#all I can hear is the occasional fog horn

[kajjinks]

Lifelong quiet introvert has to spend a few nights alone after finally getting used to communal living and regular physical affection: will they make it

[llamagoddessofficial]

Not very Christmassy, but when inspiration strikes, what can you do? Here’s some more Bog God Skull.

---

The Black Bogs were a terrifying enough place as it was, in the day. Walking into the wall of endless fog that encased the land was something only the brave, stupid, and/or local could muster the mental strength to do. The sounds, the smells... unless you’d been through there yourself, entirely alone, there was no way to describe the horrible creeping dread that surrounded your being.

... But then the night. 

The lack of sound was the most frightening thing. At first. If you looked into the darkness too long... you would begin to see and hear things that weren’t there. Whispers, cries that you hoped were an animal, flickering lights of long-dead villages in the far distance.

You had to walk through the bog at night. You didn’t want to, but it was the only way to get home. Your little lantern was all you had to protect yourself from the oppressive darkness. You walked as briskly as you could, without tripping, shawl wrapped tight around you and eyes set forward.

...

There were sounds behind you. Barely perceptible. A gentle rustling, the occasional soft splash, easily mistaken for a lost frog or a shift in the land as the deep waters below buckled under the mud false floors. But... a keen ear would notice that the sounds were following you. 

They had been following you for the past twenty minutes.

... You came to a stop, taking a deep breath. As soon as you stilled, the sounds stilled too. Waiting for you.

... You turned around, lifting your lantern high and shining it behind you- immediately, in the near distance, the edges of a massive shape quickly but silently shifted back from the edge of the light, out of view.

You shuddered.

...

“... Is that you?” You asked, voice small, quivering. The sound wouldn’t travel far... but you knew it didn’t need to. He was close.

... Nothing. There was little akin to the horrible silence of this place. The only sounds were bubbling, rotting mud and muskeg. There was very little ambient life- few things could live there, and those that could would rarely dare.

“... Could... could you walk with me, instead of behind me?” You said, eyes straining to pick movement out of the darkness. “Please? It’s dark. I-I’m... I'm scared.”

...

It was quiet, for a few moments. You worried he didn’t want to show himself, and you’d have to travel the whole distance like this, all but being stalked. But you suddenly heard movement- then slowly, very slowly, his massive body moved into view.

The God of the Black Bog, in all his horrible glory. Teeth, jagged spine, hunched back, huge horns branching out like the hands of drowning men reaching for the sky. The light from your flickering lantern danced across him, warping and stretching the deep shadows in the crevices of his bones. Muck and lichen and shreds of matted fur clung to his heaving body, how could anything that existed be so big? He was a remnant of a long forgotten era, when creatures towered over the earth. He was walking in the muck beside the path, you didn’t know if it was the magic of his dominion over this place that made him immune to the dangers of the deep mud, but either way, he traversed it with little to no issue. He was so tall... drawing up beside you, you were barely the height of a single one of his stained tree trunk legs. 

There was a tiny bell, tied to the side of one antler. The source of the gentle noise that often was your final warning before a terrible fate occurred.

He didn’t have his signature red eye. Perhaps he extinguished it at night. But... you got the feeling he was looking at you anyway, peering out from those warping dark sockets high above you.

... But he just waited beside you. 

“Thank you.” You said, softly. You started walking, and so did he. Silently lumbering alongside you.

You didn’t know when you picked up this... 'walking partner'. There was no one incident, the feeling of being watched had just slowly mounted and mounted as the weeks went on, until certain parts of the walk through the bog would literally make your hair stand on end in terror. Especially when you heard that tiny, gentle bell, ringing out like a water droplet. You didn’t know when he’d first started following... but you definitely remembered the first time you saw him, his twisted silhouette in the near distance, burning red eye transfixed on you.

He wasn’t always there. At least... you thought he wasn’t always following. Some days, the feeling of being watched was so strong you couldn’t breathe, you were convinced you could hear his footsteps through the wastes and feel washes of his hot breath. And some days, you got nothing but a strange uneasy sensation in your gut. Maybe he tracked you every day? You’d never know.

... He very rarely walked beside you. He didn’t seem to want to be seen. The first time he’d walked beside you, you hadn’t said a word, utterly terrified by the casual presence of the God of the Black Bogs. He wasn’t exactly known for being benevolent, after all.

But the weeks went on, and nothing happened to you. No great misfortune befell you. In fact, by this point, you were the only person in your village who hadn’t had some kind of ‘incident’ out in the bog. Everyone else had stories of losing the path, nearly drowning after falling through a false floor, infected stings from tiny invisible insects and almost following a ghost to their death.

... You didn’t know what you’d done to earn it. But it seemed like, for whatever reason, you had his protection.

...

You couldn’t help but glance up at him, every now and then. His great skull wasn’t facing you. Since he so rarely showed himself, you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to draw in his appearance.

...

... Then your lantern went out.

You let out a little surprised sound, as the pitch black swallowed both of you. Crap, you hadn't re-oiled it when you were in town, had you? You rattled the old thing, letting out a sound of frustration. You couldn't see your hand in front of your face.

"... Well. I... don't know how I'm getting home, now." You tried not to let your voice shake.

...

A sound left him. It made you jump- it was deep, and soft, breathy. Like a bear exhaling. It travelled through your whole body.

...

A light appeared in front of you. Just out of arm’s reach. You blinked, your eyes immediately focusing onto it- a tiny blue shape, wobbling as if it were made of water, small and sky blue but emitting an unearthly ultramarine glow. It made no sound, and emitted no warmth, simply flickering in the still air before you.

... Immediately, you knew what it was. Your eyes widened, sparkling in the ethereal glow.

“... A will o’ wisp.” You whispered, quietened by your awe.

It was beautiful. Like a ghost. Nobody knew if they were spirits, signs of a spirit, or just a trick of the eye- you never thought you’d see one, not without risking great danger. Will o’ wisps never came close to the path.

Another popped up, a few paces behind it. And another, just behind that. Another, more, and more... they came into existence in a way you could only describe as the opposite of a candle being blown out. Whipping lightly, then settling into softly flickering states. They trailed off, out of the nothingness, one after the other, illuminating the path with their phantom bodies. A seemingly endless row of little glowing ghosts.

... They... were on the path. Showing you the way to go.

...

You looked back up at him. He had seemed a stranger in the oil light, but his great body looked so at home in the ghostly blue glow.

“D... did you...?”

...

He began to walk. You didn’t waste time, or ask more questions, you just moved to keep up with him. The will o’ wisps extinguished as you drew close enough to touch them, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.

“... Thank you.” You said. “They’re beautiful.”

No response.

...

It took a few, silent minutes... but soon, you reached the end of the wisp trail. The lights of the town were in clear view, warm and orange and alive. Just like every time, there seemed to be an invisible line in the ground that he refused to cross... he stopped at that line, watching you walk on. Perhaps he could feel where his magic began to thin.

... You turned, after a few paces, looking back at him. Staring into the endless black sockets that drew in your very Soul. His jagged, terrible silhouette, bones and rotting fur... he didn’t seem part of the living world. He seemed made for that bog, that place of death and sickness, a part of its horrible landscape.

He was its God. But was he the bog, or was the bog him?

“... I... like when you walk beside me. I like seeing you.” You said, voice carrying much further now that the mists were receding at the fringes of his territory. “I hope that’s okay.”

...

His skull lifted. A fraction. Surprise? There was no possible way to tell. 

...

... He turned around, lumbering back into the wall of fog. In a few steps, he was gone... a great whale instantly disappearing into the deepest, darkest ocean. 

You faintly heard his bell.

... You turned back to the town, continuing on your journey home. The ground began to harden underfoot, and colour returned to the grasses. Soon, the path was gone, and you were back in the world of humans.

...

You hoped you would see him again, tomorrow.

[ms-scarletwings]

Dave the Diver: On Aberrations

Between a scattering of recently discovered islands rests a jewel of paradise, mystery, and a hint of exotic danger. The famous Blue Hole has found a name for itself among the most envied tourist destinations among the world, with a gorgeous view, thrills to experience, and rich natural resources… but on a day like this, the scene has become anything but recognizable as the bustling hub described. That is because a ponderous fog has decided to linger over the lagoon by the time my vessel reaches port.

Despite the warm weather, I could feel my hairs standing on end from the very moment the clouds had enveloped our ship. Aside from the occasional day like this, fog horns would usually be a rare sound to hear across the bay. Since the discovery of the area, vacationers have enjoyed a tropical climate punctuated by mild storms. It all paints a picture so drastically unlike the eerie one I have pursued to this end. By sunset, I know that the white mist outside will give way to a crimson haze. With it, begins the investigation into the unusual animals only spotted on previous fogged nights: What familiar aberrants have made their way to the region, what are they capable of, and to where they fit within the additional puzzle of Blue Hole’s astounding ecosystem.

The Fog Coast, Part One

The hour is roughly 10pm, and “Blue” Hole has turned to a sight otherworldly. Thick, red vapors and an eerie silence hang in place of what was a starlight sky over the whistles of dolphins a mere night ago. The locals claim that the lagoon is an inscrutable locale, whose underwater geography both hosts an impossible collection of species and undergoes rapid, unexplained changes every few hours. On a night of crimson fog, it has been made enigmatic even from the surface view. Rocks easily seen by daylight make sailing close to the shorelines a hazardous endeavor along a coast with no lighthouse or other navigational indicators. It is a coastal venture treacherous, but also rewarding, for much more hides under these waves than the rocks. A watery gyre is barely seen at the edge of shiplight, and at its core, I have heard there can be found treasures far more interesting than mere gold.

• Encyclopedia Entry No. 83, 84

[Testimony of a local fisherman]

“Now it’s not unusual for cod to happen up close to the shores at night. Obviously, I was hoping for it or I wouldn’t have been fishing in that stuff, but there was something else going on with these fish. Something not right. They weren’t taking to the bait, but they just kept coming up closer. Like they were trying best they could to get up on my ankles without getting stranded. Almost like they see someone standing on the beach and that’s all they’re interested in. Not that I let them, but they got close enough to tell something ugly about them. The only thing I managed to get hooked snapped my line before I could figure out what I was even looking at, other than big teeth and nasty looking eyes.“

Analysis: Our first descriptive cases of mutated cod corroborated with archived specimens from off the coast of Greater Marrow. Though there are instances where residents have managed to capture these codfish whole and live, no success has been found in attempting to keep them or any other mutated fish in captivity, due to their propensity to die shortly after they are harvested from the ocean. The two ‘flavors’ of tainted cod found here include the Fanged and Three-Headed variants, with no cases of hypertrophy. Their behavior has observed to feature heightened predatory behavior, to the point of stalking and testing large animals as oppurtunistic targets. They approach sluggishly at first, and lunge to close distances. They pose some hazard to swimmers, notably the unarmed, but can be reeled or netted as readily as any scrod. The three-headed cods are generally larger than the fanged variant, and both can be found close to the surface during a fog night.

• Encyclopedia Entry No. 79, 80

[We join the crew of a commercial trawler, company left unnamed to permit this revord of the onboard operations. As the ship coasts upon the outskirts of one of the smaller outcrops, fishermen gather at the fresh haul to do their work. Mackerel from all global ranges and climates incredulously line the deck of the vessel, meticulously sorted into an array of containers. One worker calls out as an unusual sight is plucked from the pile- a brown shiner with half a dozen too many eyes for an average fish. The bosun indicates for me a specific container the individual is packed into. What I find there is a collection of similar wretches, scales still twitching and mouths gasping wet with a shimmering fluid.]

“We don’t actually come across that many of them in the nets. One for about every hundred of the healthy ones. Their meat is considered tainted and has to be separated from the catch, but we aren’t allowed to return them to the environment either. They’ll stay on ice for now, later today they’ll be dropped off with a merchant who’s agreed to handle the… disposal.”

Analysis: In spite of the sheer diversity of mackerel to be seen at Blue Hole, these turned pacific mackerel are the only shared species between Greater Marrow and this living collection in such regard. Specifically, the Many-Eyed and Grotesque mackerels found in shallower coastal water. Like most aberrants, they are prone to agitation and exhibit territorial, if not predatory aggression at first contact. Like all aberrations, their blood runs a purple hue, and their sightings dry up once the fog has dissipated.

• Encyclopedia Entry No. 91, 92

[Shared anecdote from a lionfish diver]

“You have to really love a place like Blue Hole to do what I do. A lot of people don’t think of lionfish as an invasive species here, but they can do real damage to reefs where they’re not native, and ours are no exception. Worse still is that they’re far more aggressive here than anywhere else in the world, and not any less venomous. I thought if anyone was prepared to do a part in protecting local animals from these new pests, why not me? And yeah, I bagged a few. I speared things with a few too many eyes, a few too many heads, a few too many teeth. I found these great big ugly fish with no eyes at all that still would come right at you. And then I saw a… thing. The thing, Reason I don’t go night diving anymore. Came out of the dark like a ghost, black bones and green light. It didn’t look like something that should have even been real. I was lining a shot up and I felt like my arm had taken a lion’s barb. I didn’t even know what happened, that thing sparked, and I felt pure pain pulse through half of my body. Everything was panic after that. Panic to get back up and the hell out of the water. Fingers were still tingling almost until morning. All I know that I know is, I’m sticking to day hunting.”

Analysis: What’s to be expected was found in observation of the Tusked grouper. Despite their blindness, they show no hesitance to begin tracking and pursuing any nearby disturbance of water they sense. While their sole offensive boast is a strong mouth full of elongated teeth, the Voltaic variant wields a far less conventional weapon. When approached to a range of a couple of meters, it is capable of discharging a potent shock. Likely, this is utilized both as a defensive and hunting technique, similar to the currents produced by an electric eel. Similar accounts have attested to this stunning capability, reporting temporary paralytic effects from direct contact with the fish. Mechanism of this ability remains unknown. Especial caution recommended in presence of Voltaic grouper, not only for the risk of attack, but also from the drowning hazard posed by their stray arcs.

[fbfh]

Leo who plays an instrument??? He seems like he could play the keyboard what dyou think

Thoughts r being thunked

YES. it's definitley something he picked up in the midst of a hyperfixation and whips out occasionally. every couple months he'll fixate on it again. you don't hear from him for like 12 hours straight and he just bursts in and is like I CAN FINALLY PLAY THIS ONE SONG I LEARNED IT IN ONE SITTING DO YOU WANNA HEAR??? the answer is yes you always wanna hear. his hands are pretty while they dance across the keyboard he got off amazon and his little focused face is the cutest shit ever. he learns to play your favorite songs because they make him think of you and he likes seeing how much it makes you smile. he's always thought he's better at stem stuff than arts stuff, so this is both fun and a good reminder not to limit himself through his own expectations. when he tells you that, you tell him you've always known him as someone who can learn any skill in any genre and get really fucking good at it, and he blushes so hard part of him lights on fire. he needed to hear that. also he will so 100% recreate memes and jokes all the time. he downloaded a bunch of the sound effects gene belcher uses on his keyboard on bobs burgers and occasionally punctuates a sentance or rant with a dog bark or fog horn sound effect from his keyboard. it makes you laugh every time. the first video he sent you was him and harley recreating this vine. you still have the video saved

[hellsenthero]

Collapse.

Written by: hellsenthero

Bucky X FemReader

@leniram1890 Requested: For the request,i was thinking of Bucky x non avenger reader where reader saved Bucky from falling debris/ heavy object when Bucky unexpectedly is not in his senses that day,

Warnings/Themes: Language, violence, blood, fluff. (1.9K+ Words.)

*Masterlist*

----------

New York was a city filled with possibilities. But Y/N had never thought one of those possibilities was being destroyed and plundered by a secret organization. She didn’t know who was infiltrating the city, but she knew they were bad. Their dark uniforms with a red skull and six tentacles only further proved that. No one that worked for the good of all people would have a skull on their uniform. 

Before the screams of terror began and shots rang through the air Y/N had been sitting in a quaint little cafe at the corner. Sunlight shone in through the full windows, warming her in her seat as she drank her iced coffee. People walked by outside, some racing around in a hurry, others walking slowly, peacefully. She watched them go by her. The occasional loud conversation or honk of a car horn could be heard even inside the coffee shop, but she didn’t mind. It was New York after all, there was never complete silence in the city. 

Y/N had just finished her drink when the terror began. 

It was the people freezing in the middle of the street she noticed first. They all looked towards the same direction, some bringing up their hands to shield their eyes from the sun. Y/N looked to the left, through another window in the cafe, but couldn’t find what had grasped the full attention of the New York citizens. Even the man running towards a yellow taxi in the road stopped and stared off into the distance. The few other customers in the cafe with her got up and looked out the windows. Y/N took the last sip of your coffee before moving towards the window herself, eager for a closer look. That was when the first scream pierced the air. 

---

Bucky was watching a movie Steve suggested to him at the Avengers Compound. It was, one of the classics I’ve been told to catch up on, Steve had said. The movie was called E.T and Bucky could honestly say he liked it. He’d just gotten to the part where the kid was hiding the alien in his closet when an alarm began to blare through the compound. 

Bucky jerked up from his seat and ran from the room. He’d just turned the corner when Steve nearly ran into him. 

“Suit up.” Steve ordered as he passed Bucky, no doubt on his way to find his own uniform. 

It only took Bucky a minute to suit up. The routine second nature to him now. He raced outside towards the Quinjet, finding Steve, Nat, Sam and Tony already in the jet and talking in strained voices. Clint got on the jet a second after Bucky and Wanda and Vision two seconds after him. 

“Great,” Tony clapped his hands together as he went to the front of the ship and began pressing buttons. “Let’s go.”

“What are we responding to?” Bucky asked as he took a seat. Steve turned to face him, a shadow passed over his gaze as their eyes met. 

“Hydra has infiltrated the city. It seems they’re done playing around behind the scenes and have gone for a more...direct approach.” Bucky’s metal fist clenched at his side, his metal plates whirling. “Our goal is to take out as many operatives as you can and protect the citizens.” The team nodded their heads as a collective group. 

From the front of the jet Tony called out to the team, “We’re landing in two minutes.” 

---

Guns fired off like a show of fireworks. Minute after minute, second after second shouts and bangs filled the air. Y/N raced through the street, away from the soldiers in black. Above her a dark jet lowered itself towards the ground. Y/N was only mildly surprised to see the Avengers hop out and begin fighting. 

If Y/N had learned anything from the news then it was that when the Avengers arrive there will always be carnage in their wake. If possible Y/N pushed her legs to run even faster, away from the damage and death raining down on the city. 

She had just turned a corner when a blur of black and silver went flying past her, through the glass window of a furniture shop to her right. A scream tore out of her throat as she came to a halt. 

The building swayed, ready to collapse, and a pained groan sounded from within the structure. Against her better judgment Y/N turned, staring into the building for only a moment, before going inside in an attempt at helping the person inside. 

---

Bucky wasn’t prepared to see so many Hydra soldiers. Men marching in uniforms of black, their red badges standing out like blood against the fabric. Their faces were the worst though. Not all, but many had the dead gaze Bucky knew all too well. The quick, meticulous, almost robotic movements that only came from having their minds wiped. Bucky could taste the burning acid of pain in the back of his throat. He wanted to throw up. 

Steve gave him a hard shove before racing into the destruction. A firm reminder to get his head straight, to start fighting. With a deep breath Bucky shot off his gun, instantly killing a Hydra soldier. 

Bucky didn’t know how long that went on for, the shooting, the killing. It all blurred together. But still, he wasn’t in his right mind. His past memories created a fog in his head. So when a Hydra soldier came up behind him, a gun in hand, Bucky didn’t realize until it was too late. 

Or nearly too late. If it wasn’t for Wanda throwing him through the air with her scarlet power, he would have been dead. The gun aimed directly at his head. As it was he went flying into a building, crashing through glass and wood and structural pillars. 

It was a never ending blur of pain and flying and red and black. 

---

Y/N prayed she wasn’t going into the unstable building only to be met with one of the men attacking the city. She should have turned away, got out, but something pulled her further inside. The structural pillars of the large shop were broken in half. Only one remained standing, the sole pillar holding up the shop. 

Another groan sounded and Y/N called out. “Hello?” Another groan answered her and Y/N went further inside. One eye stayed on the pillar, praying for it to not give out while she was still inside. “Do you ne-” Y/N’s next question was cut off by the sway of the building. Dust and rubble rained down from the ceiling, the loud groans and creaks of the building filled the air. Y/N went to turn around, to head back out into the sunlit, destroyed city, but it was too late. 

The last pillar gave out. 

The ceiling came crashing down. Y/N dove beneath a table, her hands protecting her head, her knees tight to her chest. She thought she heard someone scream a man’s name from outside but it was washed away by the great crashes of the building. 

The first thought in Y/N’s mind when the crashes came to a stop, and the debris settled, was that she was dead. But the pain of rubble pressing down on her quickly reminded her that she wasn’t. That was she was alive and stuck in a collapsed building. 

With another person. 

With a groan Y/N crawled out from beneath the broken table. Blood covered her palms and knees as her limbs scrapped against debris. Dust filled the air like a heavy fog, threatening to choke her. 

“Hello?” Y/N called out as loudly as she could. The groan of pain that answered her seemed to lift an invisible weight off of her. Whoever had gone flying through the glass window only moments ago was still alive. For now. The dust began to settle and Y/N’s vision clearned. Ahead of her she could spot shining silver. It was most likely debris, it certainly couldn’t be a person, but still Y/N crawled towards it. 

---

His mind fogged. He could hear a woman’s voice, calling out, but Bucky could do nothing more than groan in answer. If he made it out of there, wherever he was, he would be having quite the talk with Wanda. 

Debris layed heavy on Bucky, threatening to crush him to death. His movements were painful and limited, but still he tried to escape from beneath the crushing weight. 

Blood dripped from a wound on his head and his ribs screamed in protest as he did his best to crawl out from the rubble. But his best wasn’t enough. His mind was so foggy he didn’t know up from down, left from right, it all blurred together. He was nearly ready to stop his struggle and go to sleep like his mind begged him to do before the voice sounded again. 

Soft, sweet, gentle, it reached his ears and Bucky knew he was going to be okay. 

“Please don’t be dead, please don’t be evil.” Bucky could hear the woman’s voice clearer now. A heavy weight lifted free from his back and Bucky groaned in relief. “Shit, are you okay?” Bucky looked up and was met with beautiful Y/E/C eyes. “That’s dumb, you’re obviously not okay.” The woman said more to herself than to Bucky. Bucky reached out a hand, grasping onto the woman his eyes surveyed her from head to toe. 

“You’re hurt.” He gasped out as his eyes locked on the scarlet blood on her hands. 

“So are you.” The woman answered. 

Bucky smiled. He hadn’t smiled in a long time and he never would have guessed that a strange woman and a collapsed building would do him in, but he smiled. 

“I think I’m supposed to be the one saving people.” Bucky said and he crawled out from the last piece of rubble holding him down. His bearings beame less blurry, his mind focused on the building, the rubble, the woman. Direction began to make sense again. 

The woman smiled right back at him. “Yet here I am, saving you.” 

Bucky must have been in heaven. Dark, bloody, painful heaven, but heaven nonetheless. 

“What’s your name, knight?” Bucky asked as he and the woman worked together to be free of the building. The closer they got to their exit, the more Bucky could hear someone calling his name. No--someone’s. Steve and Wanda. 

“Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.” The woman answered. “And yours?”

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.” Finally, they got out of the building. Bucky was met with a relieved Steve and Wanda. The former smiled and gave him a pat on the back, but still Bucky’s gaze remained on Y/N. 

“It’s all over.” Steve told Bucky. 

Bucky didn’t respond back, instead he said to Y/N, “I think you need to be looked at.”

Y/N nodded her head. “I think you’re right.” Bucky smiled and wrapped an arm around Y/N. 

“Come on, I’ll bring you to the jet.”

The pair walked off and Wanda and Steve remained standing outside the ruined building, confused and surprised. 

“What-” Wanda began before Steve cut her off. 

“I don’t know.” Steve mumbled. “I don’t know.” 

[clevercxs]

Believer - Sigefrid Thurgilson [Ch 2]

[MORE CHAPTERS]

Pairing: Sigefrid Thurgilson x female oc

Word Count: 6.8k

_______________________________________________

With dawn came an uneasy feeling of dread within the Saxon warrior. Her face, distorted with worry, belied her ethereal youthfulness. She seemed to have aged an entire decade in the day it took them to reach the fortress of Beamfleot.

Beads of cold sweat glistened upon her furrowed brows. Lady Blædswith found herself anxiously gnawing at the insides of her cheeks like some famished barn rodent - though it wasn’t out of hunger. She’d bitten her chapped lips until they were stained red like fresh blood upon newly fallen snow. Her fair skin was drained of all color except for the rosy hue beneath her windblown cheeks.

Dark rings had formed beneath her pale eyes causing her to look all the more ghostly. Once filled with such vigor and spirit, her irises were now dull; lifeless even, and heavy with exhaustion. Her body, bruised and broken from the trauma she’d endured, swayed achingly with the rhythm of Sigefrid’s steed beneath her. It was by the strength of Sigefrid’s arm alone that she managed to sit upright for the duration of their travels.

She was a lamb being led to the slaughter, or frankly something far worse for a woman to endure than death itself - the wrath of men.

Unlike a lamb, or cow for that matter, Lady Blædswith didn’t have the luxury of being blissfully unaware of what lied ahead.

For the first time in a long while she was completely and utterly defenseless. Above all else, she believed it to be the scariest, most unusual feeling she’d ever known.

And she hated every second of it.

A light mist began to fall from the sky awash with ominous shades of grey. The air was humid and smelled of a storm brewing in the near distance. Thick clouds of fog encompassed each horse and rider though they began to dissipate over time. An unmistakable roll of thunder rumbled through the damp earth causing the horses to feel uneasy once more.

Lady Blædswith firmly grasped handfuls of mane between her fingers and took as deep of a breath as her ribs would allow.

For the love of God, or gods, please don’t throw me off.

Barren trees shivered in the wind, their naked limbs often snapping beneath the weight of fleeing crows and squirrels alike. Eerie branches, gnarled and twisted, extended towards the band of Danes and their princess like the very hands of Skaði herself - the Pagan goddess of winter.

The shivering princess found herself retreating into the fur pelt draped over her shoulders for warmth. Sigefrid decided she’d suffered enough from the cold, though found himself growing fond of the way his grey fur looked beneath her dark, unruly curls.

Although Lady Blædswith was born and raised in Wessex, Sigefrid could see there was something different within her; something worth saving. He could sense a feral presence bound by chains that could never be tamed - not even by him.

Odin had dealt her a great hand, and she spat it back at him by defying all odds.

____________________ ➴  ____________________

The infamous fortress of Beamfleot was a rather grim sight to behold.

The surrounding field was brown with decay. Remnants of battles past lie scattered in the weeds; broken swords, cracked shields, dented helmets, and the occasional skull or two left inside said helmets.

Its cold, uninviting walls of aged wooden planks loomed high above the approaching Danes and stretched towards the gods. Stone watch towers encompassed by cages of sharpened wooden pikes protected archers keeping watch over the land; Sigefrid and Erik’s land.

Sigefrid led his fellow Danes along a narrow path and towards the main gates. “Lady Blædswith of Wessex. Welcome, to Beamfleot. Your new home... should you want it.” His dark eyes gleamed with mischief, the corners of his lips perking into a rather menacing smile.

Lady Blædswith shook her head with confusion. “I-I do not understand. I thought you intended to sell me for ransom? T-to my father?”

Sigefrid chuckled haughtily, “Oh, for a while I did.” He tightened his arm around her waist and pressed the entirety of her back against his firm chest causing her breath to hitch. “But then I grew to like your company.” She could feel every muscle in his core flex and constrict against her frame as he held her in place. Every part of her yearned to resist his warm touch yet she couldn’t bring herself to do so… and she couldn’t understand why.

“How could I join you?” Lady Blædswith scoffed and craned her neck to face the Dane whose arm encompassed her being. “I have experienced quite enough to know better.” She pressed the palm of her hand against her dried arrow wound as if recalling the incident all over again. “You must think me a fool!“ She twisted back around and purposely bumped her back into his chest.

“I do not-“ Sigefrid growled lowly.

“Then how can you possibly expect me to trust you so soon?”

Sigefrid’s nostrils flared and his lips pursed out of bitterness; his narrowed eyes seemed to burn with a newfound frustration despite the truth behind her words. “Very well.” He huffed. “Warriors join us by the day. With word of your... capture… there will be more; all waiting for war.”

“Against who?” She urged. “Mercia? Wessex? My father?” Both kingdoms, as far as she knew, had large armies of noble and courageous men… but the average Saxon warrior was no match for a Dane like Sigefrid Thurgilson. “Tell me.”

Sigefrid smiled wickedly from ear to ear and simply responded, “You have my thanks, Lady.”

As they grew nearer, a set of heavy gates were drawn open revealing the inside of Beamfleot. Lady Blædswith could hear Danes of all walks of life applauding their Lord’s fruitful return. Once through the gates and inside, Hæsten rode up beside them and nudged her boot with his own. She kicked him back, harder, causing him to curse beneath his breath.

With the sound of the gates closing behind her and locking in place, all hopes she had of escaping fell into a pit of despair; of defeat.

The two Danes proceeded to ride through the village, passing by mothers joyfully embracing their children and drunken men clinking horns of ale together.

“Lord.”

“Yes?” Sigefrid drew slowly out of exasperation. “Speak.”

“How does she feel? Warm?” Hæsten’s serpent tongue grazed over the bottom of his busted lip. His eyes dilated at the mere thought of his hands ravishing Lady Blædswith’s womanhood. He believed it to be what she deserved for not only being a Saxon, but publicly humiliating him and nearly taking his life in front of everyone.

“Rich, as she should.” Sigefrid leaned forward and firmly pressed his lips to the back of her hair, exchanging a sly grin with Hæsten before leaning back. “She is priceless.”

Lady Blædswith felt completely numb; frozen in time as the world around her faded to a blur. Danes began clawing at her legs once more and tugged at her clothes. No one knew of her identity thus far but some had their suspicions. It was clear she was of grave importance to their Lord, therefore she had a great value.

She remained stoic; her attention fixated on the large building up ahead with pits of seductive flames dancing in front of frostbitten Danes.

Hot tears streamed down her flushed cheeks yet she kept quiet; there was nothing she could say that would matter to anyone - assuming she could even get them to listen in the first place.

Lady Blædswith could feel each tear dripping from her chin and falling onto the dense fur around her neck, one she wished could shield her face from the dirty looks she received as Sigefrid paraded her around.

“I bring you King Alfred’s eldest daughter! I swear to the gods… that this prize will not be sold cheaply. There will be wealth and glory for every man here!” An uproar of cheering and laughter rang out from children of all ages, the elderly, returning warriors and even slaves who’d taken a break from their chores to gape in awe.

They hoped they would have an easier week ahead of them now that a new woman had been introduced, so they celebrated her capture without drawing too much attention to themselves.

Sigefrid marveled triumphantly at the celebration that had begun in his honor. He could hear his name being praised and chanted loud enough to be heard for miles, a sound he would never tire of.

After the crowd simmered down he was the first to dismount. His boots, upon doing so, struck the earth like the mighty hammer of Thor. He reached up and grabbed Lady Blædswith by her waist as best as he could without harming her with his hand-blade nor disrupting her broken ribs. It was a rather tedious task.

The Lord of Beamfleot decided it was worth the risk of impaling King Alfred’s daughter if it meant no other man would lie a hand on her.

By the hour he found himself increasingly selfish and greedy; hungry with lust and a burning desire of having a princess all to himself in the interim of negotiating a price for her release.

She carefully dismounted and found herself clinging to Sigefrid’s armor for support. The warmth of her hands seeped through his leather attire causing his breathing to hitch for a moment. His hand remained a constant upon her waist until she found her balance. They held each other’s gaze a moment too long before she cleared her throat. “I’m fine. You can let go, now.”

With a sigh, Sigefrid rolled his eyes and stepped back just in time for a friendlier face to arrive by his side. Whoever he was, he seemed to have missed the big announcement.

“Sigefrid? Who is this woman?”

“Erik!” Sigefrid clapped a hand to his brothers shoulder and brought him closer to see her. “This is King Alfred’s daughter.”

Erik’s lips formed an ‘o’ before he stepped even closer out of sheer curiosity.

When Lady Blædswith looked up she met a pair of gentle blue eyes underlined with kohl. He had a small, rounder face than Sigefrid decorated in thick scars and smudges of dirt. It seemed Erik had been kept rather busy in his brother’s absence. Below his button nose was a short, dirty-blonde beard bound by a single ring of silver. Similar to Sigefrid, his head was shaved at the sides and his hair was knotted into a short braid down his neck.

“How did you come across her?” Erik asked over his shoulder though quickly turned back when she answered for his brother.

“My men and I were ambushed on our way to Mercia. They were all slaughtered in cold blood and I was taken as a hostage.”

Erik’s brows furrowed as he gently caressed the side of her bruised cheek with the tops of his knuckles, retracting his hand after she winced in pain.

“She is unwell, brother. Who did this to her?”

Lady Blædswith looked around to see if anyone would try to stop her from confessing. When she looked to Sigefrid he averted his gaze and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hæsten.” She croaked, “But Sigefrid stopped him before it was too late.” The mere mention of his name through her lips caused Sigefrid’s chest to constrict.

“Lady,” Erik took a step closer with his hands raised to show her he meant well, “I would like to see what Hæsten did to you.”

She scoffed. “You want me to undress, here, in front of everyone? In the cold?”

Erik nodded with a sigh, acknowledging the extent of his request.

“Are you mad?” She then turned to face Sigefrid. “Sigefrid you can’t let him-“

“I can, and I will. Take off your fur, Lady. Now. We want to see such a woman in all her beauty!” The eldest Thurgilson pressed firmly, asserting himself to the Saxon woman who so boldly spoke out against him.

Exhaling slowly, she allowed the fur to drape down her arms and pool at her wrists before falling to the ground. The back of her neck was scorching hot as hundreds of eyes watched her every move.

“I’d like that back.” The princess wore a long sleeved shirt beneath a leather vest tied in the back like a corset. Her chainmail armor had been torn to pieces and left in the clearing where she was ambushed.

“Now, your vest.” Sigefrid motioned with his blade.

Lady Blædswith slowly reached behind her to untie the laces of her vest but stopped halfway, wincing as pain coursed through her body. “Damn!” She hissed, “I can not.” Her hand tightly clutched her right shoulder as she cried out in pain. “I can not lift my arms high enough to do so.”

Erik’s brows furrowed with confusion. “Why is that?”

“Well,” She gulped dryly, “it would appear that I’ve been struck by a bloody arrow! So I will not be taking it off.”

“Then I will. Allow me to be of... assistance.” Hæsten cooed as he slithered past the Thurgilson brothers.

“No!” Sigefrid and Lady Blædswith shouted in unison, leaving Erik unable to determine who’d taken greater offense to Hæsten’s offer. It struck Erik that perhaps Lady Blædswith meant more to his brother than he’d let on.

“Leave us, Hæsten. Now.” Sigefrid dismissed.

Hæsten swore to himself once more and passed by Lady Blædswith, though stopped dead in his tracks after she grabbed his wrist. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.” She whispered by his ear. “One day I shall make you beg for mercy as I did. Only your Lord won’t be there to save you like he did with me.”

“Sigefrid needed you alive. He knew he couldn’t hump a corpse.” Hæsten sneered, only to be knocked off balance by her forehead slamming into his nose - causing it to break and ooze blood down his lips. Before he could raise his fist Erik grabbed him by the forearm and redirected the hostile Dane elsewhere. Hæsten brushed shoulders with the younger Thurgilson before searching for a slave to take his aggressions out on.

Lady Blædswith caught sight of Sigefrid with his bottom lip between his teeth, concealing a coy smirk of amusement as his chest shook with laughter. He ran a hand over his devilish beard before strolling towards her.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

The Dane shrugged. “Mmm….Maybe I did? Though Hæsten was right. I needed you alive.”

“So you could hump me, is that it?” She yanked him down to her eye level by the collar of his leather armor and narrowed her eyes. “You couldn’t handle me.” The princess hissed through gritted teeth and released him with a shove.

Sigefrid chuckled to himself after regaining his stance. “Oh? Is that right?” He’d caught onto the game she dared to play without realizing she’d awoken the beast within him. It was risky of her to challenge such a man of Sigefrid’s reputation, but she couldn’t help it. It was simply in her nature. After all, what had she to lose?

“It is. Besides, I would slit my own throat before bedding a Dane, especially you.”

Sigefrid laughed heartily, evoking Erik and the surrounding Danes to harmonize with him as they mocked the injured woman.

“I mean it. Lord or not, I don’t give a damn.”

“That is enough, Lady. Turn around.” She sighed and did as she was told, now facing Erik who passed her a subtle grin. Sigefrid began working the laces out of their knots until her vest fell open in his hands. Once it was discarded he tore the sleeve from her shirt to reveal the main source of her discomfort.

Sigefrid and Erik visibly cringed at the sight - and smell - of her wound seeing fresh air for the first time. She handled the pain better than Sigefrid expected she would, and by a long shot, her strong will to live had exceeded his expectations.

Lady Blædswith had the face of a beautiful Saxon woman... but the heart of a Dane.

“Sigefrid, if you value Hæsten’s life you will keep him away from me. I will not hesitate to defend myself against him. He still wishes me dead.”

Sigefrid narrowed his intimidating gaze into her eyes. He knew she was right; Hæsten, almost as much as himself, couldn’t keep away from the Saxon princess.

“I do not take orders from you, princess!” The dark haired Thurgilson growled. “You should be glad to still have your tongue.”

The sound of gravel crunching beneath the steady rhythm of boots caused them both to look up as Erik approached.

Heavier droplets of rain began to fall upon their heads as forbidding clouds lurked overhead causing some to retreat indoors for warmth.

“Enough, Sigefrid. We need to get her inside before she freezes to death.”

“Very well, Erik. She is coming with me.” Sigefrid roughly grasped onto the princess’s forearm.

“Wait!” Lady Blædswith shouted, tugging her arm free of Sigefrid’s calloused grip before pulling her torn shirt up and beneath her bra line for all to see. Dark, unpleasant blotches of purple and green had appeared overnight as the pain worsened. It looked - and felt - as if she had been kicked by a horse when both brothers knew the truth.

“You have broken ribs... Hæsten did this as well?” Erik frowned solemnly, receiving a nod from the princess as she covered herself up once more. Sigefrid took a rather possessive hold of her hand in his and squeezed it tightly to ensure she wouldn’t slip away.

“It will not happen again, Lady. You have my word.” The sincerity of Erik’s words was as refreshing as a cold drink on a hot summer day. However, she had to remind herself that he was no saint.

Erik Thurgilson was the lesser of two evils. Lady Blædswith couldn’t help but feel safer around him despite the fact that he was Sigefrid’s younger brother.

The princess mouthed a quiet thank you and passed the blonde Dane a frail smile before Sigefrid pulled her towards the Mead Hall.

“Sigefrid, you will not hurt her.” Erik demanded of his hot-headed brother whose mind was already made up. Lady Blædswith stumbled behind him in an attempt to keep up with his long stride to avoid being dragged through the mud.

“I will do as I please.” Sigefrid laughed with a smirk. Erik couldn’t help but shake his head in disapproval, now trailing behind to ensure no further harm came to King Alfred’s daughter.

“Try, and see what happens!” With a loud huff Lady Blædswith dug the heels of her boots into the dirt causing him to stop and face her. “Your hand won’t be the only thing missing from your body when I am through with you.” As their faces drew closer a single white cloud was formed from their sharp breaths intertwining. Suddenly she felt the pad of his thumb flicking over her bottom lip and resting upon her chin as he held her gaze.

“You have a sharp tongue, Lady.” Sigefrid snarled, his nose scrunching with vexation. She could feel the warmth of his breath upon her lips. “That will get you in trouble.”

“How fitting.” The princess muttered and swatted his hand away before he snatched it back it in his own. “That seems to be all I am good for lately.”

____________________ ➴  ____________________

A frigid breeze nipped away at her face and had crept beneath the tattered remains of her clothes, spreading across her skin as if she were trapped in the frozen realm of Nifelheim.

Her hands, tucked away in the cavities of her armpits, were painfully numb to the touch. Her pale lips had turned a bluish hue and her teeth chattered with the unsteady rhythm of her breathing. The nearest fire pit was just out of reach no matter how far she stretched her arm; it was close enough to tempt her like the Forbidden Fruit to Eve, yet remained unattainable despite her efforts.

Lady Blædswith fell heavy with exhaustion after frantically searching for a way out; a weak plank of wood, a loose nail… nothing. She had repeatedly thrown herself at the locked gate, crying out in frustration each time whilst doing more harm to herself than the filthy cage that confined her. Its rusty bars remained stationary yet they closed in on her all the same, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of claustrophobia curdling within her.

A shroud of darkness had enveloped her broken wings, for Lady Blædswith was a flightless bird.

Occasionally she found peace by slipping into an unconscious state, only to be startled awake by ungodly booms of thunder or Danes clinking horns of ale along the metal bars. Even a brood of clucking chickens strutted past her, showing off their boundless freedom before Danish children chased them outside. Curious hounds sniffed around the princess from time to time, trying to determine whether or not she was to become their next meal, or perhaps just something to urinate on.

And by the smell of it, they chose the latter.

An overwhelming series of events had occurred in the mere day or so she’d been in the Thurgilson brothers’ possession. Evidently, the Saxon princess began to lose track of time.

How long had she been trapped here? For a few hours? Days? And how long had Sigefrid allowed his men to tease and taunt her whilst she lay curled in a ball, weeping as a small child would? Praying to her God who seemed to have turned a blind eye once and for all?

From beyond the shadowy gloom of the dimly lit hall came a tall silhouette carrying something. Lady Blædswith found herself scrambling to the furthest corner from the gate out of fear of her approacher’s intentions. When they stepped closer to the cage their face became visible beneath the chandelier hanging overhead, revealing it to be Erik Thurgilson with a fur pelt in his arms.

She had ill-heartedly anticipated it to be Hæsten returning for a helping of spiteful revenge.

“Are you ready to talk, Lady? I brought you something warm.” Erik gestured the fur towards her, receiving a frantic nod as she rose to her bare feet. Sigefrid had ushered everyone out of the hall and into the cold, barring the doors behind them. He then found himself drawn to her cage like a moth to candlelight, watching wearily as Erik retrieved a key from his pocket and opened the gate. He carefully set the fur down for Lady Blædswith before locking her in once more.

Collapsing to her knees with a gasping sigh of relief, the trembling princess wrapped the thick pelt over her body and curled into a ball, now teetering back and forth on her tailbone. Sigefrid and Erik pulled up a carved bench and made themselves comfortable for what they anticipated to take some time: interrogating the rogue daughter of King Alfred of Wessex.

“I shall t-tell you everything you wish to know,” She shivered, “b-but only if you release me from this wretched cage where I am to remain under your protection. I am not a damned chicken… This cage is rather small for a princess.” Lady Blædswith quirked a dark brow. She smirked ever so slightly and allowed her gaze to fall deep into Sigefrid’s lap, “I expected it to be… bigger.” She so crudely joked, catching both brothers by surprise at her sudden vulgarity.

Humor, of all things, seemed to keep her sane even through the worst of days.

Sigefrid’s eyes glimmered as he chuckled into the palm of his hand as he stroked the length of his sleek, raven beard.

“I like her.” Sigefrid cooed, turning to face his better half though his eyes remained glued to his Saxon prisoner.

“Perhaps too much.” Erik grinned teasingly, “Shall I leave, brother?”

Sigefrid shook his head and sighed. “No, stay.” He then directed his full attention to the princess. “I accept your terms, Lady. It is done.” He muttered, “You will be freed... And, you may be surprised how well such a cage would… suit your needs.” Sigefrid smirked devilishly at the witty Saxon, displaying teeth as sharp and frightening as knives. Her heart seemed to beat faster in a dizzying manner that her breathing could not keep up with.

How was he menacing yet alluring at the same time? How could she loathe such a man yet want nothing more than to be in his presence? To hear the low growl of his voice sent shivers down her spine in the most pleasant of ways. She craved the danger; the unpredictability of his Pagan nature. It was all so new and enticing to the Saxon woman whose recurring thoughts have been far from Holy. He was her enemy; her kidnapper. Sigefrid Thurgilson was a deviously charming Dane with an edge of mystery to his every whim. She believed if he had intended to do her harm, he would have done so already.

Her only dilemma was that she couldn’t bring herself to forgive him for Lunden… not now, anyways.

Sigefrid Thurgilson held the power to decide her fate; whether or not she lived or died — and how. He had chosen wisely thus far, and appeared to see Lady Blædswith in all her grandeur.

Erik Thurgilson spoke uncomfortably,, “I must be going-”

“No! Stay.” Lady Blædswith chirped. “I am ready to talk… But only to you, Erik. You have shown me a great kindness.” She directed at the blonde Thurgilson. “As for your brother… not so much. He is the reason I almost died at Hæsten’s hand.” She spat at him through the cage. “I will never forget that, Heathen.”

A loud stomp echoed throughout the hall as the floorboard beneath Sigefrid’s boot nearly cracked. “I am the reason you are still alive. Do not forget that.” Sigefrid leaned forward, pressing his elbow into his knees. He slowly unsheathed his hand-blade and sneered mockingly, “Christian.”

“Perhaps what my brother is trying to say is… we would greatly appreciate your... cooperation.” Erik grinned sheepishly as a low growl rumbled within his brother’s throat. “Where were you headed, Lady, with the king’s men? You said you were headed for Mercia when Sigefrid… found… you. Is this true?”

Lady Blædswith nodded with a troubled sigh. “Yes, it is true. I was headed North to visit my sister, Lady Æthelflæd. I traveled with my men; they were loyal to me, and to me only. And in return I led them to their deaths.” A light shudder rippled through her body as she fought the urge to dispel the meat they fed her earlier.

“To see the Queen of Mercia — yes. But why?” Sigefrid’s brows furrowed tightly together in uncertainty.

Lady Blædswith inhaled sharply. “I thought... we could be of use to each other. I sought her protection, and Mercia needs warriors with my skillset.” She feared she had already revealed too much, but there was no turning back now.

“You do not have King Alfred’s protection?” Erik frowned and rose to his feet, taking firm hold of a metal rod in each hand. He was unsure of what to make of her words.

Lady Blædswith chuckled and shook her head, wet strands of hair falling over her eyes, “No, no. Of course I do not. He is the one I sought protection from! For years I have drowned in my father’s politics but I have had enough!” She shouted angrily, causing both brothers to flinch ever so slightly. “I met suitor after suitor... they never stopped asking for my hand in marriage. Strange men; always foreign and often old enough to be my father…. or grandfather.” She could feel herself fighting back a sob brewing within her throat.

The Thurgilson brothers exchanged sour looks of disgust.

“I can not imagine what you have been through, Lady.” Erik soothed and leaned closer to her cage. “No father should force his daughter to wed, not even a King.”

Lady Blædswith smiled softly at Erik, though noticed the way Sigefrid had began glaring down at her. She felt almost obligated to explain herself, “I-I never loved any of my suitors — I couldn’t. I was always able to scare them away, and Alfred resented me for it. I humiliated him, time and time again, in front of numerous princes and lords… until one day he found a man most unafraid of my strong will…”

“What do you mean?” Sigefrid snapped resentfully. Erik could see a blazing pain of jealousy ignite within his brother. “Who is this man you speak of?”

“I am engaged to a Frenchman whose name I can hardly pronounce nor remember. He has…” She motioned to the top of her head, “...thinning, grey hair like a corpse! I have heard the servants’ whispers, and they say he is a cruel man. He hates women, especially women like me.” Lady Blædswith rose to her knees and crawled a few feet closer to the brothers, no longer apprehensive of their presence. “He remains in Wessex with my father but I doubt they will send scouts to find me. I may not be worth the trouble... But if they did, they will not succeed.”

“Your fiancé fears a woman so strong; so unafraid to will her own destiny.” Erik smiled and took a seat. “He sounds a cowardly prick. You deserve far better, Lady. A man who is your equal-”

“Silence your flattery, brother.” Sigefrid snapped with a harsh jab of his elbow into Erik’s arm. “Continue.”

She nodded and did as commanded,

“I told King Alfred of the rumors I heard but he did not believe me…. and God forbid I seek proof for myself - I knew better than that. The moment my own mother, Lady Aelswith, decided to support the marriage I knew there was no longer a life for me in Wessex. I no longer had allies; no loyal family left but in Mercia. One night, on a whim, I simply gathered my things and left with the few men I could gather…” She sighed heavily and allowed her shoulders to droop. “We later passed through Lunden and, well, you both know what happened next.”

The Mead Hall fell silent, only to be disturbed by the frantic pounding of fists upon the main doors and a voice asking for Lord Erik. “If you will excuse me,” He rose to his feet and slipped the key into his pocket instead of trusting it with Sigefrid; this did not go unnoticed by his brother nor the princess.

Although Lady Blædswith asked to be freed, and Sigefrid agreed to uphold her request, Erik knew she was safer behind bars where no Dane could harm her - not even Sigefrid or Hæsten.

Erik made his way through the doors and was virtually out of sight. Alone, in the wet darkness of the Mead hall sat a Saxon beauty and her beast.

“Why did you kill the man who shot me?” Lady Blædswith wasted no time in bluntly asking her most burning question. “You did not know who I was. I was but a Saxon woman, y-you’re enemy.” Crawling towards the gate, she rested the palms of her hands against a wooden plank.

“He acted on Hæsten’s orders, not mine nor Erik’s. It did not matter... whether or not I knew you were Alfred’s daughter.” Sigefrid looked up from his lap and appeared unusually calm; sympathetic, almost. “I have never seen a woman fight as you do, Lady Blædswith of Wessex. Not even a Danish shieldmaiden could compare. Sparing you... went against everything I stand for… everything!” He slammed his hand down on the bench beside him. “But you were worth saving.”

He then paused, glancing over his shoulder to ensure they were truly alone. “And I would do it again... without hesitation.” Sigefrid sighed in defeat, not wanting to accept the fact of the matter but it was true.

She was taken aback by his confession, unsure of what to say or do. Ever so carefully she reached above her head and took hold of metal bars, helping herself to her feet. The cage was barely tall enough for her to stand upright but she managed. “You still believe me to be worth saving even though I am in ruins?” She asked in disbelief and Sigefrid nodded.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you for sparing my life, Lord. All day I have feared Beamfleot; you, Hæsten, Erik… and everyone else. But now I fear returning home, how foolish is that? Despite the unbearable conditions I have been kept in, here…. I would gladly choose it over the life my father has planned for me.”

With a grunt Sigefrid suddenly rose to his feet, turning away whilst repeatedly running a calloused hand over his face.

“You do not wish to sell me for ransom… do you?”

“I am… conflicted, Lady.” He turned around on the heels of his boots to face her, “As you are. I promised my men wealth and glory, but they do not see you are priceless.” Frustrated by the decision at hand, Sigefrid neared a long table set with platters of food and cups of ale, and with one big sweep of his arm sent dishes crashing to the floor with a loud yell. “Damnit!”

Now seething with sudden rage, Sigefrid abandoned the princess and strode towards the doors to find his brother, only to be stopped by her shouting, “Stop!”

As if compelled by the gods Sigefrid found himself immobilized a mere foot from the door. The princess sniffled beneath the pelt now draped over her head and wiped away tears from her cheeks. “Sigefrid you will not receive what you desire from King Alfred.” She confessed, knowingly signing her own death sentence.

She heard his loud boot steps approaching as he breathlessly snapped, “What? What do you mean, woman?”

“I mean you have the wrong daughter!” She sobbed, watching as the Dane before her grew increasingly hostile and agitated by her words. “I was never his favorite child, never! He cared for me once but my constant defiance has shamed him beyond repair. Why would a king pay a fortune for a disobedient princess whom he no longer loves? He does not value me as a skilled warrior like you do, I am simply a pawn. If and when he negotiates a price… you will not be satisfied with it.”

“Are you saying I should have killed you in the woods?”

“No! And I am grateful you did not. I thank… I thank the gods that you see some greater value in me than my own father, b-because at least I-I know I matter to someone.” The princess choked on her own tears and displayed her aching heart on her chest. “For better or for worse, I matter to you.”

“You speak often of my gods.” Sigefrid folded his arms over his chest and began walking in a circle around her cage. “Have you lost faith in your God?”

She squeezed her ocean eyes shut and nodded, fishing down the collar of her shirt for the wooden cross hung around her neck. She took it in her hand and yanked the necklace from her person. “He has ignored my prayers for longer than I can remember. He turned my own family against me… my own kingdom. I prayed to Him before I fought Hæsten… and I lost miserably.” She gently laid the broken necklace on the floor before spitting on it. “I could never bring myself to denounce Him, but I feel I may soon. Meeting you has been the ultimate test of my faith, Lord.”

Heaven lost an angel the day Princess Blædswith met Sigefrid Thurgilson.

When she opened her eyes she saw that Sigefrid had reclaimed his place on the bench, nursing his hand-blade, slowly working the buckles to relieve his discomfort.

“Who did that to you?”

Sigefrid glared up at her for daring to ask when he assumed she knew. “Your Lord, Uhtred.” Sigefrid groaned, struggling to free his stump from the gnarly contraption.

“I am… sorry he did that to you. I hope it brings you peace knowing I no longer serve Uhtred Ragnarsson.”

“Oh?” He disregarded the buckles on his hand and allowed it to rest upon his knee. “Who do you serve, Lady?”

She scoffed with a smile and leaned her back against the bars, “I serve myself, as hard as it may be to believe. All men who have tried before have failed. For a short while I was sworn to Uhtred of Bebbanburg. I fought by his side and loved every moment of it.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Well, it was not up to me. King Alfred welcomed the idea of his daughters learning to protect themselves. Growing up, Æthelflæd and I trained with the captain of my family’s guards, a man named Steapa. Unlike my sister who was married off to a pig’s ass named Æthelred-”

“-A pig’s ass!” Sigefrid shouted with amusement. “How fitting.”

“He is but a shit stain upon my boot as I have come to know. I fear no man, but he… he is no man.”

“Will you tell me about him?”

“I shall, another time.” She grinned and continued her story, “I pursued my skills in fighting, and once I was good enough Uhtred gladly took me under his wing despite my father’s wishes. Uhtred taught me that not all Danes are cruel and merciless. I am hoping that to be true of yourself and Erik. He seems a kind man.”

Sigefrid nodded in response to her compliment. “He is a good man. I would be lost without his head.”

“I have no doubt.” She teased with a mournful grin. “I wish I could say the same for my father - that he is a good man. It was not easy for Uhtred to let me go but he was ordered by King Alfred to do so. He took away everything I had; my freedom, my happiness. I lost not only my own blood, but Uhtred and his men. I was suddenly… alone.” She glanced at Sigefrid through eyes blurred with tears. “My sister is all I have left. God forbid she turns on me, too. I am not sure what I would do.”

“What are you prepared to do?” Sigefrid cocked his head to the side and attempted to decipher her words. “Are you prepared to kill your own sister? A queen?”

“Is that what you would like me to do?” She scoffed. “Would you kill Erik? Your brother? Surely not.” Lady Blædswith challenged, not able to help herself from feeling defensive over Lady Æthelflæd’s life. The entire hall fell silent except for the sound of rain falling in sheets upon the roof. Sigefrid shifted uneasily in his seat and allowed for his head to hang below his shoulders.

“I… would be lost without Erik.” He repeated quietly, craning his neck to nod at her before returning his undivided attention to the screwy buckles on his hand-blade.

Fascinated by Sigefrid’s troubling efforts the princess blurted, “May I see it? Your hand?”

Sigefrid’s face hardened with shame and distrust. “No.” He hissed and turned away from her like a stubborn child refusing his vegetable dinner. “You may not.”

She took a calming breath and knelt before the gate. “I can take it off and help soothe your pain-”

“Why would you want to help me, woman?” He continued to fumble with the buckles though frustration clouded his focus.

“Well… I’m sure Uhtred had his reasons but no man deserves that. Not a Dane, not even my father.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe my father.”

Sigefrid paused with a grin, and looked up though his gaze refused to find the Saxon woman kneeling before him. “Not even a Dane holding you hostage?”

She gulped dryly and shook her head. “No, not even him.” Her eyes met his longing gaze and the world seemed to stop spinning; the heavy downpour even ceased to fall. “I will not hurt you, Sigefrid. I could not bring myself to.”

Sigefrid contemplated whether or not to expose to her his blessèd curse of an arm; his most loathsome insecurity that had only damned the eyes of his dearest brother. Would she see him as less of a man? Weak; vulnerable, even? The Lord of Chaos decided he was willing to let his guard down as she had done. Perhaps the gentle touch of a woman was all he needed. Though it may not ease his pain entirely, it would surely lift his spirits and remind him why he initially spared her life. He took great pleasure in her company, though not without dreading what was to come of her and his decisions left unmade. With a definitive nod he agreed,

“Very well.”

_______________________________________________

Author’s Note: This was more of a filler/informational chapter regarding *some* of Lady Blædswith’s background. I promise chapters 3+ will be more action packed. I hope this chapter was worth the wait! ;)

(FYI, reading all of Sigefrid’s lines in his voice makes it 10x better)

TAGS: @finantheagile​ @inforapound​ @cheapcakeripper​ @wildwren​ @metall-and-dust​ @onesaltyhunter​ @wessexcrown​ @destinysall​ @lauwrite1225​ @lumxnously​  Feel free to ask to be added to the tag list xx

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book Two: Sapphire (Ignis x Reader) Chapter VIII

Deeper into the Nebulawood, the royal retinue was greeted by more fallen trees. They littered the sides of the somewhat narrow path while some proved to be obstacles blocking their way. They crawled over a few trees to proceed forward and eventually enter a clearing. A pack of voretooths who were nearby ran past them as they fled from the other direction.

"Whoa! Look at 'em go!" Prompto chanted as he watched the creatures flee without noticing them. He was amazed at seeing such dangerous beasts flee without fighting. "So, exactly how big are behemoths?"

"Roughly around 70 feet in size and typically weigh around 174 ton," (Y/n) answered.

"Oh, uh...that's a lot bigger than I thought. Maybe we should rethink this..."

"What, you chickening out?" Gladio inquired. "Don't understand why. You've fought big daemons before."

"Yeah, but none of them are able to shove me in their mouth!" Prompto wandered over towards the spirit amongst them. "Maybe you could scare it away, (Y/n)?"

"My spiritual form is small and fragile. How do you expect me to scare away a beast that's twenty times bigger than me?" She retorted.

"Aren't there some beasts out there that are frightened by smaller ones?"

"And you think a behemoth is one of them?"

"We could always test that theory."

She combed her (h/c) locks over her shoulders. "I'll think about it."

Continuing to make their way through the Nebulawood, the area becomes blanketed with mist. They soon make their way to an abandoned stone structure with an opening and passage through which they can crouch. Noctis begins to lead the way the moment they hear growling again.

"Noct!" Gladio grabs the prince and gently pulls him back before stepping forward. He turned back and held out his hand to indicate that he would take point himself instead of Noctis. The brute crouched down and entered the passage. He slowly and quietly makes his way forward a few feet, then turns back to motion for the others to follow. Noctis was the next to enter the passage followed by Ignis, (Y/n), and Prompto. As they crept forward, they could hear the occasional growl from the beast they were hunting.

They didn't make it halfway through the passage before Gladio stopped and turned to face them. "Hold up!" He ceased moving, eyes drifting upward towards one of the many holes in the metal structure that roofed the passageway.

With a growl, Deadeye comes into view through holes in the structure. Its right horn was missing and right eye was foggy. The skin around the eye was mauled and only a horrendous scar was left behind. Although it was blind on its right side, its nose wriggled as it sniffed the air. (Y/n) winced when realizing the beast smelt them, but couldn't see them due to its blindness in its right eye. Her heart was beginning to race due to her anxiety rising. She feared the behemoth would find them in the small crawlspace and crush them with its large form. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she exhaled the moment the beast seemed to overlook their hiding spot and walk away.

With Deadeye gone for the moment, Gladio looks at his friends, holds up a finger, closes his right eye, and taps it with his finger. ""Deadeye"-the name says it all."

At the sudden sensation of feeling a hand over hers, (Y/n) looked down and saw she had unconsciously latched onto the sleeve of Ignis' suit jacket. He had placed his hand on hers when her grip tightened. Mumbling a small apology, she released his jacket. She then peered past the advisor to meet Gladio's gaze. "The beast knows something's amiss. We best make haste before it finds us here."

The shield nodded in agreement and motioned for them to follow. "Let's move."

A few seconds later, Deadeye wandered back into view. It was still sniffing the air and searching the area for them. (Y/n) kept the beast in her sights as they crawled forward. She tried to even her breathing and calm her racing heart, but it was difficult since the threat was only a few feet away.

It was only mere seconds later when Deadeye suddenly detected their presence. (Y/n) saw the beast heading straight for their hiding spot and lowered her body closer to the ground. The boys did the same just as the behemoth shoved its snout into the narrow passageway through one of the larger holes in the metal structure. It releases a thunderous roar, earning a shriek from Prompto.

(Y/n) prayed to the Astrals the behemoth would give up, but she gasped when it started to claw at the passageway. Noctis held out his hand to summon his sword so he could pierce the beast's snout, but he lowered his hand when hearing a familiar squeak from behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw (Y/n) had transformed and was crawling past Ignis. He wasn't sure what she was planning until she hopped on his back and flew out of one of the holes in the structure.

Deadeye took notice of her small form and ceased clawing at the passageway. It chased after her and they both disappeared into the fog. None of the boys could believe what she just did. They quickly exited the passageway and searched for any signs of the behemoth or the skvader.

"I-I can't believe (Y/n) just saved our skins," Prompto muttered in shock. "I hope she's okay."

"Her minute form will prove to be an advantage against a behemoth. So too will her flying ability. The beast can only jump to a certain height," Ignis stated. Although appearing calm on the surface, he was worried about her. She was a strong fighter, but even she had her limits just like the rest of them.

"We can't let her have all the fun," Noctis said. "Let's find this thing and kill it."

"It's weak on the right-no eye, no horn," Gladio responded.

"We'll stay in range until we can exploit its blind spot," the tactician added. "Let's do hope (Y/n) wears our target down before we have to engage."

Meanwhile in another part of the Nebulawood, the skvader was flying through the fog in an attempt to escape Deadeye. She was able to dodge its claws left and right before darting off deeper into the dense mist. The guardian was becoming exhausted from the persistent behemoth and took shelter in one of the trees it had yet to destroy. She curled her small form atop a branch to hide her presence. Her sapphire eyes radiated through the fog, but they weren't visible to the beast as it prowled the foggy area below.

From her perch, (Y/n) had a perfect view of Deadeye. She watched it search the fog for her, scraping its claws against some of the rock formations in the misty clearing. Its nose wriggled like earlier and she knew it was trying to sniff her out. However, it wasn't able to locate her. During their previous chase, she had spread her scent around the area to make herself harder to detect.

The behemoth roared in frustration before giving up the search. (Y/n) lifted her head and stood up, watching the beast closely as it seemed to head in a certain direction. Soaring from tree to tree, she followed Deadeye from a safe distance. When it hopped over a large rock formation and left the area, she continued her pursuit.

Exiting the foggy area, the skvader was more than joyous to see the sun again. The warm rays heated her white and black fur as she soared through the sky.

Coming across the skeletal ruins of what looked to be once a building, she watched Deadeye hop onto a cliff and lay down. It closed its eyes and seemed to fall asleep. Perching on top of the ruins, she stared at the behemoth as it slept. She figured this was its den and looked around the area. Oil drums lied around the ruins and a tattered windmill loomed across the way. Crawling through the ruins, she peered across the way and saw the boys on a cliffside. She didn't hesitate to fly over to them. Landing in front of them near the cliff, she reverted back to being human. "Deadeye's asleep. I suggest we attack."

"Nice to see you, too," Noctis sarcastically replied.

"At least you didn't become a snack and leave us to be the main course," Gladio added.

"Guess we can mark off behemoth from our list, huh?" Prompto smiled innocently at the girl.

She crossed her arms with a wry smile. "Your question from earlier is why I did what I did. Even though behemoths aren't scared of smaller creatures, they sure enjoy chasing them."

"We do appreciate what you did, (Y/n)," Ignis said. "Your quick wit prevented us from being mangled."

"I wouldn't have let any of us become chew toys."

Gladio rolled his shoulder, popping it in the process. "All right, time to take this thing down. Any ideas?"

"I do have one." (Y/n) turned her back to the boys and gestures to the oil drums scattered about below. "We could lure Deadeye to the oil drums and ignite them. That should do some heavy damage and there's more than one we can utilize."

"Lemme guess: you want me to trigger them," Noctis said.

"You've the elements at your disposal. Use those magic flasks you filled up a couple days ago."

"So do you."

"My specialty is ice. That won't help ignite oil."

Noctis looked away, slightly embarrassed that he forgot she didn't know any fire spells. Although guardians had direct connections to the mana of the world and could wield all the elements, they usually only mastered one type. "Right..." He scratched the back of his head.

"The rest of us will do our best to draw Deadeye to the oil drums. You just focus on igniting them."

"And what if we run out of oil drums before we've killed it?"

"Then we do it the old-fashion way: attack the beast head-on."

"Can't argue with that plan," Gladio commented.

"And it's the only one we have," Prompto added.

"I do believe it will suffice," Ignis spoke up.

"Then let's get this over with," Noctis sighed tiredly.

Entering Deadeye's lair, the royal retinue set the guardian's plan into motion. Noctis readied the magic flasks while the other boys summoned their weapons. (Y/n) held up her hand and conjured a large, sharp icicle. She flung it at the behemoth's head and rudely awoke it from its nap. Smirking, she watched as the beast roared and hopped down from its perch. Taking a few steps back, she put some distance between her and Deadeye in order for Noctis to ignite the first oil drum right underneath its belly. He aimed the flask at the oil drum and threw it the moment the beast charged forward.

The oil drum exploded and set Deadeye ablaze. The beast roared, jumping around wildly. It rammed into the second oil drum and the flames from its body ignited it, resulting in its body to be engulfed in fire.

"Aw, yeah! Two-for-one special!" Prompto cheered.

The group repeated the process over and over again until there were no more oil drums. Deadeye's skin was severely burned and large blisters were scattered across its body. Its other eyes was bloodied and the beast could no longer see anything. Its movements were slow and labored as it clung to the small life it had left in it. It tried to fight, but it was useless. It could only weakly swing its claws and tail a few more times before its body tipped over. It slammed into the ruins, knocking a few stone loose.

Seeing no point in dragging out Deadeye's suffering any longer, (Y/n) raised her hand and conjured a bow and a single arrow made from nothing but ice. She aimed the sharp, icy tip of the arrow at the space between the behemoth's eyes. Steadying her aim, she fired the arrow. It hit its mark and killed the beast. Its body slid down the side of the ruins before slamming against the ground, completely lifeless.

"Whoa!" Prompto ran over to the girl. His eyes examined the bow. "I knew you could make a sword from ice, but a bow too? That's pretty cool! Can you make anything else?"

(Y/n) glances at the boy's pistol before morphing the bow into an exact copy. "I can do guns, too."

Prompto, with her permission, took the ice pistol. He compared it to his and noticed the details were all there. He raised it into the air and pulled the trigger. He blinked in surprise when a bullet exited the barrel. "It even shoots bullets?!"

"That is what a gun does."

"But it's made of ice!"

"And so are the bullets."

Prompto dispelled his real pistol and pretended to aim with the ice handgun. He cackled as he continued to be in awe at her creation. Gladio, who still had his greatsword in hand, looked toward her. "You a magician?"

"It's a simple ice spell I like to call mimicry. With just enough concentration, I can fabricate an exact copy of a weapon using only ice," she explained. "Some functions are limited, but I mainly only use swords and bows. I can make guns, daggers, javelins, halberds... Pretty much any weapon as long as I have memorized a schematic."

Noctis watched the exuberant Prompto wave the ice pistol around. "I don't think you're getting that back."

"No need. It'll melt soon enough."

"Now then, shall we return to Wiz and inform him of Deadeye's vanquishing?" Ignis asked.

"Yes, please!" Prompto shouted. "Then we can ride the chocobos!"

Leaving the Nebulawood, the group returned to Wiz Chocobo Post. They spoke to the man himself and told him of Deadeye's defeat. Now, they could rent chocobos whenever they wanted. The moment Wiz told them the birds were at their disposal, Prompto grabbed Noctis and dragged him over to the pens. At the blonde's bubbly command, he rented five chocobos.

At Prompto's begging, they headed to the racetrack. Gladio, Ignis, and (Y/n) remained on the sidelines and watched Prompto and Noctis race. The two boys standing on either side of the spirit were making bets on who would win. The shield betted on the marksman while the advisor placed his gil on the prince.

When Noctis was the victor, Gladio forked over a small amount of gil to Ignis. (Y/n) glances between the two in confusion. "What's the point of betting when all our funds are combined?"

"Don't ruin the fun for us, munchkin," Gladio remarked. She shook her head with an eye roll.

"Hey, (Y/n)!" Noctis shouted, grabbing her attention. "You're next!"

She blinked owlishly. "Excuse me?"

"I wanna race you next!"

She really didn't want to race, but decided to indulge the prince. "All right." Her chocobo, which had (f/c) feathers, trotted over to the starting line as she joined Noctis. Prompto left with a defeated pout plastered on his face and stood with Gladio and Ignis.

As the girl was mounting her chocobo, the brute elbowed Ignis. "A thousand gil says Prince Charmless wins again."

"Truly a thoughtless bet," Ignis replied. "(Y/n) will be the victor."

"You just sayin' that because you're head-over-heels for her?"

"I place 3,000 gil on her due to her handling of a chocobo to be more precise than that of Noct."

The shield arched a brow. "And how do you know that?"

"By simply examining them," the advisor coolly replied. "(Y/n) has a sturdier grip and straight posture, allowing her to control her chocobo more effectively. On the other hand, Noct is slouched over and handles the rein of his bird loosely, which will result in less control."

"You're on, Iggy. We'll see who the victor will be and tell if your observation really is true. Who's got your bet, blondie?"

Prompto hummed in curiosity as he thought about Ignis' words. "I wanna bet on Noct, but maybe I should put some money down on (Y/n) instead. Iggy sounds really confident she'll win. I think I'll put 1,500 gil on (Y/n)."

Ignis slightly smirked. "Then the wager is set."

The three boys watched as the race between Noctis and (Y/n) began. The prince immediately took the lead and was ahead during the entire first lap, but he lost his lead in the middle of the second one. He tried to overtake the girl, but he couldn't. In the end, she was victorious.

Gladio was shocked at the outcome while Prompto cheered. Ignis' smirk festered as he adjusted his glasses. "I do believe Prompto and I are the victors of this wager, Gladio."

"Damn..." The brute mumbled, handing over a thousand gil. "Girl's got skill, I'll give her that."

After a couple more races and bets, they left the racetrack. Seeing as it was becoming nighttime, they decided to use some of the funds they earned from the hunt to rent the caravan. Noctis and Prompto were inside the trailer playing King's Knight on their phones. Gladio was sitting at one of the many tables located around the outpost reading his book. Ignis and (Y/n) were sitting at the table located outside the caravan, chatting away.

When they both fell silent after talking for nearly an hour straight, she asked him a question. "Iggy, are you familiar with a place called Costlemark?"

"If memory serves me, there is an ancient structure in the Duscae region known as the Costlemark Tower. It is rumored to be remnants of the ancient civilization known as Solheim," he answered. "What spurred such a question, (Y/n)?"

"On our way to Deadeye's den, I heard the voice again. Only a few words were clear and one of them was Costlemark."

"Is this something you wish to pursue?"

She nodded her head. "Yes. I know it's careless, but something tells me I need to listen."

"If you believe it so, then I shan't question it. I will discuss matters with the others on the morrow."

She smiled gently at him. "Thank you, Iggy."

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter || Masterlist

[memetrash-coyote]

Kanti: 16, 26, 34, 40; Bryn: 13, 25; Vaathu: 4, 31, 38; Grusha: 15, 32, 36, 39; Vaska: 6, 11, 36; Sprout: 1, 21.

Ooh a fun mix!

KANTI

16. would they draw patterns in frosted windows/fogged up mirrors? what would they draw?

Aside from constellations as mentioned before, she’d also do tree branches!

26. do they write in their books? do they mind other people writing in their books? what do they write?

If she feels there needs to be a note in a book she’s obtained, then she’ll write a note on a piece of paper then keep it by the page in reference.

If it’s her own notes, she’ll add margin notes without worry, usually with an asterisk or some other symbol by the portion she’s referencing.

34. what's the first thing they think when they hear an alarm? what's the first thing they do?

Just go on alert and keep an eye on her surroundings.

40. if their mattress became uncomfortable as time passed, would they notice it? would they do anything about it?

She’d rotate the mattress to keep it going. Eventually she’ll accept that she needs to buy a new one.

BRYN

13. what helps them fall asleep when they're having trouble doing so?

Usually just curling tighter to whoever she’s sleeping with will do the trick. If not, she’ll play music in her head; sometimes music she plays, sometimes music her sisters or parents play.

25. do they keep books on their person? what kind?

Hmmm I think if she had any books, it’d be a romance that she felt had an interesting premise, and she’ll happily read out any of the raunchy bits to Yelkha for a laugh.

VAATHU

4. would your character sing along to a vaguely familiar song, even if they messed up the lyrics as they went?

Yeah! It’s fun to sing along!

31. did they climb all over/onto things as a kid?

Most of her climbing as a kid was the occasional tree and cliff side.

38. do they bother to clean ink/chalk/gunpowder/etc off of their fingers? are they likely to forget it's there and smudge their nose?

Oh she’ll 100% forget, and if someone points it out, she’ll just slap her hands on her pants legs a couple of times to try to get rid of the dirt before trying to get rid of the smudge (it gets worse)

GRUSHA

15. what's a sound they can't stand?

Vomiting. It doesn’t make her sick, but she does wince at hearing it.

32. can they play darts? would they?

Oh she’ll play darts! Especially after a couple of drinks (even if that’s not the safest way to play)

36. (if they have hair that needs to be brushed) how often do they do so? do they do it gently?

She usually quickly combs her hair in the morning before throwing on a bandana, occasionally throwing it into a bun or a ponytail.

39. do they keep working even when their wrists start to cramp? if they do, do they give themselves a break when the work is done?

Depends on the work. If she’s performing, she’ll push through and just rest it afterwards. If it’s a jod where she can take a break in the middle of, she will. Her hands are her tools after all.

VASKA

6. do they usually sleep in a certain pose? does it change?

By herself, arms crossed like she’s in a hammock. With a person, she’ll have an arm around them to keep them both anchored.

11. how do they feel about casual endearments? (babe, etc)

She’s not used to them, but she’s enjoying them. They’re nice.

36. (if they have hair that needs to be brushed) how often do they do so? do they do it gently?

She combs it at night almost daily, just before braiding it and sleeping. She combs with her fingers first then a wooden comb she has, and she’s actually gentle with hair.

SPROUT

1. what kind of clothing does your character like to wear? do they have a style? anything they avoid wearing?

Hand-me-downs that can handle being in the dirt. They avoid shoes and delicate fabrics.

21. do they touch or mess with their hair/horns a lot?

Their hair yes. They constantly run their hands through to get any curls out of their face or just fidget.

[angelanimedesaray]

Investment Part 5: The Quiet

AN:  Soooo this part ended up being short compared to the others, cause it’s a connecting chapter.  Also I wanted to use a certain gif SO BAD but I COULDN’T because it would spoil the end.  You’ll know what I wanted to use by the end, hehehe

I kept agonizing over characterization, which is why it took me so long even though for the Investment series it’s pretty short.

Also, apologies to the people who weren’t tagged in the previous part, my tags were messed up and I just found out the other day, but I think they’re fixed now.

Characters:  Vampire!Levi, Reader, Hange (Mentioned), Erwin (Mentioned), and a SURPRISE

Pairing:  (Eventual) Levi x Reader

Warnings:  Language, Blood, a bit of past Trauma and Fear, Gore

Word Count:  6522

<----Previous Part    Masterlist    Next Part---->

*Reader’s POV*

As you guided the horse through the dissipating fog, you kept glancing down at Levi in front of you.  He held to the saddle horn with one hand, the other splayed on his chest as he weaved unsteadily in front of you, hunching forward with barely enough distance between his forehead and the horse’s bobbing neck.  He still wasn’t in great shape, but he wasn’t near death anymore, which was a relief.  You weren’t trying to catch up to the main formation anymore--they were long gone now, and the only thing you could hope for was for them to collect you two on the way back.

The silence between the two of you was almost uncomfortable, both of you enduring what remained of the wind and rain without a word spoken between either of you since you’d forced Levi to drink your blood.  You could only imagine what was going on in his head after you’d done that.  As much as you were aware it may have hurt him, you didn’t regret it--it was what you’d needed to do at the time, no matter what your personal feelings on the matter were.

Your arm still hurt where he’d bit you, and you could feel the odd sensation of mostly dried blood on your arm at his side.  You really hoped the rain was helping to wash it away and getting rid of the temptation for him, because you didn’t have time to wrap up your arm while trying to flee the scene before Titans appeared.  He hadn’t made any complaints or obvious fidgets of discomfort, though, so you could only assume he was coping.  Maybe he was too distracted right now to really react, though there wasn’t much to distract either of you except your own thoughts.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology came out of nowhere, and it was so softly spoken the wind almost swallowed it up entirely.  Shocked, you looked at the back of Levi’s head directly in front of you.  He wasn’t turning to look at you, and he was still in that hunched over position.  There was no outward sign that he’d spoken, but you were certain that he had.

“I pushed too hard...and I can’t fix what I broke.  No matter how much I want to.”

The only thing Levi could have possibly seen in reaction to his words was the tightening of your grip on the reins to a white knuckled one, causing your bite mark to ache.  Your eyes burned from more than just the wind, and your throat closed up as you struggled to swallow the emotion welling up inside you at his words so you could focus on getting the two of you to the safehouse.

That...that was an apology that you’d needed to hear to start to really forgive him.

Seeing him again, being a part of his life again even if it was from a distance, studying with Hange and learning more and more about what was happening to him, what he was struggling with; it had softened you to him once again, had seeds of genuine care sprouting in your heart again.  However, there had still been something complicating it, something that held you back from starting to forgive him.

Now, after seeing him near true death again like that first night, then seeing him so hell bent on not drinking from you again no matter the personal cost...The sight of his fingers digging into the earth, rain and blood soaked, and his body taught and turned away as he vehemently refused your offer was going to be burned into your mind for years to come.  He’d never admit it out loud, but you had the sense now, after that display back there, that what he’d done had damaged him as well as you.  If he wasn’t traumatized from it, he was at least drowning in guilt for the things he’d done--and not just to you.

And now there was this apology, even if it was so soft spoken you almost missed it, the words disappearing in the wind as you raced forward, Levi not even turning to meet your gaze as he said it--though you strangely weren’t hurt by that fact.  You knew it wasn’t for a lack of sincerity that he didn’t meet your gaze.  He’d never been the best at communicating when it came to his emotions, anyway--he was a constant puzzle you had to pay attention to and work through to figure out what he was feeling or thinking, because most of the time, he wasn’t openly expressionate.  But sometimes, like now, he would give someone a key piece to solve the current puzzle.  And on the rarest of instances, like back there, he was open and vulnerable, though usually that was when the emotion was too strong even for him to contain.  And he probably tried to keep those moments of vulnerability to when he was alone.

Just because his emotions were usually hidden or he could be tough to read, didn’t mean he was heartless and incapable of feeling, though, like some might suggest.

Even though you didn’t say anything in response to his short and quiet apology, as you gazed at the back of his head, you could feel a part of you forgive him.  You weren’t ready to tell him verbally that you forgave him, you needed a bit more time for that...but in your heart, you were starting to forgive him.

Blinking away a few tears, you forced yourself to look ahead again, slowly bringing yourself out of the emotional funk and paying closer attention to the area around you, even though you knew Levi was going to be able to spot any Titans long before you could.

While some bases the Scouts had established were in ruins or abandoned castles, there was the occasional small house constructed high in the giant trees that grew in the area, far out of reach of any Titan but the Colossal Titan and accessible with ODM gear instead of ladders, for safety’s sake.  It was one of these treehouses that Levi guided you to for the two of you to lay low until you could be retrieved by the main scout regiment body.  Trusting your horse’s training to stay in the area, you let the horse wander as it pleased down below while you used your operational ODM gear to get the still-hurt Levi up to the treehouse.  Once the weather cleared up, and day broke, you were going to go up into the treetops as high as your ODM gear would throw you and fire your flare shots to signal Hange.

But first, you needed to tend to Levi.

Once inside the small military cabin-esque safehouse, Levi took a seat on one of the lower bunk beds, an audible ‘Tch’ sounding in the room when he found the place fairly dusty.  It hadn’t been used for a while, so it hadn’t been cleaned.  You might have to see to fixing that afterwards--if you had the supplies to clean around here, which you might, if the Scouts had kept Levi in mind while setting this place up--for his sanity’s sake.

In the meantime, you took a seat on the edge of the bunk, a hand already out to touch one of the spots that was still damp with blood.  “Let me take a look,” you asked, but Levi grasped your wrist before your fingers could brush fabric.

“I’m fine--it’s healing,” he said firmly, starting to sit up.  One of the stains darkened in the process, convincing you otherwise.

“Stop being stubborn and let me help.  Hange’s gonna want healing details anyway.”

“Leave it--I can tell her myself.”

“Levi,” you said firmly, holding his gaze with a harder look.  “Let me look--you’re still bleeding, there’s still open wounds, they should probably at least be wrapped until they seal up, to keep them clean and try and staunch the bleeding.  Or do you want to have to drink from me again because you lost more blood?”

He already might have to before the Scouts returned, but you didn’t mention that right now.  Besides, you needed a little rest before you could act as a doner again.

Levi sighed, leaning back with eyes closed, a look of displeasure on his face.  “Fine.”

Glad you’d won this little battle, you went through your stuff for your emergency medical supplies, finding the bandages and such you would need to wrap his wounds before turning around to see him already undoing the straps for his gear and sliding it off his torso.  As you came closer, the cravat was carefully set aside and his fingers started unbuttoning his rain and blood soaked shirt.

If it hadn’t been for the garish shallow hole in his chest a few buttons down, this could have easily turned into an awkward and embarrassing moment.  It was still a little awkward, as the start of a burn in your cheeks might suggest, but seeing the injury helped you mellow again.  To keep the embarrassment at bay, you kept your eyes down, looking at his gradually exposed chest and refusing to meet his eyes as you turned all your attention to his injuries.

Well, the good news was that it did seem to be healing.  The bad news was that the healing process had slowed dramatically for reasons unknown.  Clearly, he’d healed rapidly earlier considering none of the holes went all the way through, but if it had stayed at that pace, these would have been gone by now.  Your fingers even came away wet with blood--not a lot, but the point was that the wounds were still bleeding.

“I wonder why you stopped healing so fast…” you murmured, mostly to yourself as you helped Levi carefully sit up so you could properly start tightly wrapping around his torso so both front and back wounds were covered.

“Maybe I only heal fast at the start before it slows down,” Levi suggested, attempting to hold still while you worked.  Both of you were ignoring the close proximity, even while your breath tickled his bare chest, fingers flush against his warm skin where you were holding him steady.

You shook your head.  “No, I don’t think that’s it.  Based off Hange’s observations, at least.  You usually heal fairly quickly at the same pace.”

You had a theory, but considering you knew it wasn’t one you could test--or rather one you were certain Levi wouldn’t comply to testing--you were going to keep your mouth shut for now and mention it to Hange, later.

“You have been working with Hange,” Levi said as if he was confirming a theory of his.  When you nodded, he pressed forward.  “That’s how you knew about the curtains, why you made the tins, where you got the bracelet…”

It seemed he’d been paying just as close attention to you as you had been to him.  Nothing got past Levi--he was as deductive and observant as ever.  You were, too, though, and you thought you could hear a timber of...perhaps it was guilt in his voice again?  Maybe he was thinking about what led to the arrangement between you and Hange.  Or maybe he had the wrong idea about why you’d done all of it.

“I wanted to know what was happening with you, and I wanted to help however I could.  Even if it was from a distance,” you admitted quietly.

Finished wrapping him up, you pulled back, grabbing what you’d used and getting up from the bunk.  “Anyways, I’m going to see what I can do about cleaning up around here--you need to rest.  It will help with the healing process.”

“So do you,” Levi said pointedly, eyes following you as you moved around the cabin looking for anything that you could use to clean up.  “I don’t sleep much, anyway.  I’ll keep watch while you sleep.”

You were rather exhausted.  It had been a hard ride since the Scouts had left the walls, not to mention digging for Levi had been a wearisome, and he drank a hefty amount of your blood.  That meant you were admittedly worn down and woozy, but at least you weren’t injured--well, not as bad as Levi, anyway.

Speaking of, you needed to sit down and wrap that before you got started cleaning.

“You really shouldn’t--”

“Just shut up and get some rest.  I’ll make it an order if I have to,” Levi cut you off, looking slightly irritated at your insistence to try and keep him on bedrest while you darted around trying to do stuff.

Oh, ho, ho, he was threatening to pull the rank card.  That one rarely got pulled, considering he wasn’t really one for authority.  All right, you would give--this time.  As long as he was still going to take it easy, you couldn’t complain too much.

After searching the entire cabin, you came to the conclusion that no, they hadn’t kept Levi in mind while supplying this place.  You couldn’t find what you were looking for.

Heaving a disappointed sigh, you sat on the bunk opposite where you’d laid him down to rest, the bandages in hand once more.  “Sorry, Levi, but there’s nothing here to clean with.”

“We’ll make do.  Get some rest--you’ll need it in the morning,” Levi said, getting up from the bunk and finding his way to a chair by one of the windows with visible effort before sitting back down with his head leaned back, gazing out the window.

Reluctantly, you settled back onto the bunk, gaze trained on Levi and taking in his bandages, noting what spots already had red speckling through.  You took the time to wrap up your arm, officially covering up the wound and hopefully helping him ignore any lingering bloodlust he might not be saying anything about.  Silence settled over the cabin, the only sound your occasional shift on the bunk to try and get comfortable and your steady breaths.

You ended up surrendering to exhaustion with the last thing you saw Levi sitting perfectly still in his seat by the window, his gaze distant and far away, lost in his own thoughts.

*Levi’s POV*

After she fell asleep, there was nothing but Levi and his thoughts in the dark space, slivers of moonlight making its way into the room through the large trees and the window to give a semblance of light.

There was a dull ache in his jaw that had only started to dim after she had wrapped her arm to cover the open wound, but it wasn’t going away entirely.  He could still smell the blood in the air, even if it was made faint.  The wounds he’d received when he was crushed under the rubble had healed for the most part, not counting the wounds where he’d been impaled.  Those were well wrapped and covered, but they still hurt like a bitch and sapped at his strength.  He wasn’t oblivious to the wet blood that still darkened the wraps, even if it was slow.  He just had to keep with the knowledge that he was healing, and it would eventually stop and his wounds close.  He had at least a whole night and however long of the day it took for them to rejoin with the Scout formation to heal.  Even if he tried to sleep tonight, he doubted he would be able to between insomnia, pain, the smell of blood in the air, and his thoughts.

As if that was different from any other night…

His head turned slightly to look at Y/N asleep on the bunk, face cast in shadow.

He had been mulling over what he would say to her for so long, trying to get the words to work, to come out right without being too blunt or harsh.  He didn’t want to mess up this apology, which was why so much thought went into it.  Frankly, he’d imagined he’d be sitting down talking to her face to face when he finally said it, but instead, he found himself saying it in that silence during their ride back.  It had been at the front of his mind, then; glaring at him and demanding that he say something.  He couldn’t gauge a reaction or anything sitting in front besides her grip tightening on the reins and her heartbeat picking up.  He was pretty sure he picked up on a faint sound, like a whine that didn’t quite make it past her throat...but he could have imagined it.

On another note, she’d managed to help soothe another pain, possibly without realizing it.  All that time, those little things she’d been doing like putting up curtains and making those bloodlust tins, he had thought she was doing it because she was terrified of him and trying to keep him pacified so he wouldn’t attack her again.  Now she’d just told him she hadn’t done it out of fear like he’d assumed--she’d done it because she was genuinely trying to help.  She still cared, even then, after everything…

Levi let out a slow breath, eyes halfway lidded as his gaze shifted to a dark corner of the cabin.  At this point, he might as well stop being so damn stubborn about her getting involved in what was happening with him.  He’d never really managed to get her out of this mess.  She’d always been involved, and she was still involved.  There was no point in continuing to try and keep her at a distance if it clearly never worked to begin with.  He could at least control what he could, so he could make sure she at least stayed safe instead of ending up in reckless situations trying to muscle past his stubborn exterior.  But pushing her away wasn’t the way to make it work.

While coming to terms with the fact she was going to be a part of this despite his initial decision, he caught the sound of her heartbeat quickening.  Turning his head, he could tell she was still asleep, even as her breath got shallower and faster.

After all those nights your nightmares kept him awake, he was quite aware of what it sounded like when you were having one, even this early.  You were having them a little less from what he’d been able to hear at night.  As much as you’d both been getting off your chests tonight emotionally--at least in Levi’s head--that didn’t mean the trauma wasn’t still there.  Hell, him biting you again may have triggered it tonight.

As it started to get worse, twitches and whimpers coming from your bunk, Levi carefully got to his feet, a little more steady than last time as he’d had a bit more time to rest and recover.  As he walked over to the bunk, the signs grew clearer.  Little twitches from the fingers, eyes darting side to side behind her eyelids, shallow fast breaths.  It wasn’t severe enough to be waking her up, though--he was well aware you weren’t supposed to wake someone up from a nightmare unless it was at a certain point of severity.  Besides, he was fairly certain if it got as bad as some of the nights he’d overheard her, she might just wake up on her own.

Just in case, Levi settled carefully on the very edge of the bunk, sitting there and listening to her heart rate and breathing, little sounds of distress, his face completely hidden in shadow as he pushed aside the thoughts that he was the one who had caused these night terrors in the first place.

Her hand partially jumped up off the bed with a muscle spasm, catching Levi’s full attention.  Instinctively, he reached out to carefully put a hand on her shoulder, staying as gentle as he could with her as he studied her face with a sharp eye.  Any more movements like that, and he would wake her up for her sake.

Her head tossed to the side, that same arm coming up partially and curling towards her chest, prompting Levi to give her a careful shake.  “Oi...wake up,” he commanded in a voice that was still fairly quiet in the name of trying to wake her gently so he didn’t startle her awake.

It took a couple more shakes because she was so deep in her nightmare, but when he did manage to get her to wake, it was not peacefully.  Her body jerked, and her arm flung out, almost hitting Levi in the face if he hadn’t caught her hand with his.  Her eyes were wild with panic, and her heartbeat didn’t settle, giving him a cutting reminder that her nightmares didn’t always end when she woke, and the subject matter of these night terrors were...

Pushing aside his emotions yet again, Levi’s grasp on her hand tightened slightly.

I know she’s having nightmares about me.  But how the hell am I supposed to convince her I’m not going to hurt her again to soothe them?

*Reader’s POV*

You were disoriented when you woke up, breathing heavy and gaze tearing apart the shadows for the red eyes you knew would be glaring at you from somewhere in the darkness.  You tensed at the feeling of something grasping your hand, heart speeding up with the thought that the creature from your nightmares was right beside you and already had a grip on you, about to tear into you mercilessly.

Before the panic could take over entirely, your hand was pulled in, and you found it splayed against a warm and bandaged chest, one hand on your wrist and the other covering yours.  You paused because you were confused by the unexpected action, and it definitely served to make you stop long enough for your head to start to clear.

There was, in fact, someone right beside you--Levi.  You could make out his form in the faint moonlight that was let in through the open windows, his eyes somewhat visible between the little light and how close he was.  He had to be sitting right on the edge of your bunk, now that you thought about it.

But, what you were mostly focused on was the feel of him holding your hand against his chest, able to feel him tangible and warm beneath him, a clear sign that he was real, not whatever you had seen in your dreams or might see lurking in the darkest corners.  You could feel his heartbeat faintly with how firmly he had your hand pressed against his chest, and yet he wasn’t rough with you.  He was careful and steady, and even though neither of you were speaking, it was almost like he was reassuring you in the suddenly softer darkness.

Hesitantly, you looked up at his eyes, those crimson eyes that peered at you in the darkness and terrorized you at night flashing through your mind.  Yet, when you looked at him--what you could see of him--all there was, was the feel of his very human heartbeat, and those blue grey eyes of his studying your every move carefully.  Not crimson--blue grey, and there wasn’t a hint of malice from him.  Just genuine concern.

Abruptly, the red eyed demon that manifested in your dreams and came to torment you at night was completely separated in your mind from Levi.  Even knowing what he was, what he was capable of after being on the receiving end, knowing those red eyes had originated from him, a sense of safety started to fall over you.  Even if that demon somehow became real and came after you in the dark, he was perfectly capable of protecting you from it; and you knew he would.

A little piece that had broken in the Underground started to heal inside you at the unexpectedly soft and gentle action from Levi.

“It was a dream,” Levi suddenly said, voice a little gruff, but the intent to calm was still there.  “You really think anything dangerous would get past my watch?”

Indeed.  If there was any real threat, Levi wouldn’t let it waltz right in and harm you.  You were safe, which meant you could go back to sleep with the knowledge that there was nothing your night terrors could do to truly hurt you.

Relaxing substantially, you let out a shaky breath and attempted to settle back down to sleep.

*Levi’s POV*

Levi held his position until he felt and heard her starting to settle down, her heartbeat calming down, breathing evening out, and hand starting to go slack in his grip.  Satisfied with the results of his attempt to calm you down and get you back to sleep, and admittedly surprised at how easy it had been, Levi started to pull away to go back to his chair by the window.

Her grip tightened on his hand before he could pull away, and he looked back at her, surprised, since he was sure she was asleep, or at least practically asleep.

“Stay…” she mumbled, the words almost incoherent.

Levi stood there for a moment, debating.  He was supposed to be keeping watch, but he also didn’t want those nightmares coming back.  Did he comply and settle back down, or trust she wasn’t awake enough to tell and pull away?

Technically, with these new abilities of his, he could watch for trouble from this very spot considering he could hear any Titans approaching--or any kind of trouble, for that matter.

Had this been anyone else, hell no, he wouldn’t have even calmed her down the way he had.  But her...well, he’d cared about her before this garbage fire of a situation, and what he’d done to her had served to make him realize just how much he deeply cared.

So, for her, knowing she wanted and needed this…

Levi carefully sat back down, noticing that she did relax with his proximity and quickly slipped off to a deep and hopefully far more peaceful sleep.

Just to be safe, he kept her hand cradled carefully over his heart the entire night.

*Reader’s POV*

You woke up with the first rays of sunlight through the windows signaling the start of the next day, eyes crusted with a good night’s sleep.  Levi was already up and moving around, a breeze coming in from the open door Levi was standing in.  You sat up slowly, rubbing at your eyes and taking in the scene.  Levi was already covered up, his bloodied shirt buttoned up over the bandages once more, jacket and cravat back in place.  It was almost like yesterday had never happened.

Not that you had much time to dwell on such a thing.  If it was daybreak and the skies were clear, you needed to get up to the trees and fire the signals before the Scouts had a chance to get any further away from your position.

Levi turned when he heard you getting up, expression unreadable as his gaze swept over you with an examining air.  “You overslept.”

Looking at the amount of daylight, you knew you hadn’t slept in that much.  “Not terribly.”

“You said there was a signal you needed to fire before the main group pulls too far ahead.  You’ll want to do that now,” Levi told you.

Right, your ODM gear--it was next to the bed and ready for you.  Did Levi get it ready?  Had he set it up while you were still asleep instead of deciding to use it himself?  You were the one who knew the signals, so it wasn’t like he could have signaled them himself while you were asleep.

At his comment, you got off the bunk, pushing hair out of your eyes as you started putting the ODM gear on, a slight furrow on your face.  You wanted to get above the tree line, but you weren’t going to be able to fire the flares and operate the ODM gear at the same time, even if you did it one flare at a time.

Your gaze slid to Levi as your ODM gear clicked into place, and his eyebrows rose at the sheepish look you were giving him.  “What?”

“Its two signal flares at the same time, and I want to try and get those signals above the tree line, but it’s impossible while using the ODM gear, so--”

Levi let out a long-suffering sigh, reaching for the pouch at his side and pulling out his flare gun.  “I get it.”

“Green and purple flares.  Hange said she would make sure there were people keeping an eye out for our signal so they could find us.”  Your eyes lowered to his bloodied shirt in concern.  “How are you doing?”

Levi picked at his shirt with a displeased sigh, clearly wishing he had a change of clothes.  “Almost healed.  I’ll be in perfect shape by the time the formation passes through.”

Considering he was already agreeing, loading the purple flare into his gun, you assumed that meant he was well enough to be carried around in ODM gear.  He’d probably do the flying part himself if he was completely healed.  Those injuries probably didn’t feel good with the straps rubbing against them.

Gear in place, you loaded the green flare into your gun and handed it to Levi, stepping out the door onto the bare, no railing balcony that served as a landing platform for ODM users.  You craned your neck up to gauge how far away the treetops were, looking at Levi who was standing silently beside you.

“I’m just going to propel us above the tree line, and you fire before we head back down,” you told him.  Levi’s gaze flicked upwards to gauge for himself how high the two of you were going to go before it settled back on you.

“You confident you can bring us up and back down while holding onto me?” Levi asked seriously.  It was already difficult to fly around in ODM gear holding someone, so his question made sense.

“Well, even if I dropped you by accident, I’m sure you could catch yourself before you hit the ground with those new reflexes of yours.”

Levi snorted in derision.  “That’s reassuring.”

“Well there’s no point yapping about it--let’s just get it over with.  The sooner the better, like you said, right?” you said pointedly, pulling the controls into your hands and facing him with arms open.

He didn’t even need to give you the death glare that said ‘We will never speak of this to anyone,’ and you had the decency to hide your smile as he clambered into your arms, one of his arms hooked around your neck and both his hands keeping a firm grasp on the flare guns while you made sure you had a firm grip on him.  Once you were certain he wasn’t going to tumble out of your arms and you could still use the ODM gear, you kicked off the balcony, shooting one of the grapples into the trees.

Like last night, it was much different maneuvering while carrying someone, and far more difficult.  However, you grit your teeth and focused, able to feel Levi’s grip tighten slightly at your outward sign of concentration to do this.  Clearly, he didn’t want to get dropped.

A few more grapples and well-timed bursts of gas allowed you to slingshot the two of you out above the trees and into the clear air.  As your momentum slowed, Levi outstretched one arm to fire the purple shot, then angled the other as far from your head as he could without losing his grip considering you were starting to go down again and fired the green shot.

With the purple and green smoke trailing high in the air, you instinctively wrapped one of your arms around Levi as you started to fall, angling your body and firing another grapple into the trees, branches cutting at your face on the way down until you saw the safehouse again, grappling the two of you back to the safehouse.

As soon as your feet were steadily on the ground, Levi slipped out of your grip, heading inside without looking back at you.

“You’re bleeding.”

Your hand raised to your face to see if any of those branches had cut deeper than you’d thought, but you didn’t come away with any blood.  The bandage on your arm, though, was freshly red.

Shit.

You’d forgotten about your arm injury while carrying him.

Cursing your carelessness, you headed inside the safehouse, spotting Levi leaning partially out a window and looking out over the forest to give you the chance to change your bandages without the blood bothering him as much.

He must have been getting thirsty again, if all that blood you’d given him had somehow been used up faster while he healed.  Not that he was going to let you offer again, if he was up and walking around unimpaired again and you were both simply waiting to be recovered.  He would definitely wait until you were back behind the walls before he went looking for a drink, and it wasn’t going to be you he tapped into.

Once the bandage was carefully wrapped around your arm, Levi turned back into the room, walking over to the bunk opposite yours and sitting on its edge.

“If you’re going to be involved in all of this, there needs to be ground rules,” Levi suddenly said, gaze boring down on you with intense seriousness.  Your heart, however, leapt up in hopeful excitement.

“What are you thinking?” you asked hesitantly.  Surely whatever he asked of you for the ground rules, it would be worth him finally relenting and letting you help him.

“You stop pushing your idea to have me drink from you.  I don’t want to hear it again,” he said curtly.  That one you could have predicted, so you simply nodded your head.  “I don’t want you anywhere near the dangerous stuff if it can be helped.  Any experiments Hange conducts about my diet, anything that will include this hunger taking precedence, I don’t want you near it if it can be helped.  Don’t ever follow me when I go hunting again, either.”

Levi’s gaze was hard as flint, but you understood his motivations for these kinds of rules clearly.  With how much he was afraid to hurt you again, how drawn to your blood he seemed to be, he didn’t want you in any situation where he might bite you again if he lost control--not if it could be helped.  At least he was willing to negotiate under extraneous circumstances.

“I can agree to those terms,” you said with another small nod.  Levi looked away, finding dirt on his hands from where it had touched the edge of the bunk and brushing it away with disgust, getting to his feet again.

“I’ll tell Hange and Erwin when we’re behind the walls again.”

*Kenny’s POV*

Normally, Kenny didn’t bother himself much with what was going on in the Underground anymore.  He had far bigger things to concern himself with, far more important thinks.  Anything that might have brought him to the Underground these days had either died or left.

But, that didn’t mean there wasn’t the occasional occurrence that piqued his interest and was worth turning a few filth-covered rocks over in the darkest corners of the Underground.

Kenny had heard a rumor.  One he normally would have ignored, if it hadn’t been for one glaring detail that had rubbed him the wrong way.

Everyone with their ear to the ground and the properly placed contacts knew that there was a rash of killings happening in the Underground--more than usual, and done by the same person.  Of course, the Underground was the perfect place for fostering serial killers, as he should know.  It would have been passing information that Kenny eventually forgot if it hadn’t been for the nickname they were giving this guy.

The Ripper.

Give me a break...

That was supposed to be his moniker, one he’d earned from his earlier years and had transformed his name to legend.  Now some newbie was taking that badge out from under him.  He couldn’t have that, now, could he?  He had a reputation to maintain.

First thing’s first, he had to find the guy.  No one was really paying much attention to his victims, since they were mostly the low-level thugs and scum of the earth kind.

Kenny, however, knew how to look at a body and a crime scene and know what kind of a killer he was dealing with.  This guy’s targets already helped narrowed the kind of person he was dealing with, but he wasn’t settling on any stereotypes until he’d seen several of the bodies and got a real feel for how this guy killed.

That would be even more revealing than the targets, in his professional opinion.

One thing he’d been quick to find out, was that the official number wasn’t accurate, because all the bodies hadn’t been found.

For example--Kenny was currently in an abandoned house, crouching down beside the hole in the floor that served as a dump site for one of the many uncounted for victims.  After seeing that several of the counted bodies were in dark corners and back alleys that were rarely frequented, it wasn’t hard to deduce that there was at least some effort put into hiding some of these bodies.

But looking at this guy, it was clear that some of the worst were going to be the hardest to find.

The body was long dead and in a state of decay, but it was still clear that it had been soaked in blood and ripped into.  The head was almost torn off of the neck that had been ripped almost completely through in jagged, unclean tears, like something had bit into both sides in a manner more befitting a starving wolf.  The rest of the body, save a few bites along the lower neck where neck met shoulder, was left alone.  Judging by the state of the guy, this had to be one of the first.

Kenny frowned, looking over at the rug that had been hiding the hole, now rolled aside by Kenny to reveal the body beneath.  The wounds didn’t quite match the effort to hiding the body.  These wounds that were more befitting a mauling in the street of a rabid animal, yet they were contrasted by the intelligence of this body being so well hidden that the remains had only been found by someone looking for them.

Though he could definitely see how people might be tempted to dub him a ripper after seeing this sap and some of the found bodies.  Always going for the neck, usually ripping it right out…

A flash of white cut through the darkness as a thrill went through Kenny at the game of cat and mouse he already saw being set up in front of him.

This was going to be quite a show.

He was looking forward to the chase.

Next Part---->

Levi Tags:  @clary-quinn​ @humanitys-hottestsoldier @whalerus​ @sunny-flo​

Investment Tags:  @regalillegal​ @cecldcecld​ @soft-levi-girl-blog @kitomashi @hurwen-calaeril @doragonraitoningu​

Vampire Levi Tags: @thesilencebeforeastorm @mysteriousmagicx @super-peace-fangirl​ @psychiccvampire

[typhonserpent]

The Masked Qunari

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: General Genre: Romance Pairing: Dorian/The Iron Bull Summary: Dorian is rescued by a mysterious Qunari during a trip to Seheron and years later runs into his rescuer again.

This is a gift for @kerowyn202, who wanted something to happen in the future-that-wasn't to make Dorian think differently of Bull. It’s a part of the Adoribull holiday gift exchange. If you want more delightful Adoriubull fluff like this, should definitely check out other works in the collection and follow the @adoribullholiday for future Adoribull related events.

✦ My Writing Tag ✦

✦ AO3 Link - Please leave me a comment! ✦

Halward pinched Dorian's shoulder.

"Don't doze off." Halward snapped, glancing down his nose at the boy.

Dorian bit back a sigh and straightened his back. The top of his head barely reached his father's shoulder. Halward's hand was slightly raised as a warning. At 14, he still had a child's height and a rounded face. His grandmother occasionally commented that he was due for one more growth spurt.

Halward thought that bringing Dorian along on a business trip might make him more engaged in his studies. Maybe if Dorian saw firsthand the efforts that the Magesterium made, he’d be more interested in one day taking Halward’s place.

It wasn’t going too well.

The man at the desk droned on and on, pointing to spots on his map. He was some sort of army captain, or general, or some title that sounded important. He may as well have been speaking another language. It was all words that Dorian recognized, but when he tried to pay attention, it didn’t string together into anything coherent.

The man moved a flag from one spot to another, and Halward's hand lowered as he leaned in. Dorian tried to follow suit. The flags were on a spot labeled "Southern Seheron Peninsula".

The man continued to talk about battle strategy and planning.

Dorian's eyes wandered towards the movement in the corner of his vision. There was a tear in the tent, and a bit of loose fabric was waving as a gust of wind picked up. Dorian shivered, and glanced back at his father, who was pouring over the map at this point.

He looked back at the tear. Surely the Imperium could afford tents that weren't torn to house a meeting with a Magister. Didn't the draft bother anybody else? As the wind died, a small cloud of smoke crawled into the tent.

He glanced back once more to ensure that his father was paying attention to the map, and tip toed closer to the tear. Lowering himself to all fours, he saw a pair of boots walk past, obscured by a milky-gray sheen.

It wasn't smoke. It was fog.

Thick fog.

Suddenly, a hulking gray figure tore through the tent, ripping it from its stakes and toppling the walls. The fog rushed to surround them, filling Dorian's surroundings with white and making his eyes water. He heard a fireball being cast - his father’s spell. Laying on the ground, he opened his mouth to call, "Father!" and fell immediately into a coughing fit.

Covering his mouth, Dorian made it to his feet and looked around to see almost nothing between the fog and his watering eyes. He could hear footsteps all around him, spells being flung, metal meeting metal.

He was encased in muscle and swept off his feet. In a flash, the fog that surrounded him was replaced by the bulk of arms and a torso. He looked up through reddened eyes. He was being held by a Qunari with broad horns, wearing a mask and goggles. The Qunari took one look at Dorian, and swore in qunlat.

"Vashedan. You're not -"

Suddenly, a second figure came up behind them, forcing the masked Qunari to duck and swivel, letting go of Dorian. Dorian stared in horror as the masked Qunari disappeared into the fog. Dorian tried to call, "Wait!" and was again overtaken by a coughing fit that brought him to his knees.

There was metal on metal, grunting, shouting, and one of the voices was distinctly that of the masked Qunari. A few seconds later, the Qunari again encased Dorian in his bulk, this time with a few streaks of blood on his chest and the axe sheathed at his back noticeably bloodied.

"Hey, you okay?" The Qunari asked, and Dorian could sense some form of comforting smile behind the mask.

"Cover your mouth. Do not talk. Keep your eyes closed." The Qunari said.

Dorian was lifted off the ground, cradled in the Qunari's arms as he was forced to make himself blind and mute. He concentrated hard on focusing on anything other than the battle around them. The warmth of the man who held him, the slightly metallic scent of his skin, the tightness of his muscles. In any other scenario, Dorian might have blushed.

The air around them grew cooler and less thick, and the Qunari shouted, "Hey!"

Dorian heard the sound of boots thumping on wood. A dock.

"Maker's breath!" Dorian recognized that voice. It was the first mate of the ship they'd rode in on. Dorian was gently placed on his feet, still frozen, and opened his eyes in time to see his rescuer disappear into the fog. The first mate put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey easy, kid, you're safe now. We'll get word to your father that you're here and then we'll ship off."

Dorian's eyes were still glued to the spot where the masked Qunari had disappeared to. There was no reason for a Qunari to save a 'vint, and there probably never would be.

When Halward returned, they shared an embrace, and Dorian was still thinking about the man who'd rescued him.

- x - X - x -

To say that Dorian didn't think highly of Bull would be an understatement.

When they'd met, it was at the bar at Haven. He was enjoying a book he'd borrowed from Leliana over a glass of swill disguised as red wine when a massive hulk of a Qunari arrived. A bloody wild boar was slung over his back, and he was surrounded on every side by various companions that Dorian would soon know as the Chargers. They were hooting and hollering as Bull threw the boar onto the ground, making Dorian's wine glass rattle and swish its contents over the side.

He glared over his book with a curled lip as Bull loudly demanded that the boar be roasted and served to the bar patrons, which elicited loud cheers from everyone other than Dorian. When the feast began, Dorian kept to himself and watched in disgust as Bull loudly gulped and slurped fatty roast meat.

The next day, they traveled to Redcliffe, and the horseback ride there was made all the more intolerable when Bull brought some of his leftovers from the night before.

Dorian rode beside him, trapped in between two lines of Inquisition soldiers on the narrow road, trying to keep his eyes forward while he listened to Bull loudly finish off one of the boar's legs. Occasionally, Dorian flicked a crumb off his shoulder.

"Fasta vass, do you ever chew with your mouth closed?" Dorian snapped.

"Only when there's not a prissy 'vint judging how I eat breakfast." Bull replied, brandishing the bone like a wand.

Dorian rolled his eyes and spent the rest of the ride in tense silence. When they arrived in Redcliffe, he made himself scarce until it was time to ambush Alexius.

He knew Alexius would pull a desperate stunt to maintain power, but he wasn't expecting to be flung forward in time. The next time he was close to Bull would be with a set of bars between them. He gazed into the jail cell where Bull refused to meet his eyes.

As much as he didn't care for Bull, nobody the pain and suffering associated with red lyrium poisoning.

They had no words to exchange with one another. If all went well, Dorian would be able to go back and ensure this future would never happen.

In the courtyard, underneath a sky of green where the veil took over the sun and clouds, Dorian saw a demon's claws a moment too late to put up a shield. His braced himself, preparing for the worst, when he was encased in muscle and swept off his feet. Bull's arms cradled him and took the full force of the demon's claws against his back, just before it was put down by one of Leliana's arrows.

"Hey, you okay?" Bull asked, and Dorian could see a pained smile spread across his face. He was trying so hard to seem kind and calm, despite a wound at his back and the battle around them.

Dorian blushed. He could smell the slightly metalic scent of Bull's skin, could feel the tightness of his muscles, and was brought back to being 14 years old. Bull picked him up and carried him to safety, just as he'd done so many years prior.

There was no more room for exchanges after that. It all happened so quickly that Dorian was barely aware it had happened at all.

When they returned to the present, and Alexius was being carried away in chains, Dorian was left standing next to Bull while the Inquision soldiers filed out of the chantry.

He looked up.

Bull was digging something out of his ear with his pinky.

"Bull?" He asked.

"What? My ear itches. Got a problem with that now?"

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Bull froze like a cornered deer, blinked, and very slowly turned to give Dorian an incredulous look. He glanced the mage up and down, found no signs of trickery or sarcasm, and raised a single eyebrow.

"It’s not often someone manages to surprise me, ‘vint. If this is about some fade shit you saw back there, I don't wanna hear it." Bull grumbled.

"It's not. I promise."

"Alright. I’m not gonna turn down free booze."

[emerald-amidst-gold]

_(:3」∠)_

Well hello, here am I to bother you again 🌟

Listening as they rant about something they're currently obsessed with.

You are no bother! Not at all! D: I adore these asks, so always feel free to make my inbox explode with them! :D

Ooo, this one will give me a chance to share dragon theories! YESSS! REJECT CANON, RETURN TO FANFICTION.

***

"Have you read this compendium on dragon breeds and their characteristics, yet?", Fane asked as he sat up on their shared bed, back leveraged by the pillows and worn book of deep red and black in his lap. He had just started reading and already he was seeing crimson.

"I have not, but the way you are currently glaring at the pages as if you wish to burn them tells me I should.", Solas piped up from where he was sitting beside him, for once not reading and instead examining a peculiar artifact they had found in the Hissing Wastes.

"Don't waste your time.", Fane said with a low growl, furiously flipping a page to actively gape at a following depiction of a male dragon. "Oh, for fuck's sake! How many more books do I have to dig for until I find one that has a proper depiction of a male!?", he snarled, eyes narrowing as he tried to find one, just one, characteristic that sounded home to him.

And he found none.

Solas chuckled. "What precisely are you looking for, vhenan?", he asked, the delicate scent of magic making itself known around them before it dispersed, the mage willing it away so as not to spur Fane's sensitivity. Honestly, he couldn't even find the energy to be sick with how infuriating this was!

"Larger wing span, thicker scales with double layering! One layer is for major protection against elements and potential fights with others!", Fane rambled off, mind whirling, racing with ancient knowledge born from experience, and something he couldn't quite pinpoint. "The feet and legs should be farther apart due to a wider chest and hips! Head shapes that are denser, but pointed, jagged spikes of bone marrow jutting from the sides to form the main horns!", he continued, not all hearing the soft tink of metal being set down and the shifting of covers as a body moved closer. "And the eyes! The fucking eyes are one color, Solas! They should be--!"

A sudden warm sensation against his lips had Fane's tirade dying in his throat and eyes going wide, blinking a few times until his stopper of flowing, irate words pulled away to give him an amused smirk, but deep adoration was visible within a blue sky with wispy grey, the setting sun streaming in from the stain glass windows haloing them with its own version of a sunset, deep blue lightening to lavender.

The sky was here, and it was beautiful.

Solas' smirk grew a bit from his stunned state. "They should be..?", he prompted, a spark of indigo telling Fane that the mage found this to be...riveting.

Fane blinked, mouth slightly agape. "Uh..", he uttered before another spark of indigo had him swallowing thickly. "They should be two. Two colors.", he said, tongue heavy and head mildly fogged. Why was it so hot all of a sudden?

"Mm-hm.", Solas hummed, leaning in again to give his cheek a soft kiss, lingering against the skin for a while longer to whisper. "What colors do your kin usually possess?" The inquiry calm, but laced with incandescent heat as Fane gazed down with hooded eyes, ire soothed, rage quenched.

"Brown and amber for desert dwellers. Blue and sea foam for sea. Verdant green and a paler version for forest. And snow..", he rambled on, slowing as the sky watched, listened to him with raptness, a smile blessing him, a hand coming up to caress a cheek. "...emerald and gold.." The final two toned hue falling from his lips with a whisper and an airy chuckle. He understood the point of this now. "I think you might be a dragon, my sky."

Solas chuckled, stroking his cheek with a thumb. "Why is that?", he murmured, a few fingers curling inward to graze the scar along his cheek, but now sorrowfully any longer. Fane leaned into the gesture as a small smile graced his own features.

"Because your skills of observation might be better than my own.", Fane said, turning his head a bit to lay a firm kiss to an open palm. He smirked a bit when a light hitch came from Solas, but stormy orbs remained calm, devoid of ulterior want as they gazed up at him.

"Nonsense.", Solas whispered, voice low, tone making his ears twitch pleasantly. "I merely know how you are, and how you can get when faced with discrepancies." The statement a light tease, a jab no more harmful than a nudge to his ribs.

Fane snorted. "And how do I get?", he asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to play this game, dance this dance as the hand caressing his cheek held it more firmly, the palm like fire, but its presence like cold rain upon cracked dirt.

"You get very passionate.", the mage said with a fond smile and glint of deep affection in swirling eyes. "A fiery inferno that wishes to blaze the world with knowledgeable heat. It is a sight I adore seeing, but one I know must be tended to lest it scorch the earth too deeply."

Fane hummed. "Want to tame a dragon, do you?", he teased with that question, knowing that once it had toed a delicate line, but now those thoughts were no more than passing thoughts, devotion having tempered them, a bond having whisked them away like the wind.

Solas shook his head, leaning to lay a few kisses against his cheek, his jaw and finally, his lips. Fane reciprocated with each of his own before their foreheads rested together, eyes connected, souls on full display as two hands, instead of just the one, came up to hold him in place.

"I do not wish to tame one, no.", Solas murmured, one hand ghosting up to push Fane's bangs back, leaning in once again to kiss at the spot just below one of his eyes before pulling back to smile at him. "I wish to see one fly, but its wings must be guided by acceptance, not rage."

Fane blinked before chuckling deeply, wrapping his arms around a warm torso, pulling it flush to nudge at a lax cheek with his nose. Where would he be without his wind, his guide, his sky? Forever grounded, that was were.

"So, you're saying you want to hear me ramble?", Fane joked, actually beginning to purr deep in his chest as slender fingers began to comb through his hair. Solas smiled at him, unreserved and unfettered, seemingly basking in his response.

"I do.", Solas agreed, stopping his massage of his scalp for a moment to wrap an arm around his shoulders before resuming the action, occasionally scratching just how Fane liked it. "Your passion is addictive, your soul untethered in regards to your kin. It is one of the many things I adore about you, my dragon."

"My one track mind?", another joke falling from Fane's lips as the atmosphere of dusk as well as soothing fingers was making him melt. Damn, he loved the evening..

"I love you.", Solas said firmly before chuckling as Fane leaned into nibble at his jaw. "...And your one track mind, yes.", he added with a fond sigh. Fane chuckled before pulling back, opting to just rest their foreheads together to watch the sky shift and change its never ending gradient.

"Well, I love you, too.", Fane reciprocated, actually smiling more as Solas' expression softened further before it turned to a smirk. "And your one track mind."

The response Fane got was a light laugh and shake of a head, but exasperation was nowhere to be, disbelief no more than a bitter memory as the sky twinkled with blue and grey - its own two toned hue that would have any other dragon frozen in an awe with the amount of emotion it possessed. And that easily drowned out the rage and ire of a world so mired in misinformation and lost knowledge.

***

This one may have, sort of gotten away with me because HNNNNGH. Fane rambles about dragons, gets angry. Solas listens like a lovelorn fool, cools dragon. Ta-dah! :D

[b33p-b33p-bitch]

Heart to Heart

A lil vent fic I did

The woods are kinda nice.

The bits of sunlight bleeding through multiple branches, of multiple tree’s; light gusts of wind pushing your hair away from your face but not all over the place ?

Welcome and pleasant.

The occasional squirrel scittering by to find nuts from the years long winter sleep ?

Adorable.

And the times when you get to the wood line ?

And there’s an open meadow ?

Grass reaching as high as your hips, wild flowers swaying in the breeze; so cold out that bee’s can’t buzz around your head but warm enough to wear a cute sundress ?

Extravagant.

Not only is this the perfect place to just sit down and relax.

It’s a good place to cry !

Much like how Amber desperately needs to.

....She needs to cry a lot.

Amber laid herself down into the plains sea of green, letting the tears slide down quietly. Hiccuping only slightly, elbows a top her knees as her hands held her face.

Fingers squishing her plump cheeks and wiping away the rolling globs of water from her eyes.

Amber didn’t get yelled at or anything.

Didn’t do anything wrong.

Not by a long shot, she just needed to leave for a bit and cry.

....

This sort of thing happens pretty often, it’s Gotham afterall.

Stress, anger, sadness, fear and a plethora of other feelings swamp the city on a daily basis.

Sometime’s literally, sometimes figuratively. Either way the emotions of others just weigh down on Amber’s own thoughts and well being.  

So...she’d fire up the warp, and just, go away from people...

Away from other people’s problems...

Away from other people’s needs...

Their wants, wishes, and desire’s...

Eventually she’ll go back to her apartment and block out society for a while.

That’s all she wants right now, to breathe, let go of the access turmoil, and just...

Be...

....

Wait...what is that noise ? Is it coming from-

“Amber ?!! Where the fresh fuck are you ?!?”

...Ah....looks like she didn’t power down the warp...

Or leave a letter for Edward before heading off...

Amber wiped her face one more time before picking her head up from her hands, giving her boyfriend the ability to find her, once he spotted her pink hair in the grass....

Edward let out a noise similar to fog horn going off....

A very...squeaky and high pitched fog horn...

He then proceeded to run, and then tumble down from the woods end to the meadow.

...Amber wishes now that he didn’t wear so much green, so often. At least she could hear him manically trying to get up and run over to her, so thanks ears.

She couldn’t help but crack a smile watching Ed frantically fighting the tall grass grazing against his sides as he went over to her side.

It’s almost cartoon-esque how Edward moves ~.

The fact he was such a puppy with Amber in general was sort of silly too.

If anyone knew how the ever infamous, ever intelligent ‘Riddler’ would choose to cling off of a large sentient rock hybrid woman’s arm ? And how he worried so much about her despite the years of not caring about anyone besides himself ?

Yeah...

People are going to have a trip if the relationship ever became public.

Edward shuffled into Amber's view, huffing and heaving for air to pass through his lungs and ease the dull ache of his heart beat in his eardrums.

“Are....are you alright dear ?”

He took a deep breath.

“I...I didn’t...hah...you weren’t in..”

Amber could see how strained her lover's skinny toothpick body was, the meadow was pretty large. And the amount of space between the woods and the meadow is certainly sizable too.

“Oh Eddie...come here,”

Amber uncrossed her legs, leaving her lap open.

“Come sit down and relax for a second, ok ?”

Aching legs slowly worked to set the smaller males body into his self proclaimed ‘queen’s’ gentle hold.

Blindly obeying the request to let his tired self recoup, head laying against Amber's godsent breast’s; arms limply wrapped around her neck, melting into the embrace.

......

“Dear...”

Amber hummed.

“What happened ?”

“Excuse me ?”

Edward lifted himself from her chest to look Amber in the eye.

“I'm not a fool who can’t see that his lover has been crying for, what I would have to presume has been far too long ! And especially without any comfort....”

He paused.

Amber hung her head.

“I'm guessing you saw how red my eyes must be, huh ?”

“Sweetheart, you’re so flushed with a hot pink that those ridiculous pink sapphires would quite possibly mistake you as one of them; but with all silliness aside, what’s been troubling you ?”

With a shake of her head and a lift of her shoulders, Amber refuted any idea of her being hurt.

“Nothings wrong really, I just soaked up too much of the emotional baggage Gothamites suffer from on a...”

Amber pondered for a moment.

“Yeah...yeah on a pretty frequent basis, I guess.”

“Though I have to agree, Gotham is full of tension and high strung emotions - I’m quite literally a part of why that’s true; I doubt that’s what’s brought you so low. “

Edward moved to hold Amber’s face in his hands. Hoping eye contact and the physical touch would urge an honest answer.

“Sweet heart,”

Edward hushed.

“Please, talk to me.”

Purple eyes stared back at ‘green’.

Then blinked a few times.

Ambers brows furrowed with a frown.

“Edward I thought you said you were going to throw away those contacts, you know they hurt your eyes-”

“Oh don’t try to change the subject !”

Amber rose her hands in defense,

“I’m not ! Honest ! I genuinely told you already what’s going on with me; Eddie you promised you ditch them.”

Edward grimaced and shifted uncomfortably in the former’s lap.

“I’ve been wearing them less than before...besides if I started to do crimes without them in the bat would get suspicious and would start looking into that more. Besides the psychologist I’ve started seeing knows me by the alias - which by the way, they know as having blue eyes and freckles.”

“....I mean Batman probably already knows that-”

A gloved hand was placed onto her mouth before she could finish, with an audible but soft plap.

“Yes dear - I’m sure he knows,”

Edward huffed.

“He always has to know more than me, to undermine me !”

“Honey,”

Amber took his hands into hers.

“Batman has to. He can only think so far ahead of you; grasping at straws to know more than you do is the best plan Batman has !”

She cupped Edwards cheek, grazing faded pink of her skin against his more lively hued flesh. Edward reached one of his own to grasp at his lovers, moving the digits closer to ghost kisses against them; Amber continued to coo.

“Sweetheart, there’s so many now....so many rogues - criminals, and schemes for Batman to keep focus on. Memo to memo, you don’t think he’s struggling to keep everything in check ?’

The ginger sighed.

“That’s just pipe dreaming. If he was able to thwart me before when there was merely a handful of us Batman is sure to know all my riddles....fuck, I honestly don’t think I can keep coming up with them at this point.”

“Edward don’t say that.”

“And why not ? I know you want me to turn a new leaf, to have a ‘normal’ life -”

“I want you to be happy; and riddles - they make you so, so happy.”

Amber pressed her other hand against the small of Edward's back, pulling him flush to her chest, eyes locked.

“You have to be one of the most creative and intelligent men I have ever met, that I’ll probably ever meet; you’ve made so mind boggling riddles and trinkets - just things that it makes my peanut brain fit to burst sometimes !”

Her lover chuckled.

“You have a brilliant mind, and because of that brilliance my curiosity made me search you out; your passion for what you do made me fall for you in the first place, you realize that right ?”

Edward nodded, albit solemnly.

“If you decide to change, be a private eye or go coding for some video game industry - I want to be here for you,”

Amber pressed her forehead against her lover.

“For as long as you want let me be.”

Fin.  

[jesusmick]

Sad Boy Hours in Mexico

I have always wondered about the deleted scene from s9e6 where Mickey meets a guy wearing a Gay Jesus shirt. Here is a little drabble I wrote to try to fill in some gaps and explain how Mickey decides to go back to Chicago and prison. Featuring Mandy bc I love her. (2000 words).

It is dark by the time he turns the key to his apartment, the faint click of the lock rattling the loose doorknob. He doesn't know why he even bothers to lock it. He has nothing worth stealing, the drugs and the cash both locked up safe in Alonzo's apartment across town. Even if he did have something of value stashed away in his shitty third floor apartment, nobody in the neighborhood would dare try to break in. The people here, his neighbors, they left him alone. Come to think of it, his coworkers did too. Maybe it was because getting in with the Sinola cartel had been his dad's idea. He had been working with them for over a year now selling overpriced party drugs to stupid American tourists, but the other dealers still called him "El Menor". The younger. The lesser. Even 2000 miles away in Cabo, Mickey was still living in his father's shadow.

He kicks the door shut and toes his shoes off, dropping his backpack by the door. He's exhausted. The fog curling around his mind begs him to collapse on the bare mattress in the corner of the room and sleep until he forgets. He has done too much remembering for one day.

Instead, he moves to the beat-up mini fridge in the other corner of the room. Besides the mattress, the mini fridge, and the broken dresser that had been in the room when he moved in, he is alone. The single bare light bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling does little to make his home for the last 14 months feel lived in.

Opening a beer, Mickey steps out onto his balcony and folds himself into a plastic picnic chair he inherited from his neighbor when she moved out.

Elena. She had been nice, Mickey thinks. Young and terrified, she had reminded him of Mandy. They would occasionally sit out on their balconies together and smoke. She didn't speak English, and Mickey's Spanish was fairly limited, but they got on. She had moved out a few months ago after getting pregnant with her drug addict boyfriend. Mickey knew he was in jail now. He also knew that he was the one who had sold Hernesto the drugs he had been on when he robbed the liquor store down the block. Mickey suspects that Elena knew too, but she never mentioned anything. She never blamed him and when she moved out, she gave him a potted plant and the plastic chair.

The plant had died weeks ago. Mickey wonders if Elena had her baby.

Taking a sip of his beer, Mickey's mind wanders to Mandy. He knew she had left Chicago years ago. They didn't talk much, but last he checked she was in Los Angeles working as a cocktail waitress in a bar frequented by the same trust-fund babies who made up the majority of his clientele. In a way, he was jealous of her, but also incredibly proud. She had gotten out. Out of their father's clutches, out of their shitty neighborhood in the Southside, and out of her own way. She was making something of herself, all by herself, even if that something was watered down appletinis.  

Mickey, he could never be that person. He needed others too much, he thinks. He was too soft, too lost in his own head, too attached. Those first few weeks in Mexico had been some of the loneliest of his life. That was why he fell in with the Sinola cartel in the first place. Well, that and the fact that he was in the country illegally, making holding down a regular job impossible. His father had connections and he was desperate for a distraction. He wasn't stupid enough to call his group of dealers and distributors a family. He knew that they wouldn't think twice about killing him if he did something he shouldn't. But Mickey wasn't stupid, and so far, coasting along in this new life had made things easier. He had a job, a purpose, and a small shitty apartment to come home to at night. It was enough.

Until it wasn't. Until today.

He thinks that maybe he was a little bit numb. That being on his own for so long had turned his head to business and buried his anger, his sadness, his fear under a thick layer of dust and cheap Mexican beer.

Suddenly, he realizes that he is crying. He doesn't know when it started, maybe since he sat down on the porch, but if the dotted teardrops soaking into his shirt are any indication, he has been silently crying for a while now.

He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms and pulls out his phone. He doesn't know why he does it. But he finds himself scrolling through his contacts and pressing call before he can think twice.

She picks up on the 4th ring. Mickey thinks maybe he would have preferred it if it had gone to voicemail.

"Mickey?" She sounds like she is somewhere crowded, Mickey can hear car horns softly in the background and the sound of high heels clicking on the sidewalk.

"Hey, Mandy." His voice is softer than he intended.

"Hey." There is a long pause before she continues and Mickey thinks that maybe this was a mistake. "I thought you were in Mexico."

"I am. How's LA?" God, this is awkward. Fuck, he and Mandy had never been good with words, even at the best of times. Now, after not speaking in years? What was he thinking?

"It's good, I'm good. I'm on my way to work actually."

"Oh, right. Do you want me to call you back? Sorry, I should have texted first."

"No, no, its fine. I still have a bit of a walk. What's going on?"

And that's it, isn't it? Nothing is going on, at least nothing that should have any affect on Mickey's life. But here he is, sitting on his shitty porch, drinking his third beer, and trying to keep his voice from betraying the fact that he's been crying.

It's just not fair. It's not fair that he should be out there, moved on to some new chapter of his life. Some new partner. While Mickey is here, still somehow waiting for him.

"Mick, you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm still here." He rubs his eyes again, pressing hard until he sees spots. He keeps them closed.

"You heard from Ian?"

It's out there now. The reason he called Mandy. The reason he was so distracted and irritable after seeing that college kid from Chicago wearing the "Gay Jesus" shirt. Alonzo had shoved him out of his apartment while they were counting the day's profits and told him to go fuck himself after his fourth nasty remark.  

"Yeah," Mandy answers, "I've heard from him."

"And?" Mickey asks, suddenly frustrated. He stares out across the balcony railing, streetlamps flickering and the warm glow from neighboring apartments illuminating the street below. They should be staring out at the street together.

"He called me a few day's ago. I guess you heard about the whole Gay Jesus thing. He stopped taking his meds, got in with the wrong people, blew up a van. His sentencing is on Friday."

"Jesus Christ." Mickey exclaims softly.

He's quiet then. He can hear the sound of a crosswalk through the phone and Mandy's heels on the pavement. He thinks she might have pressed the phone to her chest because he hears her greet someone softly and the background noise suddenly fades.

"I should go." Mickey says and he hates how his voice breaks. Hates that he let himself get this affected. Hates that he is here, alone, in his shitty apartment with his shitty job stranded in fucking Cabo of all places.

He is about to press end on his phone and go grab a fourth beer when Mandy's voice, suddenly clear, speaks again.

"He misses you, Mickey." And that is just too much.

"If he misses me so much," Mickey's voice wobbles dangerously, "why did he leave me in fucking Mexico?" And he is openly crying now. He knows Mandy can hear it. And he hates that too.

Mandy sighs. "He's fucked up Mickey. Just like we all are. But he does miss you. He's pissed at himself for going off his meds and embarrassed that he let it go so far, but I think if you called him, he would listen."

"But he wasn't off his meds last year. He was himself. Or maybe he wasn't, I don't fucking know. He kept saying that he had is life together. He said he had a boyfriend."

"Some fucking boyfriend he turned out to be." Mickey thinks he hears real anger in her voice then, and he reminds himself that Mandy cares about Ian too. That Ian's sentencing was probably just as hard for her to hear as it was for him.

"He didn't even notice that he was off his meds, Mick. He just let him spiral until it was too late to do anything about it. He didn't even go to his hearing."

Mickey could hear the sound of metal scraping in the background and he thinks maybe Mandy was opening her locker before her shift started.

"What should I do?" He knows he sounded desperate, lost, but he doesn't care. He is desperate and more than a little lost.

"You love him, and even though he may be shit at showing it, he loves you too. Figure it out, my shift is starting."

"Yeah," Mickey sighs, "Okay. Thanks, Mandy."

"Bye. Call me later if you want."

She hangs up and Mickey drops the phone to his lap.

This whole day was just too much. Mickey isn't sure what he had expected Mandy to say, but hearing that Ian had gone off his meds and blown up a van wasn't it. When he saw the kid's shirt, he assumed that Ian had taken a job as some sort of gay preacher or social media activist and was now living a cushy life with his boyfriend in one of the hipster neighborhoods up in Chicago. His boyfriend who was probably just as smart and attractive as Ian. Someone who appreciated craft beer, who wrote poetry, and drank soy milk. Not someone with a lengthy criminal record, a fucked up family, who didn't know how to love someone without driving them away.

Somehow, knowing that Ian's life was falling apart, that his boyfriend as a piece of shit, and that he was going to prison gave Mickey a sick sort of vindication. He would never have let things get that crazy. He would have noticed Ian's mood swings and erratic behavior. He would have taken care of him and set him straight before he could have hurt anyone. Before he could hurt himself.

But Mickey knows that isn't fair, and truthfully, he is more worried for Ian than anything else. He has no idea what mental state he is in or how long his sentence will last. And prison is no place for someone like Ian. He's too soft. Too caring. Too proud.

With a new resolve, he wipes his hands on his jeans and picks up his phone. He doesn't really know who to call about something like this, so he finds the phone number for the public defender's office.

The call is quick and to the point. He knows what he wants and he knows what he is going to risk.

He agrees to meet them at the border in Tijuana in two days.

In the morning he will have to get a bus, a nearly 24 hour drive up the coast. But now, for the first time in over a year, a calm settles over him.

The plastic picnic chair strains as he stands, scraping against the concrete of his balcony.

He's not scared of prison. Looking around his room, he realizes that he has been practically living in a prison cell since arriving in Cabo. He is scared of Ian, though. Scared that Mandy is wrong. That Ian doesn't love him and that he is giving up his freedom, his future, for a man who has left him heartbroken so many times before.

As he crawls into bed, arranging his limbs under a threadbare blanket, his mind jumps back to a lifetime ago.

What you and I have makes me free.

Mickey thinks that he was right, back then. There is no freedom for him without Ian Gallagher.

[advernia]

fic: to be cold like alleyway cobblestones

— just one of the many joys of being young and murderous. - mafia!au: of the things people do in the dead of night.

1: contains death + violence; the former's depicted in one scene only + the latter's all non-graphic, but still tread lightly.

Where are you?

It's not like you wanted to be here, it's more of you had to be here. Yes, here of all places, surrounded by piles of boxes and barrels and warehouses of years know how old. To be drenched in fog and to breathe in the seawater air, rusting copper and thick smoke that passes through your nose now clinging to the back of your throat.

Somewhere in the darkness and under the sickly yellowish lighting there's the shuffle of clothing and thump of shoes on cement. How many are there, it's hard to tell. Your eyes and ears aren't trained for this sort of night life. In fact, not a single part of you is. Maybe that's why you feel even smaller than ever, even when you're standing by in your best leather boots.

It is 10:32 PM.

What is going on?

To be fair, you were expecting this kind of reception. All of you were. That's why there are holsters secured on both sides of your waist and a little bomb nestled in your jacket pocket. That's why you made sure to secure your own copy of the map to drill all the curves, nooks, and crannies of this whole area in your brain hours before the negotiation was to take place. They told you that the memorizing isn't necessary, but you'd like to think that you know better so you practiced 'better safe than sorry'.

Turns out that you're right, and you'll be using that knowledge way earlier than you expected.

It is 10:58 PM.

How did this happen?

Your side could use the classic 'we tried' defense. No, it wasn't a lie or a joke, not even in slightest. You were paying close attention to the conversation, getting all those details in your head while doing your best to observe the surroundings and the non-verbal communication flying about. Gritting of teeth, crossing of arms, stiffening of shoulders, curling of fists. Ah, this wasn't looking good. You can practically feel the air growing stiffer by the minute.

Then some genius pulls out a gun.

It is 11:27 PM.

Why you?

You're stepping on spilt blood, hold the weight of triggers in your hands, hear gurgling cries with the crunching of muscle and bone as accompaniment, and breathe in touches of sulfur and death. You're a pretty thing standing in the makings of a morgue with your skin still unscathed and limbs in all the right positions, eyes able to see and heart still beating. So maybe, just maybe, that's why.

That's why someone's running towards you at full speed, screaming hell's wrath with teeth bared and the sharp tip of an iron blade aimed at your chest.

Shit, a familiar voice hisses. Others follow, but you can't hear what they're saying and suddenly everything's a blur too. The sentiment is fitting, you think. Shit. You're no statue, but your feet are rooted to the ground and you forget how it is to breathe. Shit. Your attacker's coming closer and closer and he isn't stopping for no one, not for you or for anyone else. Shit. Your shaking fingers manage to curl around something solid, and for a moment you think yourself going mad when you actually feel comfort in the touches of cold metal against your skin.

Shit.

When your arms lift themselves up, two barrels are able to take aim.

Shit.

The man and his knife are about to step into your personal space.

Shit.

Your fingers pull at the -

                          Oh, your lips shake.

It is 12:01 AM.

It is 12:01 AM, and you just killed someone.

                    ........................................................

                    The third bout that leaves her mouth has lesser chunks and is now mostly saliva. They leave her mouth in lengthy trails, drops falling down, down, down.

Doubled over with her head between her knees, she gasps repeatedly for more air than she really needs and more that she can release in grave huffs. It's almost like she's reminding herself how it is to breathe while emptying the contents of her stomach. Inhale, exhale. Through the nose, then out again. She figures that she must look all sorts of pitiful, some strange girl huffing and puffing with her body dangerously close to the pier's edge.

And while she's watching the remains of her lunch mingle with the sea, the world around her still goes on. Of course it does, because time is not so kind and sensitive enough to stop for every unfortunate soul struck with the impulse to throw up. If it did, then maybe she would go about slower in trying to breathe and getting rid of the acid in her mouth. If it did, then maybe she wouldn't start worrying about the impending blare of police sirens echoing faintly in her ears.

When something warm - a hand - rests on her shoulder, she raises her head slowly before turning it around.

The first thing she sees is a gloved open palm offering a handkerchief. It is pure white. No crease, no fold. The sight makes her lips purse, teeth gnawing at the insides of her cheek. She takes the cloth anyway, with the reluctance of someone who doesn't want their hands to get burned. It's ridiculous. She's ridiculous.

She lifts her head for whoever took pity on her. The ends of her lips pull upwards, urging the shape of a curve. She hopes it looks natural. It feels like it is.

For her efforts, green eyes smile back at her. It's still dark and the lighting around the place is still dim and sickly and the fog doesn't make visibility any better, but she knows those eyes. Most people just call them green, but personally she likes calling them mint. The color, the herb, the taste. A calming cool pastel, a blooming verdant vibrancy, a rush of a fresh sensation in the mouth that lingers long to carve its name on the tongue.

Not too chilling, too cold, too spicy, too menthol-like. There has always been something familiar about those small eyes that has become soothing to her.

"The others have gone ahead. We need to leave too," he whispers. The hand set on her shoulder squeezes gently before moving over to touch her arm. "Can you stand?"

She nods, fingers wiping away the tears that had formed in the edges of her eyes before the handkerchief dabs at her mouth.

"I'm fine," she tries to say, smoothing her voice into something convincing. It doesn't work because the consecutive throwing up session had her throat now running dry and empty. Another thing empty. No food and energy and melody left in her and all that's left behind is a horrid ungodly cross between hoarse and mechanical. Grating and lifeless. Skin, muscle, and blood for a shell but nothing inside. Not the least bit human. Who's going to believe her now?

Even her legs quake when she tries to stand. How embarrassing, her own body won't even listen to her. She's thankful for the hand that keeps her steady, it takes hold of her arm and weight into stride and lifts her up to her feet; not letting go till she's ready and standing upright. The hand goes as far as to smooth the stray strands of her blonde hair back in place, tucking locks behind her ear and keeping them away from her eyes.

How nice. Maybe now she's a bit presentable.

"I can carry you back."

"W-wh-what? Oh no, no, it's okay. It's nice of you to offer. But I can walk, I promise."

A low hum, the peer into her eyes that leaves little space to speak of in between two faces.

"... I'll hold onto your hand to be safe. Is that better?"

Well. Still a bit embarrassing. But maybe she should listen to her shaking knees and stop being stubborn for once.

There wasn't much of her pride worth salvaging right now anyway.

"... All right, then."

                    ........................................................

                    Car rides can sure brew fun conversations.

"So about the one you killed - "

"The one she shot," the sudden correction is hostile, and it's quickly met with a pointed snort that follows with the turn of the wheel. The van tilts sharply to the left, and through her slightly lowered window, an angry chorus of car horns trumpet their way in.

Watch where you're fucking going, shitty asshole, goddamn kid and other curses also reach her ears.

So much for safe driving.

"Four bullets to the torso, four bullets to the neck - what else is a man going to be but dead after that barrage?"

The facts are laid out by a voice that brought to mind those of television news show reporters: neutral in volume, plain in pitch and timbre, objective in content. She could hear it now: this just in - unknown assailant shoots a middle-aged man multiple times, flees the scene immediately and leaves victim bleeding to death on the pavement; more details after the break. Her eyes turn up to the rearview mirror, finds the driver's gaze away from the road and instead set on her. Silver irises make for pretty jewelry but also sharpened knives, a dangerous mix of allure and pressure. She can't handle it and opts to look away, her insides twisting themselves into knots.

She thinks he hears him laughing.

Beside her, a hiss. "Just because this sorry excuse of a van isn't ours you decide to drive like the ruffian you truly are, how predictable. If you keep going recklessly, we're bound to catch unwanted attention."

"If you wanted to drive so much then you should've said so in the first place, stickler. The police aren't that stupid to prioritize a speeding ticket over a distress call, now are they?"

"Shame on you to assume that there's an extent to stupidity."

The banter would continue to go on without her help so she leans her head against the window, gazing at the scenery outside. A street never dead despite the early hour, cars constantly passing through. Beggars making themselves small in between the crooks of alleys. Drunkards stumbling about the sidewalk. The occasional salaryman making their way home. Teenagers in groups or adults on their lonesome. Bars and convenience stores flashing their bright lights.

Still the same as ever.

"Clean them."

The stern voice pulls her out of her head, and she sees something land on her lap - it's a long strip of cloth and on top of it a thin bottle, transparent liquid sloshing about inside. Right, how could she forget: her hands go to the holsters on her waist and she pulls out her revolvers, cringes a bit when she sees the splatters of dark red across the front sights and barrels.

Ah... those must be dry by now.

She takes the bottle, about to pop it open -

"Again, don't forget to unload them first."

Despite herself, a soft laugh escapes her lips. She glances at him; he who never missed all the small details, he who constantly reminded her of the same thing during these nights. He's watching her with an eyebrow raised, maybe wondering why she hasn't followed his instructions yet.

He's still the same as ever too - it's oddly comforting, in a way.

"I know," she says with a wry smile.

                    ........................................................

                    When the waves of police cars have gone far far away, they leave their getaway van in some unassuming convenience store parking lot space.

Upon their arrival at the city's center, they split into two groups. Group A reconvenes with the rest of the team; Group B goes back to base.

When they drew straws, she considered being part of Group B a stroke of luck, but -

"So like I was saying earlier, the man you killed..."

They're taking a short break on a park bench, and his sudden quip has her choking on her 250 lin bottled water and it gets everywhere: around her chin, across her shirt, down to her pants. She looked embarrassing, that's for sure; and of course he decides to act like a true gentleman by sitting beside her wordlessly as she tries to get through the worst of her coughing fit, just staring at her with obvious interest.

No pats on the back, are you okays, there, theres - just the chirping of crickets, quiet rustling of leaves, and his soft laughter ringing in her ears.

"Still jittery, huh?"

"If you knew, then you shouldn't have said that in the first place...!"

"Good point."

She flashed him a scowl before letting out a few more coughs.

"Why," she starts a few seconds later, voice warbling at the edges, "do you keep mentioning that man?"

"Oh, just to serve as a usual reminder. I'm sure you know that if you didn't kill him in time, then you would've died."

"... I know."

"You say you do, but it still doesn't give you any satisfaction, doesn't it? Especially for someone like you."

She inhales sharply, hands wringing themselves together on her lap. His pointed emphasis on her state didn't offend her much, possibly because she accepted it to be the truth for some time now: get over it, she told herself multiple times. It comes with the job, it's natural, she sung to herself. You did what you had to do, it was unavoidable, she cried to herself. Those were just the beginning of the many words she'd use the first time, the second, the third, then so on and so forth until she had pushed herself into a cycle of guilt; the next unwanted experience breaking her down just as easy, just as vicious and relentless like the first time she felt blood drown her hands.

It's a terrible, terrible, such a terrible feeling; to be thankful that you took someone else's life just to be able to live one more day longer. To understand that to live; you must plunge a knife on someone's chest, shove poison down their throat, steal the air out of their lungs, and rain bullets on their body.

Eyes close themselves tightly, teeth dig harshly into the insides of the mouth.

If she could wail to the heavens, she would.

... Just where did it all go wrong?

                    ........................................................

2: cleaning tumblr drafts, i stumbled on this and tried to find its main file but... it??? doesn't??? exist??? this was a shame to scrap entirely, so i patched it up the best i could... ran out of steam come the ending tho....（´＿｀） 3: i remember aiming for a no-name drop kind of thing, so i tried my best to hint at who is who solely through description! in order of appearance, alice's companions are mousse (pier scene + hostile corrector), dean (alice's seatmate in the van scene), and dalim (van driver + bench scene) - idk if i managed to pull it off, but dean really got the short end of the stick since his scene's the shortest aha....

[kasprzaks]

eddie kasprzak, reactionary extraordinaire

both   balloons   tethered   to   the   microfilm   recorder   now   read   ASTHMA   MEDICINE   GIVES   YOU  CANCER!   below   the   slogan   are   grinning   skulls. 

eddie’s characterisation flooding its way into the third person narrator in the book ESPECIALLY in eddie’s bad break is amazing and i’d die for it. his voice elsewhere in the book is very poetic and looks at things more conceptually than solidly, but the more of a grounding in this chapter while his head runs wild continues and tries to comprehend such a horrible conversation (specifically looking at his convo with mr keene in eddie’s bad break p2) succeeds so much to solidify him as a character outside of just what he says and does. i love it so here’s an entire collection that shows his reactions and the intensity he reaches as he buries himself in his brain in such a difficult situation and how it’s integrated into the prose in such a way we really feel like we’re living in his head despite the third person gap we have to cross to get there.

                 ‘Mr Keene,' he says, and his voice sounds distant to his own ears, without power. 'It was Mr Keene.'

                 'Not exactly the nicest man in Derry,' Mike says, but Eddie, lost in his thoughts, barely hears him.

... eddie always always has a whole thing of trying to be brave (and in this chapter he’s always saying something along the lines of what would big bill do?) but, in the process, manages to get so worked up he’s at a disconnect to what’s actually going on. as he starts to recall the memory with the rest of the losers 27 years later, he starts retreating into his own head because that’s simply how he is. he’s such a thinker that even the second he says it, he’s fading out. he barely hears him. this follows on as he recalls the memory and it’s contrary to the rest of the book where, normally, since we see eddie through someone else’s eyes (third person limited omniscient since the book is made up of multiple third person narrations), we only really see him being quiet as opposed to the actual physical disconnect we see when it is an eddie third person limited in complicated moments.

                 Mr Keene sat down in the swivel chair behind his desk and took one. Then he opened his drawer and took something out. He put it down next to the tall bottle of licorice whips and Eddie felt real alarm course through him. It was an aspirator. Mr Keene tilted back in his swivel chair until his head was almost touching the calendar on the wall behind him. The picture on the calendar showed more pills. It said SQUIBB. And —

                — and for one nightmare moment, when Mr Keene opened his mouth to speak, Eddie remembered what had happened in the shoe store when he was just a little kid, when his mother had screamed at him for putting his foot in the X-ray machine. For that one nightmare moment Eddie thought Mr Keene would say: 'Eddie, nine out of ten doctors agree that asthma medicine gives you cancer, just like the X-ray machines they used to have in the shoe stores. You've probably got it already. Just thought you ought to know.'

... he struggles to stay in the moment and this is just how he is his whole life. i’m gonna reference it chapter two for a second but the fact that his job in that version was a risk analyst? god send, they really hit the nail on the head for what they were trying to do in that interpretation there and i totally see how they got to it because risk analysing is just what he does. in this part where he sits down with mr keene, the convo hasn’t even begun. no one’s said a word and yet the second mr keene shows promise of saying anything, mr active imagination risk analyst eddie kasprzak has already thought up everything and dreamt himself into oblivion. scenarios exist without ever fully existing and in any given moment he’s already left reality and hopped onto another universe where the worst has just or will just happen.

                 Mr Keene wrapped a bunched, bony, liverspotted hand around the balloon and squeezed. The balloon bulged over and under his fist and Eddie winced, trying to get ready for the pop. Simultaneously he felt his breathing stop altogether. He leaned over the desk and grabbed for the aspirator on the blotter. His shoulder struck the heavy ice-cream-soda glass. It toppled off the desk and shattered on the floor like a bomb.

                 Eddie heard that only dimly. He was clawing the top off the aspirator, slamming the nozzle into his mouth, triggering it off. He took a tearing heaving breath, his thoughts a ratrun of panic as they always were at moments like this: Please Mommy I'm suffocating I can't BREATHE oh my dear God oh dear Jesus meekandmild I can't BREATHE phase I don't want to die don't want to die oh please —

                Then the fog from the aspirator condensed on the swollen walls of his throat and he could breathe again.

                'I'm sorry,' he said, nearly crying. 'I'm sorry about the glass . . . I'll clean it up and pay for it . . . just please don't tell my mother, okay? I'm sorry, Mr Keene, but I couldn't breathe —

... gets very caught up on one thing. he does this whole whole chapter. it goes on in the next quote here ...

                'Good,' Mr Keene said. 'We have an understanding. And you feel much better now, don't you?'

                Eddie nodded.

                'Why?'

                'Why? Well . . . because I had my medicine.' He looked at Mr Keene the way he looked at Mrs Casey in school when he had given an answer he wasn't quite sure of.

                'But you didn't have any medicine,' Mr Keene said. 'You had a placebo.A placebo, Eddie, is something that looks like medicine and tastes like medicine but isn't medicine. A placebo isn't medicine because it has no active ingredients. Or, if it is medicine, it's medicine of a very special sort. Head-medicine.' Mr Keene smiled. 'Do you understand that, Eddie? Head-medicine.'

                Eddie understood, all right; Mr Keene was telling him he was crazy. But through numb lips he said, 'No, I don't get you.'

... it’s hard to understand that this is the truth, let alone why he’s being told this. obviously eddie’s determined on the fact that he’s not crazy, but the main part up until this point i got caught up on was his continued disconnect and mostly passive not wanting to change at all attitude so he can get out of there. the numb lips and the references before to having his voice being distant, him constantly disappearing off into the tangents his head brings him on. there’s few and far between moments where he actually responds in between mr keene telling him what he’s telling him, and the prose between that is him thinking (panickingly thinking), filled with him trying to dream up other things and trying to ground himself in thinks he can compare the unfamiliar to. i especially love the cut in, in the first quote that sk puts through the whole book of another narration coming straight from eddie’s head. the stream of panic to really push it through.

                Eddie said: 'My medicine does so work.'

                'I know it does,' Mr Keene replied, and smiled a maddening complacent grownup's smile. 'It works on your chest because it works on your head. HydrOx, Eddie, is water with a dash of camphor thrown in to give it a medicine taste.'

                'No,' Eddie said. His breath had begun to whistle again.

                Mr Keene drank some of his soda, spooned some of the melting ice cream, and fastidiously wiped his chin with his handkerchief while Eddie used his aspirator again.

                'I want to go now,' Eddie said.

                'Let me finish, please.'

                'No! I want to go, you've got your money and I want to go!'                 ...                'I'm not crazy,' Eddie whispered, the words coming out in a bare husk.Mr Keene's chair creaked like a monstrous cricket. 'What?''I said I'm not crazy!' Eddie shouted. Then, immediately, a miserable blush rose into his face.

... the moment the panic finally takes over and becomes enough. strangely (thought it makes total sense when thinking about how internal eddie is versus when he’s finally had enough and gets pushed over the edge) he really does lash out. he’s immediately embarrassed that he’s done it, but he does do it. he switches from the passive life line carrying on in his brain he’s hoping will carry him out of the situation, and tries to get out of it before the emotional gets too much and really tries to put a stop to it. all in good time, too, because when eddie finally does leave ...

               Eddie's brain thudded and whirled. Oh, he felt sick, he felt very sick.                 ...                 He slipped it into his pocket and watched the traffic pass back and forth, headed up Main Street and down Up-Mile Hill. He tried not to think. The sun beat down on his head, blaringly hot. Each passing car threw bright darts of reflection into his eyes, and a headache was starting in his temples.

... emphasis on the sensory and the physical manifestations of his emotions. he feels so strongly and the physical ramifications comes as a result of his anxiety. his head aches, his ‘asthma’ is acting up. of course he takes his inhaler but a few moments later and ... 

              He looked fixedly at the aspirator, unaware of the old lady who glanced curiously at him as she passed on down the hill toward Main Street with her shopping basket over her arm. He felt betrayed. And for one moment he almost cast the plastic squeeze bottle into the gutter — better yet, he thought, throw it down that sewer– grating. Sure! Why not? Let It have it down there in Its tunnels and dripping sewer-pipes. Have a pla–cee-bo, you hundred-faced creep! He uttered a wild laugh and came within an ace of doing it. But in the end, habit was simply too strong. He replaced the aspirator in his right front pants pocket and walked on, hardly hearing the occasional blare of a horn or the diesel drone of the Bassey Park bus as it passed him. He was likewise unaware of how close he was to discovering what being hurt — really hurt — was all about.

... this is straying away from the actual point of the post slightly, but, as it says, habit remains too strong. he’s a character that almost always returns to the ‘comfortable’, though familiar is actually a much better word for it. to return to the point of the post in regards to this, though this time the technique isn’t exclusive to eddie centric chapters, all of the losers get cut in moments of it, i especially love eddie’s thought process tied into this moment straight up verbatim. though it’s tragic that he doesn’t follow through and chuck the aspirator down the drain (though completely understandable too), this moment ties into everything else we see of the intricacies of eddie’s inner world and how it’s obviously a full one. he really does live up there. humouring any and all possibilities no matter how out there or terrible they may seem is something that he constantly does, it’s who he is. eddie lives in the hypothetical. i think this chapter really demonstrates that and lets eddie’s discomfort become so overwhelming that it’s so difficult to even pay attention to what’s going on which totally brings us into eddie’s psyche. concentrating is difficult when you could run upstairs and live there. it’s comfortable, it’s familiar, and it doesn’t really hurt as much as the real.

[sortasirius]

For the kissing prompt: on a hunt and, bc I'm a hoe for it, confessing feelings pls (destiel obvi but if you could weave some saileen in there too that would be *chefs kiss*)

*distant screaming* DESTIEL AND SAILEEN

Thank you SO much!!!!!  Hope you like it!  This one also gets slightly ~steamy~ sorry not sorry

Words: 1344 (lmao when will I calm down?)

“You should not be this excited about this,” Sam has his feet up on the center console of the Impala, staring at Dean with a mixture of humor and distaste, “Lives are at stake.”

“Lives are always at stake, Sam.  But how long has it been since we went on an actual ghost hunt? No weirdness, no cosmic shit, just a regular old ghost.”

“We don’t know that it’s a regular old ghost,” Sam argues, leaning forward, to look at the laptop that Eileen is furiously typing on in the passenger seat.

“Yeah but it’s probably a ghost,” Dean pushes, shifting around, “And where’s Cas?”

“He’s probably still getting dinner, you’re such a mother hen,” Sam presses a kiss to the top of Eileen’s head and she smiles, looking over at Dean in a way that was a little too knowing for Dean’s taste.

Cas appears right at that moment, rapping loudly on the driver’s side window, bags of food in hand.  Dean’s pulse definitely doesn’t quicken when he sees him, that would be stupid and completely unlike him.  Eileen seems to sense the energy change at Cas’ arrival regardless, because she settles in the backseat with Sam as they eat, typing away on her laptop, her head resting on Sam’s shoulder, Sam looking very much in love with her.

Dean keeps accidentally catching Cas’ eye as Sam and Eileen whisper about lore and research and occasionally breaking into fits of giggles.  Dean feels sick to his stomach when he and Cas lock eyes, another couple so obviously in love only about a foot away from them.  He needs to get a grip on himself.  He tries to focus on the bacon cheeseburger Cas brought him.  It doesn’t work.

Eileen and Sam finally work out the rough position of the ghost or whatever it is that they’re supposed to be hunting.  Dean insists that all they need are the usual salt rounds, gas, and rock salt to burn the bones, but Sam, Eileen, and Cas insist on taking some other essentials, “just in case.”  Dean reluctantly takes the silver knife Dean hands him, he should know a ghost when he hears about one, and this house had had enough murders in it to warrant ten angry spirits.

“It’s a ghost,” Dean says loudly as they sneak into the abandoned house on the outskirts of the town in Ohio they were hunting in.  It really was a spooky house, all shuttered and old, the paint peeling and the roof half caved in.  Why the fuck would people be out here in the first place?

“I’m not sure it’s a ghost, Dean,” Eileen whispers, turning the knob of the door cautiously.

They sneak through the house, down to the basement, and Dean is just pulling out his shovel when Sam’s grabbed from behind and thrown into the wall, knocking the breath out of him.  They’re faced with the girl that they had cleared of the two deaths in the house earlier that week.  And she clearly wasn’t a ghost.  Judging by the teeth, she was a Vetala.  Nothing was ever easy was it?  Dean just wanted a simple ghost hunt, why was that so much to ask?

Sam catches the silver knife Eileen flings at him, and stabs and twists once, the Vetala crumples with a scream.  They rush over to him, Eileen a little frantic.

“Fine, I’m fine, just lost my breath,” Sam wheezes, but before any of them can say another word, Dean feels himself get thrown backwards. Fuck.  They hunt in pairs.  The dead one’s counterpart picks Dean up by the throat, twisting his fingers back as he tries to reach for his own knife.  They slam into the opposite wall, and the last thing Dean sees are Cas and Eileen making a beeline for him, terror on both of their faces.

“Dean?  Dean!”

Dean’s head feels like shit.  He opens his eyes by degrees, half convinced that he was going to be tied to a chair and paralyzed by that snake freak’s venom.  Instead, he meets a pair of beautiful blue eyes that make him feel lightheaded under normal circumstances.

“Hey Cas,” he whispers, and he sees Cas’ shoulders sink down with relief.

“You’re an idiot,” Dean becomes aware that Cas is basically holding him, and Dean has unknowingly reached up to grip his shoulder.

“Ah well, takes one to know one,” Dean smiles at Cas, the fog in his head clearing enough for his heart to start racing at the prolonged contact with Cas’ skin.

“You okay Dean?” Sam clears his throat loudly, standing over him and Cas with a worried Eileen next to him.

“Yeah, just a little sore.  I’m gonna feel like shit in the morning,” Dean keeps staring at Cas, and Cas keeps staring at Dean.  Sam looks like he wants to melt into the floor.

“Well, it wasn’t a ghost,” Sam looks at Eileen awkwardly, clearly trying to make conversation, but Eileen reads the room once again, and she simply takes his hand and leads him out of the pretty much destroyed room, leaving Cas and Dean half holding each other, both of them breathing hard and somehow unable to release one another.

“So uh,” Dean’s fingers are going slightly numb from gripping Cas’ shoulder so tightly, “That wasn’t a ghost hunt.”

Cas huffs a laugh, leaning forward and pressing his forehead into Dean’s.  It’s an unexpected gesture, so intimate that Dean feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

“Don’t do that again, Dean,” Cas whispers, holding Dean a little tighter, “I can’t…I just can’t…”

Dean feels his heart twitch in a way that he’s around ninety percent certain he’s having a heart attack.

“What, Cas?”

“I can’t…I can’t envision life without you.  And I, it’s you Dean, it’s always been you, and I, I-.”

Cas tries to pull away, to make space between them, but Dean takes his face, makes their eyes meet, blue meeting green.  He leans forward, in Cas’ space without even thinking about it, letting the walls he had built for the last ten years melt away. Cas lips are chapped and warm and just the right amount of soft, his hair his just long enough for Dean to thread his fingers through, and he doesn’t care that his ribs are sore or that he might have a broken finger or a mild concussion.  All that matters is Cas twisting his way closer, so they’re tangled together awkwardly on the filthy floor of the dilapidated house.

Dean had always imagined that Cas would be gentle, passive even, but he should’ve known better than that.  It takes only a couple of seconds before Cas’ tongue is in his mouth, and Dean swears that he’s going to pass out again when Cas makes this fucking noise, it’s like a gasp and a sigh and Dean finds himself clutching Cas’ shoulders again, which are strong and broad and like an anchor in a heaving, roiling ocean.

Eventually they hear the horn of the Impala outside and break apart, both with pink lips and breathing like they’d been training for sprints in the Olympics.

Dean runs his hands through Cas’ thoroughly messed-up hair, smiling in a way that hints at playful.

“So uh.  Me too.”

Cas rolls his eyes, but gives Dean a soft smile and reaches out to touch Dean’s lips lightly.  Dean leans forward unconsciously, his body wanting more and more and more of whatever that was.

“Sam is getting impatient, can you walk?”

“You gonna carry me bridal style if I say no, Cas?”

There’s a glint in Cas’ eye as he helps Dean up.  He knows he’s going to be sore as hell in the morning, but right now he feels all light and bubbly, like he’s full of carbonated water.

“I can definitely do that, whatever gets us home faster.”

Dean feels like his stomach jumps into his throat at those words.

“Do you have honorable intentions?”

Cas presses a kiss to his jawline, grinning.

“Absolutely not.”

Link to OG post

Prompt me up!