#I can't TELL you what a goddamn relief it is to be pumping fics out again

[nitewrighter]

The Knight of Frost, Part 2

Been playing a lot of Elden Ring and RDR2 and wouldn’t ya know it, it got me really inspired for this AU. 

Thinking about the inherent eroticism of running away hysterically screaming from Elden Ring bosses...

CW: For some Horse Body Horror.

Continued from The Knight of Frost

---

Mercy grew up as most girls from her time and place grew up--much as the people in her grandmother’s story grew: she knew long, harsh winters and bright, precious summers and springs, and autumns that seemed to cascade all at once in just a few short weeks. She grew taller than most girls, and with an odd grace and delicacy about her, unbowed by the drudgery of her day to day life. But there was a kindness at her core, perhaps fueled by that constant wrestling with the end of the story, the idea that out there was a knight trapped by a curse for no reason other than the strength of his heart and loyalty. She grew up cleverer than most in her village: with an excellent head for memorization that made her an ideal apprentice for the local midwife and apothecary, and steady hands that allowed her to learn to lance buboes and quickly take over the task for her teachers when gout gave a shake to their wrists and unsureness to their fingers.

 All this was paired with a no-nonsense personality that prompted little frustration from her teachers--they recalled beating her only three times--once when her daydreaming lead to idleness, another time when she directly contradicted them in front of a client, and a third time when they found she had been advising and examining in back alleys when her training was not yet complete but their clients had no coin for the apothecary’s consultation. The impressiveness of her fury and passion in defending herself in each case was only rivaled by the impressiveness of her stoicism as the birch met her backside. She was strong, and tall, and always just a little bit angry, like a lone evergreen in a dry place: needs that were not quite being met, but doing her best regardless.

 All the while as she grew, the winters seemed to get longer and longer, and leaner, as they started biting into what would have been planting time and wiping out seedlings with harsh spring frosts without warning. Mercy was 11 when most of those that farmed only grain and vegetables left their village in hopes of farming warmer climes, and when the grain left, the alehouse quickly went quiet and mean. Still the village stumbled on. For a while Mercy and her grandmother managed--the sheep of their farm still managing to find gorse and dried grass amid the frost, but even they grew leaner, gave less milk, birthed fewer lambs. The village was valuable enough to travelers going through the mountains for them sustain themselves on trade for a bit. They traded cheese and wool for wheat and barley, and Mercy honed her craft healing travelers’ injuries and even acting as midwife for a birth or two. But soon those creeping winters discouraged more and more travelers from their pass, soon, what reserve supplies there were in the village dwindled, and what few people remained were more or less planning out their own timelines of leaving themselves.

 Eventually Mercy and her own Grandmother had to plan for their own departure from the village, and Mercy’s grandmother’s plan amounted to “leave me to die here, I don’t care.” which of course Mercy would not accept, and that’s how Mercy ended up furiously pushing her grandmother in a wheelbarrow down the mountainside, her shepherd’s crook strapped to her back, with the entire flock of sheep in tow, bellwether bells clanking. Still determined, still just a little bit angry, and bright as a flame, her scarlet cloak billowing and pale hair whipping in the wind, and their very own snowy cascade thundering and baaaa-ing down the mountain.

They settled in a new town in the valley, sold most of their sheep for a new house, even got their footing by reuniting with some of their old neighbors. Mercy found work bonesetting, boil lancing, pulling teeth, mixing medicines, and midwifing, her grandmother focused on spinning wool from the three sheep that remained and keeping their little garden in her old age, and for a while, they were content. Mercy found even more business as more people settled into the town, driven out of their own remote villages by the cold same as her and her grandmother. She got a few offers of marriage, but her grandmother ended up scaring most of them off demanding a higher dowry, and eventually her own age got people to muttering and the offers quickly died down. She didn’t mind. Mercy was pleased to hone her skill more, and it was all she could do to let the busyness all her new customers lent her keep out the dread of more people pouring into the valley all the time--her apothecary jars and shelves getting barer and barer as she struggled to treat the influx of people. Also, deeply, quietly, Mercy and her Grandmother missed the grand vistas of their mountain village, and this town was decidedly smellier than that wide open mountain air, but it was a good enough life. 

Until the winter found them once again. Curling around the mountain peaks that framed their little town and sinking slow and cold into their valley with every sunset. Nervous mutterings rose up around town as frosts wiped out seedlings and travelers spoke of more routes through the mountains closing up and becoming too dangerous to traverse. Whenever the door would open at the ale house a freezing wind would rip through.

“It’s not right. Not natural. Something has to be done,” someone would mutter into their ale.

“How is wind unnatural? And how does one expect to do anything against wind and winter?” another would reply.

“It’s the old empress’s curse,” another would murmur, “The one from the legends.”

“Well how does one expect to do anything against the long-dead and consigned to legend, Bartleby? Answer me that!” said the second. And that would usually be the end of it. But one night, when Mercy was drinking away the memory of a particularly nasty boil-lancing, a new voice spoke up. 

“You could investigate,” the new voice drawled, and Mercy’s eyes flicked away from the foam of her own ale, her eyes falling on a tall figure in a wide-brimmed brown hat, “You head into the cold, you might be able to see what’s causing it. I’ve a right mind to gather several men and do just that.”

Mercy rolled her eyes and sipped her ale.

“And waste food and supplies on what may very well be a death wish?” the second villager, one of Mercy’s own displaced neighbors, scoffed a chuckle, “You travelers are always mad.”

“Maybe,” the man in the wide-brimmed hat conceded, “But... here’s the way I see it-- We go off on this trip, maybe we find out what’s making the winters the way they are, and we stop it, not promising anything like that, but if such an opportunity arises, you can be damn well sure we’ll take it. But ultimately, the goal here is to break through the old main pass to get to the capital city. From there, we re-supply, and come back here with food, more warm clothes, and, if everything’s gotten too bad... a safe way through the pass to greener pastures.”

Mercy’s mouth quirked at this. She hadn’t really thought of what moving again would look like. She could push her grandmother downhill in a wheelbarrow but finding a way out of the valley? When every path would be uphill? She sipped again, tentatively. If they made it to the capital city, she could re-stock on all the items she couldn’t forage here. Could she really trust such a retrieval to some errand boy?

“All I’d need is a handful of volunteers..” the man in the wide-brimmed hat said slowly, but everyone in the tavern gave him a visible cold shoulder.

Mercy gave a short huff into her mug before turning around to look at him.

“Would you be willing to pay for such a trip yourself?” she asked.

“It is in my interest, just as it is in everyone else’s interests, that those trade routes reopen. I have a bit of coin, I’ll pay for what supplies I can, but I know I can’t do this alone.”

Mercy thoughtfully drained the last of her ale in two gulps and set her mug on the wood of the bar. “I have need of supplies that can only be found out of this cold,” she said, not looking at him, “Is your expedition to be exclusively men?”

“I just figured only men were mad enough to go,” the man in the hat shrugged, “Is this volunteering?”

Mercy pressed her lips together. “Would I be the first?”

“The fourth,” his hat flopped a little with the conceding bob of his head, “But I can’t afford dead weight.” 

“Do you have a healer among you?”

“There’s Baptiste, but he’s a sellsword. I fear his knowledge of healing comes from just as much as what kills you.”

“You wound me, my friend!” a dark man with a bright smile called from the other end of the bar.

“Miss Mercy, surely you aren’t considering traveling with this vagrant!” one the tavern patrons touched her sleeve.

“Supplies are dwindling,” was all Mercy could reply. She looked back at the stranger in the wide-brimmed brown hat with a stern determination. “I’m trained in herbalism, midwifing, bonesetting, and several disciplines of barber-surgery. I don’t eat much and I have a strong back. Is that good enough?”

“Eh--” it took a moment for the man in the hat to regain his composure, “Y-yes, It’ll suffice.” 

“Then I’m coming with you,” she stuck a hand out, “Mercy Goatsrue, at your service.” 

“Cole Caisede, miss,” he clasped her wrist with his opposite hand and shook it, “At your service.”

--

In truth it took some convincing for her grandmother to let her go. And even then it was like “Go ahead, leave me to die!” and Mercy could only respond with, “You won’t die so long as there’s any opportunity to spite me further,” and her grandmother replied, “So you’d better not die then, you damned foolish girl!” And that was about as warm a goodbye as either of them would get. It was dark and very early in the morning when the party departed up the main path out of the valley. Mercy in her scarlet cloak, Cole Caisede looking every bit the rugged mountaineer in his hat and cloak, smiling, knowing Baptiste donning a veritable hodgepodge of clothes from different lands, and a towheaded man with wind-blistered skin who only tersely introduced himself as Bayless who provided two scrawny mules and a wagon for their supplies. It was far too early in the morning for there to be many people seeing them off, and much of the village thought the expedition was too mad to see them off with fanfare. It was quiet and gray, with slow-drifting flakes peppering the air. The path out of the village lead to an incline that started reasonably, but soon had to split into rocky, tedious switchbacks that took some convincing to move the mules along. It took them a day to reach halfway up the bowl of the valley, and they spent the first night trying to find and point out their houses and farms and the different landmarks below.

Finally, when they crested the lip of the valley, Mercy drew in a breath of the still and sparkling air. It was brighter up here, with the valley so prone to the shadows of its own walls and all the sinking cold and darkness that came with it, but that brightness did not mean warmth. Still, it was heartening for the party to feel such light as they had not known in some time. Baptiste scanned the skies, the seeming endless void of blue, the light itself rendered strange by a dazzling ring of light around the sun.

"...no birds," he said, as they pushed on through the snow.

"No seeds or bugs to eat," Mercy huffed. Her skirts had been kirtled and kilted to just below the knee, covering the tops of her boots and further insulating her wooly leggings, but the weight and wind forced her towards the back of the party. For several days the party trudged on, saying little, putting all physical and mental energy towards the seemingly endless trek forward, making camp and eating thin soups of barley and dried mushrooms by night, with their own exhaustion prompting little conversation. Eventually the gradual lightening of their packs, the long hours together, and their own adjustment to the toil of their journey prompted more words.

"Do you give any credence to those 'curse' whispers?" Cole asked as he poked at their campfire one night.

"My grandmother told me the story all the time when I was small," said Mercy, scraping up the last now-cold dregs of her soup, “It always frustrated me that it... always felt unfinished... but it feels dangerous to walk into a story that isn’t your own.”

"My logic has always been, the more thought one gives to a curse, the more power a curse has," said Baptiste, running his knife along a whetstone.

"But it ain't natural, we're in agreement there, right?" Cole propped his forearm up on his knee.

"Wasn't this whole expedition your idea?" Mercy set her bowl down and drew up her flannels around herself. 

"Well if the curse is real, that doesn't mean I'm just going to sit down and take it," said Cole, "But the quality of the light up here...the stillness, I must say it lends itself to queer thoughts and fancies."

"You are already naturally given to queer thoughts and fancies, my friend," said Baptiste, not looking at him but giving a lazy wave of his knife in Cole's direction.

Cole gave a wry, smiling huff at that, his breath fogging in the firelight. 

There was a braying and nickering and the three of them all glanced at Bayless, who was tending to the mules. Bayless was muttering things to them, not audible over the wind and the crackle of the fire.

“Everything all right over there?” Cole called.

“They mislike it here,” was all Bayless said, coming over to the fire.  

“Hm...” Cole poked at the fire, then glanced up at Mercy, “Goatsrue. You said you know the story?” he glanced up at Mercy.

“I can’t tell it like my grandmother,” Mercy shrugged.

“Tell it anyway,” said Cole.

“Cole...” Baptiste began warily.

“What? Maybe we oughta know what we’re walking into.”

“And sometimes to know a thing is to call its attention to you,” said Baptiste.

“You know, when you travel, you’re supposed to just nod politely at the local superstitions and move along--not carry them with you,” said Cole.

“It’s just a children’s story,” Mercy waved her hand, “It’s really not so terrible. I mean the giant spiders scared me but--”

“Giant spiders? Well now you can’t not tell it!” 

Mercy snorted and glanced at Baptiste, who simply gave a resigned shrug, and then she told the story. The mules fell silent as she spoke, and she told herself it was just that their own tiredness had finally overwhelmed their unease. Mercy scanned the faces of her not-quite companions, then. Bayless had finished his soup and tucked into his own blankets, Baptiste kept sharpening his knife as the fire died down, not heavily indicating that he was listening, but giving her a careful glance here and there. Cole rubbed at his stubble and listened intently, sometimes popping in with the odd question as she had done with her grandmother in her childhood. The fire had settled down to embers and Baptiste and Bayless had tucked into their own sleep rolls  by the time she finished.

“There weren’t as many giant spiders as I thought there would be,” said Cole.

“I said it had spiders, I didn’t say the whole thing was giant spiders.”

“...not exactly a happy ending, is it?” Cole was wriggling into his own sleep roll. 

“My grandmother said it wasn’t really about having a happy ending,” replied Mercy, watching the embers, “It was about doing your best even when all hope seems lost.”

“Sounds like a cheery lady,” Cole shrugged.

“I like to think the princess grew up and came back to rescue the knight,” Mercy murmured.

“Hmm... But if she had... do you think we’d be having these winters?” Cole waved a finger at her.

Mercy pursed her lips at him a few seconds before muttering, “It’s just a story,” and getting into her own sleep roll. She watched the embers as sleep closed up around her like flower petals she had not seen in well over a year.

Cole was right about the land lending itself to strange thoughts though, as her dreams were troubling and just a little too clear to simply be dreams. She dreamt of a blue-skinned hand with blackened, claw-like fingertips crushing a little corn husk doll in its grip. She dreamt of frost bristling along spider’s webs, of spikes and twisted spires of ice, growing, growing, closing in around her. And the sounds--she could hear those uncanny sounds, the low thundering, the cracks and zips and high-pitched creaks of water freezing over. Of icicle stalactites quivering above, threatening to fall as a distant chant grew louder and louder.

The cold keeps the flesh.

The cold keeps the flesh.

The cold keeps the flesh.

In her dream she was walking through that cave, the spikes and spires moving, as if leading her on through the tunnels. Her eyes fixed on the quivering stalactites above, the chant moving through the ice, echoing off the walls too strangely for her to gauge where it was coming from. They quivered with the chant. 

The cold keeps the flesh.

The cold keeps the flesh.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to react when that first icicle fell, much like anyone’s reaction time in a dream. A part of her was thankful that shatter and spray of ice in all directions was a shock enough to spring her back to consciousness, jerking awake in her sleep roll, her breath fogging as her chest rapidly rose and fell. Her eyes flicked around the camp--there was still the faint glow of embers on their fire, and the faint snoring of her compatriots, and just beyond the camp, the white landscape tinged blue by moon and starlight. She scanned the hills surrounding them, the way their crags had been buffed away beneath a blanket of snow, and that snow had been swept into smooth, curving, sometimes spiked looming shapes. She breathed as she looked around, trying to place herself in the moment.

You are on a quest. You have to cross the mountain pass and bring word of this winter to the capital city and plead for help. You need supplies to bring back to the valley. Yarrow and betony and hyssop and--

Her thoughts fell dead silent as her eyes fell on a distant figure on a hill, and she knew, in that moment that the figure was looking at her. She knew her own face as lit up in the dying embers of the fire, her head covered by that hood of scarlet for warmth, and she looked at this figure, distant and cold in all ways. They were in armor, dark and glittering and complex, taking on a bluish tinge in the moonlight much like the snow. Far too tight on them to glance off blows like normal plate. She wondered how they had even managed to get such armor on. In fact, there were ridges on the side that looked almost... skeletal. She could not see their eyes, but she could feel them, and her breath shuddered in her throat. 

 They seemed to be on a horse. An unusually large and oddly muscled horse, to be sure. Nothing like the tired but reliable old farm horses she knew in the valley. The eyes of the horse seemed off. She knew of the way animal’s eyes could be lit at night but there was a dullness to their paleness that made her stomach turn. The coloring of the horse seemed off as well--it seemed a piebald at first or perhaps that was the manner of tack in these parts?  No, they weren’t so far from the valley for it to look so--

The horse shifted slightly in the moonlight and a sound of horror fell out of her as she clamped her hand over her mouth on instinct. But what was the point? This figure already saw her. And she herself could not break her eyes away from them in turn. But the horse--the horse was not made of all a horse should be made of. She had read enough medical texts and done enough surgeries on suppurated flesh to know it when the horse’s flank caught the moonlight. This was a horse whose flank and back left leg had been reconstructed from the corpses of men. The chant echoed in her head:

The cold keeps the flesh.

Bile burned the back of her throat and tears welled in her eyes but she knew she could not spare either so she kept her hand clamped on her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut and silently begged what gods were watching to wake her up once more.

“Goatsrue?!” Cole had jerked awake at the sound she had made, “What is it? What do you see?!”

Her hand flinched away from her mouth shaking and she moved to point at the hill, but the figure and their horse were already gone.

[motleyfuckingcruee]

Hold On (Dirt!Tommy Lee x Reader)

Requested:

@the--blackdahlia

Description:

I'm craving some Tommy goodness/angst

Warnings:

Accidental overdose, angst, fluff, GET THE TISSUES READY

THE SONG THIS IS LOOSELY BASED ON:

Hold On

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!!

COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ON A TAGLIST! OR GO TO MY BIO TO ADD YOURSELF TO ONE!

//

(Your P.O.V)

"FUCK YOU!" You scream at Tommy. You storm into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

"YOU CAN'T JUST FUCKING STAY IN THERE, (Y/N)! QUIT ACTING LIKE SUCH A BITCH!" Tommy yells through the door.

Tears stream down your face. You knew it was a mistake to confront him about the rumors you'd heard. He got mad because you don't fully trust him. But how can you? He's a rockstar. Chicks want to fuck him left and right. And Tommy can't refuse any of them.

You sit on the floor with your back pressed against the door. You pull your knees up, resting your head on them.

You can't hear anything, so you're guessing Tommy fucked off. Half of you is happy. You're glad the cheating fuck left. The other half is hurt. You want him to fight for your relationship. You guess that's not going to happen.

After an hour or so passes, you finally stop crying. You feel tired and have a splitting headache. You need some aspirin.

You pull yourself up off of the dirty bathroom floor by grabbing onto the also dirty sink. God you need to clean this place up. You pull open the mirror which reveals a cabinet. Multiple pill bottles litter the cabinet. You have no idea what's in most of them. Tommy's the pill popper. Not you. You stick to weed and blow every once in a while.

You finally find the painkillers. You take out four, feeling the headache get worse. You pop them in your mouth and swallow them dry.

You feel your headache go away instantly.

Huh, that's different that normal. You think to yourself.

That's when you feel your body start to go rigid. You feel your heartbeat pick up and you're having trouble breathing. You finally lose your footing. You collapse to the ground, instantly losing consciousness.

------

(Tommy's P.O.V)

I pull another beer out of the fridge. I pop the top open, just wanting to calm down. I've only had two beers so far, and I have a pretty high tolerance. I really don't want to be drunk when I go talk to (Y/N) drunk. That will only make shit worse.

I knew I shouldn't have gave in to that one girl. Now (Y/N) is going to leave me. I love her so much. I fucked up big time, and I don't see a way out of it this time.

I hear a loud thump coming from upstairs. I run up the steps, feeling like something is wrong. Of course, I could just be on edge from the fight.

I pound on the bathroom door. "(Y/N)? You alright." No answer. I feel bile rise in my throat. Even if we're fighting, she'll let me know she's alright. "(Y/N) OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

Still no answer. My heart speeds up. What the hell is wrong? I do the only thing I can think of since the door is locked. I kick it as hard as I can. The door flies open, revealing an unconscious (Y/N).

"Oh my God!" I yell, not sure what to do.

Call 911 dumb ass, My thoughts say.

I run to the phone we have in our room. I quickly dial the three numbers.

"911, what's your emergency?" The operator says calmly.

"M-My girlfriend is unconscious on the bathroom floor. I-I don't know what happened," I try to explain. My eyes stay locked on my almost dead looking girlfriend.

"What's your address, sir?"

I quickly gave her the address. "AND HURRY THE FUCK UP!"

"Sir, please try keep calm," The woman says. "Can you see if she maybe took something that made her pass out?"

I look at the counter, instantly finding the ecstasy I put in the aspirin bottle opened.

She took my ecstasy. That took a few moments to register in my head. SHE FUCKING OVERDOSED ON ECSTASY!

"S-She overdosed," I stutter.

Just then there's a knock at the front door. I look out the window and see the flashing red and blue lights. I hang up the phone.

I run down the stairs, throwing open the door. I lead the paramedics up to the bathroom where (Y/N) still lies.

I'm scared to touch her. I caused this. If I hadn't have gotten mad. If I hadn't have started yelling at her, she wouldn't have needed to take aspirin. I know she was crying hard enough to give herself a headache.

The paramedics take her out to the ambulance. I follow them in my car.

I don't even register what's going on around me, or even what I'm doing. My mind is on (Y/N). How lifeless she looked. Her beautiful (H/C) hair was tangled. Her skin looked so pale. Paler than normal.

Hours pass as I sit in the hospital waiting room. I'm guessing sometime during these hours I called the boys. Or maybe (Y/N) still has Nikki down as her emergency contact. They were best friends before we got together. Nikki wasn't happy with me there for a while, but once he saw how happy she is-was with me, he calmed down.

Nikki rubs my back, but I barely feel it. I feel numb. The woman I love is dying right now because of my stupidity.

At that thought, the tears start to fall. I don't bother to hold them back. What's the point? My love isn't beside me. I don't need to act strong.

I need her.

I feel Nikki, Vince, and Mick all surround me. They try to comfort me the best they can, but I don't even hear what they're saying.

"Family of (Y/N) (Y/L/N)?" A man in a doctor's uniform says.

I stand up with the boys behind me. They consider themselves her family. In a way, we're a weird little family. We've been through hell and back together.

"That's us," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Will she be alright?"

"She'll be fine," He says, smiling reassuringly. I nearly fall back into my chair from relief. "We were able to pump the drugs out of her system before it got too serious. She's still asleep, but she should wake up soon. You all can go in."

He bids us goodbye, then walks down the hallway. The four of us misfits walk into the small room. My heart falls at how helpless (Y/N) looks hooked up to those machines.

She still manages to look gorgeous, though.

Nikki pulls up a chair next to the bed. He grabs her hand. They dated a year before we got together. I'm not going to lie when I say I sometimes suspect they still have feelings for each other. . .then again you can't exactly let go of your first love, now can you? Especially when you stay best friends with them.

"What did she overdose on?" Nikki growls.

Oh fuck. I forgot to tell him. He's going to murder me.

"Ecstasy," I say, feeling ashamed. "It's all my fault. She was upset about our fight and gave herself a headache. I was keeping the ecstasy in an aspirin bottle." The tears are coming back. "I shouldn't have gotten so mad at her. This is all my goddamn fault."

Nikki stands up. His chest is heaving up and down. I deserve it if he kills me. I'll take it without a fight.

"YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT IT'S YOUR FAULT! HOW COULD YOU JUST KEEP THAT IN THE HOUSE WITHOUT TELLING HER WHAT BOTTLE IT'S IN?!"

"Alright, that's enough, buddy," Vince says, taking Nikki's arm.

"I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU, LEE!" Nikki yells as Vince and Mick drag him out of the room.

"We'll give you kids some time alone," Mick says, shutting the door behind him.

I sit down in the chair Nikki was just in. I grab her hand, rubbing the back of it.

"Baby, please come back to me," I whisper, fresh tears making an appearance. I haven't cried this much. Ever. "I want you so bad. I still need you. I love you so goddamn much. You're my everything, you know that? I'm sorry I'm such a twat. I'll love you better. I promise you that." I lean my head down and kiss the back of her hand.

"You better not fuck that promise up," (Y/N) says suddenly.

My head snaps up. My eyes are met with the most beautiful ones in the world.

"Oh, baby," I say, getting up and hugging her softly. "I'm so sorry, love. I didn't know you'd try to take those pills. I thought you only used the ones on your bedside table or else I would have told you."

She smiles the best she can, trying not to wince. I know her throat hurts. They probably stuck that tube down her throat to get the ecstasy out.

"I couldn't exactly go out of the bathroom, now could I?" She teases, her voice scratchy.

"I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head, cupping my cheek with her hand. "It's alright, Tom."

"No it's not. I shouldn't-."

I'm cut off by her pulling my head down to kiss my lips. I kiss her back, so happy to feel her against me. Alive and breathing. Not dead and gone like I thought she was not even thirty minutes before.

"It's okay, Thomas. If you want to make it up to me, show me how much you love me. Be loyal for once," She says. The hurt is evident in her eyes.

I caused that pain. I hurt the sweetest girl in the world. What the hell is wrong with me.

"I can do that," I say, kissing her again. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, asshole."

Tags:

All fics: @the--blackdahlia @sugar-content @sharon6713 @siliwanoel @charlyallise

Dirt!Tommy: @2dead2function @horrorpxnk

[angstandhappiness]

FASCINATING

The Knight of Frost, Part 2

Been playing a lot of Elden Ring and RDR2 and wouldn’t ya know it, it got me really inspired for this AU. 

Thinking about the inherent eroticism of running away hysterically screaming from Elden Ring bosses…

CW: For some Horse Body Horror.

Continued from The Knight of Frost

—

Mercy grew up as most girls from her time and place grew up–much as the people in her grandmother’s story grew: she knew long, harsh winters and bright, precious summers and springs, and autumns that seemed to cascade all at once in just a few short weeks. She grew taller than most girls, and with an odd grace and delicacy about her, unbowed by the drudgery of her day to day life. But there was a kindness at her core, perhaps fueled by that constant wrestling with the end of the story, the idea that out there was a knight trapped by a curse for no reason other than the strength of his heart and loyalty. She grew up cleverer than most in her village: with an excellent head for memorization that made her an ideal apprentice for the local midwife and apothecary, and steady hands that allowed her to learn to lance buboes and quickly take over the task for her teachers when gout gave a shake to their wrists and unsureness to their fingers.

 All this was paired with a no-nonsense personality that prompted little frustration from her teachers–they recalled beating her only three times–once when her daydreaming lead to idleness, another time when she directly contradicted them in front of a client, and a third time when they found she had been advising and examining in back alleys when her training was not yet complete but their clients had no coin for the apothecary’s consultation. The impressiveness of her fury and passion in defending herself in each case was only rivaled by the impressiveness of her stoicism as the birch met her backside. She was strong, and tall, and always just a little bit angry, like a lone evergreen in a dry place: needs that were not quite being met, but doing her best regardless.

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