#i overcame this one hurdle I had though

[toucandrawz]

A Little while ago I commissioned the amazing @temeyes again!! I commissioned them for some banners/headers for my carrd! Specifically of my sona (Misc Tou) and my cat, Princess just chillin‘ and having some doodle time!

Tim is absolutely amazing to work with, and such a pleasure to talk to! I can’t wait till I get the chance to commission them again <3

[anarchiii]

Twin Flames-1 —ACOTAR x TOG AU

Part One | Warnings: angst? | Witch!Reader x Eris Vanserra

Summary; Y/N had been born from a great darkness, and yet her soul burned brighter than any Firewielder. She didn’t care for someone who would try smother those flames, she wanted someone that would set them alight. . .

Note: this is an AU it’s not in the books.

Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Disclaimer; a fair amount of spoilers, people!!

Happy @erisweekofficial ,everyone!! ❤️

Eris’s POV

The Heir had never been one to look up to the stars and wish like some, but he’d always wanted things to turn out better, he wasn’t stupid enough to let hope fester in his heart, Beron had made sure of it, and his mother. . . She wasn’t around enough to affect anything. Locked up in her rooms for the foreseeable future.

He’d always silently hated that Lucien had gotten his happy ending—then again, he deserved it, his brother had always been the best one, so empathetic and patient, nothing like himself, though he couldn’t help it, not when Lucien came over with his lovely mate, going on about how happy he was, he couldn’t help the jealousy that arose within him. Turning him into a lonely and pathetic creature. Forced to watch everyone prosper while he wasted away, and he had no one to blame but himself.

It was true that the hateful and evil mask he put on was a mask, but, over time he had became the very thing everyone believed him to be, it was pitiful, he’d read so many stories of people that had suffered so greatly but had overcame their hardships and survived, becoming better people than they ever could’ve imagined, and yet, even as a child, Eris knew that would not be him. He would never know love and respect. No, that was not what he was here for.

Instead he helped people in his own wrong way and saw to it that they were better, going behind his High Lord’s back and helping their enemies, and after all that. He’d barely gotten a thank you. He couldn’t blame them, though, not at all, the Night Court especially, they knew him to be the male that’d stripped The Morrigan down and left her to die in his own lands, a nail imbedded in her stomach, the male that had tried stealing their High Lady’s sister away, to be a wife for no more than breeding and owning. When they didn’t realise he just wanted someone to love. That was all he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever let himself want for.

But his story was not one that ended in a happy ending, no, he was the beast the knight would slay to save the fair maiden, no more than a hurdle to overcome, a monster with a terrible fire that burned in his blood, burned his very soul. . .

-

Y/N’s POV

She couldn’t stop the shuddering of her breath as she took in the now empty battlefield bathed in the blood of enemies and allies alike, she would never get used to it, the fighting, the bloodshed, the hate, Y/N was born for battle and yet it terrified her, she had no idea how Aelin Galathynius did it. How she fought like an absolute warrior and smiled a minute later. Perhaps she would never know, the Queen had always unnerved her, she was a mystery never to be solved, though, that didn’t mean she didn’t respect her, no, when the young woman came off the field, she only bowed, she was not her Queen but that did not mean she wouldn’t fight for her. Hell. This entire army was brought together because of her. The world could finally breathe because of her.

A strong hand clasped her shoulder, pulling her from her thoughts and bringing her back to the world, the sun was blaring, melting all the snow and making small waterfalls form from the cliffs of the Staghorns, she turned around to find her Wingleader staring at her, Manon’s black and gold eyes shining with poorly hidden despair, she couldn’t blame her, not when her own held the same expression.

She nodded to Manon in thanks, neither of them saying a word, she couldn’t bare to look at Abraxos who lingered behind his rider, Y/N cleared her throat, saying, “I’m going to go for a walk, alone.” She didn’t wait for her response before leaving. Walking down the many stairs of the castle, winding turns and long hallways, she didn’t say anything to Aelin’s court members as she walked past them, non of them seemed to want to talk either. Good.

She was soon out of the great castle and then through the gates and out onto the field, Orynth looming behind her, its stones mockingly clean, it took her a long time to reach Oakwald, she had no Wyvern to carry her anymore, Adries was riding high with the other eleven creatures who hadn’t survived, Abraxos the only one left, if she wasn’t wound up in her own misery then she would’ve felt bad for the beast, but sorrow was seemingly staying for a while.

Stray branches and leaves crunched beneath her boots as she walked through the forest, the trees whispering secrets older than time itself, the wind howling names lost to history, it was a artefact in itself, it was famous for the creatures that dwelled in its lush canopies but no one talked about the sentience the place held, like it was watching your every breath and movement, it was terrifying and yet, oddly comforting.

She spotted no white stags but that wasn’t unusual, the only one she had ever seen had been mere hours ago when Aelin Ashryver Galathynius had entered the battle riding one in golden armour fit for a empress, a goddess.

Surprisingly, the forest was not silent, birds sung their songs and the deer still went about eating leaves, it was peaceful, and nice to know the world hadn’t stopped, everyone and everything moved on eventually, some quicker than others, maybe in a few years she would admire the beauty of Oakwald—she had loved nature so dearly when she was younger, when everything wasn’t so dark,—she wanted to look at the ducks waddling by and smile as they had a swim in a nearby pond, she wanted to look at the flowers already blooming through all the gore and wonder in amazement, she wanted.

She couldn’t help the tears that fell, she had lost so much, how was she supposed to go on without them? She felt that flame inside her flicker and sputter but persevere, something she couldn’t seem to do, her Grandmother had always despised that light, how even when she tried smothering it—it only burned brighter, the old hag was probably smiling in her grave to know what she had wished for so many years was happening, she was breaking, ever so slowly.

The sun was falling, setting the sky into hues of deep orange and yellow, clouds forming and blocking the view, she didn’t go home, though, just kept walking, trying to clear a mind that couldn’t be cleared, soon, mist was shrouding the forest in mystery, tiny droplets of rain fell. Hitting the emerald leaves and falling off them. It was quite serene, actually. Like the entire world was heading to bed. Her as the moon’s only witness.

She felt so small, so insignificant under it’s light, it was a lovely feeling, nocturnal animals ventured out of their dens into the night, the little glow of their eyes the only sign they were there, still, she didn’t go back. What was left for her there? She had no lovers, no family, friends or children, she was alone in a world full of people, alone.

She doubted anyone would miss her, maybe she could run away and start a new life, purge all her past memories. . . It was tempting, very tempting, and— what was that? She spotted something shiny hiding beneath jewel coloured leaves, as Y/N got closer, she realised it was a ring. A simple silver ring. It was oddly pretty, in a way a plain blue sky was pretty, nothing stood out but it still caught her attention, she bent over and picked it up but as she did, she slipped on some moss and went face-first into the ground.

She closed her eyes and groaned at the feeling of her nose screaming out in pain—the scar on her jaw mimicking the feeling, the ring was warm in her hand, like it bore an inner fire, her body felt so heavy that she couldn’t help but lay there, perhaps in the morning she would figure out what to do, nothing would harm her, so there was no reason but to keep to the floor, Y/N did need sleep, so why not get it?

Y/N dreamt, she had the instinct feeling of falling but didn’t stir, she felt herself land on something hard and cold and did all she could to grab on, this may be a dream but she’d be damned if she died in it. A dream.

-

Eris’s POV

One of his hounds barked in the distance and he had enough sense to inspect, the autumn leaves crunched beneath his feet like the crackling of flames, he’d never gotten sick of the eternal autumn, it was his home, no matter what had happened in this place, it was forever be his, in some way, at least.

The dog, Hazel, released another sound, piercing through the silence, setting all the other dogs off, he sighed, shaking his head as he got closer, there was no point telling them to be quiet when they wouldn’t listen, anyway.

Eris walked into the clearing where all his animals gathered, there was nothing, positively nothing of interest or significance, just a plain old spot, though that didn’t stop the smoke hounds as they jumped around and circled a particularly tall tree, this was abnormal for even them, something was off, he caught the faint scent of blood and metal on the wind, but found it led nowhere.

He noticed little scraps of clothing hanging from low branches, the material was similar to that of the Illyrian’s but different in a way, hopefully he wouldn’t find that Shadowsinger or haughty general dead in his forest, not that he wouldn’t be delighted in that, a bird cried out in the distance and he looked up to see it, only, it wasn’t a bird he saw.

No, it was a person, hanging from a branch high up, her bloody blond-silver hair hung limp, a strange red cape covering most of her body, perhaps she was dead, and perhaps that was a good thing.

Yet he couldn’t hide his shock when something fell from her hand, it shined faintly as it fell right into his palm, he did all he could not to hiss in anger as he found it was his ring that he had lost two weeks ago, the one his mother had given him, that little thief.

The End.

Note: so uhh. . . No idea where this is going, no pressure- 😬

-Taglist

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

@azrielslittleslut

@shadowsingercassia

[forthegothicheroine]

What do you think makes a story "adult" or "mature"?

Seriously, though, there isn't a hard and fast line, but it seems to have three distinct meanings:

Marketing. My favorite Kelly Link story collection, Pretty Monsters, is shelved as YA because it's the ones with teenage protagonists. The stories also show up in her "adult" collections, there is no actual difference.

Euphemistic. Sex, gore, graphic jokes about the above, something parents might not want their kids to see (reasonably or otherwise.)

Complexity. This is the fuzziest line yet, but I think it still has meaning. Books for children just learning to read will probably have short words and simple storylines, stories for teens might have an emphasis on page turner action, stories for adults might have more ambiguous morality or experimental style. "Might" is obviously a strong word here- you can argue if The Da Vinci Code is more "adult" than The Little Prince- but that is often what people mean when they say it.

When people urge others to read more books for adults (in good faith, that is) what they are probably encouraging is reading books that make you think, or even make you uncomfortable, and that you may find that a rewarding experience.

I read A Clockwork Orange as a teenager; a pedant might argue that it's YA since the protagonist is 14, but I think most people would call it adult. The first hurdle for me was the language, as the book is written in a made-up futuristic slang blending Cockney and Russian, and the English-speaking reader has to make an active effort to figure out what Alex the narrator is saying based on context. The next hurdle is reacting to what he's saying, which turns out to be pretty fucked up. "Wait, what's he saying? Oh, he's saying that. Wait, he's saying what?!"

I overcame those hurdles first because I was curious- something big and exciting was waiting for me behind that locked door, I just knew it!- and then because I was compelled- Alex is a monster, but his experiences were changing him, and I had to hear him talk about it (especially in the controversial last chapter, which didn't make it into the movie.) A Clockwork Orange may not be the right book for everyone, but that's my go-to example of a book that demanded more of me than was expected of my age bracket, and which rewarded me for my effort.

[sakuplumeria]

How long did it take for a trip from London to Durham?

The need to search for this arises within a conversation with @hergan416.

What we know from the manga, the Moriartys took trains to go back and forth Durham-London, and that they stopped at York midway, where William and Louis met Sherlock in the dining car. God there wasn't even dining cars at that time but well. So we have three spots to look at: London, York, Durham. The results brought me to so many questions.

TL;DR the Moriartys took around 14 hours to go from London to Durham. Haven't done the research for the trip back, but you get the gist. So how frequent did William and Louis, or Albert, go back and forth to Durham? Now figuring out they had to spend two days just for a trip. Did Sherlock and John, and Lestrade, spent the night at York just to inspect a noble's death?

Please see reblogs for updated information.

Thank heavens Hergan found the actual 1877's Bradshaw Guide for Great Britain. I don't know how they found it but, damn that's one hurdle overcame. Next thing is actually reading the timetable. We slept over it for idk two days? When Hergan once again found the PAGES relating to Durham and York. Only four out of the 470 pages.

Now that it's settled, let's look at the four mentioned pages.

So Durham and York were located in different areas: Durham in North Eastern, and York was in both North Eastern and Great Northern area. To go from London, they would need to take the Great Northern line to go to York, and continue to take the North Eastern line to Durham.

There were all London - York - Durham in the next two pages (218 and 219), so I started there, the North Eastern timetable. I couldn't figure out the London - York route, but here I figured out the York to Durham times.

There were three schedules in one day, highlighted cream. From York going to Ferryhill Junction, changing trains at Ferryhill Junction to Durham, taking approximately three hours. I said three because the latest schedule, departing at 8 pm from York would only take us to Ferryhill Junction at 10 pm. There were no trains left to Durham by that time.

Express trains were available twice a day, highlighted green but I forgot to highlight the afternoon time. These ones would take approximately two hours.

There we have half the puzzle solved. Now then to London-York part. I noticed there was the note "118d" beside London at the top of page 218. Tried to Google it and of course I couldn't find anything because it was actually mentioning the "d" part in page 118. See the small letters in the pages below?

Had a hard time finding the "d" at page 119, but there we have it. Placed beside the filled cell in Naburn row. Now Naburn is located very close to York and if we see a bit further below, we'll see that the train stops at Naburn at 6.33 pm and York at 6.59 pm. See also the notes after York: 218, 217, 223 (which are the North Eastern pages we looked at before). THEY MATCH!

We have it, highlighted cream, the route and time from London to York. Starting from Finsbury Park (London) at 10.22 in the morning, changing trains at Hitchin and departing at 12.03 pm, finally arriving in York at 6.59 pm.

I don't know if there are other schedules for this route, but at least now we have one! Please do enlighten me anyone finds another route.

At this point, we've figured out that 1) Trip from London to York takes approximately 8.5 hours, most probably departing from London at 10ish in the morning and arriving at about 7 in York, 2) the only schedules left to go to Durham is taking the night express train, arriving in Durham past midnight. IF they want to do the trip in just a single day.

Even though I stated that it would take 8.5 hours from London to York and 2 hours from York to Durham, they actually took off at 10.22 and arrive at 24.22. That's a fucking 14 hours trip.

Now then, it led me to think:

How frequent did William and Louis, or Albert, go back and forth to Durham? Now figuring out they had to spend two days just for a trip. It couldn't have been weekly based on the findings. Maybe William only taught for four days a week? Or, I can imagine him excusing himself to go to London biweekly to visit his family, but yeah. A bit vague on this part but I also recall Albert taking his day off if he was going to Durham, also the bit that he was arriving in Durham late at night. I need to reread or rewatch again, my brain is slow in catching up.

Did Sherlock and John, and Lestrade, spent the night at York just to inspect a noble's death?

Any thoughts, or correction, on this regard is very welcomed!

[corvuscorona]

do u have any advice for switching to linux? im admittedly intimidated but so tired of windows ads.. and i've had to reinstall windows 3 times this year because updates have just. broke. so i'm done w all that.

takes your hand. the first step is getting so fed up with microsoft's bull shit that you start thinking to yourself "fuck, maybe I DO want to see what linux is about actually". and you are already there.

I typed a lot again but let me boil it down real quick so you know what you're getting into:

A "linux distribution" is an operating system, basically

Most of the common ones are easy to use now, tho ymmv with the Software You Need and what you use computers for

Start with a virtual machine; troubleshoot until delighted; install

Back your files up regularly so you can un-fuck-up if needed (<- general life advice, but very helpful here for peace of mind)

Windows : IKEA :: Linux : wood + hardware + tools. kinda.

here are 3 other things:

I'm not an expert I'm a very lost new user with a chainsaw and a can-do attitude

Experts don't generally keep the "new user" feeling close to their heart so what the fuck do they know about anything anyway

I don't know what you know so, like, bear with me.

...but also if you have more specific questions I'm around and hate my day job so feel extremely free to jump back into my inbox and be like "hey what the fuck is up with ___". or not. I typed so much.

anyway here's some stuff that would've helped me :3

ime, the most Intimidating thing about going from "god I hate the accursed Window" to "linux desktop user" is wrapping your head around what distros are. I overcame this hurdle by recklessly abusing duckduckgo and youtube, but you don't have to.

think of a "linux distribution" as an "operating system". there are one morbillion of them, but if you pick one out of the Big Fucking Pile you can download it, and it will be one (1) file that you can put on a USB drive, and then you can plug that USB drive into your Windows Machine and make the file install itself, and then the machine will have a new operating system. and if you don't like that one you can pick out a different one. off the pile. simple.

now that I have established this: you will have to Choose A Distribution. I have advice on this topic.

it is way easier to make the INSTALLING LINUX ON YOUR WHOLE COMPUTER jump if you use it in a virtual machine first. probably what this will teach you is that it mostly works like you expect a computer to work, but if you encounter any Problems, you can deal with them in your own time because your existing operating system is still right there. this tutorial will get you there. do not use ubuntu, though; use MX Linux. it is better. instead of "download an ubuntu image," go here and download one of these two mx linux images:

standard one (red) if your computer is old, or

"ahs" (blue) if your computer is not very old.

use your judgment. then proceed according to the tutorial, basically.

I am giving you direct instructions instead of general advice because linux is a vast landscape of choice paralysis, which is also one of the things that has tripped me up before. once you have Used Some Linux, you'll start to Learn which things you want to have be different, and once you have some Preferences you can start tailoring your whole situation. unlike the accursed Window, where you can think "I kind of hate windows explorer" and then spend all afternoon on reddit learning that other file explorers for windows TECHNICALLY EXIST but none of them do the stuff you want. anyway.

once you have a working VM of mx linux, here's some stuff to think about or do:

+ what's your impression of the desktop immediately after installing? click stuff and see if you hate anything or can't figure out how to do something simple you can just Do on windows. then go into the settings and see if you can change something you hate, or open firefox and look up how to do the thing you can't do. rinse repeat.

+ tbh maybe this is me being a little freak but I spent like hours collectively in the settings just messing around. there's a new thing in MX tools where you can change the colors of your folder icons to literally whatever color you want; click that. enjoy the unadulterated aesthetic power.

+ log into your mozilla account on firefox. if you don't have a mozilla account, make one and then log into it. if you're on chrome, import all your chrome shit into firefox and attach it to a mozilla account and then log into it on your regular OS and in the VM. now you can blog from linux.

+ (you can also install chrome if you want (I have it in case a website belligerently doesn't want to work on firefox + have had to use it for, like, bills or whatever once in a blue moon). or any other browser. set up your preferred stuff everywhere!! go download a desktop wallpaper!! download these images and put them on there. home sweet home.)

+ you will encounter inconveniences as you try to use the VM for your Everyday Computing Experience, mostly because all your shit is already set up and stored on your windows computer and you're gonna be like "fuck I need [file]" and it's kind of a pain in the ass to directly get files from a host onto a VM and cloud storage sucks and none of your stuff is where you expect it to be on the desktop etc etc etc. deal with this as it comes. idk, write stuff down. solve 1 problem at a time when you have spare time. your goal at this point should be "I can use the VM instead of my actual computer for everyday tasks". but you can get there slow.

+ if you run into something that you USE on windows and CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE OR REPLACE on linux, now you are asking the big questions. go down a research rabbithole about it.

here is where I start saying generalizations again:

linux will teach you to Find Solutions For Stuff. the difference btwn windows and desktop linux is that windows will be like "here's how it is. don't worry about it" and you can either go "okay <3 yay <3" or you can get pissed off and go see what linux is about. and linux will be like "well here's like the entire breadth of human UX proclivities and a lot of power tools; I'll be on the forums if you need me; good luck, champ" AND THAT'S AWESOME. p.s. keep the forums for your distro close at hand when troubleshooting. they do good work in there.

uh basically my advice is: step up to it. do not stop trying stuff. become a gun that's full of bullets that are questions, and eventually you WILL be A Linux User. also, write down any command line stuff you learn in like a notebook or whatever so you can remember it without looking it up again next time you need it.

here's one: "./filename.whatever" runs the file. this is useful for when you download something that's not in your distro's package manager and have to run it like it's an exe or something and there's just a .sh file in there and you don't know what that means. it means "right click the folder -> 'open terminal here' -> type './filename.sh' -> program is now running". here's another one: "~/" stands for your home folder. which is where all your stuff lives. on mx linux I can hit f4 to bring up the dropdown terminal, type "featherpad ~/Documents/linuxes\ advice.txt" and it'll open this document in the default text editor. the \ is an escape character so it knows you mean the space is part of the filename. now you're 1337 :)

finally: if and when you reach a point where you can do all your normal computer stuff on your virtual machine, back up ur files off your windows machine and do one of the following:

take a new image of your working copy of mx linux (mx tools can help you do this) and install that on The Real Machine

get a clean .iso of mx linux and install it and re-set it up from scratch. pg 17 of the user manual, "2.2.3 Create LiveMedium", will tell you how to set up the USB drive, btw.

pick a different distribution and install that.

if you are 100% happy with mx, fuck yeah keep it. if you want something shinier, may I suggest Garuda? I fucking love Garuda Linux with my life.

SECTION FOR IF YOU PLAY GAMES ON YOUR COMPUTER BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT TO SAY ABOUT THIS:

if you play games, during your "what do I do with this VM" phase, go get them + try to run them. if you play games via steam, the store page for a game will have a "system requirements" field for linux if the game runs natively on linux. it usually says "ubuntu" but that doesn't actually mean you have to be running ubuntu; try it anyway. if the game does not run natively on linux, you can go into the game's settings and go to compatibility and "force the use of a compatibility tool" and a lot of the time that will just work ("proton experimental" is fine, or whatever the newest one is). if you have trouble, go protondb you and see what people have said about running the game. IF A GAME HAS MULTIPLAYER MAYBE GO TO PROTONDB FIRST and check to see whether anyone says anything about anticheat; this is the only thing that can have actual permanent consequences (sometimes anticheats will trigger if you try to use workarounds that let you run a game on linux). you can also look up a specific game on the r/linux_gaming subreddit; they are very helpful sometimes.

I'm officially out of arguably relevant sentences now, but I hope this helps some. Linux is fun + I like it a lot; you should try it !!!

[redlegumes]

Little Monster Chapter 2:

On AO3

"His identity was secure. Not only secure but envied. However, Steve was beginning to feel deeply lonely. The past few years of high school he'd been propelled by goals to further his transition, remain stealth. Now that he'd secured what anyone could describe as success, there wasn't even a friend he could celebrate with. There was no one in his life he could share his fears or worries with let alone the successes."

Steve Harrington finds and loses love, finishes high school stealth, and is pulled into the mysteries and horrors of the Upside Down. (Transpires over the events of Stranger Things Seasons 1-3)

CHAPTER AFTER THE CUT IS MATURE 18+

Notes:

A lot of CW's for this chapter, trying to cover my bases.

I'd say I hope the warnings don't discourage you from reading, but they're literally here so people can make informed choices about the entertainment they're consuming. So please read the warnings.

CW: Mild homophobia, parental transphobia, mild internalized transphobia, canon based underaged sexual history discussed as well as high school aged Steve and Nancy sex talk (mature but not explicit), brief bully Billy Hargrove appearance, high school locker room verbal bullying/homophobia, Steve Harrington has bad parents, verbal abuse, disownment

Turning sixteen meant Steve secured a driver's license with his gender and name, thanks to his birth certificate being handled when it was. It also meant testosterone, thanks to his doctor in Chicago that he checked in with virtually. Steve was set up with a prescription and tracked down an online pharmacy that would ship it directly to the house. He didn't mind the needle aspect, it felt like a small price to pay for what he received in exchange. The bottom growth alone was so satisfying. Packers were fine and all, his prosthetics helped immensely, but having his own body shift closer to what he knew it should be was gratifying in ways he couldn't express. But of course there wasn't anyone to share his euphoria with either.

Steve was grateful for what his parent’s money afforded him and his access to medication, but he couldn't tell them that. They only wanted to see him in a tidy little gender box. He was their son, and he 'should be able to manage and maintain that identity' without slipping in the slightest. If anything, as soon as he received the car keys to the BMW it felt as though they were pulling away. Chip and Mitzi Harrington spent more and more time in Indianapolis, and when they were home, the pressure on Steve to present as the perfect son had a whiplash effect on him. One moment he was meant not to care about their frequent abandonment and the next he was expected to treat them as though they'd hung the moon.

Steve started to feel it wasn't his parent's good opinion of him that he needed, it'd never truly been. They weren't going to suddenly love and support him, no matter what hurdles he overcame, the hoops he jumped through. They weren't going to give him more of their time or consideration.

Steve's priorities shifted.

He could use his money and lack of supervision to his advantage. Steve's life alone, at home when his folks were away, didn't need to be a living mausoleum. He could get love and attention from his friends. While he couldn't completely squash that desire to get his parent's acceptance, this would do, and once he started, they didn't even seem to notice. He was fully integrated in the Hawkins High School power dynamic. Whether or not he passed was no longer worry number one. He now had to worry about other incidents. For example, how fast an ambitious sophomore, Cynthia Evans, tried to get her hand down his pants after baseball practice.

Steve liked girls. They were soft. He'd never noticed, before going on T, just how much softer they felt. They smelled lovely too. He found femininity on someone else wasn't a turn off at all. There was something affirming in the differences he clearly saw and felt between himself and female partners. They were foreign yet familiar, the paradox lightly plaguing him as he began to date around. Dating was part of the popularity deal. It also afforded him a little more leeway with his own identity. Steve cared about his hair and clothes obviously because he was a lady killer, not a 'homo' with feminine tendencies that he feared would one day be some sort of smoking gun that outed him.

Though, he still noticed guys.

Men were exciting in a different way. Certain traits, a muscle or light pattern of chest hair, these things drew Steve in beyond just gender envy. But even if he could keep his trans status secret while coming out as bisexual, there'd be no understanding from his folks. Despite the internet and TV show representations becoming more frequent, being bisexual wasn't much of an option around Hawkins. Steve knew if he dated a dude he'd be seen as gay with all the casual homophobia that came with it. He hadn't encountered a girl he wanted to reveal his genital situation to. Being bisexual and having to reveal his bottom bits to a guy? It seemed like a reality he wasn't going to live. General consensus was that it was easier to be a straight, cis dude, and Steve was inclined to agree.

So instead, there was some closeted experimentation. A few cocks sucked in a few locker rooms. Steve found his hookups perfectly content when he asked them not to reciprocate or touch him.

Girls worked similarly. Steve knew all the spots to park in or walk to with a picnic blanket. Sometimes it was just the sweet intimacy in kissing, feeling so adored, desired. But often there was a push for more, and Steve obliged if they did things his way. Nowhere else in his life did he feel as 'in control' then he did in the back seat of his car, with a pair of thighs trembling around his head.

He cycled through dates, getting off the prettiest girls in school, and he did it well enough that the rumors were all praise. No one brought up his avoidance to press his partners for his own climax, and Steve encouraged any whispers that implied he had gotten it. He wasn't struggling with a complete lack of self satisfaction. He found a select few packers that allowed him to really benefit just by rutting against another's body.

It all worked. His identity was secure. Not only secure but envied. However, Steve was beginning to feel deeply lonely. The past few years of high school he'd been propelled by goals to further his transition, remain stealth. Now that he'd secured what anyone could describe as success, there wasn't even a friend he could celebrate with. There was no one in his life he could share his fears or worries with let alone the successes. He had a community, but it began to remind him of paper mache. There was no solid core, only pretty paper that could all melt away.

...

Then came Nancy Wheeler.

Steve was seventeen and he finally felt secure enough. Ready. Ready to let someone see him, know him, perhaps even his story. Nancy was thoughtful and kind. And Steve wanted to… he wanted to do more with her than what he'd done with others. She was so smart. So much smarter than Steve, and yet he could get her flustered, make her blush, and make her smile.

He started to let his guard down around Nancy. He let a lot of the persona he'd developed fade while hanging with her. He didn't need to keep it up like he did with Tommy, his 'best' friend. The bitchy quips and asshole brush offs were designed to keep people from getting too comfortable, to keep himself a little superior, separated, safe. With Nance, he wanted her to press, to touch, and ask. He was ready to answer.

…

He ended up being the one with questions.

Steve climbed up the front of the Wheeler house and in, through the window of Nancy's room, one night. Predictably, she was studying. They'd been not quite 'dating' for a little while… and unlike his other relationships, Steve wanted this one to go further. He wanted more. He wanted it to last.

The night started with helping Nancy study. Steve soon shook his head with laughter as it became clear she knew the subject matter, front and back. Nance was more than prepared for her test the next morning. They were both reclined on either ends of her bed and it struck Steve as though everything was comforting, soft. The lighting, the furnishings, even Nancy's shrewd yet shy smile…

"You know I want to do more with you, Nance," he said, not quite sure how else to word it.

"More than study?" She giggled, raising a manicured eyebrow.

"I normally..." He fidgeted with the flashcards before setting them down. Steve thought he'd mastered moving past nervousness. Guess this situation is different. Well, no reward without risk. "I don't open myself up to a lot of people. I don't actually, um do more than what we've been up to."

Nancy moved a hand out towards him. "Steve, it's okay… you don't have to-"

"-No. I really do. I want for it to be us. For there to be an us? You're not like the other girls."

Nancy's lips twisted into a small, curt smile as she looked away from him, the blush on her cheeks deepening. "Oh my God. Don't say it like that."

"Hah." Steve felt a grin spread over his own face, and he leaned toward her. "I mean you're really special. You Nancy, you make me want more, make me feel like we could have more."

"I think. I think I'd like that." Her eyes snapped back to him as her smile grew wider. "Could be really nice, being an 'us.'"

Steve breathed out a big sigh of relief. His happiness, over Nancy seemingly being on the same page, barely tempered his anxiety transferring to his next confession. Steve swallowed and looked into her sharp blue eyes. "Hey. So, I feel like there's something you ought to know. Something only my parents know about, but I trust you. I don't… believe that you would hurt me with it, if I tell you."

"Steve?" Nancy reached out and this time took his hand. She squeezed it lightly. "I would never knowingly try to hurt you. Sometimes you can be sort of an asshole jock." Steve laughed nervously. "But I wouldn't turn your secrets against you."

He nodded. She truly had such beautiful eyes. Steve stared at the shifting, gentle waters of her gaze and found his center.

"Nancy, I'm trans." The words sounded distant when he spoke them.

Nancy's eyes widened. They flashed over his body and then back up to his face. Her brow furrowed, but she didn't let go of his hand. "Steve, I. Thank you I. I really appreciate that you told me."

Woah, I did it. Wow, okay. "Now you know," he said meekly, building back up the courage to say what he'd wanted to. "I'm serious about you Nancy. If this is a deal breaker... I need to know."

"No!" She looked as surprised as he assumed he did at the speed of her reply. "No, actually I'm good with this. I, I said I was ready to do more. I don't have an issue with the fact that you're, you," she said, squeezing his hand again and glancing down his body. "I mean, seems like some of your parts might just be more familiar to me than what I was expecting."

His mind went blank with the unexpected acceptance. He was so awestruck he couldn't think but to ask, "how would you… would you want to?" He trailed off in a daze, and Nancy leaned forward to give him a sweet kiss on the lips. Steve had thought it out before but now it was real. "I've got the means to do it the y'know, 'classic' way. If you want."

"The classic way Steve? That makes it sound like I'm ordering a burger."

They laughed together and Steve felt lighter. "We can talk more later if you need time, it's no rush."

"Maybe. I think right now I'd like to kiss you again."

…

The days that followed their first time were confusing to say the least. Steve saw Nancy repeatedly with Jonathan. He took stalker shots of her from the woods behind his house! Steve tried not to even think about what could have happened if he had stood in his window that night. Byers didn't strike him as the type to 'out' somebody, but Steve was angry, scared. He finally opened up, just for it to all come crumbling down? Had Nancy been so disgusted by him that she had to run out and get biodick to erase the memory of his store bought member? Jealousy filled his head and hurt grew in his chest. Tommy and Carol were gleefully ready to turn on Nancy Wheeler after hearing that Steve may have been cheated on. It felt like friendship when they defaced buildings downtown, when they encouraged Steve and Jonathan to fight.

But even in the face of Steve's petty friends, magnifying his hurt, Nancy was true to her word. She didn't reveal his secret and she denied wrongdoing.

Would anyone in his life take that level of character assault and not lash back at him? Use any perceivable weakness to wound him? Later, Steve only wished that Jonathan hadn't had to beat his face in for him to get it. All his fears of discovery, betrayal, loss of the popularity that he'd clung to, believing it was his shield. Those relationships weren't an ounce of what he could have with Nancy. And someday maybe with others? He could have people in his life who really cared for him.

Steve broke with his old friends, cleaned graffiti, and sought after Nancy Wheeler.

The demogorgon adequately summed up why she'd acted so odd.

...

He and Nancy were good for a while after that, finding comfort in one another, and then it began to fall apart. Steve loved her, and she couldn't say it back. He tried to cope with her over Barb's death, but their methods weren't the same. Steve wanted to swallow the sadness and try to move on. Nancy wanted retribution, and a small vengeance. When she set out to find that closure, she didn't seek Steve's aid.

Steve wished that was the summary of his senior year troubles, but then Billy Hargrove came to town.

…

Hargrove had joined the basketball team. He was fresh from California, one of those high school guys who was plainly built like a full adult. His play style was aggressive, and the first practice he joined after making the team he dedicated to shoving Steve around. Steve's game on the court wasn't what it had been. Swimming and his swing at the batting cages were fine, but basketball… Steve now shied from contact heavy plays. His doctor had warned him about concussions after he mentioned a few 'falls' he'd taken that past year during his last check in.

However, Billy seemed determined. It was typical 'prison yard' mentality: establish dominance by beating the best. Steve had been the 'king,' and Billy appeared to hunger for the discarded crown.

After that practice, Steve changed into his swim suit in the locker room handicap stall like he normally did. He was ready for a couple laps in the pool after the mild humiliation on the court.

The locker room was still fairly full when Steve headed toward the pool exit; unfortunately, the crowd included Billy. He was showering and called out loudly enough that it echoed on the tiles, over the shower's spray. "So this 'king Steve' I've been hearing so much about is fucking allowed, flaunting even, that weird ass, full body thing." Billy sneered and shut off the shower head, stalking nude right up to Steve. "How'd you even swim like that man?"

"What, have you never seen a full body speedo? You wanna Google 'men's fastsuit' or do you just never watch Olympic coverage." Steve had defended himself before, but then it had always come with a degree of expectation. Naked Billy ranked high in unnerving and unexpected. He was far too close. Power move bullshit, Steve realized, grimacing. "Man, you don't have to like it and my performance proves it's not an issue, so." Steve moved to sidestep Billy but found himself blocked.

"Sure. You knoooow I'm wondering if you aren't just too self conscious Steve-o. Maybe you just need help with it, huh?" Billy snapped Steve's shoulder strap to punctuate his point.

Steve's skin began to buzz. There was definitely an undercurrent to the hostility in Billy's voice. One he didn't like.

Fuck.

Before he could truly panic, his teammate Brian spoke up, cutting the tension. "Dude, lay off. We need Steve. He's a solid player. Don't fuck with him like that."

"Really?" Billy stepped away, and grabbed a towel. "You pussies all agree?"

Steve was grateful to see the team members still in the locker shoot Billy looks that confirmed just that. Billy's gaze eventually landed on Tommy who had excitedly become Billy's bootlicker since the start of the school year.

For the first time since their friendship's explosive ending in the parking lot, Tommy didn't dig at Steve. He shrugged and mostly mumbled his reply. "We've all got our shit. Besides, I'm not gonna force a dude out of his swimsuit with a bunch of other guys in the locker room showers man. No one's gonna buy that's not some gay shit right there."

"No homo," another player called out from in back to a smattering of laughter. Billy dropped it.

Apart from the harassment 'dick looking ' at the urinals received, Steve found few instances where he was grateful for homophobia. That moment ranked.

...

His parents never asked him about the injuries, the bruising, or the scars that formed after. Though his mother once stopped him, offering cryptic advice concerning vitamin E, shirts that covered arms for all seasons, and make up tips for covering sections of 'damaged' skin.

Steve often wondered just what they thought had happened to him. Not that he volunteered any information. Not like he really could. Steve could tell it made them uncomfortable, even more adverse to his company. He only had the vague outlines of what they expected him to do after high school, but he'd begun to grow anxious about it after college rejection letters started to show up in the mail.

Nance had tried her best to help him, but his sports achievements weren't enough to balance out his piss poor grades. Steve graduated without any acceptance offers from a four year university. He absently wondered if the hits to the head over the years had anything to do with it, or worse (in his own opinion), his mental health.

Steve resigned himself to the fact that there would be no Harrington graduation party. After he walked across the stage and pulled his tassel to one side, he followed his parent's car home. Once the door to the house shut behind them all, his father began a tirade.

"This is ridiculous! The trouble, the cost, to keep your reckless 'identity choice' from scandalizing every friend and colleague our family has and now, no real college would take you?" The indignation was rich coming from his father. He'd never even suggested a specific school Steve should aim for, let alone help with applications. "Do you expect us to stay here another year? Hawkins," he spat out the name. "No. We're leaving this pointless little town. You are taking any office job I can get for you at the firm. This is what I get for giving you carte blanche you ungrateful shit," his father muttered. "I'm done being 'Mr. Nice Guy.'"

Steve's hand clenched as the words bounced around his mind like a pinball machine. "...that's what the last 18 years were? Nice? You barely speak to me. Here I've been grateful you rarely misgender me. No wonder. When was the last time you actually talked to me? If we don't count screaming, I can't remember. The move here was always about you. I would've stayed in Chicago. I wasn't the one who needed to hide who I am. That was always you two!" His eyes fluttered over his mother, including her in his address. He didn't raise his voice. He couldn't bear the thought of mimicking his father that way. "You signed my name change and gender indicator paperwork so others would think you didn't have some freak for a son. I look every inch like your son, so I better at least play that role for you? Look at the car you bought so you didn't have to drive me to practices or pick me up. You're moving?" Steve pushed out another clipped question. "When's the last time you were living here?"

"You're done." Chip Harrington's fist shook, his index finger pointing at Steve. "We're done. You're cut off. This is the last straw. You've rejected all we've tried to give you from your first name to a chance at a future. You disgust me. I want you gone by the time I'm done with work tomorrow."

The declarations and demand didn't fill him with anger. It only made him feel drained. It dawned on Steve that he'd fought to hold up his parents' approval of him and now he couldn't do it anymore. He let it slip away. His care for their opinion was gone. It wasn't a triumphant moment but it sure as hell wasn't a sad one.

…

Steve packed his things.

He didn't want to call Nancy, but he wasn't really sure what he was going to do. Hawkins was too small to have too much in the way of homeless youth resources, and he genuinely didn't want to leave Hawkins; it'd become home. His kids were still there, and he'd learned that they rarely stayed safe. He couldn't abandon them…

So he loaded the beamer with the documents and possessions he could claim entirely as his and got a job at the new mall. He pawned and sold clothes, shoes, and watches to scrounge up enough for rent and a deposit. Steve realized there was a new problem. Who would rent to him? Eighteen years old, no credit score, working minimum wage… disowned…

Steve finally broke down and called the only adult he thought could help: Jim Hopper.

He hadn't known what to expect when what was essentially a gruff acquaintance answered after three rings.

Hopper's first question was if Steve was safe.

"I move the car around to different spots each night. I know the public pool staff, so I go in early to shower there."

Hopper exhaled heavily. "How long have you been living out of the car?"

"Just a couple of weeks..."

"Moving the car regularly, that was smart kid." He sighed again. "Okay, we're gonna get you set up to find some section eight housing. You're going to qualify…" Hopper began before detailing all the assistance Steve did have available to him.

…

Hopper met him later that day to look at places with him. He cosigned on an apartment and helped Steve out with his truck, thrifting necessary furniture and basic cookware. Hopper asked once if Steve wanted the others to know, mentioning they'd want to help. Steve insisted Hopper's help was enough. Beyond enough. Steve had no idea how he could begin to thank him. The apartment rental had required a background check. The background check required Steve's previous name. Hopper saw. He knew and nothing changed.

After Steve was set up with necessities, Hop hugged him, and they never spoke of it again.

...

Steve's job slinging ice cream at Scoops Ahoy was going fine, but he hadn't really 'bounced back.' His flirting attempts fell flat. He was grateful that his slump hadn't affected his relationships with the kids. At least he still kept in touch with them. He even had a co-worker who, for the first time since Nancy, would make him feel safe. He realized he could be himself with her, without having to guard any part of his identity. Unfortunately, this breakthrough came after more Upside Down fuckery and the Russian military. Literally the Russian military in Hawkins, IN.

Robin Buckley aided their ever-growing trauma-family and was rewarded the same way they all were: psychological and physical injury and eventually a non-disclosure agreement from the government.

She'd revealed her closeted truth to him. They were still loopy, on the public bathroom floor nearest the mall's movie theater, but no longer in an actively drugged state. Whatever 'truth serum,' chemical cocktail the Russian doctors injected them with, in an attempt to get them to reveal that they worked for someone other than Scoops Ahoy, had been yacked out. Robin told him of her frustration at Steve in high school. Girls fawned over him, and she felt she'd never have even one notice her.

Steve was in awe of Robin, supporting him, fighting to keep the kids safe, and now that trust. In return, Steve worked to make her smile, make her laugh. He'd definitely fallen for Robin but even he knew, could feel, that it was a different love than what he'd known for Nancy. Closer to what he felt for the kids.

I know there are supposed to be different types of love. I just dunno what this one is supposed to be called.

A 'mall fire' was the cover story for the Mindflayer's victims, the Russian madness, and, to everyone's horror, Hopper's death. Robin's parents picked her up from the emergency vehicles as did the rest of the kids' families, after being checked out by government agents. Even El bittersweetly had someone to take her home. A contingency plan few had known about made it so Joyce Byers now had custody of 'Jane Hopper.'

Hop was gone and everyone else had homes… families to return to. Steve was almost grateful that the EMTs said he needed to stay a night at the hospital under supervision. They'd determined he'd suffered another concussion. The news was practically a relief. Steve didn't have to haul himself back to his empty, one bedroom apartment yet.

'Hawkins lab' took care of the bill for Steve's treatment. He absently realized if they hadn't been aware of his medical history, they probably were now. Hopefully, there'd be no ramifications from the sketchy government types if he came to deal with them in the future. It seemed likely. The terrors of the Upside Down didn't feel far away. The scale of the Mindflayer gripped Steve's heart with an icy fear for the future villains they might face, seeping up from the 'other Hawkins.' Beings that seemed to be increasing in intelligence and purpose.

When Steve was released from Hawkins Memorial Hospital, he plugged his phone into his car charger. After he'd been cleared to drive, Steve had found the beamer waiting for him in the visitor parking lot. He decided that it was one of those things not worth questioning. Messages flooded in on his device, including repeated missed calls from Robin.

He'd given her a ride or two to work before, so he knew exactly where he needed to go. Steve drove directly to her house and parked on the street. The Buckleys lived in a one story, ranch style home, and Steve silently thanked the powers that be he didn't have to climb to get to Robin's window. It was about ten pm and he really didn't want to bother with the questions her parents might have. He carefully skirted the house before locating her room. The curtains were parted, revealing the warm glow of a lamp on a nightstand, illuminating Robin curled up on the bed inside. She was wrapped around a large plush shark. A laptop was on the bed, a few inches from her, playing what he vaguely recognized as the Trolls movie. Steve tapped on the window as cautiously as he could.

Robin jolted immediately, turning toward the sound. She let out a sort of garbled 'Steve,' and raced over to open the window, pulling him in.

They hugged each other tightly. "Dingus, you didn't answer your phone," she said, sounding choked as her head shook against his shoulder.

"Phone died."

Robin pulled back, her nose crinkled. "Steve, oh my god. They couldn't give you anything else to wear?"

"Didn't want to come over in the hospital gown," he replied, shrugging. He could have gone to his place first, but then again he couldn't've. He needed to see Robin again, know she was alright. The others had been through some degree of it all before (except for Erica, but she had Lucas to help her). The kids had their phones but also the walkies for unmonitored discussion of the events from the past week. He figured Robin would need him about as much as he needed her.

She grabbed the barely charged phone from his limp grip and plugged it into her charger. "Okay. That'll help some. Dustin's freaking out about you. The others too, but y'know."

"I know."

Dustin's sweet 'you die, I die,' declaration from the elevator hadn't left Steve's mind. But Dustin and the others had been updated on Steve's condition before his phone died. Robin seemed to already understand that 'worry' would be everyone's default for a while.

"Here. I've got to have some clothes that'll fit you." Robin turned toward her closet.

He'd already decided. Robin had been completely open with him, Steve felt he owed it to her to do the same. If he was being honest with himself, he craved a friendship where he wouldn't worry that slipping off his shirt would ruin it.

"Robin, wait. I need to tell you something."

She gave him her full attention while joking. "Can't it wait until after we burn that uniform?"

"Uh no. Actually not, uh, not really." Like a bandaid? Steve let out a steadying breath. "Robs, I'm… I'm trans."

He eyebrows shot up and then down. Her jaw dropped. "What? No." She shook her head. "What?"

"Yeah, ha, uh. Surprise? Is that…" He bit his lip, hating the shame and uncertainty beginning to boil in his stomach like a deep indigestion. "Is it um-"

Robin cut him off, arms wrapped around him in another hug. "You're okay," she said. "We're okay."

"Yeah?" He whispered the question, needing to hear the acceptance again but feeling ashamed to be so... needy.

"Yeah," Robin replied in a kind but firm tone. She pulled back slightly. "Though I still… Seriously 'king' Steve is lgb't?'" Questions began to pour out. "That's mind blowing. Who else knows? Oh gosh, who do you want to know? And why did you tell me? I mean I'd never out you… but this is a big deal right? Just, wow."

Steve kissed the top of her head and sort of grimaced. "I know, and you know. It wasn't something I was allowed to talk about and now, I dunno."

She cocked her head to the side and lightly rested her hand against his injured face. "Thanks for letting me in. Steve, really. Is it weird to tell you I think you might be my best friend?"

Steve's heart felt fit to burst. "Really?" His voice dropped to a whisper again.

"Really. You're my schmuck, remember?" She leaned up a little and kissed his less beaten cheek before turning back to her dresser.

Robin pulled out a large shirt that had a faded image of the Great Lakes on it and a pair of sweatpants she assured Steve were giant on her. He nodded and was about to remove his shirt when she suddenly stopped rambling about the clothes. He raised an eyebrow at her.

Robin took in a deep breath and spoke carefully. "Can I see…?" She moved her hand over her chest in a manner that looked almost as if she had failed to properly cross herself.

Steve thought about it. He wasn't ashamed of his chest. In fact, he loved it. The faded jagged scars next to the surgical ones. They were an emancipation, and, he loved the way his torso looked. But…

"No one's really seen it."

Robin's eyes were wide though her brow was pinched. "I'm sorry. Honestly, just curious. I want to hear your whole story. But I'm not gonna demand to know everything. You telling me in the first place is… huge. Just. I wanna be your person. So share whatever you're comfortable with. Know I'm interested and I care." She shrugged.

Steve chuckled. "My platonic person?" Platonic. That's it, the type of love I couldn't name.

She snorted. "Obviously. You forget?" She shoved his shoulder without any real force. "Not into dudes like that."

Steve took off the bloodied Scoops uniform, toed into the sweatpants, and then turned around so Robin could see.

"Wow," she gasped. She reached out but stopped halfway as though mentally schooling herself. "Can I um…"

"Yeah. Sure." He thought he might flinch or suddenly feel dysphoric with her hand on the left scar, but instead he was simply reminded his body was littered with other scars. His new bruises and cuts were sensitive, but they would heal like the others. Like the one Robin curiously starred at now.

Robin was mindful of the fresh damage, lightly tracing over his skin. "Steve… Did the first top surgery, uh, not take?"

He laughed and finished dressing.

They lay in Robin's bed that night. Steve started talking about his top surgery and, before he knew it, spilled his whole life story to her. Robin took it all in stride. It was difficult but liberating. She shared too, thoughts, feelings, reactions. It felt inaugural, like the first sleepover of many with his best friend. His person.

[skittlesmcgee]

Today I made my wax lady cry. Not tear up. Full on cry. I didn't mean it and it was a good thing.

For the last eight months, this very nice lady, about my age, has been carefully taking the hair off my underarms and snatch every eight weeks. Today, she asked if I had seen her emails. I told her that I didn't think I got emails from here, just text messages. So told me that she's closing her business. She explained that there were some things she needed done but the landlord just wasn't doing them. She's looked around for other locations and just can't find anything in her price range. So she was thinking about closing the spa. Then her son explained that he was moving from Arizona to Dallas and she should come down to Dallas. She could live with him until she figured stuff out. And that's what she's doing. My response, "I am so happy for you! I am so glad you are doing what's right for you!"

First, I think a lot of her clients' first response is "Who's gonna do my <insert thing here>??" And I get it. I don't want to find another wax lady. (For the record, I already have an appointment scheduled. LOL) But this lady is starting over in a new city and she told me she was a little nervous about it. So I told her my story. I told her how I did exactly this two years ago. How it was the hardest, scariest, best thing I ever did. We spent the whole time that she's doing her thing talking about it. How she's never lived anywhere else (same). How she really hasn't traveled that much (same). How, even though she has her son, she's moving to a brand new place without an established support structure (same...not my son but my friends).

She talked about how she only really figured out the first step...move to Dallas. She hadn't figured anything else out. I told her that I had used that same move on my last two vacations. I had a short list of things that I wanted to see, but had plenty of time to find cool stuff along the way. You only need those one or two stops. The universe will show you the rest.

After I got dressed and went out to the lobby, she was sitting at her desk looking a little teary. She told me that she only has the first step figured out. I straight up told her, "You only need to figure out that first step. You've already tackled the biggest hurdle. You decided. Now you're gonna take the step. And if you aren't ready for the next one right away, it's okay. If it takes three hours or three days or three years before you're ready for the next step, it's okay. The universe or God or whatever, will sit with you while you figure it out." She was absolutely in tears. Then I said, "Imma hug you and I don't care what else happens today." And I held that woman while she sobbed. I told her I was proud of her and that I loved her.

When they say, "One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through and it will become someone else's survival guide", they aren't necessarily talking about writing a book. They are talking about telling your story to the people you encounter in your life. Share your tale, because you aren't just an abstraction, a nameless faceless author that can be written off as heroic or epic. You are a person in their sphere. A real live, walking, talking human...in my case, a pair of underarms and a snatch. I'm going think about that lady for a long time. I'm gonna send good thoughts and vibes her direction as she starts live in a whole new place.

I made my wax lady cry today. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

[noahtally-famous]

rewatching ridonculous race and I just came up with the wildest 'crack' thought that would prob be single-handedly genius or The Worst Thing Ever.

as usual I’m making it everyone’s problem lmao

a Dave & Keith duo team participating in the race. And their team name is ‘liked the same girl’ or smth like that idk

some extra details:

Sky definitely forced them into it as a ‘Bonding Experience’ bc of the complaining and arguing (and plus she was tired af of how annoying they are). I like to think after PI, Dave approached her and genuinely actually apologized for his actions, like he finally realized how unhinged he turned into and regretted it, and she apologized too for leading him on and not handling the situation better, and they respected the ultimate decision to not date but remained a weird combo of acquaintance-friends. there was a lot of apologizing, crying (bc of course there is), words said, and it took a while but they overcame that massive hurdle.

naturally, Keith isn’t so quick to trust the guy though, and Dave still has bad memories abt him so the tension between them still remains thick.

them arguing legit the entire time they’re on, and live to make each others lives more annoying while facepalming at the others stupidity. (they're a hit among the viewers btw, bc of course they are)

“says the girlfriend-kisser!” “for the last time, I didn’t know you two were dating or else I wouldn’t have kissed her!” “pfft. yeah that’s what you’d like to think.” “uh, yeah, I do think that. because her lips have touched yours and who knows how disgusting your lips are and where they’ve been.” “excuse me, you take that back right now!” “I don’t hear you denying it, bad kisser.” “is that the best you’ve got, Mr. Not Getting Any?” "that's not what the girl you thought liked you was thinking when she kissed me--oh, too soon?" "I will fucking murder you."

everyone else, hearing this go down: what the fuck

homoerotic tension but no one rlly knows whether that tension is due to them actually having underlying emotions other than ‘deep dislike’ or whether that’s just an add-on to their rivalry and they’re just dumb enough to say stuff with double meanings

similar to the point above, no one rlly knows whether to consider them ‘dating but doesn’t know it yet’ or simply enemies

Dwayne Sr. and Dwayne Jr. watching Pahkitew Island on the plane rides and bombarding Dave with questions abt his time there, and making fun of certain parts of the show. Keith is happy to indulge if it means making fun of Dave’s worst moments (“which are like all of them!” “at least I had guts to audition for that damn show.” “are you calling me a coward?” “congratulations. you’ve connected the dots.”)

idk whether they’d end up having a rivalry with another team or if they’re so invested in each other that no one else wants to get between that lmao

it’s funny bc they waste no time rubbing each other the wrong way, but for the sake of winning challenges they’d set aside their rivalry temporarily and work together (and ironically, they make a pretty good team). idk how they’d react if another team made fun of either of them—probably not the most positive; I feel like they’d be the type to laugh at the others misery/frustration at first, but if a certain line is crossed, intervention occurs.

I’ve this silly hc that Noah and Dave are family friends, so interactions between them and the occasional Keith ones are bound to be interesting

I literally don’t know what Keith would look like. When I was younger, I imagined him looking like a sort-of Duncan without the dyed hair (yeah, idk either). But now I’m like ‘would Sky rlly date a guy like that? she’d want to be with someone more sporty and athletic and competitive, probably.’ and now I’m stumped on trying to imagine Keith looks-wise 😭

perhaps he's a combination of the two?? bc I also can't see Sky dating the jockest jock to ever jock lmfao

they have to go through the sewage system in the prison episode, and Dave gets flashbacks from Pahkitew and he's all 'nope, not happening. I'm not touching that disgusting water, do you know how many germs and bacterias are in there?', so Keith's like 'ffs you dramatic shit' and has to carry Dave or piggy-back him until they reach the exit while Dave's alternating between clinging to him like a koala and leaning as far away from him as possible without falling off. (I'm sensing potential bonding over Dave's germaphobia and stuff).

Keith def kept up on the Pahkitew Island season so he knows exactly what Dave is talking abt when he refers to certain episodes.

The Haters/Daters love them, they're all like "those two know what's up. they're exactly like us" and Keith & Dave are like "...no we're not??" and the Haters/Daters are like "you're not dating?!"

Keith doesn't lose his shit easily, he's actually pretty chill and patient--which makes sense given in most sports, you gotta be patient. (Dave's the one who gets all emotional tbvh.) But, naturally, Dave's the only exception when it comes to the whole 'not losing shit easily' deal

"he's your boyfriend. you calm him down." "he's YOUR family friend though?! and for the last time, we're not dating!" -- a Noah and Keith interaction

[beyuwol]

› bridges burnt, bridges rebuilt … ☽

there are several reasons why yuwol hesitated when it comes to trying out the band scene. the first is obvious, his father wouldn't approve. he can hear his father telling him, 'you'd be staining our legacy,' or something to that affect. eventually, yuwol overcame that hurdle on his own, but—there had been something else stopping him, which he still thinks about to this day. it's a different type of guilt than the one his father poses he should be feeling, as if he's overstepping in ( @insu-be )'s territory.

bands had always been insu's thing, yuwol witnessed firsthand the way insu struggled to achieve his dreams. it's a passion that yuwol doesn't exactly have—because to yuwol, music is survival—and it's something admirable, even though insu shouldn't have to endure all that he did to get where he wanted. insu had a difficult father, after all ( yuwol knows what that's like all too well, but it's different—at least his own father paid attention to him when he held a violin, it isn't the same for insu ).

to say he feels bad is an understatement—it feels as if he took what is meant to be insu's, tainting it. even when their relationship was still teetering on okay, yuwol isn't blind to the jealousy and envy brewing within. it's why yuwol tried to stay in his lane. yuwol had his violin, insu had his band. their paths shouldn't cross ( and by that point, yuwol should've realized their relationship can no longer be salvaged ).

but something shifted, somehow. and insu was bound to find out.

it slipped out in conversation. "i have band practice later," yuwol had said, realization hitting him much too late. the silent stretches for far too long, partially yuwol's fault. it takes many moments before he could talk again, but there is no hope to remedy the situation at this point. "i haven't told you about that yet," was all he could say.

apologizing would mean he isn't certain with his decisions, so he forfeits the notion. that doesn't stop the strange guilt to rise, nor does it quell the frustration that's bubbling.

maybe they shouldn't have met again.

[chuya-chuya-blog]

I read Empyreal Cabinet today. I like to try the new shonen series so that if it becomes a big deal, I can say I was there first🤣🤣🤣 The first time I tried a newly debuted manga with this clear intent was with Rugby Rumble, and I'm really really enjoying it.

And if I'm curious about a series I don't wanna have to spend a thousand chapters playing catch up. This was a big hurdle for me with MHA, but I overcame and really enjoyed it. It was also fun to experience the ending at the same time as the rest of the fanbase. Gushing about the big moments together in an online discourse is so fun!😊

I'm currently struggling with this hurdle with Dandadan and Black Butler, and I LOVE those manga. But it can be a lot to digest at once, even if I'm in a binging mood. I was a bit late to the party for Dandadan, even though I WAS reading it long before the anime was announced, so yay, I was one of the first!😌

I've been reading Kuroshitsuji on and off for over a decade and finally decided to buckle down and catch up on it this year, so I don't know what to make of that.😅

But Empyreal Cabinet was not for me. Before anything, I will say that the artwork was beautiful and a pleasure to look at. I'm an art lover, a visual person who needs clear art in a comic I'm reading, and when it's also beautiful and practical like it was in Empyreal Cabinet, that's usually enough to get me at least somewhat excited. But while the story was focused, it was incredibly boring. Too many technical terms and formation jargon for me to slog through for a story I'm still trying to see if I even care about. I was able to manage and get a clear understanding of the story, mainly because I wanted to give it a fair chance. (And I also kept saying to myself, come on, you can't get through ONE chapter of a new story? Is your attention span that low?)

I have made it through the first chapter, but was more than halfway finished before I felt even a speck of intrigue. That was on page 46 when they were talking about the high school boys playing a prank. I'm convinced an enemy in disguise dared those boys to commit a prank to let a monster loose. Based on the discussion at the end, I can already see that these monster attacks are probably intentional, and being covered up by the superiors in the organization (yeah, I don't remember the names of anything, I'm already bad with names, but in this manga, I just didn't care😮‍💨). I'm interested to know if I'm right but not interested enough to remember to keep coming back for it every week (like I do with Rugby Rumble, which I why I was even on the app today).

None of the characters interest me. I don't care about anyone's ambitions or motivations, I have no desire to learn anything about them or to see them in action. The main character had this (what I can assume was supposed to be) somewhat badass moment towards the end, but I felt no excitement about it, and didn't find myself rooting for him or any of the others. We learn that he doesn't just roll over and take things, and has a righteous streak and is willing to take accountability, but I just do not CARE. It's not like I DISLIKE any of the characters, they were all just too flat, monotone, and one dimensional for me to care. I'm not saying I need to know anything about their back stories or motivations, I can see they care about their job and want to protect the people, and that's honestly a fine and valid drive for me. I just don't care about them enough to see them do it.

The world building was good, no problems there. It really just felt like Jujutsu Kaisen and Kaiju no. 8 had a baby and the protagonist of Kagurabachi is walking around. But it's like all the necessary story elements are solid individually, but weren't able to create an engaging story together.

Shonen Jump seems to be doing this thing where they're going for more stoic and stone cold protagonists, probably since those characters tend to be popular as side characters. But when they do that, the whole series tends to drag. They're coming out with a lot of manga like this lately, and I can't get into any of them. I think Shueisha should put out a Shonen Jump Dark magazine for all their series like this, since they insist on putting them out.🤣 Anime as a whole used to be more serious and adult like in nature back in the 80s and 90s, anyway, what with things like Golgo 13 and City Hunter. Ninja Scroll is a certified hood classic and Akira is legendary. I feel like Shueisha may be trying to usher back in an era of cool mature works like this in Japan, especially since their birth rate crisis is leaving them with a much smaller fanbase of youth. Less kids mean fewer kids to buy Shonen Jump. At the end of the day, they have a magazine to sell.

It's not just the fantasy series either, Shiba Inu Rooms has a reserved protagonist, and I like her enough. Her dynamic with the dog is cute and sweet. Unfortunately, the story is a bit boring, and I find myself behind a few chapters currently. Sure enough, though, the artwork keeps me coming back for more. The story and characters do their part pleasantly, and the artwork pulled it over the hump enough for me to add it to my favorites.

The dude with the cat was honestly just stupid, and the cat seems out of place with the art style. It actually got on my nerves with how desperately it tried to make its flimsy premise interesting. A house cat also can't actually ease tense muscles with their kneading. They don't do it hard enough for that to even make sense. Just go to a massage therapist, and no, I don't care if he actually has a reason as to why he doesn't, because the whole series was just stupid. Him getting the girl to pet the cat was stupid, too, no self preserving woman would have gone into a guys house to pet a cat. That one was just utter nonsense. I usually don't critique so harshly, but for an author that thinks so little of women, I find no problem.

It's not like I only go for lighthearted series, Drunk Bullet has some fun characters and great art, but I still don't know if I wanna bother keeping up with that. I feel like it might be a banger later on, so I may try to catch up with the chapters while there are still so few of them. I watched Ron Kamonohashi before I started the manga, and while I enjoyed the show, I don't know if I'm gonna be able to catch up on 100+ chapters of detective work, although it may be because I've only read the chapters that were animated so far, so I already knew what was going to happen. The artwork is really nice, and I find myself using it for reference when I need help with natural backgrounds.

I know Shonen Jump wants to fill the hole left by MHA (and soon to be JJK, I've heard), so hopefully more people like Empyreal Cabinet than I did. It may have the potential to start a new big three. It certainly has a similar vibe to Kagurabachi, and that seems to be doing well.

As for me, I'm probably going to drop it. As a fellow mangaka, I like to give series their fair chance, so I'll probably try a few more chapters, but I can tell this one is really not for me. I do look forward to what comes along soon in the future, though. And I hope to be one of the first on the bandwagon if it takes off, too!

[honorhearted]

At Francesca's declaration, Caleb drew a hand over his heart, feigning devastation before he broke into a grin. "Well, Tallboy here may've beaten me to the punch, but I don't think you've ever called him 'devastatingly handsome' and 'charming' before, eh? Maybe he needs to watch out."

Ben sneered and nudged him. "Stop flirting with my intended." A slight flush overcame his face at the words -- it was surreal, intoxicating -- and biting his cheek to fight back a grin of his own, he said, "Frannie's a smart woman. She's choosing a life of simplicity over grime and seawater."

"Veeery simplistic," Caleb teased. Pulling his friend down into a headlock, the whaler dodged Ben's jabs and playfully tousled his hair, only to leap back before he could suffer the repercussions of one of Ben's wicked elbows. Winking at Francesca, he assured her, "I'll make sure he stays in line. The minute he becomes an insufferable cur, jus' lemme know, an' I'll lump 'im right in the jobbernole."

"Thanks, Caleb," Ben muttered, righting himself while fixing his coat.

The whaler kept teasing them about children -- good God, the man was relentless -- and noting the sudden pall in the air, he looked to Francesca in concern, then splayed his fingers across the small of her back. She reached for his hand and he squeezed it gently. "He's just being an arsehole," he assured her. "We don't have to think about children -- not yet. Not until you're ready."

Grin fading at the display, Caleb blinked between them in growing bafflement. From what he could discern, these two had been child-obsessed ever since he'd known them. What on earth could be making Francesca so pale and stiff?

Forcing a smile again, he stepped forward and took Francesca's free hand, giving it a warm clasp between his palms. "Aye, congrats to the lot 'o ya," he agreed, his eyes twinkling with renewed warmth. "If I can finally be honest, you two were about ready to drive me out o' my gourd with all your back-an'-forth."

Ben flashed a sheepish smile. "Yes, well I can promise there'll be no more of that," he said. "Father knows of my intentions, and I've already asked for Grandmother's ring."

Caleb whistled. "That's got a nice rock on it, yeah?"

"Nice enough," Ben murmured, idly brushing his thumb over Francesca's knuckles. "Though if her eldest brother chooses to murder me, I suppose it won't much matter." He chuckled under his breath. "As far as I can tell, that'll be our only remaining hurdle."

"Aye, unless Frannie here suddenly decides I'm the more dashing option," Caleb teased. Waving a hand, he assured them, "But don't you worry 'bout me. Within the past twenty-four hours, I've been in high demand with the lasses."

"A high demand to sod off, I'll bet," Ben quipped. To Francesca, he shyly added, "I scarcely know where to start... I've spent so much time dreaming of this moment, that I must confess I never thought of what would come after. What is it I must do?"

Although Francesca knew in her heart that his words were true, the sheer relief that she felt upon hearing them said aloud was palpable, nodding in firm agreement with each sentiment that crossed his lips. She had hidden from her affections for too long, had run away from such closeness as though it burned her, and now it would finally end.

For a brief moment, Francesca considered the idea of Ben sending Anthony a letter, of asking her brother for her hand – He would say yes, of course. There was no way that he would damn his sister to such ruin and she knew that even if they were not to marry, the eldest Bridgerton would try to enforce it nonetheless. But… what if that was not the outcome? What if he told them that they could not marry, that she was to return home at once?

"I can make my own decisions,” she replied firmly, clasping at his hand with the same fearful determination of two lovers who would not be parted. “Anthony will approve. He will not be happy about it, but he will come around once he sees how happy I am – He assuredly cannot be much more angry at you than he was at Simon.” Simon Basset had endured the brunt of the Viscount’s ire when he courted Daphne – Yet the two were the best of friends again now, as close as true brothers.

With each movement bringing them closer, her eyes fluttered closed as his lips brushed softly against her own, her heart thudding in almost painful staccato. They had kissed before and yet this felt different – Their first kiss had been one born of impulse, the second of passion. This was sweeter, slower, years worth of unspoken love poured between them as Francesca pulled him closer, one hand cradling his cheek as the other clutched at his shirt. She could have stayed there forever, a smile curving onto her lips in the midst of their ardour, until a familiar voice broke them apart.

A laugh bubbled inside her as they reluctantly separated, cheeks flushing as Caleb drew closer towards them, a glint in his eyes that Francesca understood to mean that there would be no escape from his jibes. At his question, she raised a brow teasingly, fingers entwining with Ben’s almost on impulse. “Are you proposing to me, Caleb? Because as devastatingly handsome and charming as you are, I fear that you have been beaten to the punch.”

She remembered a time - was it during her first introduction with Ben? - that a jest had been made about her falling in love with Caleb: A privateer with a thousand stories, how could she resist? And yet the tides had turned in a different direction altogether.

It was the mention of babies that stopped Francesca’s errant thoughts in their tracks, her blood running cold for a moment as a nausea rose within her. They both wanted children so desperately and yet… what if she was unable to provide him with the family that he dreamed of? It had taken her two years to conceive with John, and even then the pregnancy had not taken – Of course, the physicians had blamed the stress but Francesca feared that it was not the whole truth. What if she was the problem?

Her giddy smile had faded, replaced with a faraway wistfulness, a fear rooted deeply in her gaze as she clasped Ben’s hand tightly. He knew of her pregnancy, didn’t he? He… He knew of the risks that came with being with her?

“Caleb.” The word burst from Francesca’s lips in a sudden attempt to distract herself from the thoughts that would assuredly ruin one of the happiest moments of her life. “Am I not even to receive a congratulations?��

[selfdoubt-moonbeams]

Stuck

I am not sure why, but today I felt no motivation to work on the shadow work journal.

Perhaps I needed a small break to gather myself. To reflect on what I had worked on so far. I had decided to re-read some of the beginning of the book. I was at the part of "Mindset - self compassion"

I was listening to some relaxing celtic music in the background, it is similar to music I listen to when I meditate. I suddenly had this vision, of myself trying not to drown in a small black hole. It made me think of the oil Hexxus, from the ferngully movie. or from the never ending story. Where Artax dies in the swamp of sadness?

I am surrounded by family members watching, and looking in distress at me drowning. Though none of them are doing anything. Until this other version of me, repulsed that I am going to get dirty. Though knowing it has to be done, reaches in and helps hold my head above the black oily liquid.

I am to the realization, I have been waiting for others to help me. To show they care, when I need to help myself. No one is going to do it for me. I had been told (brainwashed might be a better word) all my life. That family will protect me, that they will always help me. On a certain conscious level, I was aware of this. Though perhaps, not all of my "selves" were aware.

Even in this vision, I wasn't able to pull my other self out of this oil filled hole. But for now, I wasn't struggling as much to breathe or hold my head above the liquid.

I wish I was able to take a picture of this vision to bring it out into the real world. I am not sure how I would or could re-create it. If anything as just a small reminder for me to look at. I feel like I overcame some minor hurdle mentally. Not sure how to fully explain it.

[xtruss]

Barbara Walters announces her retirement in 2014. (Lou Rocco/Getty Images)

Barbara Walters Dies at 93; News Anchor Broke the Boy’s Club of Network Television

— By Matea Gold | December 30, 2022 | Los Angeles Times

Barbara Walters, the first woman to break up the all-male club of network television anchors and one of the last remaining megastars in broadcast news who deftly coaxed world leaders and celebrities alike into revealing their secrets and deepest fears, has died.

“Barbara Walters passed away peacefully in her home surrounded by loved ones, She lived her life with no regrets. She was a trailblazer not only for female journalists but for all women,” Cindi Berger, Walters’ publicist, said in a statement to The Times.

Seemingly indefatigable though her long career, Walters died at 93.

(ABC Photo Archives/Disney General Entertainment Con)

Walt Disney Co. Chief Executive Bob Iger, Walters’ former boss, announced on Twitter that Walters died Friday evening at her home in New York.

“Barbara was a true legend, a pioneer not just for women in journalism but for journalism itself. She was a one-of-a-kind reporter who landed many of the most important interviews of our time, from heads of state and leaders of regimes to the biggest celebrities and sports icons,” Iger wrote. “I had the pleasure of calling Barbara a colleague for more than three decades, but more importantly, I was able to call her a dear friend.

“She will be missed by all of us at the Walt Disney Co., and we send our deepest condolences to her daughter, Jacqueline.”

Walters had undergone heart surgery in 2010.

A canny interviewer who prodded ranks of public figures into tearful confessions, Walters was an aggressive practitioner of “the get” who outmaneuvered competitors to land exclusives with figures as varied as Cuban leader Fidel Castro, actress Katharine Hepburn and White House intern Monica Lewinsky.

Walters with Fidel Castro in 1975. (Uncredited/Associated Press)

She made history when she was named the first female co-host of NBC’s “Today” show in 1974 and again two years later when ABC tapped her as the first female co-anchor of the network evening news. Walters faced open hostility from her male counterparts in both places, but never let it rattle her publicly, despite being shadowed by deep insecurities that she said lifted only late in her career.

“I was completely unwelcome,” she told The Times in 2008. “They didn’t want a woman, and they didn’t want me.”

Veteran network producer Av Westin, who worked with her at CBS and ABC, said Walters overcame what was a huge hurdle at the time: “To be able to plow through the resistance of a woman being accepted as more than a bit of pretty fluff — she really was the first who did that.”

Walters with Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin. (ABC Photo Archives/Disney General Entertainment Con)

Walters’ ill-matched pairing with evening anchor Harry Reasoner at ABC lasted only two years, and she went on to become a power player at the network as co-host of the prime-time news magazine “20/20,” a post she held for a quarter-century. Her creation of “The View,” the daytime talk show she co-hosted until 2014, gave her another prominent perch.

But Walters was perhaps most familiar to viewers with her “Barbara Walters Specials,” in which she quizzed entertainers such as Elizabeth Taylor, George Clooney and Michael Jackson about their personal lives, drawing them out with a mix of chumminess and relentlessness. Times television critic Mary McNamara said Walters was part confessor, part therapist and succeeded brilliantly at making “emotion newsworthy.”

Her ability to reinvent herself with the times made her a singular figure in the media: an octogenarian deeply immersed in current celebrity culture.

She moved in the same bold-faced social set as the movie stars and political leaders she interviewed, leading some critics to suggest that she pulled her punches in interviews to avoid offending friends. Walters insisted that her personal relationships never got in the way of her job, but was unapologetic about the amiable tone she had with interview subjects in her prime-time specials.

Walters with Monica Lewinsky. (Virginia Sherwood/Disney General Entertainment Con)

“I don’t want them to go away discouraged,” she told the New York Times in 1992.

While proud of the popularity of shows such as “10 Most Fascinating People,” Walters worried at times that the public had forgotten the hard-hitting interviews she did with dozens of world leaders, including Saddam Hussein and Moammar Kadafi. When asked what she hoped to be remembered for, Walters responded: “As a good journalist,” adding: “Not as someone who made people cry.”

Gifted with an innate appreciation of the power of the public confessional, Walters published her own juicy autobiography at age 78 in which she detailed her guilt-ridden relationship with her mentally disabled older sister, the attempted suicide of her father and an affair she had with a married U.S. senator in the 1970s.

“I wanted people to know that … I, who seemed to have this perfect life and this great career and the daughter and the men and so forth, have not had a perfect life by any means,” she told The Los Angeles Times.

Barbara Jill Walters was born in Boston on Sept. 25, 1929, the youngest daughter of Lou Walters, a vaudeville booker-turned-nightclub impresario who created the famed Latin Quarter club in Times Square, and Dena Seletsky, a clerk in a men’s neckwear store. Her older sister Jacqueline had a mild mental disability, which was a source of embarrassment and then guilt for Walters throughout her life.

Walters with Arnold Schwarzenegger. (Virginia Sherwood/Disney General Entertainment Con)

For a time, the family enjoyed a posh lifestyle. Walters spent part of her childhood in a vast penthouse in Manhattan and a pistachio green mansion in Miami, where her father opened a Florida version of the Latin Club. Joseph P. Kennedy Sr., among other power brokers, was a frequent guest. Walters grew accustomed to encountering celebrities backstage.

“I met so many stars: Frank Sinatra, Milton Berle, Sophie Tucker,” she recalled in an interview. “It was very glamorous on the surface, but I knew they had problems and difficulties. So I’ve never been in awe of celebrities. That comes from my childhood.”

Still, Walters said she was a “somewhat lonely child,” in part because her parents kept her and her sister isolated so as not to expose Jacqueline to ridicule. The family was also constantly in a precarious financial state because of Lou Walters’ gambling debts, a situation that riddled his youngest daughter with insecurity for much of her life.

“No matter how high my profile became, how many awards I received, or how much money I made, my fear was that it all could be taken away from me,” she wrote in “Audition,” her 2008 autobiography.

After studying theater at Sarah Lawrence College, Walters worked as a secretary at a New York advertising agency, then got her first television job as a publicist for the local NBC affiliate in New York. Several years later, she was hired as a writer for CBS’ morning show, which was then co-anchored by a young Walter Cronkite and Dick Van Dyke. She made her on-camera debut on that program, replacing a model who failed to show up for a bathing suit segment.

Walters with Patrick Swayze. (Ron Tom/Disney General Entertainment Con)

When Walters was 29, her father’s newest club went bankrupt and he tried to kill himself with sleeping pills. Her first marriage, to hat manufacturer Bob Katz, had recently ended in divorce after three years, and she was left as the sole supporter of her family.

After a stint at a public relations firm, she landed a job as a writer on “Today” in 1961. She occasionally got to do on-air pieces, even covering First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy’s trip to India and Pakistan in 1962.

Walters was made an official reporter in October 1964, taking over for actress Maureen O’Sullivan in the role that had been known as the “Today Girl.” Now that she was in the spotlight, Walters worked with a voice specialist to overcome her difficulty pronouncing Rs, a quirk she said was the remnant of a Boston accent. But after viewers complained she sounded stilted, she gave up trying. (Her distinctive speaking style would later inspire comedian Gilda Radner’s “Baba Wawa” impersonation on “Saturday Night Live.”)

Walters sought to tackle meaty news stories, despite the resentment she encountered from male colleagues. When “Today” host Frank McGee demanded that Walters be limited to “girlie” interviews, she protested. The network president came up with a compromise: McGee could ask the first three questions of newsmakers visiting the studio; Walters, the fourth.

Quietly fuming, Walters sought interviews outside the studio, where McGee had no say, pursuing subjects with handwritten letters. She got an exclusive with President Nixon’s chief of staff, H.R. Haldeman; interviewed the elusive Israeli defense minister Moshe Dayan; and covered Nixon’s historic trip to China as one of only three female reporters in the traveling press corps.

Walters with Hillary Clinton in 2012. (Martin H. Simon/Disney General Entertainment Con)

Despite the attention she brought the network with her reporting, NBC refused to name Walters co-host of “Today” until McGee died of bone cancer in 1974. The appointment of the first female network anchor made the cover of Newsweek.

ABC lured Walters away two years later, promising her a then-staggering $5 million over five years — worth $30.2 million in 2022 dollars — to co-anchor the evening news and do prime-time specials. The press was skeptical of her worth, dubbing her the “million-dollar baby.” She encountered an even icier reception from Reasoner, her co-anchor.

The tension between the two was so palpable on the air that actor John Wayne sent Walters a telegram reading, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

“It was very hard,” she recalled in 2008. “I would wipe my eyes before I went out there and put the smile on. But after a while, people realized. It was so uncomfortable watching us that I was beginning to get the sympathy vote, which I didn’t really want.”

Walters with Mike Tyson and Robin Givens. (Robert Maas/Disney General Entertainment Con)

News division President Roone Arledge finally ended the pairing after two years, and Walters survived by fashioning a new role for herself: that of the globe-trotting interviewer. She interviewed Fidel Castro in a patrol boat on the Bay of Pigs and scored a world scoop by landing the first joint interview with Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin and Egyptian President Anwar Sadat, infuriating competitors such as Cronkite.

“I’m very grateful that I have that period in my life,” she said. “I think the whole body of my work is enough so that people, I hope, realize that I don’t just do celebrities.”

At times, her career was filled with escapades out of a James Bond movie: A Panamanian dictator tried to romance her. She secretly passed on a message to President Reagan from an Iranian arms dealer involved in the Iran-Contra deal, an act that drew a public reprimand from ABC for violating news division standards.

In 1980, she was named co-host of “20/20,” the prime-time news magazine ABC had created to challenge “60 Minutes.” Walters used the show as a platform to expand her run of exclusive interviews, fiercely competing for scoops, sometimes even with ABC colleagues.

Walters with Katharine Hepburn in 1987. (ABC Photo Archives/Disney General Entertainment Con)

Westin, who served as her executive producer on that show for close to a decade, said the secret to Walters’ success was her over-preparation.

“She really had a lack of self-confidence, believe it or not,” he said. “If she was going to do an interview with a major figure, she would do more research than anyone. She would call around to all her contacts, asking, ‘What questions should I ask?’ She was always concerned her colleagues and critics would find her wanting, and she didn’t want to let that happen.”

Walters brought a lighter tone to her prime-time specials, perching on an elephant with James Stewart, riding behind Sylvester Stallone on a motorcycle and getting a lap dance from Hugh Jackman.

She was unapologetic about using every tool she had to score a big interview. She noted in her 2008 autobiography “Audition” that for all the discrimination she faced in journalism as a woman, it also had its advantages.

“A sought-after male subject chooses you to do the interview in the hope that somewhere along the line, the romantic side — or at least the flirtatious side — will surpass the professional,” she wrote.

In her later years, Walters remade herself as a successful producer of “The View.” The unpredictable back-and-forth of the hosts, particularly during Rosie O’Donnell’s tumultuous tenure on the show, made it water-cooler fodder. It also became a regular stomping ground for political figures seeking to reach female viewers.

Walters officially retired in 2014, but then quickly announced she was “coming out of retirement” to do a special “20/20” interview with the father of Elliot Rodger, the UC Santa Barbara student who killed six people and wounded 14. She continued to do occasional specials. Her last on-air interview was with then presidential candidate Donald Trump in 2015. She was rarely seen in public in recent years.

Walters is survived by her daughter Jacqueline, whom she adopted with her second husband, theatrical producer Lee Guber. They divorced in 1976. Walters’ third marriage, to television producer Merv Adelson, also ended in divorce.

Over the years, she was romantically involved with numerous powerful men, including future Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan and U.S. Sen. John Warner of Virginia. In her autobiography, Walters revealed that she carried on a two-year affair in the 1970s with Edward R. Brooke, a married U.S. senator and first Black person elected to that body since Reconstruction.

If she had any regret in her life, Walters told The Times, it was that she never kept a diary.

“I still think, ’Oh, the things I’ve heard and forgotten!’ ” she said.

— Matea Gold is a former Times staff writer. Times staff writer Steve Marble contributed to this report.

[remmushound]

Could you write a crossover oneshot, about the 2018 crew (April included) showing off their crazy OP skillz? (Mikey yeeting boats around, Donnie's tech, Leo's portals, etc.)

@assanmaharielsreblogs @itscryptifssil

Rise April = April

2012 April = O’Neil

“Hey guys!”

Leo hated being so exposed, just standing in the open for all to see. Leonardo had reassured him that it was chill here, that they’d never been spotted and weird stuff happened so often that no one would question it if they were. Still, standing there on the docks, open as he was, Leo couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder every few minutes to check for any signs of life disturbing the darkness.

“Watch this!”

Michelangelo resembled the Mikey that Leo knew in so many ways, and it seemed they even shared the same mad skills that all Mikey’s seemed to have in common. The turtle had been loud in his cry, drawing the attention of all below as he leapt from the rooftops and swung out hiskusari-fundo. Like the most beautiful fire work show, the blade and chain ignited in a feiry blaze that caught all of the other box turtles below by surprise, though Michelangelo’s brothers hardly acknowledged the act past a short applause or curious, watching eye.

“Holy—“ Leo sputtered.

“It’s so beautiful!” Mikey’s eyes Reflected the flames like something out of a movie, observing their beauty and hardly breathing.

“HOLY CHALUPAS!” Ejected Donnie, “How did he...?”

“Thats... concerning.” Raph said softly, trying to hide his astonishment behind a chilled facade.

The kusari-fundo shot out over the water, the chain stretching far longer than Leo could remember it actually being. Like an ever growing snake, flying and flying over the orange-reflectinh bay until the blade and a good deal of the chain latched impossibly around the hull of a boat down in the water. Before Michelangelo could come crashing down onto the hard docks, the chain tightened and pulled him into the water at incredible speeds, like a water skier without skis.

“COWABUNGA!”

When he was just about to hit the bough of the ship, the chain gave a sudden, upward jerk and pulled him onto the safety of the deck just in the nick of time. The fire went out, and for a heart wrenching moment none of the turtles could even see the youngest among them, until the teen’s silhouette appeared over the railing and waved to them.

“Uh... how did he—“ Leo began before his taller counterpart cut him off.

“Relax; I’ll go get him.”

Before Leo could even begin to ask how Leonardo would achieve such a feat, Leonardo had drawn his katana and traced a large, arching shape in the air. It was like the blade was slicing through the very fabric of reality, leaving a baby blue glow wherever the tip of the metal touched. When the sword reunited with where it had started, the entire middle erupted into that same mystic glow.

“Woaaaah.” Was all the box turtles could say— even Donnie finding himself speechless at the pure display of power.

Leonardo tucked his katana back in its sheath as he stretched and stepped into the portal, backward so he could click his tongue and give finger guns as he disappeared through the rippling blue. Across the bay came that same ghostly blue glow aboard the ship, and they could see Leonardo step out and wrap his arm around Michelangelo before waving back to the turtles on land.

“Did you build that?” Donnie gasped out, addressing Donatello.

Donatello scoffed. “That? That’s nothing. Raph, show em.” He waved and gave the show off to Raphael, who seemed confused for a second before catching on with a belching bellow.

“Alright, guys!” Raphael slammed his fists together and gave an excited jig, swaying his body back and forth as a determined grin found itself on his face. Eyes narrowed, teeth pulled into a smirk, body moving with untapped potential. “I call this boss mode!”

“Boss mode?” Raph said slowly, trying to hide his growing anticipation and fear. “Looks like a dance to me.”

“Just gotta get warmed up!” He sucked in and huffed out deep breaths, grabbing his Tonfa as he shook out his wrists and started to dig his feet deeper into the ground with each increasingly-violent stomp. His tail lashed. Red sparks started to twist their way around his weapons and wrists, slowly spreading up until the electric aura surrounded him completely. The sparks turned into a fire once the all of him was in their power. His eyes flushed white. The red aura around him grew— and grew, and grew until he was almost as tall as the buildings surrounding him. Despite the awe-inspiring scene, the smaller Raphael within the heart of the beast seemed to be straining under the expended power. The bigger he was, the harder Boss Raph was to control. His teeth were clenched, muscles and veins bulging as life flooded back into tear-filled eyes.

“CONTROLLING JU POWER JITSU... LIKE A BOSS!”

Once the final three words escaped his mouth, he seemed in full control of the situation. When his leg moved, Boss moved in sync. Raphael forced his larger form to wade into the water, his red glow disappearing under the surface as he walked effortlessly over to his brothers on the ship. He held out a hand to them, and both seemed more than happy to hop onboard. Raphael spun around, the movement of his superior self slow and lumbering like most large creatures.

He held the two safely to his chest and carried them to shore, carefully letting them down beside Donatello. Raphael made sure his brothers were on sound footing before finally letting his form pixelate away into nothing and lower him to the ground in a gentle grasp. Leonardo and Donatello were there to support their older brother as he collapsed into them, his legs feeling little more than flexible foam under his great weight. Just from the maybe-minute long quest, Raphael was soaked in sweat and his plastron heaved with begging, thankful gasps of cool air.

“Sorry.” Raphael gasped to the other team, laughing and forcing his heavy arm up to wave. “Kinda tiring, yknow.”

“INCREDIBLE!” Donnie gasped, hurrying over to investigate Raphael though all traces of mystic power was gone from his body. “How often can you do that?!”

“Uh. Never done it more than once in a day.” Raphael rubbed the back of his neck, “it’s pretty draining.”

“I bet!” Donnie squealed, “maybe it’s like that because your metabolism speeds up dramatically— or, or your body adjusts for how long it SHOULD have taken you to do that normally, or—“

“It’s his chakra.” Donatello answered simply.

“Chakra?” Donnie deflated as he asked.

“Seven power points through the body, centers of magic? Ring a bell?”

Leo hummed. “Master Splinter taught me a technique called Reiki thats supposed to heal chakras...”

“So like, what’s your super magic power thing?” Mikey was practically pressing his nose to Donatello’s as he spoke

Donatello’s nose scrunched up at the invasion of personal space, but he quickly brushed it off when Leo grabbed his brother and pulled him away.

“I, little man, have the greatest ‘magic’ of all! SCIENCE!”

“Here we go,” Raph rolled his eyes.

“BEHOLD!” Donatello pulled his bō staff free of its holster and held it to the sky in a pose not unlike the Statue of Liberty. “MY TITANIUM REINFORCED TECH BO!”

Raph gave a slow clap. “Wow. Wonderful. So cool.”

Leo shoved Raph pointedly. “Thats... wonderful, Donnie.”

“Oh. OH HO HO!” Donatello laughed, motioning to his precious staff, “you think this is everything? Au contraire, my fellow shelled companions! This is the top of the line, most up to date technology in my arsenal. Complete with a glider...”

Two wings shot out from either end of the staff, much to the surprise of the turtles gathered.

“Chainsaw! Laser gun! Tranquilizer! Buzz saw! Dual sided rocket propellers! And of course a selfie stick!”

As Donatello listed off his tech-bo’s enhancement, the once simple-looking staff shifted between each feature, ending with a selfie stick that extended far beyond the reach of a normal one and took a snap after the few seconds it took Donatello to pose with two fingers extended and his tongue sticking out.

Leo blinked to try and bring himself out of the blindness induced by the sudden flash. Donnie recovered from it quickly, though his eyes were just as bright the light of the camera had been. He ran over to Donatello practically fit to burst as the softshell gave a smug smirk.

“THAT WAS SO COOL! HOW’D YOU EVER GET THE MONEY TO MAKE ALL OF THAT?!”

Donatello booped his older counterparts snout. “By no legal means.”

April decided to insert herself into the conversation before it could get much farther. “Wanna see what my power can do?”

Eight sets of eyes turned on her.

“You have a power too?” Mikey beaned.

April laughed and gave the mutant a pet on the head. “Sure do! Watch this!”

She lifted her baseball bat from her back, tapping it a few times on the ground as a green glow Overcame the wood. Donatello reached into his shell armor and produced a baseball, tossing it high into the air and out of sight.

“APRILLLLLLLL~”

She dug her feet into the earth as her eyes ignited in the same lime as her bat. She swung the bat a few times, super sight locking onto the small ball as it came hurdling downward.

“O’NEIL!”

With impossibly perfect timing, she spun around once more and brought her bat slamming down on the falling target, sending the ball flying once more in a blaze of neon green glory over the city’s horizon.

“HOME RUN!!”

[spikemuthtoothfairy]

1, 2, & 3 for the development questions !!

1) If your character went on a Trainer journey, how did your character feel spending time away from home to train? James actually never took the Galar circuit when he was young - and still hasn't now, in his twenties. He did, however, go camping in the Wild Area and Glimwood Tangle a lot at that age which was initially pretty daunting for him! His first few times where intimidating and once or twice he packed up and came home asap, but as he got more confident in himself and his Pokemon he started to stay out for more days, until he'd camp comfortably for a week or more!

Travelling, though, was a whole different ballgame for him. He loves his home of Galar and especially Spikemuth, so leaving home for an extended period as he started doing in his early 20's to visit other Regions made him homesick at first, even though he had his Pokemon with him. The more he did it (especially when he started doing Gym circuits!) the more comfortable it got, like the camping, and now while he still misses home and is excited to return he also enjoys experiencing whatever Region he's visiting.

2) How would/did your character respond to losing a major battle, such as to a Gym Leader, a Champion or a Rival?

James actually takes losses fairly well - mostly because he is just generally a very positive person and every loss is a chance to learn, as well as understanding that his choice in Type means it can be difficult to work around the inherent weakness in that type.

He's certainly lost more than a few times overall on his Gym circuits and in friendly bouts in ways he'd consider 'major', even if he later overcame them, such as to Strelitzia (@darkestaken) in Atoma, or to Leon (@invictarre) during their friendly bout in Heonn in 2020. The latter especially stung him because he got pretty damn close to taking the win, only to lose out when Altair took on Char and lost at the final hurdle. It wasn't a massive drain on him or anything though and he's excited to try and eventually win against him!

3) What kind of rival would your character make to someone else?

I like to think he'd make a good one! He wouldn't be cruel or vicious; at most he'd banter and spur the other person on in a friendly way, but he'd absolutely push his rival to continue to forge a bond with their team and get stronger!

He doesn't actually have a rival, though. Maybe that could change in the future.

[clevercxs]

Believer - Sigefrid Thurgilson [Ch 3]

[MORE CHAPTERS]

Pairing: Sigefrid Thurgilson x female oc

Word count: 7.5k ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

If you read Sigefrid’s lines in his voice… *chef’s kiss*

_______________________________________________

By nightfall a blissful silence had bestowed itself upon the mead hall. After a night of revelation, the Danes were lulled off to sleep by the sound of rain drumming against the roofs of their homes. They dreamt of what fortunes awaited them come the day King Alfred and his men set foot in Beamfleot — a momentous occasion though dreaded by a certain Dane and his princess. 

The sounds of their drunken snores were loud enough to wake the dead, had they not relished in horns of ale alongside the living, that is.

While vivid dreams of glory and great victories transpired beyond their wildest imaginations, Lady Blædswith was left wide awake to face the harshness of her reality. 

If she had been born and raised as a Dane, worshiping Odin instead of God, such a celebration would have been a great honor. However, the princess’s ailments reminded her that she was no guest of honor, but rather a bargaining tool at Lord Erik and Sigefrid’s disposal. 

Her ribs ached and groaned with each breath she drew; unsure if it would be her last. Her lungs, frail and winded, wheezed as if she’d inhaled plumes of smoke from the blacksmith’s forge. Her stomach growled like a ravenous hound starved from unsuccessful hunts despite the rations she was provided.

Her dirtied cheeks, stained with blood, sweat, and tears, were caressed by the emitted light of dancing flames, illuminating her pale skin with a golden hue of the gods. The tattered remains of her clothes hung off her limbs like those of a decaying corpse left to rot. She finger combed through the tangled knots and frayed ends of her hair, gagging in repulsion at the dirt and grime beneath her nails, and embedded in each crevice of her feeble hands.

King Alfred’s daughter looked, and felt, no better than a befouled slave girl.

Ghastly shadows were cast throughout the hall, dancing across the ceiling and hurdling over tables, chairs, and thrones alike. The shadows formed obscure shapes which taunted her weary mind, though not without providing her with a sense of calm; a distraction, even.

As her eyes adjusted, the fire became rather mesmerizing to watch; vibrant hues of yellows and oranges were a stark contrast from the cold, lifeless world around her. 

For a brief moment she lost herself entirely. She was no longer a hostage, nor in any sort of discomfort. Her worries, her guilt and sorrowful prayers that went unanswered were no more. The rampant thoughts that coursed through her mind seemed to stop entirely. 

The longer she gazed into the flames, the more her mind played devilish tricks on her... 

Within the fire pit emerged a vague image of herself: fearless; unafraid and carefree. She wielded a blazing shield and longsword of fire, fighting alongside the Danes instead of against them. In the end they were victorious, as the sounds of bone-chilling battle cries echoed throughout Midgard; throughout her mind. Sigefrid jogged up to Lady Blædswith, wrapping not one but two hands around her waist, and spun her around before tightly embracing her warmth. The two of them pressed their foreheads together; thanking the gods, rather than her God, for sparing each others’ lives and guiding them to victory against King Alfred of Wessex…

“Agh! You are not real.” She growled in a panic, squeezing her eyes shut and tugging at the roots of her hair as tears dripped down her face. “That, that will never be real.” She gulped dryly, “Not for me.” The princess ran a clammy hand over her face and wiped away her resentful tears as new ones began to fall. 

She wanted nothing more than to subside the affliction in her chest; within her aching heart that suddenly yearned for the impossible.

A throbbing pain surged through her shoulder once more, and reminded her of what she must do; the main reason she had sought to free herself from the cage that once confined her. A seething gasp escaped through her gritted teeth as she unwrapped her fur pelt and set it aside. 

The princess found herself sitting on the long, rickety bench once occupied by the Thurgilson brothers. Her fingertips mindlessly traced over carved intricacies in the woodwork, stalling, until she felt the coolness of metal beneath her palm. 

Taking the leather-bound handle in her firm grasp, she dipped the knife into the fire, watching as its blade glowed with an orange hue. Leaving it be, she ever so carefully tore away the rest of her blood stained blouse and fed it to the flames, pinching her nose at the foul smell of burning blood and sweat. With chills ripping through her exposed chest, she wrapped her arms around her core to preserve any remaining heat. 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move beside the cage. Craning her stiff neck around, she surveyed the limp body of the Dane tasked with keeping a close watch over her as she slept. However, his own curiosities led him to an early demise, as he had ventured too close to the cage...

She was startled by the twitching of his leg; the toe of his leather boot seemed to repeatedly nudge one of the cage’s wooden panels. 

Furrowing her bushy, unkempt brows, she steadily rose to her feet and tiptoed towards the guard to investigate while the knife heated up. When a couple of mice scurried out of his pant leg, Lady Blædswith nearly squealed like a pig, shooing them away before she could impale them, too, with the knife. 

The mice found themselves inside her cage, willingly, as they sniffed around for leftover crumbs of bread. 

Pressing a firm hand against her thumping chest, the princess sighed in relief that her foolishness hadn’t woken anyone up - and that the guard was, in fact, dead. 

Kneeling beside the Northman she had slain, she retrieved a smaller blade from his pocket and began sawing off a piece of his leather armor. After all, what good was such armor to a dead man now enjoying the company of his gods, drinking ale within the Great Hall as beautiful valkyries fly overhead?

Surely, it would not be missed. 

She then crawled over his lifeless, pale body and carved a sloppy ‘B’ into the side of his bearded cheek, before using the bars of the cage to get back on her feet.

Within her eyes was a hatred that burned brighter than the fiery depths of Hel. Lady Blædswith spat on his corpse and seethed,

“Te sunt a vili, preverted partem de stercore. Pedicabo ego vos!”

(“You are a vile, perverted piece of shit. Fuck you!”)

Making her way back to the fire, the bare-chested Saxon took a seat and braced herself for what would be the greatest test of courage and inner strength. Now biting down on the piece of leather, she retrieved the blade from the fire and took a deep breath.

Do it, God Damnit! Just do it!

Her stomach was in a queasy knot; her vision faded in and out of a blur the longer she waited.

Slowly, trembling, she raised the glowing knife to her gaping arrow wound and pressed it into her skin. The ungodly sound and putrid smell of her sizzling flesh caused her to dry heave. Her wailing sobs of agony were somewhat muffled by the coarse leather between her teeth...

She could taste hot, salty tears upon her lips as every tendon and muscle in her body strained and constricted in agony. Lady Blædswith, breaking out in a hot, sticky sweat, continued to force the blade against her skin until she could no longer handle it. When she had enough, the princess collapsed to the floor, gasping for air as she could feel herself suffocating.

“I-it’s almost over.” Lady Blædswith spat out the leather square and huffed convincingly with a breathy half-chuckle. “God damnit!” She writhed, instantly clutching a hand over her mouth to conceal her whimpers. “J-Just once more on the other side-” Just she began to hoist herself, unsteadily, back onto the bench - she stopped.

Frozen in time like a guilty thief caught in the act, she could hear a pair of quickening footsteps growing louder by the second. Snapping her gaze upright to the wooden balcony overlooking the hall, it was none other than a disturbed Sigefrid Thurgilson awoken from his much needed slumber like a bear out of hibernation.

“Dear God.” 

Her hands briskly shot to cover either of her breasts as she scrambled for her pelt, immediately wrapping herself in it to preserve what remained of her modesty. Seemingly agitated, the eldest Lord of Beamfleot descended down the stairs like a bat out of Hell. 

“S-Sigefrid.” She greeted nervously, not knowing how he would react to her newfound freedom. Her brown eyes were wide with sheer terror - that much he could see. 

What were the odds that he of all people had heard her? Perhaps he was already awake, enjoying the company of a beautiful slave girl who, to some degree, reminded him of King Alfred’s daughter.

Sigefrid’s rather unkempt, bearded jaw had plummeted through the creaky floorboards revealing sharp rows of teeth. His dark and unruly brows were furrowed tightly together and turned upright with worry and utter confusion. 

Except for a light cardigan over his arms and baggy pants hanging dangerously low on his pelvic bones, he too was without a shirt. His hand-blade, to no surprise, was strapped on tight and ready at his side. 

“Lady-” Sigefrid began in a hurry, panning around the room until he spotted his most trusted hound gnawing on the cooked, severed arm of the guard he’d instilled to watch over her. “What… did you do?!” He cried in disbelief, now approaching the cowering Saxon who seemed worse for wear. “I… I heard your cries.” Frowning, Sigefrid took a light seat upon the furthest end of the bench after making sure she was out of harm’s way.

Ever so slightly pulling back the trim of her pelt, Lady Blædswith revealed her newly charred, cauterized shoulder and the haunting imprint left from the blade she used. 

The princess watched as a look of horror overcame the Dane’s face, causing him to avert his gaze out of discomfort.

“My arrow wound became infected. It was slowly killing me so I… took it upon myself to handle it.” Peering over to the dead guard, she cleared her throat and attempted to justify herself, “Y-you should be grateful. After all, what good is a dead princess to a king? I-I had no choice but to save myself.”

The hound began coughing and heaving until it hacked up a whole finger by Sigefrid’s bare foot, only to be shooed away out of sheer disgust. Sigefrid then grumbled with a slight grin, “Damn dog.”

“Well, I had to keep him quiet somehow.” She shrugged, now lifting a hand to warm it by the fire while the other held her fur in place so she wouldn’t reveal herself. “He prefers his meat well done.” The princess teased lightly, only for Sigefrid to sternly furrow his brows and ever so slightly cock his head to the side out of concern. At first he was unable to see the humor behind it, but as moments passed he began to lighten up. 

Eventually, the corners of his lips cracked into a bright, toothy smile. He couldn’t help but chuckle after realizing that she was, in her own way, just as crazy as he was. 

“I…” Sigefrid sighed, shaking his head in defeat as his arms dangled between his knees. “I underestimated you. You are clever, Lady.” 

After finding a sense of comfort within his soothing words, she simply nodded into the fire, “I am resourceful,” whilst mindlessly sliding the knife towards Sigefrid by its handle. “Take it. I no longer have use for Erik’s knife.” She couldn’t help but bite her tongue, knowing her emphasis on his brother’s name would likely cause trouble between them. Perhaps, even jealousy.

“Erik’s? How did you get my brother’s knife, thief?” Sigefrid roared like a mighty brown bear standing tall on his feet, all whilst nearly knocking the bench, and the princess sitting upon it, over out of anger. He found himself, now, towering menacingly over the princess. Sigefrid’s dark, piercing eyes searched her face for any signs of untruthfulness yet deep down inside, he knew better than to not believe her. 

She felt as if her heart had been startled back to life, almost as if struck by a high voltage of electricity. His sudden outburst sent her entire body into a numb, temporary state of shock. Any regained color in her cheeks had been drained out of fear for what he intended to do to her. 

Sigefrid inhaled and exhaled sharply through flared nostrils, scowling down at himself for acting so irrationally towards King Alfred’s daughter.

“How did you get his knife?” He slowly reiterated in a calmer, more civil manner before taking a courteous step backwards to distance himself.

“Well… when an opportunity unfolds before you like a blooming wildflower ripe for picking… you do just that. Pick it.” She narrowed her eyes and smirked wickedly. “And I am not a thief. Unlike you, I have never stolen-”

“Say what you must, Lady.” Sigefrid groaned impatiently, running a calloused hand over his reddened, sleep-deprived eyes. “Go on.”

“Erik gave it to me himself. It was wrapped in the fur pelt,” She flapped her elbows beneath said pelt, which remained draped over her shoulders. “The one he placed inside the cage.” She chuckled lightly, though found herself wincing at her shoulder.

“What I do not understand…” Sigefrid paused, crossing his muscular arms over his toned, exposed chest sprinkled with faded scars. He now found himself sitting closer beside her on the bench, conscious of the remaining space between them. “Why would Erik do that?” 

The princess carefully shrugged. “Your brother knew I would surely make use of it. Whether on him, my guard, or… you.” She slowly cast her gaze towards the Dane through glossy lenses. Shaking her head with a frown, she shamefully looked down at her lap. “But I-I could not have killed you. Even if I wanted to. I have every reason to, but… I can not will it.”

“And if it is not by the will of the Gods,” He quirked an eyebrow, “then it was not meant to be.” She suddenly felt the warmth of his calloused hand caressing the side of her cheek, guiding her to face him once more. She traced small circles atop his rough knuckles and closed her eyes. 

Sigefrid Thurgilson seemed unable to stop himself from rambling like a love struck boy, “I believe the gods intended for us to meet. I wish… under better circumstances.” 

To Sigefrid’s surprise, he could feel her nodding along beneath his hand. “Your gods deserve my thanks, for they have nearly saved me from marrying a stranger. They have prolonged the inevitable; given me a few final days as a… somewhat free woman.” She sighed, gently removing his hand from her cheek though it remained within her grasp. 

Sigefrid watched her every move through sparkling eyes with such awe.

Changing the subject, for better or for worse, the princess confessed, “The knife was likely to pick the lock. You have nothing to worry about, Lord.”

“Yet, you killed a man with it.” He sighed and narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her every last word. “To get the key.”

“I did not need the key. Killing him was not my intention, truly… but he made it very easy.”

“You better start making sense, woman.” He growled as she witnessed his short temper, once more, getting the best of him. The scorching influx of pain from his cauterized hand likely contributed to his hot-headed irritableness.

One thing was for certain: It doesn’t take much to get on Sigefrid’s bad side.

Slamming her hand down on the bench between them, Lady Blædswith leaned forward and growled, “He opened the cage himself, with the bloody key, because he intended to rape me. Is that what you want to hear, Lord? How your brother saved my life, and that a man you so ‘trusted’ to protect me nearly got away with such an act?” She leaned in close to the dark haired Dane, “Ohh,” She chuckled bitterly and bore her fiery gaze into his now softening, brown eyes, “How it must burn knowing he nearly humped me before you could!”

Scowling down at himself, Sigefrid muttered, “He...he was not thinking...”

She scoffed, “There does not seem to be much of that around here, Sigefrid!” Wrapping both arms around her stomach beneath the pelt, she leaned back on her tailbone and took a deep, calming breath. With the shake of her head, her body seemed to melt to the bench beneath his gaze. “I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you-”

“Lady.” Sigefrid suddenly interrupted. “I should have been there. Not him. Me.” He pressed his thumb firmly into his chest. “I am the one who brought you here. You are mine. It will not happen again.” He leaned closer to her and placed a warm hand upon her tender shoulder, mumbling rather darkly through gritted teeth,“I swear it.”

“I believe you.” She replied softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as she shyly looked down upon their hands - which seemed to fit perfectly together like the long lost pieces of a puzzle. “Do not make me regret doing so.”

“You will not regret it, Lady.” Sigefrid nodded to himself and repeated firmly. “You... will… not.” Sigefrid gently gave her shoulder a squeeze, causing the princess to wince in pain. Immediately removing his hand, he sighed and muttered. “Right, right. I apologize...”

“I never thought I would live to see the day when I asked a Dane for help, but...” Lady Blædswith shimmied the pelt down to her waist, turning to show him the open wound on the back side of her shoulder where she couldn’t quite reach. 

Sigefrid, understanding what she had asked of him, furrowed his brows and ran a quick tongue over his thin, pursed lips. Though he was apprehensive of causing her further pain, Sigefrid knew it needed to be done in order to save her most valuable life. 

He had no problem inflicting pain on others, but her? It was almost unimaginable. Almost.

After all, as Lady Blædswith put it: what good is a dead princess?

“I will do it...” The Dane nodded, causing her to frown when he set Erik’s knife aside, and away from the fire. “...and I will be careful. You tended to my hand,” Sigefrid drew out slowly and lifted his hand-blade ever so slightly, “so I shall do the same, for you. I do not wish death upon you, Lady.”

“I do not wish death upon myself, either.” She teased, cracking an unusually wide smile that seemed to hatch butterflies within the Dane’s stomach. Unmistakably, she could feel the warmth of her flushed cheeks beneath his tender gaze. 

The two stared into each other’s eyes as if longing for something greater; something mutually forbidden and seemingly unattainable. It was a brief moment, rarely even shared between wedded lovers. There they sat, enjoying the sound of the crackling fire and the comfort of each others’ presence. They were finally alone, with no Danes to judge them nor intrude on their subtle intimacies.

There was a comfortable silence between Saxon and Dane that just felt… right. And for the first time, the princess was able to admit to herself that she felt safe and out of harm’s way, though couldn’t help but wonder why he had rid of Erik’s knife...

It had pained Sigefrid, seeing the woman he had grown to admire in such discomfort and disarray. He yearned to rid her of her inner demons and the burdens she carried upon her aching shoulders. To see her restored to her fullest potential, fighting alongside him as the shield maiden she was born to be - now that would bring an everlasting smile to his face.

The two couldn’t be more different, yet they both wanted the same thing. They were opposite forces of nature capable of destroying the other, no different than fire and water. 

She watched as Sigefrid rose to his feet, now passing by her hunched over form.

“You said I was ‘yours’. Did you mean that?”

“Yes.” He mumbled bluntly. “I did. I still do.” Sigefrid nodded subtly before instructing her to stand up, and reposition herself so that she was facing the main doors with the fire burning on her right. There she sat, anxiously waiting for his next cue, as she straddled the bench between her jittery legs and began tapping her toes against the wooden floorboards. 

Looking down at her lap as Sigefrid’s shadow was cast upon the wall opposite of the fire, she watched out of the corner of her eye as he paced around the hall rolling up his sleeves and repeatedly, anxiously, stroking his beard.

What if I go too far? What if it kills her?

“And you still intend to give away ‘what is yours’ to my father?” She dared to ask, looking up as Sigefrid neared the bench once more after he’d convinced himself to cauterize her wound, therefore inflicting an excruciating pain onto someone who’d endured so much already.

“I… have no choice, Lady” He pouted, taking a close seat behind her on the bench. Carefully, he dipped his hand-blade into the fire. His left hand gently gathered handfuls of her soft, dark curls that draped down her back, and brought the lengths of her mane to the left side of her neck, out of his way. 

As chills ran down her spine - quite literally - she peered over her shoulder at him and whispered, “That is a lie even you do not believe.” 

Sigefrid exhaled slowly and brought his body closer to hers, slithering his hand past her waist from behind, now gently resting palm up on her thigh. 

Filling the gap between their bodies, between their hips, Lady Blædswith pushed herself backwards until her shoulder blades bumped into his bare chest. She could feel his warm, seductive breath down her neck, though she couldn’t help but feel self conscious around him in her current state of filth.

“How can you stand to be this close to me?” Sheepishly, she took Sigefrid’s calloused hand between her own and gave it a squeeze. “I am a filthy, broken, hideously burnt… sorry excuse for a princess.”

“We are not so different, Lady. My hand was cauterized, not unlike your shoulder. I, too, am ‘hideously burnt.’” He teased lightly, though not without grinning ever down at himself. “Life will go on.” After receiving a sigh and nod of approval from a very grateful princess, Sigefrid lifted his glowing, sweltering hand-blade from the fire. He could feel her hands beginning to tighten around his like a boa constrictor, although he hadn’t yet touched blade to skin. 

“This is the only way.” She hummed. “I trust you.”

And with that, the scorching blade of metal was forever branded into her skin, serving as a permanent reminder of how the Lord of Chaos, Sigefrid Thurgilson, saved her life once more.

Her blood curdling cries echoed throughout the hall undoubtedly waking everyone in earshot. 

After what seemed like an eternity of suffrage, Sigefrid unbuckled his hand-blade contraption and tossed it to the floor, before allowing Lady Blædswith to fall back against his chest - one that was panting heavily and sticky with sweat. Sigefrid wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer to his heart as she waited for the pain to go away, and her rapid heartbeat to steady.

With heavy arms draped over his, she gently began to interlock their fingers. Sigefrid, well aware of her affections, leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to the top of her head. 

Wiping away new fallen tears with the backs of her knuckles, Lady Blædswith spoke softly, “Thank you.” she then sniffled, “You have done more for me than any man ever has.” Slowly reaching forward as goosebumps and the hairs on her arms began to raise, she pulled her pelt to her chest. With Sigefrid’s careful aid, in a matter of minutes, she was back on her wobbly feet.  

“H-how can you look at me like that?” She wept quietly, burrowing her face within the fur.

“Like what?” Sigefrid, teasingly, hummed and tilted his head to the side as she swayed before him. “You are a beautiful woman. Is it wrong, for a man, to stare?” Sigefrid, whilst still supporting her weight, moved closer to face her. “You have not seen what I have. You are a shield maiden like no other. Your grace; your beauty. It is all still there.”

“How can you tell?” She whimpered, shaking her head in disagreement, as flattering as his words were. “Look at me!” She violently grabbed a fistful of tangled hair. “I-I look as if I belong on a slave ship, o-or amongst the livestock!”

“You are wrong.” Sigefrid challenged with a smirk, chuckling in response to the naive Saxon. “You will see, soon enough, what I have seen all along.” Sigefrid guided her back to the bench, where she willingly took a seat. He motioned for her to wait there, patiently, for his return. “Do not move.”

“Where would I go?” She muttered sarcastically.

When Sigefrid returned, accompanied by three heavily armored guards and a frightened slave girl trailing close behind, the princess immediately stood up, defensively, eyeing around for the nearest weapon-like object.

“W-what is this?” She stammered nervously, watching as the menacing Danes, whom Sigefrid had alleviated from their nightly duties, surrounded her on three sides. “Sigefrid?” Frightened, she could feel her voice waver as she realized she was sorely outnumbered. Sigefrid had the power and resources to do whatever cruelties he wanted to her, yet he lacked the will.

“Shh. You talk too much.” He grinned from ear to ear, then focused his attention to the surrounding Danes.

“I want her bathed, fed and watered.” Sigefrid ordered, receiving definitive nods from those he’d chosen. “Nothing is to happen to her. Understood?” He glared from Dane to Dane, narrowing his eyes at the familiar slave girl before addressing the princess’s escorts once more. “Do not disappoint me.” He warned sternly, emphasizing the grave importance of keeping the king’s daughter out of harm’s way, seeing as he failed to do so once already. 

With a tight, supporting hand clutched to either of her elbows, she was practically carried through the main doors, unable to see past the towering Danes to where Sigefrid stood. He chose to remain inside, not wanting to overstep his bounds, and shortly after was accompanied by his sleep-deprived brother, Erik. 

Once the doors closed behind them, and the princess was out of sight, Sigefrid sighed in relief knowing she was to be taken care of. He would rather have her bathing in the lake, now, during this unusually cold night, then under the morning sun where all eyes would undoubtedly be on her bare figure. 

When the time was right, mutually, Sigefrid was to be the first and only Dane to lay eyes on her nakedness. Sigefrid believed her to be a gift sent to him from the gods, one he wasn’t too keen on sharing. Her purpose was not to be ravished and disposed of like a common whore, but loved and cherished; worshipped, even, like the goddess Sigefrid saw her to be.

“You care for her.” Erik grinned softly, placing a hand on Sigefrid’s shoulder as they stood staring aimlessly at the closed doors. 

“I do.” Sigefrid was hesitant, though accepted that he couldn’t lie to himself, much less his own brother. “The gods have played a sick game.” Sigefrid growled, walking away from his brother as the nearest fire tempted him closer. Erik, knowing better than to leave his troubled brother’s side, followed in his footsteps and sat beside him, rubbing his hands together over the dimming flames. 

“What will you do about Alfred?” Erik asked, pressing his elbows into his knees for support as he leaned forward. “You made a great promise.” Erik eyed his brother sympathetically. “Do you intend to keep it?”

Sigefrid sighed, and rested his drowsy face within his palm, “I do not know what to do. I grow more fond of her by the hour.” He admitted gravely, now teasing his bottom lip between his sharp teeth. 

“What do you truly want, brother?”

“You know what I want.” Sigefrid snarled with a distasteful glare, almost offended that Erik didn’t know him better by now. “The leaves have already fallen. I need her ransom paid in full by winter’s end. An army by spring.”

“And a king’s crown by summer.” Erik chimed in, recalling the conversation they last had. “Are you sure of this?”

Sigefrid narrowed his brows and raised his arms slightly. “Sure of what?”

“That you are ready to let her go?” Erik, trying his best to comfort his eldest brother, could see the look of hurt upon his face, therefore in his heart. 

Sigefrid closed his eyes, now fighting a bit harder to stay awake. “I am not ready. I will never be ready... to let her go. I will think of her every night in my sleep. I will see her face in every woman, Dane and Saxon. She is both.” Now staring into the flames, as his beloved princess once had, he tried to imagine the rest of his life without her. 

No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t. 

“I will never be ready.” He grumbled to himself once more, turning to face his kind-eyed brother before standing up, reaching into his pocket, and retrieving Erik’s knife. Holding it out for him to take, Sigefrid spoke in a low, hurt tone, “I do not blame you.” Before retreating upstairs where he would impatiently wait for Lady Blædswith’s return. 

Erik, twirling the stained knife between his fingers, could feel guilt gnawing at his insides. Sigefrid knew he didn’t trust him around King Alfred’s daughter, and that the knife was Erik’s way of looking out for her. Erik realized, now, that he no longer had to do so. 

She was more valuable to Sigefrid than any amount of the king’s riches, regardless of the cold front Sigefrid put up. Judging by the way Sigefrid has already treated her, Erik knew his brother would do everything in his power to ensure her safety. Everything. 

Even if it meant turning against his own people.

____________________ ➴  ____________________

The night air was crisp and unforgiving. The moon, in its fullest bloom, illuminated their way through the darkness. Venturing down a steep, well worn path towards the shore, the princess aimlessly followed the glow of a single torch like a moth drawn to candlelight.

The trio of Danes waited atop a low, grassy hill, allowing the timid slave girl to lead Sigefrid’s pet the rest of the way down. Compliant to their Lord’s orders, the men turned their backs whilst the king’s daughter undressed, though not without sneaking quick glances over their shoulders with wirey, toothless grins.

Once the slave girl had staked the torch into the damp earth near the water’s edge, creating a dimly lit aura of light around them, she apprehensively stepped towards the shivering Saxon. Her hand, as it reached out to take Lady Blædswith’s fur pelt, trembled out of fear of mistreatment from her Lord. She was, very obviously, under tremendous pressure to please him. Her small, childlike hands were even dirtier and more bruised than the princess’s own. 

With her arms folded tightly against her breasts, the princess tiptoed into the cold lake water, feeling it seep into the soles of her feet, then up her calves as she waded on. A light mist sprinkled on the tops of their heads, and a deceitful breeze often toyed with the princess’s remaining warmth.

Her arms were rough with prickly goosebumps as she descended beyond the shadowy waters, clenching her jaw and fists tightly as her teeth began to chatter like rattling bones. She began to adjust, very uncomfortably, to the lake’s frigid temperature. 

There had been no words exchanged between princess and slave — for there was nothing to say. Lady Blædswith’s hot breath, like a dragon’s own, escaped through her chapped lips as did steam rising from her core.

The slave girl, fully clothed yet up to her shoulders alongside her, had dunked a piece of cloth and a metal bucket beneath the water. “I-it is time for me to bathe you, princess. Before we both freeze.” She practically whispered through a thick, Scottish accent that didn’t go unnoticed. 

It had pleasantly reminded Lady Blædswith of a certain Irishman back home. 

Sigefrid’s slave averted her gaze from Alfred’s daughter out of respect; out of fear, even. Lady Blædswith noticed this, and frowned before closing the distance between them. The young, blonde haired girl began to wash the princess’s lovely figure, mindful of her various bruises and fractured bones.

“You need not fear me.” She soothed motherly, feeling chills ripple through her entire body as the breeze began to pick up. “I will not let anything happen to you... as long as I am here. You have my word.” The blonde looked up at the Saxon, eyes sparkling with tears though her lips curled into a tight smile.

“T-thank you, Lady.” She humbly nodded, now tilting the princess’s head back before pouring a bucket of fresh water over her thick, curly locks. With their backs to the entirety of Beamfleot, Lady Blædswith couldn’t help but gaze into the distance, watching ripples along the water’s surface reflect the moon’s vibrant rays. 

The bashful, fair-completed princess

smiled. “You may call me Blædswith. What is your name?” She asked the beautiful slave out of curiosity, and by the surprised look on her face, she was the first person in a long time to ask such a thing. The girl hesitated, almost as if struggling to recall what she had once gone by, rather than the cruel insults she was called on a daily basis.

“My name is Moira, Lady.” She then squeezed her eyes shut and corrected, “Blædswith.” She hummed as she worked her way around the princess’s grotesque, multicolored torso. “I have not been asked that in some time…”

“Tell me, Moira... what is Sigefrid like? You have certainly known him longer than I have.” Blædswith grinned as Moira began to scrub the dirt from her hands and face. Though reluctant, Moira felt the princess deserved to know the truth, seeing as her Lord had taken a particular liking to her in light of recent events.

“Lord Sigefrid is… an ambitious man.” She shook her head grimly. “He gets what he wants, n-no matter the cost.” Moira sighed to herself, almost shamefully. “If I am being honest…”

“Please, do.”

“He does not think with his head. That is what Erik is for.” She tapped a finger to her own scalp. “He thinks with his cock. Well, he did… until he found you. Now I’d say things are different.” Moira rang out the cloth and used it to gently dry the princess’s face. “It is no secret how he feels about you, Lady.”

“He has been rather kind to me. I even sat bare chested before him and he did not touch me. Perhaps he does not wish to.” She shrugged.

Moira couldn’t help but grin. “I can assure you, he would very much like to. Any man with eyes would.” She then rubbed down the princess’s chest, adding, “After all, you are Alfred’s daughter.”

“Sweet Moira.” Blædswith chirped and brushed a loose curl from the slave’s face. “What... if I were to live here? You could tend to me, only, and I would care for you.” She could see herself and Moira living together almost as sisters, if not like mother and child - despite her being a slave. She felt drawn to protect such an innocent soul who, despite being sold into slavery, seemed nothing but kind and gentle. “I would protect you.”

Caught off guard, Moira nearly burst into tears of joy, turning away before Blædswith could notice. “I… I would be grateful to serve you, Lady of Wessex.” She then looked up at Blædswith with a slight frown, “Or, would you be Lady of Beamfleot?”

“I would simply be Blædswith. No titles, if I could help it.” She shrugged, and once her shoulder and the rest of her body had been washed ever so carefully, Blædswith was instructed to stay in the water whilst Moira retrieved her fur. “Do not be long!” She called after Moira light-heartedly, having thoroughly enjoyed her company thus far and did not wish to go without it. 

Aside from the Thurgilson brothers, this poor slave was all she had. 

As Blædswith mindlessly overturned rocks with her toes and sliced through the still lake water with her hands, she’d become one with nature’s tranquility in waiting for Moira’s return. 

“Sorry for the wait, Blædswith.” A distant voice rang out from beyond the darkness, though Moira was not yet visible. “Dagfinn hid your pelt in the bushes hoping to see you na-”

Moira had stopped dead in her tracks, her vibrant blue eyes wide with sheer terror as she dropped the pelt at her feet. A thick, crimson stream oozed down her mouth as she began to gurgle and choke on her own blood. Before Blædswith could react fast enough, or at all, Moira’s eyes rolled back into her head as her knees gave way, causing her body to limply topple over, revealing Hæsten with a bloodied dagger in hand and a devilish glint in his khol-smeared eyes. 

“Princess.” The Dane greeted wickedly with a haughty, half-assed bow.

As he stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, seeming unable to stand completely still due to the excessive horns of ale he’d downed, he let out a low chuckle before walking across Moira’s body like a bridge, wiping his muddied boots against her back. Blædswith could hear the crunching of her frail bones beneath his heavy boots.

“No!” Blædswith wailed, immediately back stroking to distance herself from the drunken Dane who began stumbling towards her. As much as it pained her to do so, her arms began flailing in and out of the water in a panic. “Y-you bastard! She was just a girl!” Blædswith shrieked, unable to stop herself from hyperventilating as she swam further and further away from shore out of fear he would try to drown her, or worse. 

Hæsten could see she was very naked, and very much afraid. “Ah yes. But she was a girl you cared for.” Hæsten then placed the tip of his dagger to his lips as if telling Blædswith to hush; as if saying “there is no point in screaming when nobody will hear you.”

As loud as she physically could, Blædswith began calling out for help; for her designated guards to defend her against such a creature bearing ill intentions. 

They were nowhere to be found.

“You will freeze to death, princess.” Hæsten began walking along the water, now up to his ankles. “You can not stay out there forever.” He began to twirl the dagger between his fingers before wiping the remaining blood on his sleeve. “What a shame.” The blonde Dane looked over his shoulder at the crumpled body he’d slain. “She was a good hump.”

“Sigefrid!” Blædswith cried once more, “Sigefrid! Erik! Please! H-hear me!” The princess realized she’d swam out far enough that her toes no longer touched the bottom - they were not even close - therefore her voice would likely never penetrate Beamfleot’s walls.

“Sigefrid can not hear you. He is busy planning how to sell you back to Alfred.” Hæsten sneared, “And he has decided not to give me any of the silver.” His tone was rather accusatory as if she were to blame. “And do not forget; you humiliated me.” He proceeded to near the princess, the water now up to the soaked knees of his trousers.

“Hæsten. Sigefrid will never forgive you.” She warned breathlessly, feeling the cold waters numb her tender arms and legs. Her bruised, aching lungs felt impossibly heavier as she fought to keep her head above water. “Please,” she gasped, spitting out a mouthful of lake water. “Don’t. If this is about silver, I-I have plenty in Wessex.”

“I do not want your silver, nor Sigefrid’s forgiveness. I want you to suffer for what you did to me. You ruined me, woman!” Hæsten roared drunkenly, nearly falling over on his arse though he regained his composure.

“Anybody! Help!” She wept, forcing her body to stay afloat as long as she could.“Sigefrid…” Completely winded and moments away from slipping into the night, her voice had fallen to a mere whisper at the acceptance of her fate. 

If she were to die tonight, it would not be at Hæsten’s hand. She would not grant him such pleasure; the satisfaction in knowing he’d gotten what he wanted. If anything, it would be the water’s icy depths that would take her to the great beyond — The Great Hall of Valhalla.

She could feel a dark shadow cast from above, as if the moon itself had already shut her out. 

“S-Sigefrid I… I’m not ready…”

There was a large splash in the near distance. An eruption of violent yelling rang out in the night, as did the sounds of metal clashing upon metal. Though muffled, she could make out the loud, rhythmic grunting of someone swimming towards her. A pair of strong arms hoisted her above the water, throwing her good arm over their shoulders as they proceeded to swim her back to shore.

“S-Sigefrid!” Blædswith, once conscious, gasped as she recognized the dark haired Dane who so valiantly came to her rescue. “Sigefrid you heard me…” She slurred out of shock and disbelief. After swimming them to shore, he carried her out of the water and wrapped her entire body in an oversized fur.

“I did.” He nodded windedly, pulling her against his chest for comfort; his and hers. “I heard your cries, and I was there as fast as I could.” Sigefrid leaned his head back and caressed the side of her pale cheek with his hand. His sorrowful, glossy eyes scanned over her face as his voice faded to a boyish whimper. “I thought I lost you.”

Sniffling, she shook her head and burst into tears of joy; of relief, and pressed her pruny hand against his cheek with a weak smile. “I’m here, Sigefrid. I-I’m alive.” Almost instantly, she could feel her body regaining its heat, though that didn’t stop her from shivering in his grasp.

“This,” Sigefrid shook his head and panned around the scene, where four dead bodies now littered the shore. “This is all my fault.” He then gritted his teeth and cursed at himself beneath his breath. “I let you down. I did not protect you, I,” He paused to run his hand over his beard. “I can no longer trust anyone…”

“Sigefrid, please.” She placed a calming hand to his chest, now standing on her toes to look him in the eye. “This is not your fault. But if it must be, then I forgive you.”

“How?” Sigefrid himself began to fight back tears of his own. “How can you forgive me? Tell me. I am not worthy of your-”

Blædswith cupped the back of Sigefrid’s neck and crashed her lips onto his unexpectedly, smiling into it as Sigefrid hungrily kissed back. She could feel the sweetness of passion; a million loving thoughts condensed into a single moment. Sigefrid and Blædswith were undeniably their most vulnerable selves.

It was as if time had collapsed into one tiny speck, then exploded at the speed of light. Her universe began and ended with him. As they embraced once another, the world - Midgard - seemed to halt on its axis. There was no time, wind, nor rain. There was no fear of what their futures entailed; no physical pain nor sorrows. 

Lady Blædswith was, truly, at peace. 

She did not worry about what this would mean for them; A fearsome northman had fallen for the Saxon daughter of his sworn enemy, and a princess had fallen in love with the Dane who kidnapped her. This would not be something either side takes lightly.

Sigefrid supported her lower back with his arm as she leaned against his bare chest. When their lips parted Blædswith whispered breathlessly, 

“You talk too much.” 

Sigefrid leaned down and placed a soft, prickly-bearded kiss to her lips once more as he tangled his hand through her wet hair. 

He then whispered in her ear with a growing smirk, placing a hot kiss to the side of her neck as his thumb moved to cares her throat.

“I thought that was my line.”

_______________________________________________

A/N: I Hope you all enjoyed this longer chapter! If anyone would like to be added to the tag list, let me know :)

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