astrid, the blacksmith’s young wife.
“He fought bravely, and he died with his sword in his hand,” he tells the sobbing woman whose green eyes swim in tears. “He’s in Valhalla now, so you should be glad.”
He sounds almost sympathetic to his standards. But as soon as his gaze lights on you over Astrid’s shoulder, his crude features contort with anger.
“What do you want?” he growls, his eyes piercing into yours, and Astrid and the other bystanders involuntarily take a step back.
“I want to know what happened to Geralt,” you say, determinedly raising your chin.
“Geralt?” the man barks full of contempt, moving further toward you until he towers over your smaller form. “I don’t give a rat's ass about Geralt and what happened to him, and you shouldn’t either!”
“He’s my husband!”
“He’s a TRAITOR!" he shouts, drops of spit flying from his mouth. "A fuckin’ dirty traitor! He was supposed to win this battle for us! He’s in league with the evil, if he’s not the evil himself! And what did he do? NOTHING! They just trapped and slayed us, and there was no forewarning, no magic! NOTHING! Men died because of him; good men!”
“That’s not how it works,” you object, involuntarily shuddering his foul breath reaches your nostrils.
The spells Geralt can cast are powerful, without doubt. They help him fight all sorts of monsters, human or not. But never could they gain the victory in a battle of two whole armies, on an unclear field full of people, ambushment and chaos.
“SHUT UP!” Gorm’s voice echoes through the village. “What do YOU know?!”
“He’s my husband,” you repeat emphatically, returning his piercing gaze as calm as possible. “And I need to know what happened to him. Please!” you even add - a final attempt to make him yield.
Your motionless posture is the exact opposite of Gorm, who begins to circle you, cornering you.
“Of course!” he snarls. “Once the child of a witch, and now the darn witcher's mate! Makes you basically a witch yourself, right? So, you probably knew what he was up to! Maybe you’re even cahoots with him! Probably going to cast your spell on us too, aren’t you?”
While you slowly turn around so as not to lose sight of Gorm, you also see all the people who have gathered around the two of you. Strangers, but mostly villagers. People you have known for your whole life. And they just stand there, watching in silence. With their arms crossed and their eyes squinted.
You realize Gorm isn’t going to tell you what happened to Geralt. And you realize he could just raise his sword against you right here and now, and no one would come to your help. No one.
And it’s that moment when you abandon your usual caution, allowing a wintery smile to curl your lips.
“Are you scared, Gorm?” you ask, and your smile deepens as his jaw goes slack for the blink of an eye.
Yes, one glance into his eyes tells you. He is indeed scared of you.
However, he regains his composure quickly.
“Scared?” he sneers. “I don't see anything to be scared of! All I see is Fenrir’s whore-”
“ENOUGH!” you cut him off. And you clench your fists as burning anger slashes its way through your veins.
“Have you already forgotten about everything?” you raise your voice. And this time, you speak to all of them, looking them straight in the eyes, one by one. “You knocked on our door whenever you needed our help! You came to us! And we never turned you away! We helped you! Every single time! And this is your thanks?!”
Some of them just stare at you. Some seem to have at least the spark of a bad consciousness, and they avert their gazes so as not to look you in the eye. But they remain silent as well.
Silence is the only answer you get. Still, it hurts in your ears. And it leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.
You know it’s the end of your life in this village and among these people. Because there is no longer a place for you here. And maybe there has never been such a place.
A small bitter smile curls the corners of your mouth, and after a last look, you turn away, walking toward your hut with measured steps.
The sound of metal brushing along leather is whisper quiet. And still, it seems to echo in the silence on the village square, making you stop dead in your tracks.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” you say loudly, keeping your gaze straightforward. And the sound stops instantly.
As you turn around, you see Gorm’s hand dwelling on his sword, frozen halfway as he pulled it out of its sheath.
“Oh, really?” he sneers.
“Really,” you retort casually. “And I’m going to tell you what you will do instead. You will let me walk to my hut, and you will let me get my things and my horse. You will let me leave without hindering me. And if you or anyone else tries to stop me or harm me, I will curse you and everyone in this village. I will curse the village itself. I will do it with my very last breath. I will do it either from this world or from another. But I will do it, and I’d think about it if I were you, Gorm Ulfsson. Think carefully!”
Your voice has begun to quaver with wrath, and you watch with some kind of morbid fascination how their eyes go wide, and the color disappears from their stupid faces. And it wouldn’t have taken much for you to burst out laughing.
Instead, you dart another black look at them before you spin around and continue your way to your hut.
The door of your home is open, your hut empty, as the refugees also took to their heels in the face of your ostensible malice.
After you close the door behind you, escaping the hostile eyes, you lean your back against the wall for a brief moment. And your heart pounds like mad as your trembling hands brush your hair behind your ears.
That was close! Dangerously close.
But even the touch of relief you feel doesn’t last for long, and you know it’s just a question of time until they'll come back to their senses and see through your bluff.
You hastily swap your shawl against your warm cloak, and then, you grab your bundle. Your bow and arrow. The long hunting knife Geralt left behind for you. And you get on the tips of your toes to angle for the little bag hanging at the ceiling, among other little bags full of dried herbs. As you tuck it into your belt, the scent of thyme fills your nostrils, and the weight of the silver coins sewn into the fabric feels somehow soothing.
As you stand at the doorstep, you can’t prevent your gaze from wandering through your hut - the place you have called your home for as long as you can remember. The place where you took your first steps. The place where you learned how to speak and how to cure wounds and to brew elixirs. The place where the woman you called mother died. The place where you saved Geralt’s life and the place where he kissed you - for the first time and for countless other times. And maybe also for the last time in this life.
As the aching lump of memories in your throat threatens to choke you, you squeeze your eyes shut.
Don’t let it take control, Little Bird.
I won’t, my love, you promise silently. I won’t.
And then, you walk out the door.
The remaining villagers, who haven’t flown yet, have gathered at a safe distance from your hut. They watch you motionless and in silence, how you open the barn and how you load and saddle your horse.
And they watch you ride past them. You hold Björna's reigns in one hand, letting your free hand dwell on your thigh. And you fight back a smirk as you look down at Gorm and Edda and the others, who stare at your hand as if they feared you could raise it to curse them any second.
However, your whole body is tense like a bowstring as you turn your back on them, expecting to feel an arrow or an ax spearing you any moment. And it’s only when you reach the spot behind the last longhouse where the path disappears between trees and bushes, that you breathe a silent sigh of relief.
“Burn it down!” Gorm's voice reaches your ears, and as you spur Björna on and the two of you disappear further into the forest, the smell of smoke already floods your nostrils. But you don’t look back.
After a few miles, the forest thins out, and as the path furcates in front of you, you bring your mare to a halt.
You longingly stare toward the West, where the sun is already low, the almost clear sky just turning a soft orange.
There is peace in the West. There are villages and towns where you could take refuge. And maybe there is even a place for you to stay. Somewhere.
Nevertheless, you turn Björna around, spurring her on as you take the opposite direction.
In front of you, in the East, where Jarl Erik’s men have already brought death and destruction, the smoke of burning villages darkens the sky.
You know that death and destruction lurk on your way as well. And still, it’s the only way for you.
Because there, in the East, is a place where Geralt is. A place where you’ll find him.
Summary: You have a special Christmas gift for August, and you have to deal with the consequences.
Word count: 1k
Warnings: Silly fluff. A tiny bit smutty. Brief mentions of p in v sex, restraints and gagging. Still 18+ and NSFW. Reserved parents. August being a bit of a dick (which is not much of a surprise, but we love him anyway, right?) More fluff.
A/N: Lovelies, please feel free to have a share in the results of my recent spare time. A bit more Glühwein than necessary might have been involved. Happy Holidays everyone❣️🎄
Divider: by saradika
Now of all times, the Christmas oldie playing in the background has faded away. And before a new song comes in, the crackling of the logs in the fireplace is the only sound to be heard.
You sit on the floor by the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, amidst gift wraps and boxes. And up to this point, this morning has been nothing less than heavenly.
After he told, or rather ordered you to stay in bed, August entrenched himself in the kitchen. And as you woke up after another nap, the scent of coffee and crêpes wafted through the house.
He loves to cook for you, and whenever he’s at home, he spoils you with new and exceptional dishes as well as your favorites. His eyes dwell on you when you have a taste, drinking in your reactions, gleaming with pleasure when you commend his creations or smile with relish.
When you were allowed to join him in the kitchen, you gaped at all the delicacies he had prepared. And after an opulent breakfast, you took yourselves to the living room.
It’s your favorite place in your chalet, very cozy and with a lovely view of the mountains and the snowy forrest. And while more snow was falling outside, turning the world into a winter wonderland, you cozied up by the fireplace to exchange gifts.
You could watch for hours how your husband unwraps the gifts you got for him. How gently his fingers skim along the gift package - along the shiny wrappers and the ribbons that took you more time than you’re willing to admit. How he carefully unwraps it instead of plainly tearing it open. How his eyes shine when the content comes to light, regarding the gift in awe. And how he expresses his gratitude in gentle kisses and loving smiles rather than many words.
However, at this moment, there's not the hint of a smile to be seen on his face. Instead, he scowls - brows knitted and lips compressed.
“Are you serious, Princess?” he growls, raising his reproachful gaze from the box in his lap.
It's not that the gift lacks thoughtfulness nor effort.
It might have taken you not as much effort as it took to fill the pages of the beautiful notebook with his favorite poems - a gift that rendered him speechless earlier.
Nevertheless, you had browsed multiple stores to find this extraordinarily… ugly Christmas sweater for him. But as soon as you saw it, you knew this had to be the one. Because this one has it all: Santa, Christmas trees, snowflakes, bobbles, ornaments, candy canes, and even a reindeer with a glowing red nose. It looks hilarious; sensory overload at its finest.
“Of course, I’m serious, Auggie. Why wouldn’t I be?” you purr, looking at him with big, innocent eyes.
The look you get in return is piercing, and still you hold his gaze for what feels like an eternity. Until the corners of his mouth twitch, giving away what you already knew.
And you burst into a side-splitting laughter while he watches you with a big grin on his handsome face, indulgently shaking his head. At first.
But then, he pounces on you, and once again, he underestimates his force. Or maybe he doesn’t. Either way, his body clashes against yours, and the impact knocks you over on your back. And your squeak turns into a dull sound as the air is pushed out of your lungs.
“That was a big mistake,” he huffs as his body pins you to the ground where the thick carpet and a sea of pillows cushioned your fall.
He shifts until he lies on top of you, and your legs and arms wrap around him as if by themselves, his chest pressed against your aching breasts.
After the past days, your whole body carries traces of him, telling about the extent of his love and his lust he showered you with. Nonetheless, you still ache for him, ache for him to devour you, and as his hardening cock throbs against your clit, only separated by two thin layers of loungewear, all you want is to have him pull down your pants and force himself into your slick opening.
“Big mistake,” he repeats with gritted teeth as his lips ghost yours and his whiskers scrape along your skin. “Because you’ll see this… atrociousness of a sweater quite often from now on, especially when you don’t expect it. That’s a promise, my love! And maybe I should start just now… and tie you up with it. Or gag you so no one hears you scream and beg when I eat you out until you can’t take it anymore,” he drawls, and you can’t decide if this is a promise or a threat.
“Auggie,” you whisper, longingly craning your neck to feel his lips.
“Aw, Princess,” he coos, feigning pity as he strings you along once more. “You should have known better than that.”
And then, he smashes his mouth on yours.
Two days later, your cheeks still feel heated whenever you think about the naughty things one can do with a Christmas sweater. And since your sore limbs are a constant reminder, you think about it a lot.
August darts a suggestive glance at you as he notices your stiffness while helping you take off your coat. The Michelin-starred restaurant where you’re supposed to meet your parents for your bi-annual lunch is fully occupied today. You've already spotted them sitting at a table by the window, dressed in formal attire as always, and you raise your hand to wave at them as you wait for August to take off his coat.
Both of them look in your direction, and although you’ve gotten used to the fact that they’re not exactly fond of August and your life choices, they seem even less enthusiastic than usual.
Today, their postures are downright frozen, their expressions bewildered. Your mother’s jaw has even dropped, and as you turn to your husband, you instantly know why.
You find yourself eye to eye with Rudolph and his glowing nose, as August has chosen to wear the fuckin' ugly Christmas sweater to his dress pants instead of his custom-made shirts. And you fail to fight back a very unladylike snort.
Your husband, however, returns your dumbfounded look with a nonchalant smile.
“Composure, princess!” he admonishes you, and you’re probably the only person who knows how hard he tries to stifle a laugh at this moment.
“See, I keep every promise I make,” he smirks, reaching out for your hand to put it on his arm.
And as he ushers you to the table like a real gentleman, ready to give your parents another reason to dislike him, his thumb tenderly brushes over the wedding ring on your finger.
Summary: Walter and you are still madly in love, and he takes you on another surprise vacation.
Word count: 8k. Oops.
Warnings: 18+, NSFW, fluff, BDSM (if that’s not your cup of tea, please feel free to keep scrolling!), Dom!Walter, Sub!Reader, body insecurities, a BDSM club, a sex bench, collar and leash, mention of various toys, spanking, degradation, praise, oral (m receiving), p in v sex, body fluids, aftercare, more fluff.
A/N: Hideaway is a loosely connected series of vacation smut and fluff with Walter🐻. It’s set in the The Light Side Of The Night universe, but you can read it without having read the series or the preceding Hideaway chapters (Part 1 Part 2). Which tells you how much of a plot you can expect here 😆
I started to write this as a fluffy birthday gift fic, but then things went a little sideways, and I had to change plans. Anyway, this is what I ended up with, and I hope you'll still like it. Merry Christmas, lovelies! ❤️
Dividers: by firefly-graphics
This man will never cease to surprise you.
A smile lingers on your lips, and you press the big gift box to your heart as you make your way to the bathroom of your hotel suite.
It has become a bit of a tradition for Walter and you to sneak off when the year is coming to an end - for a little break from the hectic world and time just for the two of you. It has also become a tradition that he plans those vacations, surprising you on a random day after work with a trunk full of packed bags and a fully fueled tank, ready to take you away.
Your destination is usually a lovely cabin by one of the numerous lakes near your hometown, where you spend a week or two secluded from the rest of the world, in a little bubble with the big bear who owns your heart.
But this time, your brows furrowed with confusion as he took the highway in the opposite direction, toward the airport. You were speechless as you stood at the gate with the name of the city you had always wanted to visit during Christmas time, ever since you were little. And not a single word left your lips as you hugged him and nuzzled your face against his woolen scarf in an attempt to hide the silly tears brimming your eyes. You felt his smile against your temple as he clasped you in his arms, engulfing your form in his coat.
“Surprise successful, little Sparrow?” he mumbled into your ear, and you raised your head with a breathless laugh.
“How can you even ask? Of course, it’s more than successful! Thank you so much, Bear! You’re the best!”
“Just wait until we get there!” he grinned, and as he pressed his lips to yours, you could only silently guess that even more surprises were waiting for you.
And you were right, although none of it would have been necessary. Neither the museum, nor the Christmas market, nor the restaurants. Not even the ice skating on the romantic vintage ice rink, under fairy lights, and in front of the impressive skyline. None of all that would have been necessary as long as you could be there with him.
You’ve been drifting through the strange city for a few days now, oddly unaffected by the hustle and bustle since you don’t have to worry about deadlines and meetings and appointments. And you can watch, day by day, how more of the weight his job puts on his shoulders melts away from Walter. How his features soften, and his shoulders relax, and how that sparkle returns to his ocean eyes.
When he handed you the gift box a few minutes ago, his eyes also shone with mischief.
“Why don’t you go and get ready for tonight?” he smirked.
“Okay?” Your reply was more of a question, but curiosity had long seized you up, and you spun around and made your way to the luxurious bathroom that is bigger than the living room of your former apartment.
You place the box on the edge of the bathtub before you lift the lid, and the contents make you gasp with surprise.
A pair of strappy panties. In a pretty pastel shade and with so little fabric, you’re not sure they even deserve to be called panties.
The next thing you notice is the absence of a matching bra - which becomes perfectly self-explanatory as you unfold the next item - a dress with a cowl neck at the front and a very, very low-cut back.
Your man's intentions aren’t hard to guess, and anticipation begins to flood your veins. It makes you feel all warm, and it paints dimples on your cheeks and a smirk on your face while you strip off your fluffy bathrobe and begin to dress.
The panties look… good. Even you have to admit that. A tiny piece of lace barely covers your mound, and an alluring pattern of straps frames your hips and your butt. Nothing more. It’s one of those panties you don’t have to pull down or even aside when you get down to business, and you smile at your reflection in the mirror, picturing Walter’s face when you strip off the dress.
But first, you have to put the dress on.
That you do, and a few minutes later, the smile vanishes from your face.
“Oh no!” you mutter quietly, staring at your reflection in horror. “No, no, no!”
The dress is too tight. It's not a sexy kind of too tight, but rather a “it doesn’t fit” too tight. And the more you tug at the hem and turn and twist in front of the mirror, the worse it looks.
You can’t help that tears flood your eyes as you hastily shirk off the dress and fold it to put it back into the gift box. The label tells you it’s a dress from one of those designer stores where you stand in front of the shop windows without even going inside as you’d never spent half of your monthly income on a dress. And apparently, you will never do so because although the dress is the size you normally wear, you’re obviously not made for designer dresses. Hopefully, Walter can return it!
Gosh, you know how much he hates shopping, and it probably took him a great deal of effort to pick the dress for you! And now he’s looking forward to seeing you wear it, and it doesn’t fucking fit!
And before you know it, a tear spills over, rolling down your cheek. As you shuffle on your bathrobe, you turn your back on the mirror, hell-bent on ignoring the view you regarded with favor just a few minutes ago. And then, you sit down on the edge of the bathtub, pondering on what to do. Or maybe you’re just stalling the moment when you have to come out of the bathroom.
“Y/N? Are you okay?” Walter calls from outside at some point.
“Um… yeah,” you reply, hastily rubbing your eyes with your sleeve, but you can’t prevent your voice from wobbling a bit.
“May I come in?”
He sounds worried. Of course, he had noticed something was off. And you take a deep breath before you answer him.
“I-it’s open.”
The door opens a millisecond later, and in rushes your worried boyfriend, dressed in black dress pants and a black shirt - two buttons undone and definitely a contrast to his usual cozy sweaters.
He looks stunning. So stunning you forget about your misery for a moment. But as he crouches down in front of you, cradling your cheek with his paw, your attempt to smile at him fails soundly.
“Hey,” he mumbles soothingly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to wear it if you don't like it. I just thought-”
“I like it,” you object, averting your gaze and clenching your teeth to keep your chin from quivering. “But it doesn’t fit. It’s too tight.”
“Ah, shoot, I’m so sorry,” he apologizes. “Did I get the wrong size? I thought I checked…”
He feels guilty. You can see it in the way he hunches his shoulders and compresses his lips. It’s the last thing you wanted, and your body trembles with a little sniffle you fail to suppress.
“The size is right. M-maybe it runs smaller. Or I’m too-” Your muttered words are instantly cut off by his palm pressing on your lips.
“No toos,” he admonishes you sternly. “Especially not when it comes to your body. You’re beautiful, and I adore every inch of you, okay?”
His arms sneak around you, his hands caressing the line of your chin and your shoulders, your arms and your waist. While his eyes reassure you that he means what he says. You know that he does, and never had he given rise to doubts. But still, you sometimes need to hear him say it, just like today. And you throw yourself into the safe haven of his arms, nuzzling your face against the warm skin of his neck for a few minutes.
“You can wear any other outfit you have here, and you’ll look just as beautiful, okay?” he mumbles in his deep velvet voice, and you give a quiet sigh.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe he’s not. Either way, you can’t let a stupid dress ruin the evening for you, right?
“Then let me go pick something else real quick. I hope we’re not too late yet?” you say as you pull yourself together.
“Take your time,” he reassures you, planting a kiss on your lips. “The driver will wait for us.”
“The what?” you ask, flabbergasted. Did he really…?
A smug smile playing on his lips and a raised eyebrow tell you, yes that he did. And then, he grabs your wrist, pulling you close to him.
“Wait,” he mutters, his eyes roaming your face, lingering on your mouth.
You wrap your arms around his neck as his lips find yours, and he gently nibbles and sucks on your bottom lip before his tongue glides along your soft flesh, demanding entrance.
His kiss makes you sigh, dispelling the rest of your frustration about the dress from your mind. Sometimes, you need to hear him say certain things. And sometimes, you need to feel them.
“How long exactly will the driver wait for us?” you whisper at some point as he brushes his nose along yours.
“Umm, I don’t know, to be honest,” Walter admits with a sheepish grin.
“Okay, I’ll hurry up,” you promise, planting another kiss on his lips before you withdraw from him. “The panties fit, by the way,” you casually say with a look over your shoulder just before you leave the room.
You’re more than pleased to see his jaw drop, and your shoulders shake with a boisterous giggle as you make your way to the bedroom.
As you stand in front of the closet, you brush your fingertips along the dresses, pants, and blouses hanging there. Since sexy seems to be tonight’s motto, you finally decide on a light knit dress that is exactly the right kind of tight, hugging your curves in a very flattering way. A low neckline and a belt accentuating your waist compromise the long sleeves, and combined with the right shoes, it should live up to the standard.
After you hurriedly change your clothes and fix your hair and makeup, you enter the living room with a little tingle in the pit of your stomach. And the tingle spreads into every fiber of your body as Walter’s gaze lights on you.
He doesn’t speak a word at first, but you can almost feel his gaze wandering over your form and the deep affection in his gaze. Then, he steps toward you until he’s so close your breasts almost touch his chest, locking eyes with you.
“You look stunning,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and his touch makes goosebumps blossom on your neck.
“So do you,” you whisper, shivering under his fingers.
He really does, with his carefully groomed beard and unruly curls, and his chest hair peeking out at the collar of his shirt right at your eye level - a sight that makes you wish you could unbutton his shirt further, and feel his body pressed flush against you, feel his hair rub against your bare breasts when he thrusts into you and his mouth devours yours.
All of a sudden, you’re overly aware of your own body, of the sexy lingerie underneath your dress and of your reaction to him, of your pebbled nipples and the catch in your breath, and of the heat and the wetness beginning to pool between your legs. And you longingly squeeze your thighs together while your hands hold onto the clutch bag as if for dear life.
“You’re gonna be the death of me one day,” he mutters at some point, making both of you snap out of your trance.
He plants a chaste kiss on your lips before grabbing your coat with a crooked smile.
“Shall we?”
And you giggle like two silly teenagers as you get dressed and hurry out of your hotel room.
In the elevator cab, you keep a little distance for good measure, staring at the buttons and labeling to distract yourself from that urge to hit the stop switch so he could spin you around and pin you to the wall, ruck up your dress and fuck you right here and there.
The strangers boarding the elevator on the way down and passing the crowded lobby help a bit, and as you make your way outside, a porter instantly waves for the driver of the top-of-the-range car waiting on the side of the driveway. And once again, you’re all eyes.
At this point of your vacation, you’ve lost count of how many times you asked yourself or Walter how much this whole trip must have cost. And you’ve lost count of how many times he determinedly stopped you.
“It’s not like we’re doing this often, is it?” he stated. “I mean, I’ve dragged you along to some cabins for a vacation for years now.”
“You know that I love the cabins, right?”
“I know. And I also know you’ve always dreamed of visiting this place, and I want you to enjoy our time here without worrying. Can you do that for me, little Sparrow? Just enjoy and let me spoil you?”
You decided that you can do that, and so you slide into the backseat next to your man without asking questions.
The smile curving Walter’s lips upwards lets you know that he’s absolutely not going to let you know where you’re going. It also reminds you how much he loves playing with you like that, keeping you on your toes, and how much you love to let him take over and lead the way.
Contrary to you, the driver obviously knows your destination, and even though the streets with their festive decorations and lighting fly by the window, the drive seems endless to you. You fidget with the sleeves of your coat until Walter reaches for your hand, interlocking your fingers. His hand feels so nice and warm, and you dart a thankful glance at him as you try to relax a bit.
After a while, you recognize the busy streets of the nightlife district where you visited a sports bar two days ago for hot wings, beer, and the ice hockey match you knew Walter would love to watch - at least a little surprise from you to your bear who grinned like a little boy on Christmas Eve, even more when he saw the personally signed jerseys of some NHL [National Hockey League] legends plastering the walls.
Tonight, the car pulls into a sidestreet, stopping in front of a well-maintained but rather plain building. At least plain as regards the exterior. The interior, however, seems to be anything but plain.
Scarlet, says the elegantly curved lettering on the lit-up sign, and that’s when you know where you are. The Scarlet is a BDSM club, one of the fancy and almost famous kind, and although it wasn’t the reason why you wanted to visit this city, you had heard of it before. And all of a sudden, your mouth feels as dry as the desert as you try to swallow.
You feel Walter’s eyes lingering on you, and you turn toward him to meet his gaze. His ocean eyes inquiringly roam your face.
“Do you know where we are?” he asks. His voice is deep and firm. And it’s calling for an answer.
“Yes,” you breathe with burning cheeks, and you can’t help but feel thankful that a pane separates you from the driver.
“That’s good. Now, I want you to listen carefully. You alone decide how this evening goes. If you don't want to stay here, the driver will take us to a nice restaurant at the harbor. I've reserved a table for us there. Or we can go inside. I've also made a reservation for us here. If we go inside, you also decide what we do at the club. It’s all up to you, little Sparrow, and I want you to know that any choice you make is fine with me.”
While he spoke, warmth has spread through your veins, suffusing you with all your love for this man. The amount of thought and care for you he invests is so… him, and it’s exactly the reason why you trust him with all your heart.
“Thank you for leaving the choice to me, Bear. I really appreciate it,” you begin, squeezing his hand. And then, you need to take a deep breath before you can continue. “I think I would like to go inside.”
You had expressed your wish to visit a club like this one a while ago. And although Walter was essentially on board, a few obstacles were restraining you from putting your wish into practice up to this point. It was mainly the fact that there was only one club near your hometown, and none of you wanted to take the risk of running into a familiar face. But here and now, hundreds of miles away from home, in a city with more than a million people, that risk is virtually zero.
And the sudden rush of nervousness sending your heart racing is soothed by the kiss he presses to the inside of your wrist.
“I love you,” you say softly, brushing your fingers along the slight curls on his temple where his hair blends into his beard.
“I love you, too,” he says with a smile, planting another kiss on your wrist.
It’s only when he knocks against the pane between the backseat and the driver that you remember you’re not alone here.
As the driver opens the door for you, you mumble your thanks, giving him a shy smile. And after Walter gives the man a generous tip, he takes your hand, guiding you toward the scarlet-red carpet leading the way to the entrance.
Inside the club, the color scarlet dominates the rooms as well - the reception area, a fireplace room serving as a joint between the stairs to the upper floors, the bar, and a room that looks like a showroom with a stage you just snatch a glance at through the thick velvet curtains at the door. More red fabric decorates the walls and the ceiling, along with chandeliers and scrolls, weaving an erotic atmosphere like a tale straight from the Moulin Rouge - both alluring and a bit intimidating, as you must admit to yourself. And once again, you’re thankful for Walter’s hand embracing yours.
“So, I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink first,” he says after clearing his throat, and the touch of insecurity in his voice suddenly reminds you that, even though he planned this night, it’s still his first visit to a club as well.
Maybe he’s nervous, too.
“That sounds like a good idea,” you reassure him, and you brush your thumb over the heel of his hand as you stroll to the bar.
You order two glasses of a Cabernet Sauvignon, and then you make your way to one of the few unoccupied bar tables. And the smile you share as you clink your glasses is a bit relieved and conspiratorial at the same time.
You take a careful sip, letting the dark red liquid roll over your tongue for a moment as the aroma of black currant and dark chocolate floods your mouth. As you put your glass down on the table, you let your eyes discreetly roam the room and the other guests.
It seems to be a couples-only club, and most of the other tables are occupied, some by small groups, some by couples like you. There’s a slow but constant coming and going between the different rooms, and you’re a bit relieved to see there are so many different people that you can just blend in. Of course, there’s patent leather and fetishwear to be seen, but also guests who are dressed in suits and sexy dresses. And of course, there are people looking like models from a fashion magazine, but there are also ordinary people like you.
After you finished your look around the room, you take another sip from your glass. And as you turn your attention back to Walter, you find his gaze fastened on you. Once you lock eyes with him, you can’t avert your gaze.
The whole room is bathed in warm, reddish lighting. It covers his form, blurring sharp lines and edges and darkening his eyes. He looks somehow strange and beguiling - almost seems like a different version of himself - and you don’t even notice that your lips involuntarily parted until his fingers brush your cheek.
He takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, relentlessly tilting it upwards, closer to him, until you have to put your head back. And then he holds you there, rubbing his thumb along your pliant bottom lip. The dominance in this casual touch draws a tiny sigh from your lips, and you feel yourself begin to melt for him.
The corners of his mouth twitch with satisfaction at your response, and then he leans in, tantalizingly slow, without easing his grip. And he keeps you on tenterhooks, letting you feel his warm breath, the hair of his beard as his lips ghost yours, and you wait with bated breath. As he dips his head, planting a kiss on your bottom lip, then on your upper lip, your eyes flutter shut. And your heart races in your chest as your lips melt into a languid kiss.
He holds you firmly in his grip as he kisses you for several minutes, and yet not long enough, somewhere between temptation and giving in. And as the kiss ends, as slowly as it began, he doesn’t let go of your chin, holding you for a few more heartbeats.
“Good girl,” he finally mumbles into your mouth as you keep still for him, planting another kiss on your lips before he releases you.
You can tell he revels in your reaction, how you blink as if you just woke up, how you gasp for air, and how you reach for your glass as if to steady yourself, and you’re pretty sure he also knows about the heat pulsing through your body.
And then he winks at you because he knows it never fails to make you laugh, and he pulls you into his arms, cradling you against his broad chest.
After you withdraw from each other, you notice that the room is slightly emptier than a few minutes ago.
“Yeah, it starts in five minutes,” you hear a woman passing by your table say to another.
“There’s a show in the room next door,” Walter explains. “A bondage and spanking session. Would you like to see it?”
Would you like to see another person getting tied up and spanked in a room full of people? you ask yourself. It might be a weird question at another place and time, but now, here, there’s the atmosphere of this place, and your body still verberates with Walter’s kiss and with your longing for more. And the answer is yes, you would like to see it.
The showroom next door is even more dimly-lit than the rest of the club, and small table lamps illuminate the numerous booths. The heavy red stage curtains are still closed, and Walter guides you to a booth in the back of the room, letting you slide onto the cushioned bench seat first. He puts his arm around your shoulders, and you snuggle to his side as you sip your red wine and you quietly talk about this and that while you watch the other guests take their seats.
Some guests look around discreetly, and as the eyes of a man dwell on you a tad longer than necessary, Walter’s hand absentmindedly caressing your arm pauses. As you dart a glance at him, you see that he’s scowling, probably making the other man hastily avert his gaze.
“So possessive,” you mumble into his ear, gently running your hand over his thigh, and your bear grumbles quietly, pulling you closer to him.
“You’re all mine, little sparrow.”
“I’m yours,” you reassure him, gasping for air as his fingers dig into the flesh of your butt.
And then he kisses you, hard and demanding, lending more weight to those words, and he doesn’t let you pull away as the light is dimmed further and music comes in.
When you’re able to turn your attention back to the front of the room, you see that the show has already begun.
A man and a woman have entered the stage. The man is type tall, dark, and handsome, dressed in a pair of ripped jeans that show off his bare torso, which is covered in hyperrealistic horror-themed tattoos.
His playmate is curvy in the best way possible, rocking a red harness, garter belt, and high heels. Her thick brown curls framing her doll-like face bob slightly as she’s tied to the man-high Saint Andrew’s cross on the small stage. After the locks of the cuffs have snapped shut, fixating her with her hands stretched out above her head and her legs widely spread, her chest heaves and her body squirms.
Her partner presses a kiss to her lips, deep and passionate. They look amazing together, and a few seconds later, the man interrupts the kiss to smack her face. The slapping sound and her gaps echo through the room, marking the beginning of the session.
The session itself is a mix of a few classics - candle wax, a ball gag, a flogger, degradation. Its zest is not novelty. Instead, it’s the atmosphere, weaving a scene like a wet dream with light and music and the chemistry of the couple on the stage. They go well together, effortlessly letting the audience eat up that they love what they’re doing here.
The scene sucks you in, feeding the little voyeurist in you while recalling the sensations of the things Walter did with you and that you now long for.
While you watch, your hand wanders up and down his beefy thigh. The soft fabric is lighter than his usual jeans, letting you feel the heat of his body and the play of his muscles.
As you dart a glance at him, he seems controlled, his expression not giving away much. Nevertheless, there's a tension in his muscles, a visible ticking in his jaw. His eyes are directed at the stage, but his fingers languidly brush along your arm, and his leg presses against yours - and you can tell he is somehow caught up between the things you and the show on the stage do to him.
The man on the stage has tied the woman around by now, turning his attention to her behind. And both of you watch spellbound how the flogger makes her flesh jiggle, painting more and more red marks on her ass with every lash.
The sight makes you bite your lip, and you hear Walter take a deep breath, slowly releasing the air from his lungs. His reaction makes more heat shoot to your core, and you lean in, bringing your lips to his ear.
“Do you like what you see?” you whisper softly.
He turns his gaze to you, his eyes dark. His eyes roam your features, unhurriedly drinking you in, and it’s only when you’re a few moments shy of squirming under his intense gaze that he answers your question.
“I like what I see,” he says, his eyes still fastened on you.
You chuckle silently, involuntarily averting your gaze that drifts to the stage since that was what you actually meant.
“I was just imagining how you’d look like that for me. Tied up to a pretty little package when I spank your ass,” Walter mumbles into your ear, his beard gently scraping against your earlobe.
You can’t stop the gasp escaping your lips, and you feel rather than see him smile.
“Would you like that, hm?” he purrs.
“Yes!”
“Would you like that now?”
Your quizzical gaze searches his.
“I made a reservation for one of the private rooms upstairs. In case you want to do more than watch,“ he explains in a low voice, his eyes capturing your gaze. “Would you like to play with me, little Sparrow?”
You don't wait till the end of the show. Instead, you more or less sneak out of the showroom. What you’re up to is probably more than obvious, but this isn’t exactly a place to worry about being obvious.
At a first glance, the private room looks almost like a first-class hotel room with a fireplace, a dark leather couch, and a king-size bed. Aside from equipment you normally don't get to see in hotels.
However, the second glance has to wait a few more minutes until you return from the en-suite bathroom, complete with a rainshower and a hot tub.
As you wash your hands, you check your appearance in the mirror. Your hair and makeup look still fine, and your eyes shine with anticipation - countless tiny sparks you can also feel in your whole body.
After you return, Walter briefly excuses himself as well, which gives you the chance to have a closer look around the room.
The most conspicuous piece of furniture is, without doubt, the black sex bench next to the bed. It almost looks like an alteration of a massage table, just shorter, and it comes with restraints to fixate you in a kneeling position. Your fingertips skim the black leather, and you slightly shiver as heat sloshes through your veins in powerful waves you’re not ready to submit to yet.
And you step to a table where various items are laid on - lube, condoms, vibrators and plugs, gags and cuffs, paddles and a flogger etc., etc. The sheer amount of possibilities could have made your head spin. If your gaze hadn’t got caught by a collar and a leash.
“Like what you see?” Walter’s voice reaches your ears, and as you turn around, you see him leaning against the door frame, smiling at you.
“I like what I see,” you smile, responding to his playfulness as you eye him up.
And you remain standing next to the table, only your gaze following him as he saunters to the couch and the teapoy with your wine glasses.
“Come here,” he says with a hoarse voice, and the measured clicking of your heels on the wooden floor is the only sound to be heard as you walk over to him. Even though you’re almost sure he can hear the beating of your heart drumming against your ribcage, too.
“Come here,” he says again as you’re within reach, and then he gently pulls you to sit in his lap.
You snuggle up against him for a moment, letting his warmth and his touch soothe your buzzing nerves. However, the kiss he plants on your lips stirs up more heat, and you press yourself against him, contentedly swallowing his groan as his tongue glides into your mouth.
Just before the kiss can morph into a tongue-fuck, Walter withdraws, smirking when he sees your disappointed expression.
“Needy little Sparrow,” he hums affectionately, capturing your chin between his fingers to keep your gaze locked with his. “Are you ready to play with me?”
“I’m ready, Bear,” you breathe, and you can’t help but squirm a bit in his firm grip.
“Mhmm, I can tell,” he drawls. “Tell me your safe word first.”
“My safeword is parachute.”
“What do you do if you want me to stop and you can’t speak?”
“I snap my fingers.”
“That’s right. Do you know that I love you?” he finally asks, stroking your cheek.
“I do. And I love you, too. So much!” you whisper.
“That’s my girl! Now go back to the table.”
His voice is still mellifluous as ever, but the undertone is command, clear and irresistible. And ridiculously enough, you feel a little weak in the knees as you make your way over to the table.
“I want you to grab something you like and bring it to me. Don’t think about it too much.”
And once again, it’s obvious how well he knows you. You grab the collar and the leash, your eyes involuntarily searching for his approval as you walk back to him.
He remains silent, but his smirk and the way his teeth dig into the inside of his lip tell you what you need to know.
“Put it down on the table... Strip off your clothes.”
His commands are curt, coming fast after another, and they leave no room for questions, no room for thinking about anything else. And it’s exactly what you crave.
You’re aware that he attentively watches your every movement as you undo your belt and take off your dress. Your shoes. And your tights. It doesn’t escape you that a quiet groan falls from his lips as he sees you in the itty-bitty panties he picked for you and the almost matching bra you chose tonight, both pastel-colored and sweet and girlish and a bit of an odd contrast to the dark and seductive surrounding.
As you reach for the clasp in your back to undo your bra, you slightly turn your side to him, granting him a better view of your butt as you toss your bra aside on the armchair. And when you turn back around to face him, it doesn’t escape you that his jaw has dropped and his hand clutches the armrest, absentmindedly running over the fabric as if it were your thigh. However, you hardly get the chance to smirk at the sight of your speechless bear.
“Get on your knees.”
And you drop to your knees, thankful for the edge of the Persian rug cushioning the floor.
“Hand me the collar... Take your hands behind your back.”
At this point, his voice and his commands have left you smoldering, and the sensation of his touch as he puts the collar around your neck is the final spark that makes you burst into flames. And your chest heaves with hasty breaths as he brushes your hair aside and checks if the collar isn’t too tight before he hooks the leash into the ring.
At first, the leather feels cool on your skin, but it quickly absorbs the heat of your body. The collar puts gentle pressure on your throat, not in an uncomfortable way, but enough to constantly remind you that it’s there, letting you feel that he holds the strings. That you’re all his.
And you moan with lust and surprise as he tightens his grip around the leash while his other hand grabs your breasts, roughly squeezing and kneading your flesh, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers. Then, he captures your mouth in a kiss as rough as his touch, landing two well-aimed slaps on your breasts a few seconds later before he smashes his lips back on yours to swallow the rest of your cries.
“Good fuckin’ girl... looking so pretty in those panties for me,” he mumbles contentedly, pecking your lips. “Now unbutton my shirt.”
A tug at your leash makes you scoot closer. And your hands tremble ever-so-slightly as they undo one button after another. Your fingers slide into his shirt, eager to feel the warm skin and soft hair you expose. You dart a careful glance at him, unsure if you’re allowed to do so. But your bear seems to enjoy your touch, humming quietly, and once his shirt is undone, another tug at your leash pulls you closer for a kiss. He holds you in place as his teeth scratch over your bottom lip and he pinches your nipples, drinking in your whining.
“Now my pants,” he urges, pulling you back, and your hands instantly go to work.
Both of you moan quietly as your fingers trace the bulge in the soft fabric, marveling at how hard he already is for you. He raises his hips for you to pull down the smart pants along with his boxer briefs, and after his clothes fly in the same direction as yours earlier, all you want is to put your hands, your mouth, back on him. And just when you set about doing exactly that, a harsh tug on your leash stops you.
“Not so fast! What might it be that you’re craving, hm?” he drawls, raising an eyebrow.
“I want you in my mouth,” you breathe.
“And do good girls get what they want without asking nicely?”
“No.”
“So?” Another raised eyebrow. Stern and playful at the same time. And so goddamn sexy.
“May I put you in my mouth? Please, Bear?” you beg him, and you see his expression soften ever-so-slightly at your nickname for him.
“That you may, greedy little Sparrow. Take your hands on your back!”
And then he wraps the leash around his fist, keeping it short as he guides your mouth onto his cock. He is rock-hard under silky skin, twitching and throbbing and oozing with precum, and the hoarse groan falling from his lips sounds almost tormented.
“Aaah, fuck!” he utters as he guides your mouth up and down his shaft. “Fuuuck!” And it’s not long until his hips begin to jerk upwards, until he thrusts deeper into your mouth, and his free hand clamps down on your throat.
“Taking me so well… so deep down your throat… yeah, right there,” he groans, running his hand over your throat bulging with his cock.
He’s pushing your limits, yours and his, playing with more and less, with no longer and not yet, with too much and not enough.
The game is tantalizing. Maddening in the best way possible. And as he withdraws from your mouth at some point, he lets the leash go slack, cupping your face in his hands to press a soft kiss on your swollen lips.
The kiss feels oddly out of place after he ravished your mouth just a few moments ago, making you gag and choke on his cock while tears and saliva spilled on your cheeks. And at the same time, it’s what you need, both of you.
“Good girl, you’re doing so good,” he praises, gently wiping your cheeks with his fingers. “Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”
“I’m good,” you confirm, nuzzling into his touch. “I’m just… I need…”
“Tell me!” Walter demands, now again more sternly. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need your hands on me,” you say, or maybe whimper. “I need you so bad. Please, Bear!”
“How do you need me to touch you, sweet little Sparrow?”
“I need you to spank me,” you whisper tonelessly, and your gaze involuntarily drifts to the sex bench next to the bed.
“Fuck!” he breathes. “That’s my girl! Come along, then. C’mon!”
But as you compose yourself to stand up, a harsh tug at your leash stops you.
“Did I say you could walk?” he drawls, and you gasp for air, hastily shaking your head. “Use your words!”
“N-no.”
“So?” he raises his eyebrow.
And you drop back on your hands and knees. Your face feels blazing hot as you slowly crawl over to the bench with Walter following on your heel, holding the leash in his hand. You hesitantly stop in front of the bench, which looks a bit intimidating from this point of view.
“Up!” Walter commands, tapping the surface with his hand as if he were talking to a dog, and you almost sob with shame as you climb up, whereas the insides of your thighs are wet with your juices. “Good girl! Now lie down for me!”
And you lie down, your bare torso on smooth leather, your hands and knees on the rests below, your legs spread wide. You let your forehead sink against the small headrest in front of you, briefly closing your eyes as you force yourself to take slow and deep breaths while Walter adjusts the bench to your size.
As the buckles of the restraints are closed around your wrists and ankles, strapping you down to the bench, he brushes your hair from your neck as he turns the collar around so the clasp of the leash faces backward. He repeatedly checks if it doesn’t put pressure on your windpipe. And then, a gentle tug makes you raise your head.
“Good?” he asks, searching your gaze.
“Good,” you reassure him, reveling in his expression that is both pure love and pure lust.
“You’re so beautiful,” he drawls now, planting a kiss on your lips. “So beautiful and all mine!” And he brushes his fingertips along your cheek. Then along your neck. Your spine.
A soft moan escapes your lips as he runs his palm across your butt, which is nowhere near covered by the straps of your panties. Down your thighs. And back up to your butt. His touch warms your skin, preparing you for what’s to come. It makes you gasp and squirm, making you overly aware of your constrained movement, of the fact that you’re completely and utterly at his mercy. And the same thoughts seem to run wild in his head.
You both love it when he ties you up, exposing your body, exposing you, in the most alluring way for him. For him to have his way with you, to do however he pleases.
“All mine to play with,” he mumbles as his hand reaches the insides of your thighs, slowly running higher until he reaches the wet traces of your arousal. And his groan makes you throw your head back while your body attempts to push back against him. To feel more of his fingers on you.
“So wet and so eager! Can’t wait to feel me, hm?” His deep voice echoes in your ears, his words carrying you away, just as much as his touch. And all you can do is nod. Before you remember to use your words, and what you say comes out as a desperate plea.
“Yes! Please, Bear, please!”
“Good girl! I’ll give you what you need, but you have to hold still for me. You’re getting ten spanks. Fewer than usual, so it doesn’t become too much for you. But I want you to count each and every one, and I want you to count loud and clear. If you forget one, there’ll be more. Okay?”
You breathe your consent, and a second later, his hand comes down on your butt with a full slapping noise, coaxing a small cry from you.
“One!” you utter as his big hand rubs your stinging cheek
He alternates between left and right, and as number three meets nearly the same spot as the first one, you feel your blood begin to sing underneath your skin - a delicious sensation from heat and prickling and stinging.
You love that he always uses his hand to spank you. It’s never a paddle or a flogger, but always his skin on yours. He needs to feel you, needs to feel your skin under his fingers, needs to feel the stinging against his palm. He needs to feel how your skin heats up further with every blow and how your flesh gives in when he rubs and squeezes it.
At number seven you throw your head back, whereas number eight makes a cry tumble from your mouth. It’s also the first slap you forget to count, just like number nine a few moments later.
Number ten, eleven, and twelve come at breakneck speed, one following close upon the other.
And then, you put your forehead down on the headrest to catch your breath while you soak up his soft praises, letting them envelop you and soothe you, counterpoising the adrenalin racing through your veins.
Your body, however, already has different things in mind. And you can’t help but squirm against Walter's palm, then against his fingers gracing your soaked folds. They brush your clit and dip into your opening, and your body screams for more, making you sob with yearning.
“You want my cock in your little pussy, hm? Want me to fuck you so bad…” he growls, and you stammer your answer, words turning into an almost-cry as he enters you in one firm thrust, fully sheathing himself in your heat.
He feels incredibly good inside you, filling you, completing you like no one else ever could. And your eyes roll back, your head tilting forward, only kept upright by the leash. His fingers dig into your skin as he grinds against you, and the hoarse groan rumbling in his chest must be the hottest sound you ever heard.
“Oh my God, fuck!” you moan as he slowly thrusts into you, hitting sweet spot after sweet spot.
For the next minutes, fuck all you can say as he builds a relentless rhythm and you take whatever he gives you, coarse thrusts and touches and words, pushing you further and further toward the edge. And then you can’t say anything at all as you’re close, so very close, and he’s right there with you.
The sounds tumbling from your mouths blend with each other as your pussy clenches and flutters around his cock, blurring your vision to velvety blackness, and his thrusts lose rhythm and force. The leash slips from his grasp, and his hand eases its iron grip on your hip, now rather dancing over your skin as he rides out his high, each thrust sending a delicious shiver down your spine.
And then he leans in, pressing a kiss to your back before he carefully withdraws from you. His movements are a bit languid, maybe as tired as yours, but he quickly undoes the clasps of the restraints tying you to the bench. Then he helps you climb off the bench, scooping you up in his arms when he sees your knees wobble. He gently lies you down on the bed, undoing the collar around your neck next. And oddly enough, a part of you wishes he'd leave it there and continue to hold the other end.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises after a soft kiss on the tip of your nose.
You stay right where you are, too exhausted to move, although goosebumps cover your body and the contact with the mattress makes your backside burn and sting.
But before you begin to feel really uncomfortable, Walter is already back. With an armful of stuff. A warm washcloth and a towel. With ointment for your butt. A bottle of water and two candy bars from the minibar.
And after he cleans you up and puts the ointment on your sore skin, he covers both of you in a warm blanket, holding you close to him. You snuggle into his embrace and his warmth while you share the candy bars and the water. And then, you brace yourself on your elbow, leaning in to kiss a little crumb of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. You feel him gasp and shiver under your touch, and you scoot closer, clasping your bear in your arms as you shower his face with gentle kisses.
“Is it weird that we’re eating chocolate in bed in a private room at a fetish club where you rearranged my guts half an hour ago, and it feels more romantic to me than a dinner with roses and candlelight?” you ask after a while, raking your fingers through his curls.
And you revel in his chuckle and the boisterous sparkle in his ocean eyes.
“It’s not. It doesn’t always have to be roses and candlelight dinners, I guess,” he shrugs with a smile before a roguish grin creeps upon his face. “And what if I told you I sneaked in some comfy panties for you in my pants pocket? So you can swap them for that incredibly sexy lingerie thing that almost made me cum in my pants earlier but is probably not very comfortable.”
“I’d call you a goddamn dreamboat,” you giggle, and a little later, you laugh out loud as he conjures up your favorite and very comfortable pair of polka-dotted cotton panties you mostly wear only at home or when you’re on your period.
He really is a dreamboat, and he will never cease to surprise you, that’s for sure.
It's the end of the year, we're getting closer to the holidays and I will have three stories for you today that I connect with December, Christmas and New Year's Eve.
All of them for different reasons, but all of them all worth reading…
I‘m a little early this month, but it’s for a reason. I want you all to get a look at that wonderful advent calendar in time 🥰
Let me tell you what I have for you this month:
Eyes That See
Sy x reader (💕🔥🌩, status: on-going)
Eyes That See is something very special to me. @just-chirpin not only manages to write one of the most wonderful Sy's I have ever seen. She also makes me feel seen. I can relate to so many things and feelings in this story. And having Sy by my side in this one is just so soothing. It's a really long story and it's not finished yet. But I can promise you that you won't be disappointed if you dive into it. The definition of comfort fic ❤️
And don’t forget to take a look at her masterlist, where you can find many asks with additional scenes or alternative scenarios 😍
Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your
179 Crescent Street
(College AU; Mike, Charles, Napoleon, Sherlock, August, Sy, Marshall and Geralt x multiple OFC's)(💕🔥🌩, status: on-going)
Everyone must have seen me talking about Crescent Street's inhabitants by now. I found them one year ago and fell in love with all of them. @raccoon-eyed-rebel gifted this universe of stupid dorks living together in one house to us, and I am so incredibly grateful for that. I read every one of these chapters multiple times and I know I will do it again. Maybe it's my favorite thing in the world 🥰
@raccoon-eyed-rebel also made my New Year's Eve feeling last way into the summer and that's a good thing. Those chapter's are so much fun! Get to know all those guys and, even more important, those wonderful women who are lucky enough to get one (or two) of the boys into their beds.
Summary: The shenanigans of eight college guys who share a house...
(Mike, Charles, Napoleon, Sherlock, August, Sy, Marshall and Geralt - U
Sapphire Falls Chronicles
Caleb Syverson x OFC, Chris Evans x OFC (🌩💕, status: completed)
@sapphirefallschronicles was such a cute surprise last December. Every day until Christmas we got an update on the lives of Caleb, Chris, Abigail and Livia. And I loved getting new little bits of that wonderful fluffy story. @keanureevesisbae and @diegos-butt really put a smile on my face with this. I totally plan to re-read that lovely fic this December. Join me?
Welcome to Sapphire Falls, a town where many things are bound to happen soon. For everyday of December you can find out a little more about
Hope you find something you enjoy here. Please let the creators of these stories know what you think about it. Reblog, comment, shower them with love. They deserve it!
Pairing: Captain Syverson (Caleb) x Mackenzie Williams (OFC)
Series Summary: Sometimes, it can take a while to find a place where you belong - especially if the place and the people you once called home no longer exist. But chances are, you’ll stumble across new places and people along your way. And maybe you will arrive after all.
Author's Note: Lovelies, this is the penultimate chapter, and maybe it’s the chapter I was looking forward to the most. And although the story as a whole is written from Sy’s point of view, it felt like this chapter needed to be told by Kenzie. I hope you’ll enjoy it! It was a pleasure to write. 💕
Kenzie
The big bull of a man is nervous. It’s more than obvious, and it's the most adorable thing she has ever seen.
As they drive to the animal care facility next to the airport, Sy fidgets in the driver’s seat. He has been like that all day, or more precisely, for the past few days since the end of Aika’s quarantine was in sight, and he had scheduled an appointment to pick her up.
A week ago, they went on a shopping trip to Pet Supplies Plus to get the basic equipment every dog needs - at least according to the checklist Sy has printed out from some website.
It felt a bit like shopping for a baby, just a bit less expensive. Or maybe it was just as expensive, Kenzie thought with an amused smile while she watched him there with the shopping list in his hands, studying one dog bed after the other to find the perfect one or furrowing his brows with concentration as the saleswoman explained the advantages of different kinds of leashes to him. And then, there were bowls for food and water, grooming brushes, a collar, various toys, etc., etc.
It was a whole truckload they carried out of the store, but everything is in its place by now, waiting for Aika’s arrival. Nevertheless, Sy got up extra early today, restlessly muddling around the house to check if everything was perfectly prepared until it was finally time to leave.
Sy’s excitement has long seized her too, and compersion and the prospect of having a furry friend in her life again make her feel all warm and light and almost as giddy as her fellow passenger.
He seems to feel her gaze linger on him, and he briefly turns his head to give her a crooked grin. Aside from all his excitement, there’s also a touch of concern radiating off him: How did Aika come through quarantine? Did they take good care of her? How will she react to him? Will she remember him at all?
He doesn’t even need to say these things aloud. Because she already knows.
“She’ll be fine,” she says, and he gives a pensive nod.
“I think so, too. Just hafta see it with my own eyes, y’know?”
“You’ll see her soon,” she reassures him, putting her hand on his thigh to give it a gentle squeeze.
His grin is grateful and maybe a bit sheepish, probably aware that he’s worried like a helicopter dad, and he interlaces their fingers, lifting her hand to his lips.
His beard and the kiss he plants on her wrist make her skin tingle. And after he put her hand back on his leg, she continues to massage his thigh, feeling a little lower to where his cargo shorts end and bare skin begins.
Her fingers wander along firm muscles, sparse hair, and his warm skin. And she can’t help that her thoughts begin to wander. To that night a few days ago.
She was standing at the sink brushing her teeth when he stepped out of the shower. And she gave a jump as he grabbed her from behind just after she had finished rinsing her mouth.
“Sy!” she squeaked as he pressed himself against her back - stark naked and dripping wet.
But he just pulled her closer, one hand running up and down her thigh and her hip, the other one on her belly. And goosebumps blossomed all over her body as he showered her neck with kisses. She didn’t try to fight back the sigh falling from her lips, and an appreciative hum rumbled somewhere deep in his chest. Even the little rivulets trickling down her arms and her breasts, soaking the fabric of her top and panties, took a moment to get through to her.
“You’re making me all wet,” she breathed with her eyes squeezed shut as his fingers traced a droplet running down the valley of her breasts, and it was only when he gave a not-so-quiet snort that she realized what she had just said.
His whole body shook with laughter, whereas a wave of heat shot to her cheeks, but soon, her laughter mixed with his, ricocheting off the tiles.
“I like makin’ ya wet,” he teased her, laughing only harder as she turned around in his arms to land a playful smack on his pecs.
She made another attempt, but he caught her hand this time. She tried to free herself, and their little wrestle ended only after a few minutes as he had her trapped against his body with her breasts firmly pressed against his chest - his hands in an iron grip around her waist and his thigh between her legs.
Her eyes met his, and both poised right where they were, gasping for air as the atmosphere around them seemed to heat up and began to crackle with tension.
“I like makin’ ya wet,” he repeated in a hoarse voice, every word heavy with desire. “I like makin’ ya so wet you’re soakin’ through yer panties… so wet I can lick that honey off yer thighs and that sweet lil’ peach,” he continued, running his hands down to her ass, and she moaned softly as she felt his throbbing cock against her hip. “And I like feelin’ yer wet pussy clench around my cock when I fuck you hard.”
“Oh God, Sy,” she whispered, her words fading into a moan as his hands kneaded her ass and her clothed pussy rubbed against his thigh.
Even though a thin layer of silky fabric separated her skin from his, pressure and friction were enough to send sparks to her core, bundling up to something irresistible, and the next time he pulled her against him, set her alight.
The unbridled moan escaping her lips took both of them off guard, and the tiny pause in his movements had almost made her withdraw if he hadn’t held her in place.
“Here ya stay,” he drawled, squeezing her asscheeks. “Does that feel good, Sugar?”
“Yeah,” she whispered, and her hips involuntarily jerked in response.
“Then, keep goin’! C’mon, Sugar!” he drawled against her lips - his words both alluring and reassuring, just like his kiss.
And her hands clutched his biceps as she began to roll her hips and grind against his treetrunk thigh. At first, a touch of shame squeezed her eyes shut, but he kept talking, mumbling sweet encouragements in between fiery kisses. And they fueled her further, incited her - his words and his kisses and his touch.
Her whole body seemed to blaze as he pinched her nipples, and his fingers dug into her flesh, and a string of slaps on her ass made her skin burn and prickle. Every little touch was sensual and full of lust, and she cast up her eyes as she heard him moan.
“Fuck, yeah, look at me,” he drawled through clenched teeth. “Good girl… good fuckin’ girl!”
Their eyes locked, and what she saw made a delicious wave of heat rush through her veins.
Yes, there was lust writ large in his face, but there was also love. So much love.
And her hand dropped to his cock, running up and down his length, and she reveled in the way he felt delicate and hard and slick and somehow heavy and how he throbbed against her palm.
“Fuck,” he cursed as she wrapped her hand around him.
It took them a moment to harmonize their movements, and she almost sobbed as they found the rhythm, the unison they were craving. And then, heat consumed her. It turned her into a bundle of desire, so eager for her release, so unaware of the drenched fabric between her legs and the sounds tumbling from her lips.
As her movements grew hasty and unsteady, he enveloped her hand in his, guiding her along his rock-hard cock while the heat and tension inside her went sky-high. And as her high came, her knees almost buckled, but he held her, warm and safe, while her hips stuttered and her pussy clenched hard and delicious around nothing.
As soon as she was able to perceive more than her own bliss, she felt his whole body quaver.
“Sugar!” he groaned with a choked voice, and it was all he had to say, even though it wasn’t even a plea.
She dropped to her knees, now eager to please him, to give him what he needed. And her hands clutched his perfectly round ass as his hand tangled in her hair, and he guided her mouth on his cock.
She could tell he was almost there, his movements coarse and greedy as he slowly pressed himself into her mouth, desperate to get as deep as possible until she was on the brink of gagging.
“Fuuuuck,” he groaned as he paused right at this point. “Takin’ me so well, my sweet girl… lookin’ so beautiful with my cock in yer pretty mouth…”
And tears spilled from the corners of her eyes as he fucked her mouth and his muscles quivered with effort so as not to pass that certain mark. She took everything he gave her as he filled her mouth with hot jets, and she gently suckled on his tip and his balls while his grip around her hair loosened and his hand ran over her head and brushed along her cheeks.
“Goddammit, Sugar!” he mumbled as he pulled her up to her feet and clasped her in his arms. “I knew ya like suckin’ my cock. I just had no idea ya like my legs that much!”
And again, the room filled with their laughter until he smothered the sound in a deep kiss.
“I know exactly what you’re thinkin’ ‘bout, Sugar,” he drawls now.
His eyes are directed straight ahead to the road, but there’s a smug smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, do you?” she laughs, and she can’t help that her face grows hot again.
“Yup. I know my girl pretty well, y’know?”
And for a moment, she pensively looks at the cotton wool clouds drifting along the big blue Texas sky.
He’s right, she thinks to herself. He does know her well.
It feels weird because she had grown accustomed to the fact that no one really knows her, to the fact that she would always be a bit of a lone wolf who never stayed long enough to build real relationships or friendships. Not necessarily because she likes it, but because it had never been any different.
And then, Sy came along. Before she knew it, she let him in, and now he’s here. In her heart.
He closes his fingers around her hand, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. And she lifts his hand to her mouth, nuzzling her cheek against his paw before she presses a kiss to his wrist. She can see his features and his eyes grow all soft, and the wings of countless butterflies tickle her stomach.
That softness…
It’s exactly his softness that never fails to make her heart skip a beat.
Cocky bastard. That was her first impression when she saw him over there in the desert, strutting around the base camp as if there was nothing to fear, issuing orders or confidently conversing with all sorts of people. Let alone his never-ending big talk and occasional hotspur.
Hotter than a pepper sprout was the second impression. There was no doubt that his appearance was impressive - tall, buff, and rugged, plus sky-blue eyes and clean-cut features not even the ragged beard could hide.
But there was something else, something that made him exactly the kind of man she wanted to do unspeakable things to her. Maybe it was his bravado. Or maybe it was in spite of all that.
No matter what it was, it was enough to make her unobtrusively stare at him for months. And maybe it would have been enough to let him fuck her at another place and another time. But that was it. After all, he wasn’t the first hot, cocky bastard who had crossed her path, and a smart girl remembers the lessons she learned, right?
Yeah, and that could have been the ending of the story if there weren’t so much more about him.
The first thing that didn’t seem to fit the mould were the dogs. There were lots of them prowling around the camp, looking for prey or food. Some of them were aggressive and needed to be kept away from the camp by force. Others were friendly and trusting, some looking not only for food to fill their bellies but also for a gracious soul to bestow a little affection on them.
To her surprise, Sy was the one who organized green spray paint one day, ordering one of his men to spray the good dogs to set them apart from the others.
“Anyone shoots a green dog, they answer to me,” he barked during the next morning assembly.
He stood there like a tree, with his arms crossed in front of his bulky chest. His piercing gaze roamed the soldiers’ faces as if to make sure every single one understood. And it wasn’t even necessary because no one would have dreamed about disregarding or even disobeying him.
He simply was that kind of born intrepid leader who didn’t have to work hard to keep his boys and girls in line. Instead, he had their respect from the start. He also had their trust, and it seemed to be similar with the dogs.
The ragged German Shepherd became his companion soon, following hard on him like a shadow wherever he went. And the tough Captain seemed to have taken her into his heart as well. He named her Aika - the Japanese word for love song - and Kenzie sometimes saw him in the early mornings or the late evenings, sitting on the stairs of the backdoor of the deserted building they had taken up quarters in. He held a steaming mug of coffee or tea in one hand while his other hand gently ruffled Aika’s fur. Maybe he also talked to the dog, but Kenzie had never been close enough to be sure.
Actually, she always saw him from afar over there in the desert, and it was only during their journey home that she got to talk to him. She remembers the genuineness in his words and the thoughtfulness in his eyes. And she remembers how she found his gaze repeatedly lingering on her during the flight and the endless waiting time at the airport and on the base.
When she came across him on the rooftop of the hotel, there was something forlorn about him. She could see it clearly, maybe because she felt it, too, that night. Drifting like a leaf in the wind, detached and far away from home.
And then there was his warm hand around hers as he guided her to the elevator when the downpour started, and his smile, and the sound of his laughter, and his gentle touch, and how she wanted to throw herself at him and let him kiss her senseless when they stood at her door.
It was only the beginning, and every single piece of him, every single layer he allowed her to see, made her fall harder for him.
The reception area of the animal care facility looks clean and too white, more like a clinic for humans. Nevertheless, not even the jasmine fragrance sticks in a vase on the counter can mask the smell of sanitizer and dog.
While an employee is sent off to get Aika from her cage, the friendly desk clerk goes through the formalities with Sy. However, Kenzie doubts if any of the information and instructions soak through to him. He nods and hums and signs numerous documents, but his gaze continues to drift to the sliding door whenever there’s a movement behind the frosted glass.
And then, the door opens, and any doubts he might have had, vanish into thin air.
As soon as Aika sees him, she rushes upon him, pulling so hard on the leash that she nearly knocks over the petite animal keeper at the other end. But the woman just laughs and drops the leash, and Aika reaches Sy in a single bound. Her excited bark and yowl echo through the room while she bounces and dances and presses herself against his legs, and her tail wags at record speed.
Sy crouches down beside her, petting and ruffling her fur, and he quietly talks to her, trying to calm her down. A bright, boyish smile shines on his face like the sun itself, and maybe there is a moist gleam in his eyes that makes Kenzie swallow hard.
He’ll be a wonderful dad one day. The thought struck her for the first time as she watched him with her dad, how he talked and read to him, simply showing an interest in who he was, and taking him as he found him. Now she can see him in her mind’s eye again, kidding around and cuddling an adorable miniature edition of himself, and she hangs on to her phone as she tries to record the reunion without wobbles and without letting her heart and her ovaries explode.
It’s not that she had her doubts, but Aika takes her heart by storm, too. As Sy raises his head with shining eyes and a beaming smile, his gaze instantly finds hers.
“C’mere,” he invites her, and she puts her phone into her pants pocket and crouches down next to him.
“Hi, Aika,” she says quietly, carefully extending her hand toward the dog who has sat down, her tail still wagging from one side to the other.
For a moment, Aika looks at her with her smart brown eyes as if to decide whether she's friend or foe. Friend seems to be the decision she made, and then she nuzzles against Kenzie’s hand, letting her pet her chest and scritch her behind her ears.
“Good girl,” Kenzie mumbles, “You’ll be fine here, you’ll see. And we’ll be good friends, you and me.”
Back at Sy’s place, they let her take her time and discover the house and the backyard. And after sniffing every thing and every corner, she finally plops down on the floor next to the couch and next to Sy, who looks just as tired as she does.
As Kenzie returns from the bathroom, she finds both on the couch, sprawled over and sound asleep. Sy’s hand rests on Aika’s head, who huddles up to his side, and both snore quietly.
Kenzie bites her lip so as not to laugh while she snaps another picture that makes her heart feel so full it’s about to burst, and then she sneaks into the kitchen.
Sy had actually planned to grill a few steaks and make homemade fries for dinner, but by now, she, too, can feel exhaustion creeping in after all that excitement. She decides to make grilled cheese sandwiches and salad, plus there's leftover pie for dessert. That’ll do.
The two are still napping when dinner is ready, and she crouches down next to the couch to plant a kiss on Sy’s temple.
He stirs and hums like a bear coming out of hibernation, causing Aika to wake up as well, and Kenzie giggles as both look at her with sleepy eyes.
“Morning, my sleeping beauties,” she chuckles, scratching one after the other. “Dinner’s waiting!”
The prospect of food is enough to make Aika leap to her feet in the blink of an eye. And Kenzie hurries to fill her bowls with fresh water, dog food, and with some celebratory extra chicken.
Sy follows them at a leisurely pace, and he clasps Kenzie in his arms, nuzzling his head against hers while they watch Aika wolf down her food.
“Thanks for makin’ us dinner, Sugar,” he sighs tiredly, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. “I’ll make the steaks and fries tomorrow, promise! Didn't plan on fallin' asleep.”
“It’s okay,” she just smiles. “At least I got some footage I can use against you someday, you know?”
And she squeals as he lands a first smack on her ass.
“I demand to see the footage, just so you know. Later,” he promises, leaning in to brush his lips along hers.
It’s just the ghost of a kiss, but it’s enough to make her gasp. And he smirks at her disappointed expression as he pulls away.
“At first, there’s something I need’chu to see,” he states, and then he rummages through the pile of letters on the table, handing her two folded papers after he found what he was looking for.
Kenzie darts a quizzical look at him before she unfolds both.
The first one is Aika’s brand-new vaccination and microchip record. So far, so good.
The next one is some medical certificate for Caleb Syverson. Sample STD [sexually transmitted disease] Test Results says the headline, and then there's a list of diseases and the results, all negative.
As she raises her head, she sees him looking at her with compressed lips, his face almost crimson with effort so as not to burst out laughing, and never has she seen someone so goddamn pleased with himself.
“You’re so fuckin’ stupid!” The words slip out of her mouth, dumbfounded as she still is, while a grin spreads across her face.
“Yup! And 100% clean of vermin and diseases. Both of us,” he manages to squeeze out, proudly gesturing toward Aika and himself, and then, he cracks up.
Of course, she does, too. And they laugh until their bellies ache, and Aika probably wonders what the hell she has gotten herself in here.
“Jesus Christ, Sy!” Kenzie wheezes at some point. “How... I mean, why-”
“Well, maybe it’s my very own charming way to tell ya I wanna feel yer pussy around my bare cock and see ya drippin’ with my cum after I fucked ya,” he grins, clasping her in his arms so tight she fails to free herself.
“Stop!” she giggles helplessly, pressing her face against his shoulder to keep herself from laughing harder.
“Or maybe it’s because I wouldn’t even dream about fuckin’ someone else? That better, Sugar?” he chuckles into her ear, a little calmer this time.
“Maybe,” she hums softly, closing her eyes as his hand brushes along her back, and he gently sways back and forth with her in his arms.
And then, his hand cups her cheek, and his sky-blue eyes hold her gaze, now clear of jest.
“Or maybe it's beause you're the only woman I want, and I want all of you, because I’m so fuckin’ in love with you? How does that sound?”
“It sounds perfect,” she says quietly, nuzzling into his warm palm. “Cause I love you, too!”
Pairing: Captain Syverson (Caleb) x Mackenzie Williams (OFC)
Series Summary: Sometimes, it can take a while to find a place where you belong - especially if the place and the people you once called home no longer exist. But chances are, you’ll stumble across new places and people along your way. And maybe you will arrive after all.
Series Masterlist
Part Summary: Sy has another night out.
Word Count: 3.2k
Warnings: 18+, NSFW, melancholy, grief, death of parents, implied PTSD, mention of alcohol, pining and lewd thoughts, mention of m masturbation, jealousy, fluff.
Author's Note: As much as business trips can suck, I love having some me-time in the evenings. And I used tonight's me-time to finish this chapter for us :) Happy reading, lovelies! 💕
He overslept. Sy knows it even before he slowly casts up his eyes.
The sunlight shining through the dark gray curtains is already too harsh, too dazzling for an early morning. And his watch lying on the bedside table shows it’s 9:45 am - a quarter-hour until breakfast ends.
Breakfast.
Kenzie.
He told her he’d be there.
He sits up in bed, tiredly rubbing his hand across his face before he gets up, staggering toward the bathroom.
After a quick piss, he adjusts the water temperature at the sink to cold. As cold as possible.
He holds his hands and wrists under the water for a moment.
Then he washes his face. More cold water. Slowly washing away his dazed state.
Boxers, cut-off jeans, Alice Cooper t-shirt, don’t think about the first concert Pa took him along to.
He grabs his keycard and closes the room door behind him. The sound of vacuums and the vinegary smell of cleanser fills the hallway, and he nods in greeting to the chambermaids.
The breakfast room downstairs is almost empty, aside from two other long sleepers. As he hurries to load his plate with leftover eggs, bacon, and hash browns, he spots Rover sitting in the corner seat by the window.
“Mornin’,” he mumbles hoarsely as he puts his plate and mug on the table before slumping down on the bench.
Rover glances up from his newspaper, grinning at the sight presented to him. “Mornin’, sunshine! How was the night?”
“Good. It was good,” he deadpans.
At least he got some sleep after jerking off to the image of Kenzie’s perky tits in that wet tank top, thinking of how her juicy lil' pussy would taste as he ate her out until her legs shook and she screamed his name.
“Yeah, bet it was. That girl was a real hottie!”
He’s just about to agree when he realizes the other man is talking about the girl from the bar.
“Mhm,” he just mutters. “How was your night?”
The last thing he saw of Rover last night were his legs looking out under a girl about half his age, grinding on his lap.
“Good. It was good,” the other man replies with a shit-eating grin, mocking him for the words he used earlier. Fucker! “And it’s gonna be continued tonight! You ready for some honky-tonkin’?”
Sy shakes his head.
“I don’t think so, man,” he mumbles around a mouthful of hash browns.
“Well, have another think about it! The others will be there, too, and even Mack said she’d join us.”
He realizes a second too late that he raised his head with a jerk at the mention of her name. And he knows Rover has seen it, too.
“I’ll think about it,” he changes his answer.
God dammit, he already knows he’ll be there. And Rover knows it, too, looking like the cat that got the cream.
“Where is she, by the way?” he can’t help but ask nonetheless after he continued to stuff his face in silence for a while.
Rover gives him a once-over. Without his usual stupid grin, this time.
“She’s got stuff to do,” he finally replies curtly before turning his gaze back to the newspaper on the table.
Aha.
Sy silently clears his plate, watching the older man fiddle around with his ballpen while he skims over the ads for apartments.
“Nothin’ but trash,” Rover mumbles at some point, shuffling off the newspaper. “Maybe I should apply for an apartment on the base or in the barracks, after all. Are you lookin’ for an apartment, too?”
“I gotta find a house with a garden. For the dog, y’know?”
“I see. Good luck, man! The housing market is a nightmare this time.”
Sy just nods. He knows it. And he knows he should attend to that matter asap. He just doesn’t know how…
He only just finished his breakfast, and he already feels like going back to bed. He knows that kind of exhaustion from his past deployments, but it unsettles him nonetheless. It’s as if his body shuts down to energy-saving mode while some inner voice yells at him to stay at attention, to stay in survival mode, as he had been for all those months.
And then, he thinks about what Kenzie said last night. About his shadow and about waiting for him to catch up. And somehow, that image makes him feel like it’s okay to be tired. Strange after all, but okay. And maybe he should give in and pace himself, take a day off before he starts house-hunting.
He downs the rest of his coffee, getting up from the bench.
“I’m off,” he mumbles.
Rover nods. Again, he eyes him up. Sympathetically, this time.
“Take it slow,” he encourages as if he had read his thoughts. “And if yer up for some distraction, we’ll meet up at 8 in the lobby tonight.”
Sy spends the rest of the day in his hotel room. He doesn’t look for houses. Doesn’t call the housing service center on the base, either.
He just sits in the armchair.
Looking out the window at the bright blue sky and at the people and vehicles passing by.
He orders food from the room service.
Sometimes, he naps.
Sometimes, he reads. The Old Man And The Sea.
Sometimes, he lets the worn-out paperback sink into his lap as he thinks about the words he just read.
Sometimes, his thoughts wander off. To Aika - his furry comrade who's probably locked up into a cage in the belly space of a plane at this very moment. And to Kenzie. To the sound of her laughter and her pretty mouth.
At 7:35 pm, he decides to stay at the hotel. He’s way too tired, way too exhausted, to go out tonight.
At 7:50, he rifles through his duffle bag in search of a fresh t-shirt before he hurries into the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, he’s about to exit his room as his gaze lights onto the room-high mirror next to the door. His reflection returns his gaze with a sneer. Fuckin’ ridiculous, it says.
And that’s exactly how he feels as he stands in the lobby, waiting for everyone to arrive. For everyone? Yeah, right, ol’ boy!
He forces himself to focus on the banter and the small talk. And he forces himself not to spin around when he hears Rover wolf-whistle.
“Ah, there she is!”
He only turns around as everyone else does, and then, he‘s on the fence between joining in the whistles and good-natured remarks or telling those fuckers to shut up.
Not that his support was needed.
“Oh, come on, guys! Knock it off,” Kenzie laughs, shaking her head as she makes her way over to them.
The color of her dress is a dark red - almost like red wine - and the skirt swirls smoothly around her knees with every step she takes. Like wine in a glass. The thin straps leave her shoulders almost bare, drawing his eyes to her delicate collarbones. And to the swell of her tits.
The dress looks gorgeous on her. And yet, it’s not enough to deflect from her beautiful face.
She has a little makeup on, more of the natural kind, but the sight of her lips with that shiny stuff on them sends his mind straight in the gutter. And at the same time, he’s more than pleased to see how her features light up as their eyes meet. And lock.
Good to see ya, too, sugar! is what he thinks.
Whereas “Hi!” is all he says.
And “Hi!” is all she can say before Rover hogs her, linking arms with her as they lead the way and the rest falls into line with them.
Sy walks behind them, and despite the noise of the street and the words he bandies with the man next to him, he picks up a bit of their conversation.
“How’s he doin’?” Rover asks, seemingly without context.
Kenzie shrugs.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell,” she says after darting a sideglance at him. “We’ll have to wait and see how things are going.”
“You okay?” Rover asks after a moment of silence, and there’s definitely concern in his voice.
She shrugs again. And for a moment, he thinks he failed to hear her answer.
“I will be,” she finally says so quietly that he can barely hear her. Just like she said last night.
He’s pretty sure she said she was single. But there seems to be someone after all. Maybe a friend. Or a relative. Or a hookup. And although it’s none of his business, he catches himself wondering who that guy is.
He also catches himself wondering how he could take her mind off whatever lies heavily on her. And Rover seems to think the same. He pulls out all the stops, and by the time they sit in the bar with ‘the best brews below the Mason-Dixon line’ - at least according to their website, Kenzie is smiling again.
The bar is a honky-tonk beyond question - with low ceilings, red and white checkered tablecloths, and neon lighting. The menu offers Tex Mex and steaks, and the air smells of barbecue, tobacco, and the sawdust covering the sticky tiles on the dancefloor.
They snag a free table next to the jukebox, a little too cramped to sit comfortably, but he certainly won’t complain, with Kenzie sliding onto the chair next to his.
They drink, and they eat and talk, and he slowly feels a bit of the fog lifting from his head. He doesn’t fully relax, though, too absorbed by the woman next to him, by her big eyes, her sweetness, and her sass, and by the way her arm and leg brush against him every once in a while. And he’s too busy trying to talk to her without saying something stupid. Or at least not more stupid than usual. And all that while trying not to be too obviously drooling over her while four guys sit at the same table - one of them Rover, who keeps eying him suspiciously.
The jukebox plays country and classic rock all night, and whereas only a handful of couples danced by early evening, the dance floor is crowded a few hours later.
Kenzie hasn’t sat down in a whole while. Her dress and her hair swirl, and her eyes sparkle as Rover spins her around several times in a row, and Sy involuntarily smiles as he sees her laughing exuberantly.
At that point, Sy is the only guy at the table who hasn’t danced with her yet. But he’s also the only one who doesn’t have a girl on his lap or all over him. Which is definitely not a matter of supply. He couldn’t fail to notice the sultry smile the waitress gave him as she served his steak, nor could he fail to ignore the girls sitting at their table with the other guys, gushing about the brown spot in his blue eye nevertheless. The colors of the sky and the earth, all in one, as Ma says. Said.
Everything could be so easy. But it’s not, and here he is, gazing at the girl on the dancefloor instead of getting his dick wet. Ridiculous!
He shoves back his chair and gets up.
On his way back from the restroom, he passes the pool tables at the end of the room where the players circuit around the tables, some casual, others ambitious and frowning in concentration.
"Hey, Sy!" a silvery voice chimes next to him.
He steps aside to let the people walking behind him pass by, and then he looks around.
Fair curly hair, cherry-red lipstick, hot pants that barely cover her ass cheeks and a jeans top that literally shoves her assets right in his face. Kelly, Carrie, or whatever her name is, looks like a pinup girl from a 60s calendar, and she determinedly minces over to him, abandoning the guy she was talking to.
"Hey, big guy," she beams at him. "Good to see ya!"
"Hi," he mumbles with a tight-lipped smile.
"You came just at the right moment! I could really use some fun, ya know?" she pouts, looking up at him through a pair of fake lashes.
"Oh, do ya?" he can't help but smirk as he knows exactly what's next.
"Absolutely! Last night was incredible, ya know? You have a big… talent, Sir," she purrs, inching closer to put her hand on his chest. "I wouldn't mind a sequel at all."
He shamelessly stares at her tits for a moment while her fingers trace the dog tag underneath his t-shirt. And he remembers the Army items in her apartment, lined up like trophies.
"Yeah, maybe some other time, okay, umm, Carrie?" he mutters, taking a step back and setting about leaving.
"Anytime you want, big guy," she drawls. "And it's Sherry, by the way."
She blows a kiss at him, and he can't help but laugh at her unfazed eagerness, shaking his head as he continues his way back to the table.
From a distance, he sees Kenzie standing next to their table, fishing a few bank notes from her wallet, and the corners of his mouth sink in an instant.
"Hey, where are you goin'?" he asks as he stands next to her.
"Back to the hotel," she deadpans without looking at him.
She turns her back on him as she puts the bank notes on the table, smiling half-heartedly at the others’ protest and teasing.
"C’mon, Mack, you can't leave now!" Rover exclaims.
"Oh, can't I? And why is that?"
"’Cause you haven't danced with Sy yet." The older man grins like a Cheshire cat.
Fuck that guy! And bless him!
"He's right," Sy hurries to say.
Kenzie turns to him, giving him a level look that is quite different from the looks she gave him the rest of the night.
So, what happened? She was only just dancing with Rover, and when he returned from the restroom… Ah. She probably saw him talking to Sherry. But he only talked to her, so she can’t possibly be jealous. Or can she?
One way or another, she’s not happy, and she just switched from flight to fight mode.
"What if I don't wanna dance with you?" she asks, raising her chin with a challenging smile.
"But chu wanna dance with me," he states. He can’t stop the smirk from creeping upon his face, and he can't stop it from deepening when she gives a surprised laugh.
"You're pretty full of yourself, huh?"
"Maybe. But I’d like to dance with you, too."
She laughs, shaking her head. But she doesn’t say no. And she doesn't say yes, either.
"Just one dance, and then you can leave if you want to." Don't make me beg, sugar!
"Okay," she finally says. And her answer still carries a challenge.
He swallows hard as she hangs her handbag on one of the chairs. God dammit, of all things she could have picked to mess with him, it has to be dancing!
He grabs her hand and marches to the dancefloor, bound and determined to do this. And determined to ignore the whistles chiming behind them. He maneuvers her to a less crowded spot, blocking off the prying eyes with his broad back.
Kenzie’s hand lying in his feels warm, and so does her body as he puts his hand on her back, carefully pulling her closer. It doesn’t escape him that she takes a deep breath before she returns his gaze.
“Aw, so grim, Captain?” she teases, screwing up her face into a feigned scowl that makes him smile.
“You’ll soon know why,” he snorts, and then he hesitantly begins to move.
The song playing on the jukebox is one of those classic slow country songs. About a loner who can’t settle down and a girl who keeps waiting for him. And about how she deserves better than that.
They sway with the music rather than dance because he can’t remember the steps Ma tried to teach him when he was nine for the life of him. However, aside from trying not to step on her toes, this is really nice. She feels so fuckin’ good in his arms, so soft and also strong at the same time.
Both keep their gazes lowered, but they slowly gravitate toward each other with every step. Like they’re pulled by an invisible force. Until they’re so close, she can almost lean her head against his shoulder. So close his beard almost brushes against her temple, and her tits brush against his chest.
For a moment, he tries to tell himself that he wants nothing more than to fuck her right here and now, but god dammit, he can't deny that there are fuckin’ butterflies in his stomach, and he shakily inhales the scent of her hair. She smells sweet, vaguely reminding him of the summer phlox that grew next to the swing in his parents’ garden, and she gently squeezes his hand as if to let him know that she can feel it, too. Whatever it is. And when she raises her head to meet his gaze, he can also see it in her eyes.
Once their gazes are entangled, none of them can look away. The song ends, blending into another song with an upbeat rhythm that feels oddly out of place at that point. Yet, they remain standing right there on the dance floor. And it's only when a mane of light blonde curls whizzes past them, so close it brushes both of them, that they snap out of their little bubble. Both of them gaze after the movement. Or rather, after her.
Sherry dances just a few steps away from them, and she gives Sy a conspiratorial wink. He couldn’t care less, but he feels Kenzie instantly stiffen in his arms.
“Is she the girl you fucked last night?” she asks straightforwardly.
“Yeah,” he replies with the same candor. No need to beat about the bush.
“She’s pretty,” she remarks, and he can watch a whole range of different emotions flit across her features before she puts on a straight face.
It's only a split-second, but he draws his conclusions nonetheless.
“You don’t need to be jealous,” he says, and he fails to fight back a smug little smile - bastard that he is.
“I’m not jealous,” she hisses, starting to break away from him.
He doesn't keep her back. And yet, she doesn’t walk away. She remains standing in front of him while her eyes roam the room, looking anywhere but at him.
Oh, you’re definitely jealous, sugar. And you're fuckin' cute like that.
“I only came here because of you,” he clarifies in a hoarse voice. This time, without the hint of a smirk. Because he means what he says. And he brushes his knuckles along her upper arm. Along her smooth skin. Just like he did last night.
Her chest heaves with a deep breath as she closes her eyes for the length of one or two heartbeats.
“I want to go now,” she says then.
Well, that probably means he fucked up. Congrats, ol’ boy!
He can feel his shoulders slump, and it takes him a moment to wrap his head around the words she says next. With a smile playing on her lips that's both sweet and mischievous at the same time.
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