#grey wind is a great break from the crushing responsibility of being king

[ashoeoficeandfire]

au where robb as grey wind gets free and, still thinking that jon is his only living sibling, goes north to meet him and jon proceeds to refuse to pick up a hint but in fairness robb is having to fight the fact that he now runs on wolf hardware and can easily derailed from proving that he has the capabilities of understanding human speech by jon waving a really good stick and then throwing it. 

jon is still in general having a bad time but the dramatic irony is he’s like i’m such a weakling, im so crazed by grief, sometimes i stupidly think grey wind is robb returned to me, not just symbolically, that grey wind is some sort of magic sign,

meanwhile robb is biting into his stupid baby brothers sleeve and trying to drag him bodily out the door of the nights watch so jon can respect his will and take up the crown of the king of the north.  jon is like okay this is some heavyhanded symbolism. going to lock you in the storage room now.  and robb howls all night in frustration and then chews up jons boots in revenge. 

[unohanadaydreams]

Could I get Knight! Kenpachi and Princess! Reader, otome scenario first meeting please! I hope I read the rules correctly jejdnfnf

YES! Y E S!!!! anon this is SO big brained. Oh my god. Please feel all the freedom to request more prompts for knight!kenpachi.

notes: a first meeting for the game’s surroundings, premise, protagonist, and Kenpachi all wrapped in one. Ah, the divine struggle between duty and lusting after + growing to love one fine motherfucker.

i thought of setting this in a Japanese inspired castle, but I know myself and I would get too caught up in being ‘accurate’. instead i’m gonna stick to what I, a filthy fantasy casual, know.

features: SFW content and some olden day vibes.

Bleach Your Heart: The Otome Ask Game

Knight!Kenpachi + Princess!Reader + First Meeting

You are the only daughter and heir of the castle to survive childhood and beyond. Both your parents live, greeting you with love each day you break fast.

The castle you will one day be Lady of is two grey rectangles of stone connected by one laid on its side in the middle of them, encircled by walls so tall it winds you to climb up them. There is little grandeur in your surroundings beyond the luxury of a full belly and warm room, always. Even the flower gardens are built sturdy rather than pretty.

Life is uncertain in the mountains. But not you. Not within your walls, with your father’s defense strategum to support them. There is even a little town within the castle walls, something no generation before him could hope to maintain and protect successfully.

Your father, who has taught you maths, strategy, and how each part of the castle must be maintained with upmost harmony, has announced it is time.

For marriage. And for more protection.

He is not aging well, hands that once held firm a sword too weak at the wrist to pick up a bowl laden of soup. And those who would battle for his castle are growing more organized—more dangerous.

And He is King before being your father, so you do not fuss even if you feel the weight of his responsibilities crushing you into a curtsy.

Those he will make knights the next morning now sit in the dining hall, eating perhaps their first meal of its kind. There are whole birds on the table, roasted well, and garnished with fresh greens meant to bring crisp freshness to the juicy meat. Thick stew and bowls of berries serve to fill any stomach that the birds do not satisfy. Not grand, but plenty.

You stop at the western entrance, wearied by worries of the future.

There is seldom so much noise as now. The men, all wearing some form of leathers and bits of mail, seem more aflame than the scones that flicker on the walls. You easily spot the newcomers—those who are already knights have been for most your life and are comparably calm.

A man with no hair and colorful makeup springing from the corner of his eyes like wings bangs his tankard on the table one—two—three times after gulping it down in seconds. Yells his victory and calls for another.

The man across from him, hair of oil and feathers truly decorating his eyes, throws a berry at the bald man’s face. It misses.

The bald man turns his head, laughing, to watch the fruit sail past him, and spots you. He waves, calling something you can’t understand, words unfamiliar.

Your hands untangle from behind you and one springs up to return his gesture before you can remember that you are in a doorway, where anyone could be behind you. Perhaps he is being friendly and grateful, you think, for your father choosing him, when so many trained up warriors from your land and the next struggle to find a place with no official war to guide them anymore.

A deep chuckle behind you is all you need to remember your surroundings. You turn, eyesight not filled, but overwhelmed by the height and lean bulk of the man meant to receive the greeting you took for your own.

“Oh,” you say after moments of staring, voice quiet and faraway sounding to your own ears. “Greetings.”

The side of his face where a long scar is carved into skin--above, below, and through his eye--is more lifted into smile than the other. A patch covers his other eye, held by nothing; seemingly nailed into his face by metal studs at the edges of the fabric.

It is not his appearance, punctuated by wild black hair sticking out at the sides like a wolf pelt does at one’s back, but his smile that hushes your manners and leaves you standing there--staring.

The smile is too wide and open. You can not help but remember Martha, who’s smile split her face similarly when hearing that her husband had not returned due to the cold rather than an enemy. Her usually puckered lips had bared her teeth as she laughed harsh, breath white and swirling into the cold air.

He had a smile that spoke of madness.

You heard Martha’s laughter as he acknowledged your words with a nod, asking, “Ya lost or something?”

“Lost,” you say in an echo, eyes drawn to the thin sword at his waist. “N-no. Not at all. I am princess to this castle.”

He laughs, the sound mingling with that which had begun to haunt your ears, as he shrugged. “Guess you’ve never seen a real warrior, then. Thought so, with all the stiffs you’ve got lazin’ around.”

The comment rouses you from where you’d retreated into yourself, drawing your eyes narrow. “I can see you are from across the mountain and perhaps you’ve different ideas of what a true fighter is, but know that all who protect this castle are genuine warriors.”

“Protect? I’m here to fight,” he says, gripping the hilt of his sword and shaking it for emphasis. “That’s what your daddy promised us. Is he a liar?”

“W-no; of course he isn’t,” you lift your chin, responding with gusto. “My father is an honest man and king.”

The man snorts, his head bowing toward the tables of familiar men who had accepted your fistful of flowers and paraded you around on their horses as a child, “They wouldn’t last as a warm up against me.”

“You won’t be fighting them,” you say, eyeing his crossed arms, wanting so much to reach out and smack one of them. “Surely, you must know protection comes before everything? Don’t they teach you that from wherever you come from?”

“Anything I know, I taught myself,” he grunts, smile gone. “And I know a real fighter when I see ‘em. Just like I know I wasn’t hired to sit and wait for a battle to come my way.”

Your father’s words in the throne room pressed you once more and forced a sigh from your chest. “You were hired to escort me to court, then.”

“Yeah, promised a lot of danger along the way, too. Always fun to be had on the edge of a kingdom.” He spoke with utmost confidence, leaning closer than any real knight would dare.

Your father had chosen this man, so you would not ask him to reconsider, but hearing him speak of killing as though it were as much a hobby as needlework or jousting made you bristle.

But you would not let your anger sit on your tongue or coat your words. It would be unwise to lash out against the person who would be a great part responsible for your future safety.

“If you are so great a warrior,” you say slowly, “and the one who will escort me, then it is an honor.”

You dip into a curtsy, listing off your proper title and name before inquiring for his.

“Zaraki Kenpachi--ah fuck, it’s backwards here, ain’t it,” he mumbles, looking to the side, his smile small and human. “Kenpachi Zaraki.”

“Lovely to meet you, Kenpachi Zaraki,” you say, hardly meaning it.

“Nah, you don’t like me at all,” he says as he passes you, large hand giving your back one firm pat. “Do ya, princess?”

[britishassistant]

The Villainous Paranoiac Needs a New Uniform

You hate magic.

You hate magic, you hate magic, you hate magic, you hate magic, you hate magic, you hate magic, you hate magic, you hate magic, you hate magic, you hate magic so so so much.

You especially hate magic when it’s being used by an off-his-rocker prince with a persecution complex the size of Shibuya to disintegrate you because you’re trying to stop him from being consumed by evil magic waste and turning this dumb boy’s school into a desert over a sports tournament.

Your left side throbs around the grit of the sand buried in it as you desperately scramble upwards. All around you the formerly stable bleachers are wavering, tonnes of metal and support slowly crumbling to dust from the ground up with every second that passes.

“Prefect! Are you okay?!” Deuce has begun taking a few steps towards the bleachers—

Turning his back on Kingscholar.

“DEUCE, GET DOWN!!” You scream.

One of Cater-senpai’s clones trips him up, only to scream in agony as the magic blast intended for Deuce disintegrates it instead.

You try not to retch as you heave yourself up onto the commentator’s box roof.

“Pay attention, dumbass!” You faintly hear Ace bark. “You can’t just forget about the crazy overblot! We’re in the middle of a battle here!!”

“But my minion’s stuck up there!” Grim wails back, “We gotta do something!”

Buchie-senpai says something you can’t hear in reply, because you’re too busy hollering, “Howl-san, MOVE!!”

Howl-san only narrowly dodges the incoming attack despite his speed. The sand slams into the already weakened bleachers, causing you to stumble as the roof shakes under you, tilting at an alarming angle.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?” Kingscholar mocks, creepy hollow voice clearly audible despite the distance. “Didn’t I tell you herbivores to be prepared?”

You fight the urge to flip him off with great difficulty.

This is so much worse than Rosehearts-senpai’s Overblot. The ligament in your right ankle still gives twinges that show it’s not fully healed yet, but at least you weren’t the only one roughed up in that battle, as the dorm head lashed out at everyone and everything in his rage.

Kingscholar is aiming for you specifically. Which means that this overblot can think enough to recognize threats beyond those flinging magic attacks at it.

And exploit the fact that the you’re weak and in danger to force the others to choose between saving you and taking him down.

Your teeth sink into your thumb. You don’t wanna die here, you refuse to die here, so what are your options??

Option one; focus on directing the battle and try to stick it out up here until Kingscholar is defeated.

A bad plan right off the bat, if the tremors underneath you are any indication.

If you try to hold out until the end of the fight, the sand will finish eating through the bleachers’ supports just like it’s eating into your thigh and hip right now. You will not survive the fall onto the jagged steel and rebar below.

The others might manage not to get distracted by your messy death, but if they haven’t finished off Kingscholar by then, they’ll be sitting ducks if they can’t agree on a strategy.

Ace and Grim are down there.

There’s no way they’re not dead if you bite the dust.

And all that’s on the very generous assumption that Kingscholar won’t just King’s Roar you right here and now. He’s certainly smirking like he wouldn’t be opposed to the idea, the cocky bastard.

So option two; get the others to help you down ASAP, preferably while Kingscholar is distracted.

Marginally better than option one, but not by much. If they all come to help you, Kingscholar can just pick them off at his leisure, even if Cater-senpai uses his clones to try and confuse who’s who. While all of you are struggling to see in the sandstorm, the accuracy of the overblot’s attacks show that the storm isn’t affecting his eyesight one bit.

Plus, the more of your allies get on the bleachers, the higher the likelihood of the bleachers collapsing faster and crushing them and you with it.

Even if you try to have one or two of them split off from the group to help get you down while the others try to keep him occupied, Kingscholar can target you, the splinter group before they can get to you, or even wipe out the remainder of the attacking formation who won’t have the necessary magic to defend themselves from a head-on assault.

Divide and conquer. As expected of a might makes right fanatic.

Kingscholar-senpai, you decide, is one of the biggest bag of dicks you’ve ever laid eyes on. Even counting the ones you’re related to.

All that’s left is option three.

If you want a job done right, do it yourself.

“Eyes on the Overblot guys, nobody break formation no matter what you think you see or hear!” You wince as you strip your blazer off, feeling fresh blood soak into your side. It’s tattered around the edges where King’s Roar tore into you, but the body of the jacket seems whole enough at least. “I’ll be fine, so just focus on Kingscholar!”

You grit your teeth as you tie the sleeves together. “Buchie-senpai, I need you to use Laugh With Me to keep him still so Rosehearts-senpai can Off With His Head. Howl-san, Cater-senpai, Deuce, Grim, you need to hit him then with everything you’ve got! I’ll signal when by telling Ace what he needs to do! No more holding back, we need to end this, understood?!”

“Loud and clear!” Buchie-senpai calls back, brandishing his magic pen.

“You better not be planning anything too crazy Yuu-chan~” Cater-senpai calls up, his exhaustion evident through his usual bravado.

Kingscholar chuckles. “If this is something you think you can fight back against, just try to fight it! I’ll turn all of your meaningless efforts to sand!”

The sandstorm picks up in response to his words, the small grains burning your eyes and scraping across your skin.

“On my mark!” You yell, bracing yourself.

The roof shrieks in protest under you.

“Ace—“ You hold the ragged edges of your blazer tight in your hands. “Give me some wind!!”

You start running.

You jump.

You vaguely hear yelling below you, beyond the swoop of your stomach and the roar of the bleachers collapsing into rubble behind you. Your makeshift parachute feels like it’s on the verge of tearing itself out of your grip. You think you’re screaming.

Oh god, this was a mistake, this was a horrible, horrible mistake. You don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die, you don’t wanna die—

The wind picks up in your ears, but it’s not enough, you’re barely slowing down, why did you think this was a good idea, you saw it in a video game for the love of god, you’re going to die, you’re going to break your legs and die—

Small pricks of pain seize onto your hair, your shoulders, your back, and your uninjured leg. Several small and hard somethings start hitting you in the face repeatedly.

Huh. You thought bats were nocturnal. What are they doing here in the middle of the day?

Wait, before that, why are there even bats in a sandstorm in the first place?! And whey are they all latched onto you like you’re a piece of fruit they’re trying to carry off??

“Sebek, if you would~?”

You shriek as something clamps down hard around your injured thighs and waist, the wind half knocked out of you as a shoulder is driven into your stomach.

“Stop screaming, human!!” The loud green-haired Diasomnia member roars at you. “Be grateful Lilia-sama saw fit to sav—”

“Yes, yes, I’m very thankful, just hold on a sec!” You babble, twisting in his grip. The sandstorm’s weakened a lot, and while Kingscholar’s looking a lot worse for wear than he did before you leapt, he’s not down for the count just yet.

But you know exactly the combo to finish him off.

“Grim, Ace, Deuce!!” You yell. “Fire-tornado-cauldron him!!”

“Leave it to me, fnagh!” Grim crows as Ace shouts, “We have GOT to come up with a cooler name than that!!”

The overblot dodges out of the way of the aptly-named fire tornado, still smug if tired and badly scorched. However, as he races forward to counterattack, it becomes clear that he forgot about the third part of the combo you yelled.

“TAKE THIS!!” Deuce screams.

The look on Kingscholar-senpai’s face before the cauldron lands on him is something you’re gonna treasure for weeks.

“King...I’ll...be...” The lion prince staggers, and finally, finally collapses.

There’s a quiet moment as the sand storm slows to a gradual stop.

Kingscholar doesn’t get back up, the giant lion dissipating like a mirage and the grey and black leeching from him.

“It...it’s over.” You pant. “We...we beat him...!”

Rosehearts-senpai doesn’t lower his magic pen. Instead, he wheels around and points it at you with a thunderous “OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!!!”

The heavy metal collar snaps shut around your neck. “ACK!”

“Prefect!”

The Diasomnia guy actually drops you at the sight of Rosehearts-senpai storming over, face redder than a strawberry tart and eyes burning with fury.

Please God, don’t make you have to deal with another Overblot after just beating an extremely painful one.

“YOU— YUU— YOU— WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, JUMPING OFF THE BLEACHERS LIKE THAT?!” He screeches. “THAT'S A FORTY FOOT DROP, AT LEAST!! YOU COULD'VE BROKEN EVERY BONE IN YOUR BODY, OR, OR BEEN KILLED, ARE-ARE YOU INSANE?!”

“No, I just didn’t want to get impaled!” You bristle, gesturing at the rubble. “If I jumped, I at least had a small chance of surviving—”

“Sure, because that’s what you falling with that dumb torn jacket was!” Ace snarls, popping up over his dorm head’s shoulder. “It was everything I could do to even make you slow down some—‘give me some wind’ my ASS!”

“It certainly was interesting though.” The Diasomnia vice dorm head pipes up from behind you. “I was almost worried for a minute there that my bats wouldn’t be able to rescue you and you’d be a smear on the playing field.”

“Th-THAT'S RIGHT!! MAGICLESS HUMAN!! PROPERLY PAY YOUR RESPECTS TO THE GREAT LILIA SAMA FOR DEIGNING TO SAVE YOUR WORTHLESS LIFE!!” The green-haired Diasomnia guy screams in your ear.

“The hell d’ya think yer calling ‘worthless’, hah?!” Deuce growls, storming over to him.

“Yeah, don’t insult my minion, fgnah!!” Grim barrels into your good side, hissing at the Diasomnia guy from under your arm, conveniently turning you into a shield.

“WHY YOU LITTLE—!”

“WHAT IN THE WORLD HAPPENED TO THE BLEACHERS??” The dumb bird headmaster’s shriek rises over the din. “OH HOW COULD SOMETHING SO TERRIBLE HAVE HAPPENED TO ME, THE MOST GRACIOUS OF HEADMASTERS?!”

You flop onto your back. The pain from where King’s Roar tore into your left side is returning full-force, now there’s no threat to divert your attention from it. The collar around your neck only adds to the pain with its weight, and all the yelling is giving you a headache.

You hate magic.

You hate magic so much.

[deepend-swimmer]

Empty walls can't hear you scream, can't see you languish

Summary: Robin has absolutely no idea why Steve Harrington became her best friend, but he really is the only one worth the title. Steve doesn't think anyone else could carry the struggle that is being his best friend, but Robin does an amazing job at it. After the summer of 1985, they share everything, or at least she thinks they do, and tonight might show her that it really doesn't roll that way.

Warnings: anxiety and eating disorders, self esteem, self worth and self image issues, bad way of coping with trauma

Word count: 2.8k

a/n: I'm going to put the ao3 link as a reblog so it doesn't bug the tags! Also don't worry guys, it's more about Robin and Steve's friendship than anything else

***

The high trees' crest danced feverishly with the strong October wind of Hawkins. Loch Nora's wide and illuminated roads screamed in silence in the dead of the night. 

It had become a routine for Steve and Robin to have sleepovers. The shift on the Family Video would be barely over and Robin would already be on the Beemer's passenger seat, drumming the rhythm to her mixtapes that had made home on Steve's radio. They would split their nights over their places, none of them really wanting to admit the real reason behind spending so many nights over. The lurking nightmares of underfloor basements, monstrous needles and a reverberating thick accent. Just like Steve doesn't like to admit Robin was completely the friend he had begged for deep inside his entire life, he also wouldn't confess to shaky hands, terrible retaken habits and profound longing.

The thick incompatible haze of sleepiness and insomnia wrapped Steve's bedroom in a stupor. Maybe it was the way his ceiling appeared to be spinning in intricate patterns or how heavy his eyelids felt or the now so constant discomfort on his insides. Maybe it was just the never ending rumbling of his mind battling itself. There were many possible reasons why he opened his big mouth without thinking about it before, why he let that torturous question slip up like an effortless sigh.

"Robin, do you think there is something wrong with me?"

If he hadn't said her name on the beginning of the sentence, Robin would have thought she wasn't supposed to have heard it, his voice barely above a whisper. Steve wondered if she had heard him at all, but the response was almost instant, the mocking tone laid below every syllable. 

"You'd have to be more specific than that because there a bunch of messed up stuff about you."

Robin thought for a moment that Steve had dropped the subject, the silence growing uncomfortably from their shared pillow. 

He answered so quietly that she wondered if he wished she would hear him at all.

"I don't know, it's just that sometimes I feel like no one can love me."

He could feel the pillow shifting below her head and her grey eyes now piercing his face. 

"What do you mean, dingus?"

Maybe if it wasn't so late. Maybe if he hadn't bottled this up so much. Yeah, maybe he wouldn't be telling Robin these stuff if he had a tiny little bit of self control.

"I don't know, it's just that no one sticks around, you know?" 

His hands meet just above his chest, tracing his fingers with a feather touch as he voices out deeply buried thoughts. 

"I mean, parents are supposed to love and care for you so much that they would take a thousand bullets for you, but I can't remember one time I wasn't alone on this huge house."

He can feel Robin pulling herself up the other side of the bed, no longer looking at him from their usual opposite position, heads meeting in the middle of the bed. She sits up, legs crossed, and Steve avoids her gaze by staring at his hoodie strings as though they are the most interesting thing in the world.

"But that's because they are working, isn't it? They are trying to provide to you." 

Robin was never good at this kind of conversation. Deciphering russian messages was one thing, but emotional talk was never her specialty. Steve had always been the sensitive one. 

"But it can't be just work. We've always had money Robin, I don't get why they would need to work so much." 

Steve knows that old money doesn't really mean anything if you don't work to maintain it, don't get him wrong he is not trying to be ungrateful, but something had always been out of place about that. 

He continued twisting the hoodie's strings around his fingers as he kept on, Robin's heart aching as she hears his answer.

"They think I haven't connected it, but they 'work' every Christmas time. Maybe they think I'm not smart enough to piece together their absence during holidays and the souvenirs from new places that appear some weeks later when they get back... Sometimes it feels like they don't see enough of a reason to try and stay."

Steve doesn't tell her about the things his father says, not only because those are bits that if you let out there is no taking back, but also he is pretty sure that if he voices a single one of them the night will be taken by trying to dry his tears.

Robin works the best with what she has, trying her hardest to make sense out of it, to find a way to stop making it hurt. She doesn't realise how insensitive she could have been till too late, after it had already left her mouth. 

"I don't know, Steve, maybe you are just overthinking it? I'm sure that they care about you."

It was never her intention to let Steve silently wallow in the hurt from opening up, but she had absolutely no idea on what to answer him, on how to comfort him. Robins knows that might be visible as she says it and a big part of her screamed at herself to shut up, to find the sensitivity inside and realise how she might be dismissing his pain. 

Still, Steve found himself caught in a dead end. Maybe they do care about him, maybe they really don't and there is no way for him to know it. There is no way to prove his point further because when it came to them Steve wasn't even dignified of an answer. For a lot of people Steve wasn't worthy of a heads up. For some people, the ones that mattered, Steve wasn't even worthy of an explanation, so it's no surprise he brings her up.

"Okay, what about Nancy then?" 

Once Robin had been informed of the basic business that went on with them, she had taken quite a distaste for the "Prissy". It isn't a big surprise her next question is filled with disdain, one that for a miracle someone wasn't directing to Steve. 

"What about her, Steve?"

For maybe the first time that night, he moves from his position, finding comfort in taking the pillow they had been using before to his chest as he leaned into the bedhead. Robin takes a worried notice of it before he continues on.

"She doesn't even acknowledge me anymore and I go by her house every single day. I mean, we spent the best and most terrifying year of my life together, Robin…" 

Nothing could have ever given away how hurt he still was by Nancy. That's the thing about Steve, there isn't really a way of finding out what's really going on in his head unless you nag it out of him and even if Robin had been his best friend for months, that isn't something she quite learned yet. 

Steve doesn't really know why tonight was the one he decided to let it all out freely, but that doesn't hold him from proceeding, voice breaking all over.

"She said she loved me, she made me believe it and it was all empty words. I don't know... I- I am a better person now because of her, but I don't know, it feels like now that I'm not pretending anymore, no actually likes me for who I am. And I thought that maybe if I was a little bit more like I used to be, someone would like me." 

The first tears come after he voices out his most buried belief. 

"I guess I'm just too pathetic to be liked."

The highly deprecating tone in his voice gave Robin goosebumps all over, worse than the ones she had locked into the basement of her nightmares. She only realises she said it out loud after it's over.

"You are being too harsh on yourself."

Perhaps he is, would not be the first time or the first person to do so. And perhaps because he knows she is right, that he is in fact being way too harsh to himself, his defenses build up and it's old Steve all over again. Lashing out at the ones who care because after all he can deal with neglect and scorn but care it's too much of an unknown, dangerous ground. 

"Am I really? This whole summer, I've been trying to get one person to like me, only one and no one from the entire county of Hawkins wants me." He huffs at the absurdity of it, the mockery of his fallen reign crushing what was left of him. "I just kept wondering what was wrong with me or if maybe I should restore the greatness of King Steve."

He does let a wet laugh out by that, yet it feels anything but funny. It makes the room heavier, almost as if that laugh had taken a big huff of air with it, leaving the bedroom more and more suffocating. Suffocating the words out of him, a desperate attempt to exchange his murderous thoughts for air. Steve is just so eager to get one proper breath he lets his greatest secret slip like fucking small talk.

"I don't know what was so great about him, if it was the hair or the clothes, or maybe I just looked better, leaner, taller- I don't know. I spent days wondering what could make me go back to that. And I tried, Robin, I really did. Every single thing that crosses your mind I tried." 

Steve knows that there is no point in hiding anymore, knows that now that is out it will viciously taunt him and easily bring him to his knees like it's been doing for the past months. He tightens his arms around the comforting softness of the pillow, hands very focused in his ridiculous wounds and voice dripping in poisonous self imagery.

"Maybe I should be trying harder."

He shuts up after that, breathes in the air he fought so hard for, wallows into his echoing secret.

Robin watches Steve play with the scabs near his knuckles and thinks. Connect the points. And maybe she should have known earlier, she has seen those signs before at school. Maybe it was true after all, that you only see the signs when you are looking for it. For God's sake, she was able to decode a russian spy message, but didn't put up together bathroom breaks and all the excuses for an upset stomach? 

Now, watching Steve shut himself in shame and fight so goddamn hard to not shed tears, she feels bad for mocking his little quirks, like the stupid obsession with that hat and his bloody hair. 

She couldn't have known though. How would she know that the reason behind his profound hatred for company policy was deeper than common sense? That maybe he cared for his hair so much because that was the thing he loved most about himself, maybe even the only thing. 

Steve probably didn't mean but he smashes the remaining of both their hearts as he breaks in the silence and lets it out in the most wavering tone Robin has ever heard.

"I guess... I don't know... Am I that unlovable Robin? Is there something so crippling wrong about me that makes people incapable of loving me?"

Despite the heavy atmosphere, it's still a surprise for both of them when Steve lets out an agonizing howl. He didn't know beforehand that would be the tipping point, that one single opportunity of being heard and paid attention to would be enough to open the faucets. He only knows that this terrible hefty feeling deep down his guts allows him to do only one thing and that's weep his eyes out.

It takes the second hiccup for Robin to get out of whichever trance she was in. It's hard to approach him when he is like this, she knows because she has seen it way too many times before. 

When Steve is too anxious he finds it grounding to press his feet together, a little intricate coreo going over and over again till his trembling ceases. It's safe to assume that his cocooning comes from the weight of oversharing, knees so close to his chest she doesn't see how it could be comfortable. The hands covering his tearful eyes are no news, but they still break her heart, he only does that when it pains too much to acknowledge his existence, trying to hide the exterior in order to hide himself. 

She addresses that first, carefully and delicately pulling the fists away from red eyes.

"Dingus, look at me?" 

Steve only answers by shying away even more and hiding his face into the pillow squished between his legs and his chest.

"Okay then, are you listening, paying attention?" 

The tiny nod is more than enough for a response. Robin breathes in deep and holds his shoulders as she starts saying it.

"I love you, alright? You are the bestest friend I have ever had." 

A very low sob wraps its way past his chest, the pillow, the elephant in the room.

"Those kids? They adore you, dude. Dustin probably has an altar of you somewhere." 

It's easy for his chuckle to turn into a whimper and as it does she wraps her arms around him. Steve just melts into her embrace.

"You are loved, tons of it, you've got believe me." 

He wants to shake his head. He wants to deny, deny, deny, but the truth is that he knows. He knows she is right, Robin always is right and that's what aches so much. Deep down knowing it is true and still somehow losing the fight against his own mind telling him it's bullshit. That it has always been bullshit. That he will never be anything other than bullshit.

"I'm just so tired of not seeing it."

Once again, he doesn't know if she will hear him, past the wavering of his voice and the safety of his pillow. She still somehow manages it, acknowledges it by hugging him tighter. 

He takes his head to her shoulder so she can actually hear him properly this time.

"It's a constant fight in my head, one part keeps remembering me about all of you, but the other is just so goddamn convincing."

He remembers when it first started, freshly new into Hawkins's middle school. Steve didn't know what it was back then, but the anxiety pumped through his veins as easily as blood. He remembers the feeling going away when, after working himself up for so long, he would throw up in the disgusting bathroom stalls. He remembers thinking that he could anticipate that relief if he just threw up earlier, just had to get through the discomfort of forcing it. He remembers thinning away, worrying teachers and counselors, but not his parents, never his parents.

It kept on like that till he found out basketball had the same effect, draining his cells from the jitters as if it was nothing. He built up after that, gained muscle back, got good at basketball, became the best at it, became the king. For some time, he didn't even care if he was loved, because he was desired. It was the easiest thing to ignore the forever lasting longing of his heart when he had the loud cheers, lustful looks, whispered praises and moaned reassurances. He could ignore the little voice telling him he was unlovable when he had a fucking reign. It wasn't so easy when that started crumbling under his first love, foul pictures, crimson pools and false hearted promises. 

Now, he didn't have basketball anymore. No kingdom. Only huge needles, heavy accents, grisly flowery monsters, missing, dying kids.

Steve can't help but flinch once Robin's hands make their way through his hair. He feels even guiltier when her sigh resonates through the room.

"I didn't know you were hurting so much and I'm sorry I didn't realise, I'm sorry I bugged you about it." Steve notices he had never heard her voice tremble before. "I've probably made it worse."

"You didn't…" 

He hopes she sees how much he means it, how much he trusts her, not only right now but since the beginning of summer. 

"I just, I don't even know why I do it, it's just natural at this point."

It's sadly true. It comes almost as a second nature by now, Steve is just too deep into it to be any other way. He sniffles into the back of his hands, he knows Robin finds it disgusting but he couldn't care less right now. Apparently, she doesn't either since she only responds sincerely.

"It shouldn't be, Steve. It doesn't have to be anymore."

He hopes she is right about that too.

[inforapound]

Ease The Dawn P2 Chapter 3

A/N - Thank you for reading. Sorry for the delay with the update. I hope you like it. A big thanks to all who messaged about it. <3

Warnings - none

Words - 2,650

With the smoky scent of the coming second meal filling the great hall, Ivar's patience was done; Aethelswith had not yet returned. It had been hours since their angry exchange and well over a year since he had first stepped foot into his tent, finding her tethered to a pole. For the first time since he did not know her whereabouts and was silently going mad. Any distance between them, on a good day, made him feel off centre. Now, more anxious than ever, he was in no mood to listen to those unfortunate enough to have requested the audience of the king. Where was she?

Unable to sit comfortably on his throne, her empty chair next felt like a void. He could not stop himself from wondering what would become of him if she, one day, disappeared from his life. No! The word screamed through his mind, forcing his eyes to close. He could not ever create a reason for her to leave. Inhaling deeply, he filled his lungs, agonizingly aware that there was so much he needed to learn.

A shard of a memory flashed in his mind, the image of him as a boy with his very own duckling. His first pet, so tiny, it fit in his tiny hands. The entire day, he carried that duck like a prize; like a friend, a treasure that he would not share. Close to his chest he hugged it as Hvitserk pulled him through the streets in his wagon. His face burned, remembering the feeling of hot tears tracking down his rosy cheeks when he lifted that duckling to kiss its small beak and its head had flopped lifelessly across his wrist. Smothered, with a broken neck. That was the fate of anything Ivar the Boneless chose to love. Held so close and hard to his young heart, that he crushed it. Killed it. Loved it to death. In all the years since that day, he had never thought of it again...until now when there was another love to smother and no mother to clean it up.

Trudging out the tall doors and squinting in the mid day light, he made his way over to the head of the market. Tracking not far behind, Loni kept his distance, careful not to disrupt. The danger of the king's mood was obvious in his posture; his stiff neck and hardened chin, dark eyes, and brooding face. The people of Kattegat rushed clear of his path, some greeting him but the rest careful not to catch his eye. All were intrigued watching their ruthless king stalk the streets on foot, many assuming that someone was about to die.

Standing at the head of the market, he searched the street with stalls lining either side. This was the only public place he allowed her to visit with guards and not him by her side. Until today.... when she had asked if she was his captive.

Scanning the myriad colours, he thought back to a time when he could only dream of walking this lane with her. Watching her face as she experienced samples of far away cultures. He had been right, she loved this market; its people and all their exotic offerings. Silks and spices, beads, even charcoal and colored pastels for her drawing. Every stall seemed to pique her interest. Their keepers, mostly foreign, always offering her their smiles, tastes of their sweet treats and bunches of flowers. Through life's travels, some even spoke scraps of her language. Most notable to Ivar now was the fact that none cared that she was the Christian prize of the king. A prize kept so high and far from reach, a fall would be fatal.

Lowering his eyes, he stared at the hard-packed dirt below his twisted boots, listening to the lively sounds of merchants nearly done their day. None of it felt as loud as his regret. Pushing his breath out did nothing to loosen the tightness in his chest. He felt like a beast.

Returning to the hall doors, Ivar looked back to the emptying street. The sun's intensity was softening and the day of work winding down. Gazing toward the harbour, he wondered if she had walked the wharf, docks filled with hardened thralls and rough necked men. He had kept her world so small, simply to keep her safe. It was clear now that these past four months in his home and hall had only been a variation of her former captivity.

Moving down to a small crest overlooking the pier, he adjusted his crutch, pulling one braced leg closer to the other. The pace of the dock workers below picked up under his watchful stare. Where was she, he asked himself, knowing he was no longer mad, he just needed to know. Shuffling with agony in his lower half, he winced, shifting his weight and bearing down on his crutch. Where was his woman?

Scanning the sparse shoreline and tied vessels, his eyes, at first, dismissed the tiny form. Sitting in the sand, on the far side of the harbour, with knees pulled to her chest, he thought, at first, she was a child. The two seated guards, resting on the rocks above, told him they had been there for some time. With pain scorching his feet and knees, he turned, calling for Loni to fetch the chariot from the barn. He was going to bring his beloved home.

A wave of uncertainty washed over him as he carefully made his way. Did she regret coming, he wondered, his insides twisting at the thought? Did she regret leaving her family? Regret choosing him over everything? Letting go of his crutch, he dropped forward to the ground, his hands sinking deep into the sand. With her back to him, he pulled himself toward her; her gaze staying fixed on the thin line, where the ocean met the sun. The gentle curve of her back steered his thoughts to her courage on that grey, bleak day. It was not so long ago yet everything had changed. Could he not understand her one request, the only thing she had ever asked for; to wait until no person held any ties on her mind or future. Could he not give her that? His beautiful Aethelswith.

Shoes off with toes in the sand, she squeezed her knees to her chest. The summer season in Kattegat was not nearly as warm as home, but the sky seemed endless, Robin's egg blue and on this day entirely void of clouds. Squinting against the sun, she opened her mouth, tasting the salt in the air. Having never spent time by the sea everything about the shore, the smell, the lapping waves, and birds soaring above seemed so alive. Raising her hand to her cheek, she swept back a loose strand of her strawberry hair. Since their arrival, she had worn it down instead of tight in a braid, only pinning back the front from her face and at times not even that. Ivar loved it, unbound and free.

Ivar.... closing her eyes, the image of his chest against the skin of her back made her shift in the sand, the sensation warming her more than the sun ever could. A quickening of her heart brought her thoughts back to her body, his body really. She should repent for her sins but she never would regret giving herself to him. Stripping herself bare and spreading her legs, lying below his powerful frame. Rocking above and drawing out his whispered words, tender worship from his perfect lips. Long ago, she placed her beating heart at his feet and she would do it again and again.

Biting her lip, she looked down into the coarse sand, feeling that the force of his need, at times, was consuming. Enduring his dominance was exhausting but she did understand his need to ensconce her. Not merely for protection but because he cherished her. Truly and absolutely loved her.

How could she grumble as everything Ivar knew about love came from a woman desperate for his safety. A woman who shielded him and never held him accountable. Yes, there was a cost to loving so deeply, tying oneself to a man who was taught to take from others what he needed to survive and that was her.

A swish and soft clang along with a huff, caused her to spin and look behind. Bright blue eyes pierced her solitude but she was happy to have it shatter. Smiling, she swiveled further and outstretched our her hand.

"My love." Her words slipped out with her breath unsure if they would reach him. The softening of his face told her they had.

Dragging himself to her, he sat, stretching his legs out behind her, shame seared her chest as she watched him lift his hand to touch her back, only to hesitate. Instead, he brought his hand to the neck of his leathers, withdrawing a ruffled blue flower.

"A Forget-Me-Nots!" she exclaimed. "These are my favourite. I did not expect to see them outside of England." Bringing the blue and orange flower to her nose, she inhaled despite knowing there would be little scent.

"I shall not forget that," his lips pulled into a flat smile but the strain remained around his eyes. "I do not want you to have regrets Aethelswith."

Opening her mouth to respond, she stopped knowing he had more to say.

"I have been so focused since our return. Proving myself, overseeing the wall, expanding the port... I cannot fail." The strength of his voice softened. "But I feel that I have failed you." Tightening his jaw, his gaze seemed distant. "I have loved two women in my life, my mother being the first. I did not understand who she had to become to run this city when Ragnar left. My brothers hated my father for it and I was just too young and too angry with life to see. I see now though." He glanced down at the flower in her hand. "I see that I have been neglecting you, leaving you every day in a new city among unfamiliar people. I know what you need, and I will not fail you. Be patient with me Aethelswith. Let us spend time together over the next few days, I want to show you places that are special to me. I am new to this. Please," his brow pinched, "break into my mind and make me listen when you need me to. Like only you can."

"There is no bigger responsibility than being king," she replied. "And you are not failing me Ivar." Reaching forward, she cupped his cheek, his eyes closing at her touch. "I will be patient.... but I do have a request."

"Anything," he whispered, opening his eyes.

"Do not shut me away like a bird. Please."

Closing his eyes again, he exhaled loudly, forcing out the fear from his body.

Swiveling in the sand, she lowered her legs, crossing them in front. Raising her arms she beckoned him. Rolling onto his back, he dropped his head into her lap, his blue eyes looking up, admiring her. An easy smile pulled at his mouth as he took in her beautiful face, her natural coloured lips and flawless skin, her eyes softer than the sea.

"I am selfish for you." His brow tensed again. "But, our arguments are not my fault. I cannot help myself when it comes to you. You are the most beautiful woman I have have ever seen." Reaching up he skimmed his rough finger along the underside of her chin. "Your mind is so uniquely crafted, I worry at times that have I have no opinion until I hear yours." His smiled widened and she could see the grip of his worry release. "Watching two gulls as I made my way from the hall, fighting for the tail of a fish, I wondered which you would feel sorry for. The aggressor, fighting for territory or the runt desperate from hunger. Your wisdom allows you to see the pain of both. Your heart feels it. I am not like that, so, I need you Aethelswith. You are the only thing that keeps me from becoming a monster." Reaching both arms behind her, he wrapped his hands around her bottom.

"We will find our way, my love," she uttered quietly, running her fingers across his smooth, tanned cheek. "I have no more experience with love than you, but we will learn together. I will never leave you, Ivar. I simply could not. Even in death, I trust that you will find your way to me."

"Tell me what would make you feel more at home here. Like you belong, because you do. And... then I will address the other."

The sun was still hours from setting and Aethelswith looked up, gazing out over the twinkling waves. She hated the thought of their sweet moment being destroyed by the mention of her husband's name.

"I want to learn Norse," she replied knowing, without looking, that Ivar's grin would be stretching wide. "I need a tutor but I also need a friend. A friend other than you."

Glancing down, she watched his smile evaporate.

"Free Brana."

"Brana!" he rushed. "No Aethelswith. She is the best slave. She has been with me for years."

"Precisely, she has served you well. She could begin a life. Perhaps marry. You, who misses nothing, have surely seen the way Loni looks at her." She shook her head. "Brana is my friend and I miss her companionship now that we are here and she is so busy. She could teach me."

"I could teach you."

"Really?" she questioned.

"No," he sighed. "I would be cruel."

"Please?" Aethelswith leaned down brushing her lips across his upside-down mouth, her hair tickling his skin.

"Now, you are cruel," he said moaning into her mouth, his eyes closing for an instant. "Yes," he grunted with resignation. "I will free Brana but do not ask me to free anyone else. No kitchen thralls."

"I would not dare," she smiled straightening her back. "I have never cooked a meal in my life."

"But, she will stay in service, by your side, until I return from England. I leave in five days. I know what you need to feel free and it will be done."

"Thank you," she whispered, folding forward to press her cheek to his. Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt no guilt asking for the death of a man who stood between them.

"I love you," his lips whispered against her skin. "Come," he released his hands from her back, "my chariot awaits. Let us return for supper. You ate nothing this morning."

Sitting up, she swept back her curtain of hair, looking over to the path where Loni stood holding Ivar's horse.

Clearing his throat, Ivar looked to her again. "I want us to return to our chambers before the meal begins."

Bending forward, she kissed him again. "You want to show me how much you missed me today?" she smiled with a hint of the thoughts in her eyes. Dropping her hands to his chest, she slid them down, her fingers slipping beneath his coat finding the smooth skin of his belly.

"Well, that," he grinned up to her, "and my braces are filled with sand."

—-

Kicking the pebbles on the dirt path, Loni lowered his eyes from the beach, smiling, listening to the laughter of his best friend, stealing another kiss. Ivar was a formidable King with a reputation for ruthlessness, but, in a short time, he was equally known for his devotion to his beloved Aethelswith.

.

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