#jumping over fallen logs and across streams

[unintentional-sad-wizard]

Had a dream about one of my childhood friends who I haven’t spoken to in like eight years and even though our friendship ended pretty badly and there’s like a reason we stopped talking I still miss her a lot

[fandom-lover2]

Dirty Mirror

Chapter Three - Shot of Clarity

Word Count - 1049

-image not mine-

Chapter Two - Holding Tight

Things were hard after that.

You’d been discharged after a month and immediately moved in with Jack and his mother, Smokescreen becoming your new guardian.

It was five months before you were finally back to full health, physically. It was a rare occasion if you didn’t wake up screaming and covered in sweat, curling into yourself as the panic washed over you in waves while his voice played on repeat in your mind and his fingers wrapped around your delicate body.

June often expressed her worry for you, stating you needed to let people help you, but all her attempts were met with you shutting down and hiding in your room.

You only ate when forced and went days at a time without sleep. It wasn’t a surprise that you didn’t want to close your eyes. Every time you did you were forced to relive those moments over and over again, those brief seconds that shattered you in more ways than one.

The hardest thing for you though, was Optimus.

Every time you would silently break down, or wake up from another hellish dream, his name was the one you called. And then, you would remember the face that caused your pain. Those moments were truly when you felt most afraid and alone, when you didn’t have any other comfort to fall back onto.

You wanted your guardian, but just thinking of him made your healing bones break all over again.

That’s all you could think about as Smokescreen made his way across the uneven landscape 10 miles north of Jasper City to get to the forest. Ratchet had picked up an energon signal and Smokescreen was the bot chosen for the retrieval.

June had forced you to do this mission with Smokescreen. Just a simple scouting mission, but she’d claimed that “Getting out the house would be a good idea and get you back into the swing of things.”

You didn’t believe her, but managed to drag yourself out to Smokescreen’s awaiting vehicle.

Once you reached the tree line, the young bot transformed and began making his way into the woods, you trailing behind quietly.

Thankfully the walk wasn’t far as your weak muscles had just begun to ache when he stopped. You were standing in a small clearing, looking up at a cliff. Smokescreen could just reach the top if he stretched his arms above his head.

“Jump on.” he said, kneeling and offering a servo.

You jumped as if he had lunged to attack you.

Smokescreen froze, then laughed nervously as he stood. “What, you afraid of heights now?”

“Something like that.”

In truth, the idea of being held by another bot terrified you. What if he held too tight? What if he didn’t stop?

Smokescreen accepted your answer and scrambled up the slope, telling you to stay put until he came back for you. Finding a somewhat clear space, you sat down and began playing with a stick. It wasn’t long before you heard the faint rumbling of an engine.

A shiver ran down your spine as you stood, looking around frantically. You’d know that engine anywhere, it was a Peterbilt.

Turning around in circles frantically, you saw it. It was coming through the forest from your left, barreling over fallen branches and rocks.

You spun, trying to run, but your bones were still healing and panic blocked your vision. Tripping over a log, you hit the ground with a yelp.

The truck kept coming, getting closer and closer. It was in the clearing by the time you managed to turn sit up and you froze, body shaking.

The truck transformed, an action you’d witnessed a thousand times before. Usually you got a small spark of excitement and wonder. This time however, all you felt was paralyzing fear.

The darker toned bot looked down at you with his malice-filled yellowed eyes.

“Hello Y/n.” That was it, the body and voice that haunted your nightmares.

He reached out a servo toward you.

You whimpered, tears streaming down your face and you tried to scramble back.

Then, there were pedsteps, approaching from behind. These ones were familiar, and filled you with a sense of safety. They were heavier than Smokescreen’s and were gaining in volume and speed.

You turned to see the bot running toward you, his red and blue armor as vibrate as ever while his glowing cyan optics stayed locked on the threat ahead of you.

Soon, he was in the clearing as well, making sure to step over your body with a giant ped and slammed into the fake.

You blanked out during the fight, only really able to register that there was the sound of battle as the two metal titans fought. Eventually the fight came to one standing over the other, canon charged and ready.

The victors back was to you and the dimly lit forest meant you didn’t know which bot was about to be eliminated, but you didn’t have time to question it when the deafening shot sounded out a moment later.

You waited with baited breath as the winner stepped away from the corpse, body still shivering uncontrollably.

“Optimus?” was your shaky whisper.

The bot turned slowly, blue eyes meeting yours.

“Little One?” he called out.

His voice didn’t freeze you in place, his frame didn’t make your past injuries hurt. Before you stood your guardian.

You let out a sob as you scrambled to your feet, running toward him as fast as you could while tears filled and fell from your eyes.

Optimus knelt, servo held out and ready for you.

Jumping onto his metal appendage, he brought you up to his chestplates and cradled you there.

“I’m so sorry.” you gasped out, repeating the same phrase no matter how many times the Prime reassured you that it wasn’t your fault.

Finally, you were safe. It felt like all your bones fused together at once, your scars fading, the weight on your chest dissipating. You could breathe again.  

You both stayed like that for a long time, just relishing and remembering what it felt like to be in one another’s presence. For the first time in six months Optimus had you back in his servos, a place you both knew meant safety for you. And in that moment he vowed to himself that he would stop at nothing to ensure no one ever destroyed your comfort space again.

Tags: @ameryhn

[moonlightlilygarden]

Legacy

“You have ten minutes!” their mother's frantic voice chased after them as they bolted out the backdoor and toward the twilight forest. It would be enough time. It had to be. 

Rowan’s backpack bounced against their tailbone as they jumped over familiar fallen logs and skirted around thorn bushes. Even in the growing shadows, they knew every burrow, every berry bush along their path by heart. So many of Rowan’s ancestors had held this same responsibility and traveled this same road that the way was ingrained in their blood. No one had deliberately cleared the path in fear of others finding it and following it to its destination, but it was clear where the growth had been trampled by the consistent passing of feet.

The rough bark of a trunk scraped under their palm as they used it for leverage, and it left their skin tingling–blood pulsing to the injury twice for every second that ticked away on their watch. They could see the edge of the stream growing nearer, and Rowan veered off to the spot where the far bank was closest. Without pause, they leapt the distance. Only a few more turns brought them to their destination.

Rowan pulled up hard, bracing themself against two trees before looking cautiously into the clearing. A clearing in the woods isn’t an entirely unusual discovery, but when Rowan’s great grandmother had found the spot a century ago, it had been barren and scorched. Now it flourished. Their mother tells the story the same way her mother had recited it to her, and as her mother before her had told it in hushed tones.

In the clearing, through the door, Recite the tale by gale and lark: It will come as it has come before.

A door stood across the clearing. The wood was rough and weathered with age, but stood firm regardless. It looked as though it had once been part of a fence, a way of keeping the property lines, but now the fence was gone and all that was left were the posts on either side and the door, shut tight.

Shadows stretch as to explore Along a path it craves embark In the clearing, through the door.

Horn of Plenty mushrooms grew in the shadow of the door, feeding off the nutrients in the ground and the old, fallen leaves. Their black caps reached into the clearing, creating a dark path to the door.

Eyes that glore and upon us bore, Edges creep and pull the dark; It will come as it has come before.

Rowan stepped into the clearing and felt the heaviness settle on their shoulders. They always felt watched here, but with each tik-tik-tik of their watch and with each step closer to the door, the pressure increased, leaving dark smudges at the edges of their thoughts.

Claws that mangle, scathe, and gore Seek to clasp the rough jamb’s bark In the clearing, through the door.

In the door was a small, square window. When Rowan had first seen it, they’d wondered what would happen if they’d looked through into the inky blackness beyond. Now it was all Rowan could do to keep their eyes averted. They did not know what lurked on the other side.

To tear our souls it long e’re swore And feast on our eternal spark; It will come as it has come before.

They slipped the backpack off their shoulders to the ground and opened the main compartment. 

Heed these words forevermore, Its intentions hear and mark: In the clearing, through the door It will come as it has come before.

For a century Rowan’s family had been the keepers of this secret, this old god, the Wolf Spider. Without the offerings on the rise of the new moon, it would roam free in the woods, hunting human prey. With every passing of the responsibility from mother to daughter, there was always a misstep, a rejected offering. Last month had been Rowan’s misstep. The offering had not been sufficient and a local man had gone “missing.” 

Now Rowan pulled from their bag a jar with its lid tightly sealed, the dark red liquid inside lapping the walls of the container as they unscrewed the lid and approached the door. Reaching the jar up to the top corner, they began to pour it down the door, moving to the other corner so it dripped like honey down the rough wood. Drops collected and fell from the top of the window to the sill. Before the legs of liquid reached the bottom of the door, it had soaked in, leaving no trace.

The clearing seemed to sigh as the last of the liquid soaked into the door. The weight of eyes lessened, heavy lidded, the hunger sated. Rowan closed the jar and returned it to their bag, checking their watch. They had just made it. They were all safe for another month.

[themissingloch]

That Heaven is Overrated

Drake and Zara were twins, from a long lineage of twins in running family line. One always a boy, the other always a girl. The trend seemed to skip every other generation and for some reason the family considered the trend to be an affliction of sorts.

"More mouths to feed.", "Who has the the time to take care of two kids at the same time." Were the excuses.

The twins had been warned of this by the previous generation so they helped to keep each other afloat instead of trying to rely on the rest of the family. They were okay with two of them helping one another out; having each other's back through the hard times.

Now was no different, Zara was in a mood. Something heavy on her mind that had her brooding in the abyss as she sat at the bottom of the tree where their childhood treehouse hideaway sat while Drake skipped rocks absently across the small creak.

Zara almost drowned in that creak once after a particularly nasty rainfall. Drake had dropped his favorite stuffed animal, a dragon like his namesake, by accident while balancing on a fallen log beside the rushing rapids. That stuffed animal was the only thing that helped Drake to sleep at night, otherwise he would cry in worry about the monsters under the bed. So Zara jumped in after it without a thought, not realizing she wasn't a strong enough swimmer.

She was quickly down stream as Drake ran after her. Drake was in a panic and he lost track of his sister.

"Zara!" He yelled, pleading, as he stopped at the place where the water was starting to calm, "Say something please!"

He was breathing heavy, his heart pounding in his ears so loudly that he almost didn't catch the faint sound of a weak, "Drake."

His eyes darted to the rock in the center of the stream, and there was his sister, weak and battered, clinging to the slippery surface with the last of her strength.

Drake jumped into the rapids, swimming out to his sister; Drake was a more practiced swimmer so the faster moving water was easier for him to fight, "Hang on! I'm coming!"

"Drake, no..." Zara started, but he was already to her and taking her arms from the rock to hook around his shoulders.

"Just hang on, sis. Whatever you do, don't let go." And he started to swim toward the shore; it was harder now with another body around his shoulders but he made it.

The twins both collapsed on the bank and rolled onto their backs, gasping for breath.

As their breathing began to settle, Drake sat up and looked to his sister, "Don't you ever do something that stupid again!"

"But your dragon..." Zara's voice was so crestfallen with guilt.

"The dragon can be replaced! Nothing can replace you!"

Drake didn't need a stuffed animal anymore anyways, saving his sister had awoken something in him that made him not afraid of the monsters anymore.

Zara balanced the pencil she carried on her at all times, just in case she had an idea, on top of her upper lip. Her head was tilted back against the tree as she pouted her lip out slightly to hold the writing instrument there, it tittering slightly before it fell.

"Have you ever heard of Paris Syndrome?" Zara's voice broke the stillness of the forest around them.

Drake bent to pick up a pebble, standing straighter and tossing it up and catching it in his hand to test its weight, "I think so but why don't you enlighten me."

"Paris Syndrome is when people go to Paris, thinking it's this magnificent, romantic place, a place so separate from the outside world, and when they visit and find that it's just as normal as everywhere else; they become disenchanted and the culture shock is so extreme that a lot of people get severely depressed or kill themselves." She answered, then added, "It happens to the Japanese tourists the most."

Drake hummed thoughtfully, shoving the stone he had picked up into his pocket and abandoning the stone skipping to shuffle over to his sister and sitting down beside her with a thump.

"Did you know that Jesus is considered a doomsday prophet?" Drake offered, a penny for her penny.

"No, I didn't."

"I mean, think about it. Christianity is all about where your soul will go after you die and make good when you're alive. That's just prophecizing the end times, yeah?"

"Yeah, I suppose that's true."

"I think it's sort of the same idea. We're all miserable for one reason or another, it's just part of the human condition. So we want to believe that there's somewhere to look forward to getting to that's more. Whether it be a romantic place like Paris or something great that happens after all of this."

A silence fell for a moment, Drake's words creating more of a weight to the already heavy atmosphere.

"But if you ask me, it's all just a trap we set for ourselves." He tries to use his words to cut the tension.

"What do you mean?"

Drake sighs, shifting and sticking his leg out in front of him and bringing up his knee to rest his arm on it, "It sets up expectations and assumptions. It creates a web of lies that we think it truth and foundation when we're actually stuck with a spider slowly coming for us. Then you either get eaten or it falls out from beneath you and you either fall or learn to fly."

"Your mind is a weird place, brother."

Drake snorted, "Yeah, well... You know what I mean right? The world is what it is; it's a good enough as it is. It's whether or not we make the most of it while we're alive. It's about how we view it and decide experience it. As above, so below; as the mind, so the heart; as within, so without. That sort of junk."

After a moment to digest, Zara smile slightly at her brother, "You sound insane."

Drake smiled back and pushed his sister by the shoulder, "Shut up."

[dreamerstreamer]

Somewhere Only We Know

Pairing: god!Dream / DreamXD x gn!reader

Summary: [Reincarnation!AU & Dream SMP!AU] Being a god can be especially lonely—Dream knows that better than anyone. Yet somehow, you always manage to find your way back to him in every life you live. If only it didn’t hurt so much to love you.

Warnings: tw// mention of death

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: requested by the lovely 🤡 anon, who asked for a piece based on keane’s somewhere only we know! i got rather carried away when writing this, and it’s certainly quite sad, but i hope you all enjoy it! <3

Dream blinks lazily up at the fluffy clouds drifting across the cerulean sky, his emerald eyes tracing over their soft edges. He hums to himself as one of them drifts in front of the sun, the warm light suddenly leaving his face. Frowning, he sits up a little straighter, raising his arm above his head. He snaps his fingers once, and in an instant, the clouds vanish. Warmth floods his cheeks as the sun’s brilliant rays crash over him once more. He smiles, but it’s melancholic, a forlorn look passing over his face.

Just how long has he been alone like this?

Sighing, he rises to his feet, kicking at the soft dirt beneath the soles of his boots. His viridian cloak is light atop his shoulders, his wings neatly folded underneath the soft fabric. Above his head, his halos glow with a dazzling golden hue, sending beams of amber light flashing across the nearby tree trunks. Rolling his neck, he snaps his fingers again, and his wings and halos vanish in a flash. Just like that, the weight on his back dissipates, and his lips twitch. There—that’s much lighter.

His gaze flickers over to the waterfall lying just a yard away, rushing ripples of water streaming down the short cliff face and into the pool lying at its base. He crouches down next to the small pond, brushing his hand over the soft soil beneath his feet. Sparks shoot up his arm and into his fingertips, the earth suddenly bursting to life underneath his touch.

All of a sudden, a blossom sprouts from the ground, soft and pink as it unfurls its petals and soaks up the warm sunshine. Dream grins as row after row of flowers shoot up from the ground, circling around the pond and lining the trees around the clearing until suddenly, the whole space is surrounded by breathtaking blossoms. He stands back with a satisfied hum, glancing around himself with an almost nostalgic gleam in his gaze.

It’s been ages since he last returned to this little alcove in his favourite forest. He could tell no one else had stepped foot here except for him, too. After all, there was only one other person who knew about this place—the only other person in the world he knew would be able to find it in the first place.

Had it been decades or centuries since he last visited? He’s not sure anymore, but really, he’s not sure if he cares, either. There’s a reason why he doesn’t come back here very often—one that he hesitates to even think about.

It’s far too painful of a memory to relive.

“Hello?”

Dream freezes, his eyes going wide at the sound of a new voice—a familiar voice. Slowly, he turns, his lips parting in awe as he sees a figure stepping into the clearing, a mix of caution and curiosity flitting across your cheeks.

He knows that face—knows you.

His heart aches at the thought.

“Hi,” he manages after a long moment, swallowing ever so slightly.

You flash him a sheepish smile, lowering your gaze to the ground almost bashfully as you brush a stray leaf off your shoulder. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, or anything. I was just passing by when I saw the flowers, and thought they looked really pretty, and...”

You trail off, your voice growing smaller and smaller until it fades off into silence. Dream stares at you, unmoving as his heart races a mile a minute in his chest, battering against his rib cage as your timid gaze flickers to his.

“I, um,” you squeak out, feeling the intensity of his eyes on yours. “I can go if you wa—”

“No,” Dream suddenly blurts, the word flying out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He can already feel the heat flooding his chest at the way you startle in front of him, and he sucks in a breath.

“Wait,” he says, calmer this time. “Please, I—you’re not intruding at all. You can stay.” He takes a shaky step forward, offering you a crooked yet earnest smile. “I’d love it if you stayed.”

In an instant, your face lights up, and his breath hitches in his throat at the sight. “O-Oh, thank you! It’s nice to meet you. My name’s [Y/N].”

In that moment, he could have sworn his heart stopped and would never beat, again. “What’s yours?” you ask, your eyes shining like freshly cut gemstones.

His eyes scan your face for a moment, taking in the soft panes of your cheeks and the delicate curve of your lips as your smile leaves tiny cuts in his lungs.

“Dream,” he breathes at last. “Call me Dream.”

Suddenly, your eyes curve into tiny crescent moons as you grin at him, and he feels the loneliness flowing through his veins subside the tiniest bit.

Even after all this time, he still can’t bring himself to forget your smile.

Dream hums to himself as he tosses a pebble into the pond from his spot on the fallen tree log. The stream laps at the stone once before swallowing it whole, letting it sink to the murky bottom without so much as a splash. A rustle comes from behind him, and he immediately whirls, his lips curling up into an eager smile.

“[Y/N],” he chirps, bright and keen, “welcome back.”

Your glowing face greets him in return, and he nearly combusts on the spot. He still remembers the way you had promised him you would return to see him again a week ago, when you had first stumbled upon his clearing. His head still spins at the thought, and it almost makes him forget the longing ache that sinks into his bones when his gaze lingers on you for a fraction too long.

Almost.

You wave at him as you jump over a protruding tree root, crinkles forming at the corners of your eyes. “Good morning, Dream! What are you doing here so early? The market only just opened.”

He shuffles over on the log to give you room, raising an eyebrow at you. “I could ask the same of you.”

Crouching over, you settle down onto the space next to him, not at all noticing the way he stiffens when your thigh brushes against his. “I woke up early to watch the sunrise,” you say with a half-drowsy smile.

There is a beat of silence, then Dream tilts his head at you. “The sunrise?”

You bob your head, turning to look at him. “Yeah,” you murmur wistfully, raising your arm to wave your hand up at the sky above. “I love watching all the pretty colours fill the horizon. It only lasts a few minutes, but it’s so magnificent, and I always try to watch them if I can.”

His eyes flash as he takes in your gentle expression. Then, he opens his mouth, thoughtful and slow. “Sunrises, hm? What other things do you like?”

You pause for a moment. “Other things I like?” When he nods, you hum, averting your gaze from his until you find yourself staring over at the bubbling waterfall.

“I like... I like flowers,” you begin, “but you already knew that.” He chuckles at the hint of a smile that dusts your face before you continue. “I like exploring the market every Saturday, too. They always have something new to find.”

Suddenly, your eyes flicker to life, glittering with excitement. “Oh, I also like stargazing! It’s like watching the universe paint a picture with little crystals every night, and something about looking up at the sky makes me feel so small, and I... I...” You gesture vaguely, a frustrated noise escaping your throat. “I don’t know. I just like it.”

Dream cannot help the way his heart melts in his chest at the sound you make, a certain fondness seeping into his soul. You were always so endearing—always, always, always.

“What about you, Dream?” you say suddenly, looking at him curiously. “What things do you like?”

Dream blinks at you—once, twice. Suddenly, his mind is flooded with image after image, memory after memory.

He thinks of the millennia he has lived through, the cities he has watched rise and fall. He thinks of the countless distances he has wandered, travelling far and wide with a heavy loneliness hanging in his barren heart. He thinks of soft kisses pressed to calloused fingertips and fluttering eyelids.

Then, he looks at you, with your enraptured eyes and your glorious grin.

“You,” he says, sincerity gracing his every word. “I like spending time with you.”

He watches as you stammer in reply, your eyes going wide as you gape at him in a mixture of embarrassment and flattery. He laughs at you, and his heart swells in his chest.

He’s missed you—more than you would ever know.

“Say, Dream, have you ever seen the ocean?”

The sun glares harshly into your eyes from where you lie on the earth, staring up at the cobalt sky, but Dream hardly notices—his eyes are too focused on you. “I have,” he murmurs as his gaze traces over the bridge of your nose in wonder. He’s seen more of the world than he would like to admit. After all, he was the one who created it in the first place. But to you, he’s just a simple traveler with a penchant for waterfalls.

Before he can even register it, you’ve bolted upright, bending over him with an excited shout. “Really?! What’s it like?”

He jolts at the sudden movement, all too keenly aware of how close your face is to his before his shuffles into a sitting position, resting his chin on his hand. “Well,” he begins, “it’s really big. So big that you can’t see the shore on the other side no matter how hard you try. It’s blue as far as the eye can see, and the breeze kind of tastes salty if you open your mouth.”

He catches a flash of your awed expression as he waves his arm in front of him to illustrate the vast size of the ocean. “The water,” he continues, envisioning the waves as they crash onto the sand, “is nice and cold, and if you swim deep enough, you might find fish and coral. It’s relaxing to watch the tide come up into the beach. Sometimes, shells wash up onto the shore, too. You can keep those as little souvenirs.”

For a moment, you are silent as you simply stare at him, something swirling deep within your gaze. “Wow,” you say at last, sounding completely breathless. “That sounds beautiful.” You stretch your legs out in front of you, your fingers curling into the grass spread beneath your palms. “My best friend says there’s mermaids in the ocean.” You scrunch your nose. “I don’t know if I believe him, though.”

Something dark ripples through Dream, and the tiniest of frowns passes over his face. “Your best friend?” he parrots.

You nod. “Yeah—his name’s Karl. He’s really nice and likes to goof off a lot. He’s also a really good storyteller!” You look at him then, fondly and with such a kind look it almost knocks Dream right over. “I think you might like his stories.”

His lips quirk up into a coy smile, and he leans ever so slightly forward. “Would I, now?” he croons, a teasing lilt tinting his tone. “What kind of stories does he like to tell?”

You clasp your hands together, excitement brimming in your face. “Oh, wonderful ones! There’s the one about the sleepy fox, the one about the pig who could not be killed, and the one about how we all face reincarnation after death, but my favourite,” you murmur, “is about the creation of the world.”

Dream goes still at that, his smile faltering for a split second. “How does that one go?” he asks softly.

You scoot the tiniest bit closer to his side, your gaze lowering ever so slightly. “Once upon a time,” you start, your voice as smooth as velvet, “a god descended from the heavens and carved the world into the shape it is today.” You traced your finger along the soft dirt. “He made valleys and hills, oceans and rivers, decorating the land with flowers and trees. The world he made was beautiful, but it was lonely, so he filled it with people to keep him company. He was so full of joy to have friends, until one day, he fell in love.”

Your demeanour, which had been cheerful up until this point, suddenly shifted, darkening as you let out a sigh. “He fell in love so quickly and so deeply that he was blind to the nature of his own creations, as they had a mortal lifespan, unlike him. When his lover died, a part of his soul died with them. He vanished after that, never to be seen again.” You curl your knees to your chest, resting your head upon them. “Some people say he wanders the world, mourning for all of eternity. Others say he died of heartbreak. Even fewer believe that his lover lives on and he loves them still, although they’re not entirely sure. Either way, he has yet to appear, and humanity quietly awaits for his return.”

Dream is silent beside you, his lips pressed into a thin line as his chest rises and falls with the timing of his breaths. “Why is that story your favourite?” he finally asks.

You lift your head, surprise shooting across your face. “I’m not sure,” you say softly, pondering for a moment. “I just think he sounds so... sad. It’s a tragedy, what happened to him. He only wanted to not be alone anymore.” Your voice drops even lower. “He only ever wanted to love someone.”

An ache suddenly expands within his gut, digging into his sides of his skull with such ferocity he fears he may never escape it. That same, fleeting sense of solitude slinks around his lungs, squeezing and squeezing until your eyes lock into his, and they halt.

“Do you think that he lives on?” you whisper, your gaze searching his. “That he might have found someone else to keep him company, despite his sadness?”

You pause, something like hope sparking within your eyes. “Do you think... he ever loved again?”

Dream stares at you, and stares at you, and stares at you. Your lips are right there, are so dreadfully close to him as he looks at you, feeling the blood pound through his ears as the pain in his heart begins to lift. It rises higher and higher within him before sliding off his shoulders entirely, leaving nothing behind but tender affection and warmth—a warmth he had been yearning for for so, so long.

He smiles at you then, and for once, this one is real.

“Something tells me he did.”

Dream stretches his wings out behind him with a quiet groan, feeling the cool air ruffle his ivory white feathers. His cloak sits on the ground next to him while his golden halos spin rapidly atop his head from where they float, glowing faintly in the fading evening light. After a moment, he lets his wings fold back up against his back, lowering his arms with a sharp exhale. In the distance, he catches a glimpse of the setting sun just before it dips below the horizon, shrouding the world in darkness. With a bored look, he picks at his nail, curling his toes in his shoes.

He’s already waved you off and watched as you wove your way out of the clearing and between the forest’s tangled trees back to your village. Now, he has nothing left to do but wait for your return the next day, his throat aching for your arrival with every passing second.

How far I have fallen, he thinks distantly to himself, to be reduced to nothing more than a helpless admirer for a human.

A moment passes, and his heart sighs.

A lovely human, at that.

All of a sudden, he hears a stick snap behind him, and Dream immediately snaps his fingers, his wings and halos disappearing in a flash, almost as if they had never existed to begin with. Whipping around on his heel, he narrows his eyes at the clearing entrance, jaw clenched in preparation. His shoulders are raised at his side, tense with anticipation when just then...

...you stumble out of the forest, tears streaking down your face.

Dream’s shoulders fall in an instant.

“Dream,” you choke out, your voice cracking sharply.

You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth again before he’s standing in front of you, his hands gripping your shoulders as gently as he can manage. His eyes scan your face as his stomach churns with agony at the despair painted onto your features. “[Y/N],” he murmurs softly, “what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You sniffle, lifting your head to look at him through watery eyes as you open your mouth. “Karl—he’s sick. Really sick,” you babble like a winding stream. “The doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, and he’s been coughing so badly that you can just tell he’s in pain. At this rate, I—I’m scared he’s not going to get any better. He... I’ve known him since forever, and I—”

The words die in your mouth as you cut yourself off with a broken sob, and Dream almost feels as though he’s been stabbed in the gut. He never wants to see you in pain, to see you as sad as this, and the fact that you are sobbing at all makes him want to wail himself.

Softly, he wraps his arms around you, pressing you close to your chest as he rocks you gently back and forth with your head resting on his shoulder. Your tears soak his shirt, but he doesn’t mind one bit. “Shh, [Y/N],” he coos quietly. “It’s going to be okay.”

You pull back with a wary gaze, fear etched into your features. “How do you know that?” you whisper. “What if he doesn’t get better? What then?”

Dropping one arm from behind you, Dream slips a hand into his pocket, quickly rubbing his fingers together. Just like that, cool glass that wasn’t there a moment earlier presses against the warmth of his palm, and he pulls out a vial filled with a pale, rosy liquid.

“Here,” he says, pressing the vial into your hand. “This is an antidote I’ve been...” He pauses for a split second, then fibs. “...holding onto for a while. For emergencies.” Slowly, he clasps your fingers until they’re closed around the glass top, sending you a reassuring smile. “Give this to Karl, and I promise you he’ll recover.”

You blink at him, your eyes glimmering underneath the light of the swirling stars overhead. “You swear?” you ask meekly, hope dancing along the edge of your lashes.

Dream swallows thickly and nods. “On my life.”

You inhale a deep, shuddering breath, then raise your hand to wipe at your eyes before smiling at him, warm and full of affection. “Okay,” you murmur as you step back from him. “I trust you, Dream.”

The next morning, you come tumbling into Dream’s arms with a gleeful cry, tears flowing freely down your face as you knock him to the ground. This time, they’re there for an entirely different reason as you ramble about Karl’s cleared airways when the doctor came to check on him after you fed him the antidote.

Beneath you, Dream relishes in the warmth of your body against his, praying you cannot feel the way his heart hammers against his chest.

There were not enough words in the world that he could use to describe how deep his devotion to you ran.

He fears there may never be enough.

Months pass in a blur, and Dream watches with knowing eyes as summer turns to autumn. Soon enough, snow coats the clearing although the waterfall continues to flow. No matter how harsh the weather, you stumble your way back to the forest to him, and each day, Dream feels himself sink deeper and deeper into the very essence that is you.

To think that there was once a time he never wanted to return here at all.

“Dream,” you say abruptly one day, “you know, I think you might be my favourite person in the world.”

He cocks a brow at you, his lips twitching up into a small smirk. “In the world?” he repeats. “I think Karl would be offended.”

You roll your eyes at him, but you can’t stop the smile from stretching across your face. “Maybe, but it’s the truth!” You lift a hand and begin counting off on your fingers. “You’re—you’re so nice, and passionate, and bold, and bright, and...” You pause, then chuckle almost shyly. “I could go on and on, but that’s embarrassing.”

He chuckles at your words, only growing more and more enamoured with each word that falls from your lips. “It’s not embarrassing,” he says gently. “It’s cute.”

Your shoulders suddenly stiffen, and you slowly turn your head to glance up at him. “Cute? You think I’m cute?”

He doesn’t have to think twice about his response. “Very much so. I would dare say that you are even more beautiful than you are cute.”

You whine with a pout, heat crawling up the side of your neck as you dig your thumbs into your palms. “You can’t just say things like that.”

He stares at you for a second, then he flashes you a grin that is both parts wicked and affectionate. “Maybe, but it’s the truth.”

Your mouth drops open at the way he fires your own words back at you, and you gape at him a moment before you groan, reaching over to playfully bat at his arm. “Why, you!”

He laughs at you and loves the way he can tell your heart races in your chest. He loves the way you smile despite your small shouts of frustration. He loves the way you are just so endearing to him in every which way.

He laughs at you and he loves you, hopelessly and wholly.

Dream gazes up at the orange sky with a slight frown and furrowed brows, watching as the clouds coast by overhead on a distant, northern gale. The waterfall babbles restlessly at his side, and he taps his foot against the smooth stones lining the pond with abandonment. The flowers he had once grown rake this petals over the soles of his shoes as he lets out a long sigh, anxiety slowly beginning to paw at his backside.

Are you going to show up at all today? he wonders. There are some days you don’t appear at all, typically because you had to run some errands or something of the sort, but those days are few and far between. He won’t chastise you for not seeing him, of course, but he cannot simply ignore the pang of his heart when he misses you so.

His fingers drum against the cool material clutched in his hands, and a melancholic look flits over his features. It would be a shame if you didn’t appear though, especially given what he had in mind for the day.

Right then, he hears your lovely voice call out for him. “Dream!”

His frown is immediately replaced by a smile as he whirls around to see you, his hands carefully tucked behind his back. “[Y/N],” he greets, striding up to you. “It’s good to see you.”

You’ve only just made it in front of him when he opens his mouth again, excitement filling his words to the absolute brim. “I brought you a gift.”

You blink wildly at him, pointing to yourself in surprise. “For me?”

His grin only grows wider, his heart leaping into his throat. “Of course it’s for you, silly. Who else?”

You squint for a second, then smile. “Karl?”

Dream deadpans at you, and you laugh in return, not noticing the way his eyes melt fondly at your expression. “I’m kidding,” you chide, shuffling a step closer to him. “So, what is it?”

He’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet when he finally brings his hands out from behind him, pushing them towards you. “Ta-da! Here.”

Your breath catches at the sight of his palms, and with trembling hands, you reach up to pull the curved item from his hand. “Is this... a shell?” you whisper, your eyes as wide as saucers.

He nods, his emerald eyes gleaming with pride. “A conch shell,” he says. “From the ocean.”

You sputter as you gently turn the shell over in your hands, your fingers tracing over the solid edges with nothing short of pure shock. “H-How did you even get this? The nearest ocean is at least a week’s travel on horse away!”

Dream thinks of the wings he typically had tucked on his back and how they carried him to the ocean and back in less than a few minutes, but to you, he only smiles and shrugs. “I have my ways.”

You don’t respond for a moment, then two. All of a sudden, you sniffle, and Dream is bending before you in a heartbeat, his hands reaching for yours before just stopping short. “[Y/N]?” he asks in a soothing tone. “Is something wrong?”

Your gaze is watery, but only slightly as you raise your chin to look at him, your lower lip set with determination. “Dream,” you say with a shaky breath, “I have to tell you something.” You gulp. “It’s serious.”

Immediately, Dream’s mind runs through a million and five possibilities of what you could possibly say to him, each one increasingly worse than the last. Your family is in need of funds, or you’re about to leave on a life-threatening journey. Or maybe Karl is just sick, again.

But before he can run himself into the ground with his own worries, Dream lets out a breath and tilts his head at you. “What is it?”

Your gaze falls down to your feet, and you stare at the earth for an excruciatingly long minute. Dream simply stands in front of you, patiently and earnestly waiting for your response when you suddenly open your mouth.

“I—I love you.”

Dream’s lungs feel as though they are about to collapse in his chest. “You do?”

You bite your lip, but raise your head, your shoulders trembling at your sides. “Yes,” you whisper, the syllable steeped with emotion. With one hand clasped around the conch shell, the other reaches up to rest over your chest, palm pressed flats against your left side. “My heart is yours, all of it.”

The world is a blur of colours and sounds around him, and he can feel his head spin faster and faster as a wave of memories come crashing down over him, drowning him whole. He wants to tear his hair out and scream to the heavens above until his throat is raw and he can scream no more.

You love him. You love him back, and as much as he wants to burn your words into the back of his eyelids, something else sinks its claws into his heart and tears a hole right into the flesh.

This is not the first time you have spoken these words to him. No, not at all.

He had done his best to forget them over all those years, had tried his best to outrun the anguish with every century he lived through. After all, when you live as long as he has, it is only natural for him to forget some things. Through wandering across every land he had lovingly sculpted by hand, he had hoped to erase his suffering by engulfing himself in other worldly affairs, isolating himself entirely from others.

But no amount of time could ever truly erase the memories he had of you—the first incarnation of you, from all those years ago.

He remembers how the two of you had shared your first kiss under the light of the full moon, giggling to one another as he wrapped you up in his soft feathers. He remembers the way you would hold his hand and tell him about all the things you could not wait to do with him in the very same clearing he stood in now. He remembers the way your body went limp in his own arms, coughing until your lungs could cough no more. He remembers the agony and the torment as he wasted away, too caught up in the imprint of your skin against his before you turned to dust before his very eyes.

He remembers it all, and he cannot not let himself be shattered like that, again.

“I have to go,” he whispers, jerking his arm back from yours.

You whip your head up, pain shooting across your face. “Y-You’re leaving? What?”

He takes another step back and swallows down the lump in his throat, but it tastes like acid burning his stomach. “I—I can’t stay here.”

Before he can move back again, your hand shoots out to grab at the hem of his shirt, desperation soaking into your face: “P-Please,” you plead, “you can just say you don’t love me back. My feelings for you won’t change.”

He wants to cry. No, he thinks, it’s not that. It could never be that. Not with you.

You clutch at the cloth, hoping your feelings somehow reach him through your anguished touch. “I love you, Dream,” you begin, “I really do. I love how attentive you are, how much you always seem to care. You’re always so patient with me, so kind, so generous, and it makes me melt inside. I love the way your eyes shine so brightly, and I love your little freckles. I want to count them all, and I don’t mind if that takes the rest of eternity.”

You’re almost entirely out of breath by now, and Dream’s jaw has gone slack. He can only stare at you with a look of pure conflicting despair as your eyes search his for answers he knows he cannot possibly give. “An eternity with you would be nothing,” you breathe, your voice cracking. Your grip on his shirt suddenly goes limp, and your arm falls back to your side. “Please. Stay.”

The knife in his gut only seems to twist deeper as he takes yet another step back, his cloak feeling like a boulder upon his back. “I can’t,” he chokes out. “I really can’t.”

Tears line your eyes like tiny jewels, and he wishes he could wipe them away. “Why?” you beg. “Why do you have to go?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

In front of him, a look of absolute defeat sinks into your expression, and your voice grows smaller than ever. “At least—at least tell me if I’ll ever see you again.”

Dream’s feels the back of his eyes sting, and he clenched his hands beside him. “Not in this lifetime,” he wants to say. “And hopefully not in the next, either.”

“I’m sorry, [Y/N],” he says instead.

Just like that, he watches as the light fades from your eyes, vanishing from sight as the setting sun watches on with a sad gaze. Your lower lip trembles, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crumpling to the ground in a heap and watering the earth with your tears. You clutch the conch shell to your chest and let it dig into your chest from how tightly you press it against yourself, your vision completely blurred. In front of you, Dream holds back tears of his own, forcing himself to look away from your broken figure as he walks toward the forest away from you.

Your wails follow after him even after he unfurls his wings deep in the forest and soars up into the sky, flying high above the world below as he dries his tears with the harsh wind that bites at his face.

He will not return here for a long, long time.

He doesn’t think he would even be able to bring himself to if he tried.

Dream brushes a stray leaf off his shoulder as he steps over a root, his eyes focused on the bushes before him. A bird chirps as he strolls past a tree, nestling further into its nest as he ducks under the branch. He smiles at the sight, a deep fondness seeping into his heart as he lets his hand run over the tree’s hard bark.

He recognizes this forest—these trees. He knows this sky, has leapt over these rocks. He’s walked this path before.

It’s a shame he can’t remember how long it’s been since he last came here.

He hums a quiet melody to himself as he weaves a path between the trees, drawing nearer and nearer to the place he had been searching for with every passing second. He’s only a few steps away when a sound calls out to him—a sound that isn’t a part of the forest.

“Hello?”

Dream goes stock still, his heart coming to a screeching halt in his chest.

He knows that voice, too.

Sucking in a deep breath, he slowly steps forward, out into the entrance of the clearing. In front of the waterfall stands a silhouette he is absolutely positive he’s seen before—countless times before. Something tells him that he should leave, that he should run far, far away and disappear from view. But as he watches the silhouette take a tentative step toward him, his inhibitions fall away.

Warmth blossoms in the space between his lungs, all encompassing and full of grief as he opens his mouth.

“Hi.”

[imjusttpeachy]

she's a rae of sunshine (c.h.)

okay so this was a request but i completely read it wrong so i’m gonna write it again but i finished this one anyway so here take it

so sorry to the anon who requested it bc u were so fuckin sweet i’ll have it up asap i promise

playlist

ralph castelli - morning sex

crumb - bones

jorja smith - teenage fantasy

summary: balancing college life and wanting to support your best friends online endeavors was difficult, but reader regrets trying a little harder when she finally meets one of her newer stream-mates

word count: 2, 828

WARNINGS: she/her pronouns used, coarse language, lowkey OOC Corpse, that needs its own warning i’m sorry,

•••

“Look you knew I had to stream before I said you could come over ya fuckin idiot.”

“Yea I knowwwww, I just wanted to spend more time with my super-hot best friend forever.”

Being the best friend of an online personality had its perks— the amazing trips you got to hitch a ride on, the adoring fans that seemed to latch on to you as well, the sponsorships that would always send you something along with the original PR package, and especially the way she was able to choose their own work hours.

Well... mostly.

As much as you adored spending time together during the day, whether it be shopping or going out for brunch, those late nights that always seemed to hold the most memories you held so dear were few and far between. Of course, you couldn’t blame her; responsibilities were responsibilities, and fuck if you’d let your selfish wants override the way she chooses to get her work done. You really couldn’t be one to judge either-- having to call off dates because you’d underestimated the time you needed to complete a school paper, or when a last-minute lab was called in and you’d have to leave her sitting alone in those cafes with your half-finished mocha and a promise to Venmo her the money to cover it later. What left you feeling the most guilty, though, was the fact that you weren’t able to watch her content as much as you’d like to. Sure, you’d catch a few minutes of a stream here and there but any time you spent apart was usually spent with your head buried in a book, mind bleary with countless espresso shots trying to keep your tired eyes focused on the seemingly unending work in front of you.

But, a distraction every now and then couldn’t hurt. Right?

Having had enough of your current assignment, any coherent thought was long gone, you’d decided to pay your favourite person a little visit. You knew she’d probably be busy as she hadn’t replied to your previous text for a few hours, but knowing her presence alone and any passing comments would lift the heaviness that had found its home in your head and chest, you shot her a message to let her know that her office couch would be occupied by you for the next few hours. Normally, you’d just show up so you knew she wouldn’t have a problem with it; so when that fateful message popped up on your phone giving you the go-ahead you completely ignored the warning of her work schedule and drove right over.

So now here you were, sprawled haphazardly on her couch clad in sweats and a sports bra scrolling through your phone as you watched her finish her final touches so she could start her stream.

“You’re gonna be in the background of my face cam if you wanna sit there y’know.” Groaning in response to her warning not wanting to move from the comfy spot you just found, you looked over at her with the best puppy eyes you could muster. She chuckled softly, raising her hands in surrender as she turned back to her setup. “Hey I really don’t care, just warning ya bug. The thirst comments and screenshots are outta my hands.”

Scoffing under your breath at her comment, you turned your head back to your phone as a Twitter notification popped up at the top of your screen.

Corpse Husband: streaming among us in a few mins, join in on youtube

Heartbeat picking up slightly, you scrambled for the purse you’d thrown at the base of the couch for your headphones. Ever since you’d found this handsome-voiced stranger’s channel on your late night horror binges, you had fallen completely in love. While you weren’t typically the type to watch video game commentary outside of Rae, his voice got you completely hooked and you couldn’t get enough of it. Yeah, maybe you were a bit of a simp, but that sweet and genuine personality that hid behind that gravelly tone had you melting completely into his clutches. You tried to convince yourself to get over it, you didn’t even know what he looked like. But, y’know, a little crush wouldn’t hurt anybody right?

“Going live in T-minus 30 seconds babe.” Jumping slightly as Rae’s voice knocked you out of dreamland, you mumbled out a small “got it” as you once again got focused on getting your headphones connected to your phone. You’d never been able to watch one of his lives before, his horror commentary videos usually playing as background noise as you did schoolwork or while you were falling asleep. Practically shaking with excitement, you opened your YouTube app seeing the live at the very top and tapping on it immediately only to be met with that sweet laugh ringing through your headphones like music to your ears. You grinned to yourself, grabbing the throw pillow you had previously tossed to the floor and hugging it to your chest while your eyes remained glued to your phone screen, completely forgetting what was happening around you as you zeroed in on the gravelly tone you’d fallen oh-so in love with.

“Hey (Y/N) wave hi.” You startled slightly as the faint voice of your friend sounded from across the room. Glancing up from your phone, you pulled an earbud from your ear and furrowed your brows at her before slowly processing what she said, lifting a hand in greeting to her watchers. She laughed at your confusing antics, turning slightly in her chair to look over at you. “What the hell are you so smiley about?”

“…Nothing..” You grinned widely as her laugh once again resounded around the room, shaking her head at you before turning back to her screen with a scoff, muttering something under her breath so only her watchers could hear. Smile still plastered across your lips, you settled back down into the comfiness of the couch and popped your earbud back in, zeroing in again on the screen in front of you. Watching as Corpse moved his character around the lobby as he waited for his friends to join, a small giggle escaped from under your breath; trying your best to be mindful of Rae’s stream but not being able to hold back the flustered feeling welling up in your chest, mind giddy with the thought of finally being able to see one of his famous live streams, well, live. It had only been a few seconds later when you heard Rae’s voice once again, only this time, not as muffled as before.

“What’s up motherfuckers.” Brows furrowing in confusion, you lifted your hand to your earbud and pulled it from your ear once again, hearing her voice from across the room but from your other earbud as well. No, there was no fucking way. All your questions were answered, though, as you glanced back down at your phone screen seeing a red character move around the game lobby along with Corpse’s, the gamer tag ‘Valkyrae’ floating just above it. Blinking hard at your screen trying to convince yourself that your eyes were lying to you, you slowly pulled your hand to cover your mouth in shock. How… How could you possibly not know they knew each other? With the way they spoke to each other in sarcastic comments, poking fun at the other it sounded like they were close too. Body finally catching up with your thoughts, you scrambled at your phone, shaky hands moving as quickly as they could to pull up your texts with Rae. Your fingers tapped furiously at the screen, anxious to get back to the live stream to listen in more but also needing to know what the fuck was going on.

TO my rae of sunshine: care to explain what the fuck is going on??! how the fuck do you know corpse husband?????!??!

“Oops sorry guys, guess I forgot to turn off my phone ringer-“ Staring up at the back of her head helplessly, you watched as she picked up her phone seeming to read out the text before bursting into a peal of laughter. Tossing a look at you over her shoulder, you looked back down at your phone bashfully, seeing the three loading dots in your message thread indicating that she was messaging you back.

my rae of sunshine: lol what about it? you gotta crush on him or something?

TO my rae of sunshine: …no

Hitting send you rushed back to the stream, anxious to see what Corpse was saying in response to Rae’s absence, not thinking anything about your brief conversation and thinking you would discuss it after she had logged off for the night. Though, as you heard her phone chime again from across the room followed by another bark of laughter, you knew you weren’t getting off that easy.

“What are you laughing about?” Corpse’s honeyed voice sounded from your earbud, hearing Rae’s giggles from what you presumed to be their discord voice chat. Glancing anxiously between his stream and the reflection of Rae’s face cam in one of her monitors, your heart began to sink as you watched that familiar mischievous grin tugging at the edge of her lips.

“Oh just my friend (Y/n) sent me a funny meme”

“Wait, is she the one in some of your Instagram posts?” You swear your heart stopped beating at that moment, eyes glued to the screen in front of you as you tried helplessly to process the conversation happening right in front of you. He knew who you were? You thought you’d always be lost among the hundreds of thousands of his new adoring fans, left in the anonymity of your Twitter tag in his subtweets, or just another subscriber that fawned over him silently behind a keyboard. Knowing that he’d actually seen your face you could feel your own beginning to heat at that moment; you brought your hands your mouth again, unknowingly curling your body tighter around the pillow in your lap as you tried to hide your face behind it as you become more and more flustered from the words nonchalantly escaping his mouth.

“Yea that’s her, pretty thing isn’t she? She’s my absolute favourite.”

That’s it, you were gonna fucking kill her.

“I mean, yeah... I guess..” The timid words followed by a soft awkward chuckle had your breath hitching in your throat. There was no fucking way this was happening. This had to be a dream, that was the only possible explanation. You were just about to pinch yourself when Rae’s voice startled you from your thoughts.

“She’s actually over right now. She insisted on getting wine drunk later tonight because her professor’s been on her ass lately. I’ll get her to come say hi.” Rae had barely turned around in her chair when she was met with your wide-eyed gaze, panic painted across your features as you shook your head wildly. You were in no state to be talking to your long-time internet crush in such a casual setting. But with the look Rae shot you from her chair as she started to plug another headset into her PC, you knew you had no choice and begrudgingly pulled yourself from the couch almost tripping over your own feet as you shakily walked over to Rae. Shooting her another pleading look, she only shoved the headset in your direction in return as she grinned up at you. Finally biting the bullet, you pulled on the headset and leaned down toward the mic.

“Hi, how’s it going?” Cursing at yourself for how quiet and shaky your words came out, you barely had any time to think it over before a chorus of greetings sounded through the headset. A small giggle escaped your lips as you watched the different Discord icons appear and disappear from the top of the screen. You knew most of these people already which made you even more confused as to how you managed to miss that voice from all the discord chats and voice calls. Well, knowing them was a bit of an overstatement anyway; you knew /of/ them, and they knew /of/ you in the other times you popped up in the background or in passing conversation during Rae’s streams. They did know you well enough, though, to know this was not the way you usually spoke around them.

“No way, that can’t be the (Y/N) I know!” The voice you recognize as Sean echoes through your headset, another chorus of knowing laughter following quickly after. Taking a deep breath you managed to force out a few words that would get them off your case.

“…Shut the fuck up”

“There she is!!” As the group erupted in laughter yet again, all you could focus on was the faint deep chuckle that resounded through your headset. Feeling your face start to heat up, you covered your wide grin with your hand as butterflies burst through your stomach; you could listen to that laugh all day. Before you were able to speak again, though, that heavenly voice piped up and wiped all train of thought from your mind.

“Nice to meet you (Y/N).”

“It’s nice to meet you too Corpse. I gotta be honest ‘n say I’m a pretty big fan of your no-sleep work.” And... there’s the word vomit. Fuck, you could feel your cheeks starting to heat up with the ongoing realization of who you were talking to.

“Aha thank you, I uh really appreciate that. I’m sure you just heard, but I guess you could say I’m a fan of yours also.”

No.

No, there’s no fucking way.

Is he...

Flirting with you?

Before you could even think about what to reply to that with, the rest of the group beat you to it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what is happening.”

“CORPSE! You SIMP!”

“Is- Is Corpse really shooting his shot right now?”

You didn’t realize you were frozen in place until you felt Rae’s hand on your elbow, snapping you out of your bewildered trance as you tried to comprehend what was happening yourself. As your thoughts finally caught up to the present, you could feel your cheeks start to burn; pulling your hand up to cover your face you stepped out of the view of the face cam. Rae’s laughter filled the room as she watched your flustered antics, shooting you a sly grin as she started scanning the monitor displaying her live chat.

“Wait, wait, chats telling me (y/n)’s blushing right now?” Sean’s voice echoed through the discord chat, only making you flush further as you tried desperately to find a way out of this.

“Okay, okay, leave her alone.” Corpse’s voice finally piped up amid all of the chaos causing everyone to immediately pipe down. God, you didn’t even want to begin to think of the mess this has already made, you just needed to get out of there before you caused any more damage.

“Yeah, I uh- see- see that the lobby’s full so I’ll just uh- leave you guys to it.” Quietly thanking the stars that Corpse finally got you out of this mess, you went to pull the headset off your ears when that fateful voice piped up again.

“Wait, don’t let these nerds make you leave. You should stay- I mean, only to help Rae y'know? She needs it.”

“I do not!”

“I- I mean yea sure, as long as I’m not intruding,” Cursing yourself again for stuttering before forcing yourself to swallow the knot in your throat, “I mean, she really does need the help.”

“Okay just because you want to flirt some more doesn’t mean you can bully me-“

“Okay, I’m starting the round!” The booming accented voice cut off everyone else in the call as you all stared as the screen began to count down to the game, and before anyone had the chance to say anything else a chorus of laughs resounded, and then the lobby fell into silence.

•••

And it went on like that, the not-so-subtle flirting followed by relentless jabs from the group immediately after. The game was almost forgotten with how much of each lobby was taken up by teasing words and endless laughter, but every audience was just eating it up. You didn’t even want to think about the mess social media was going to be after this stream but right now you were having fun with your friends and that’s all that mattered. The grin was practically plastered on your face as you laughed along with Rae the chat during the gameplay portions and you knew everything from this moment on was gonna be different, but you couldn’t find a single thing within you to care.

Especially when you logged onto Twitter right after the stream and saw that little message right at the top of your requests.

@.corpsehusband: wanna hear some of that no sleep work in person?

•••

beep bop here u go,

[sergeant-spoons]

9. Tuxedo Junction

Harley Gibbs

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow @chaosklutz @wexhappyxfew @50svibes @tvserie-s-world @adamantiumdragonfly @ask-you-what-sir @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert @holdingforgeneralhugs @claire-bear-1218 @heirsoflilith @itswormtrain @actualtrashpanda @wtrpxrks

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The median between Spring and Summer proved a busy time for the soldiers of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment. Easy Company—alongside most of their fellow combat units—spent most of their time running field maneuvers and extended navigational training throughout the backcountry of Tennessee and Kentucky. They tromped through the brush, camped under the shingle oaks, and crossed fallen log bridges over streams in single file, all the while migrating through the near-wilderness. They spent two weeks out there while their superiors (and the aides of those superiors) relocated the regiment's operations to Camp Breckenridge, the base that Easy was aiming for and would eventually conclude this part of their training. Since Harley was in the unique situation of playing half-soldier, half-civilian, she remained behind with Colonel Sink and his staff; to say she was unproductive in those two weeks would be quite a misconception.

Camp Breckenridge felt awfully empty when they first arrived, an impression that lingered until the combat companies finally began to turn up. Harley spent most of her time on the first day helping to unpack and set up operations across the base, but that was done by nightfall. The next day proved equally as tedious. She spent most of the time photographing the May buds proudly flowering in the June sun, but even that could not keep her occupied or entertained for longer than a day. The third day passed in excessive ennui; by the afternoon, Harley had given up her camera and resorted to the unthinkable: playing cards with Captain Sobel. That venture did not last long (the captain, predictably, was a sore loser), and Harley, seeking alleviation from her boredom, sought out Colonel Sink. His suggestion was to volunteer her services in the Intelligence office, but she knew that would mean endless paperwork, so she told the colonel as cordially as she could that she'd rather throw herself off a cliff—and that gave her a brilliant idea. Sink was puzzled at first, but she managed to talk him around to the notion, and early the next morning, Harley could be found standing at attention before 1st Sgt. Evans, eager to begin her inaugural day of jump training.

Easy Company came back on a Tuesday. Harley (who had just concluded a very special meeting with Colonel Sink) saw the first of them emerging from the trees through the second-story window and ran down to meet them. She must have shaken a hundred hands before she got to Bill's, and when she did, he didn't waste a moment before sweeping her into a crushing hug.

"Christ, sweetheart, where you been?"

"Right here, where else?" she replied, already grinning. "You should see the flowers outside Sink's office, Bill, they're really somethin'."

He made a face. "Two weeks an' the first thing you tell me is I gotta see some flowers?"

Harley laughed, smoothing down his greasy hair. "You sure could use some flowers. You smell like sweat and dirt and campfire smoke."

"So what you're sayin' is I smell sexy."

"Mmm..." 

She pretended to consider but broke when he winked at her, smirking like an ass. Stepping back, she pushed at his chest and scrunched up her nose.

"Go take a shower!"

"Rude," he grumbled. "No 'welcome back' kiss or nothin'."

Harley considered going after him to peck his cheek, but she knew she'd have all the time in the world to do that once he'd cleaned up, so she waited. Still, she kept glancing after him, and after a few seconds, she turned and cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Hey, Bill?"

"Yeah?" he shouted back, pivoting to face her with that crooked grin of his that always seemed to get her heart skipping to and fro. One of his buddies made sure he didn't bump into anyone as he walked backward, and he beamed as he awaited what she had to say.

"Don't tell anybody," she hollered, making sure everybody heard, "but I missed you, too!"

Bill could handle any and all of the ribbing his buddies threw his way, knowing that.

Thirty minutes later, scrubbed free of the woods and the wetland, Bill led the charge back to the barracks. With stomachs rumbling and heads turning eagerly towards the mess hall, they hurried to claim their bunks and dump their belongings before rushing off to dinner. Joking and knocking each other about (as usual), the group was loud as they came down the row of cabins, but Bill was uncharacteristically reserved. He could hear something the others could not, and as he came up the steps to his platoon's lodgings, he came to a full stop just outside the door.

"What the fuck, Guarno-"

"Shaddup."

They heard it too, then, and quieted. Someone was whistling up a storm inside the cabin. Everyone knew the swing tune—you had to if you listened to the radio even a little bit—but to hear the trumpet melody whistled in its entirety without a single missed note or beat was something spectacular. It didn't last long, unfortunately, for as the men crowded around Bill to see who was performing so marvelously, Harley caught wind of the commotion. Seeing them all staring at her, the melody died right off her lips. She stood up from where she was making the last bed, and as she went pink in the face, she let the pillow slide from her hands onto the mattress.

"Sorry."

"Sorry?" Bill scoffed, marching into the room. "Sweetheart, I ain't never heard somebody whistle like that. Nobody."

Harley blinked, fiddling with the brass ring on her thumb.

"Is that a good-"

"Yes!" chorused the entirety of the group, looking up at her from wherever they'd scattered to deposit their packs and caps.

"Oh. Well, thanks."

"O' course," Bill chuckled, prepping to up his flirting game, but Skip Muck interrupted before he could get another word in.

"You got anything else in your wheelhouse, Kicks? Other than 'Tuxedo Junction', I mean."

"Jesus, Muck-"

"No, it's fine." Harley considered. "I can do 'Frenesi', how 'bout that?" 

Muck's approval was clear; as he lit up like a Christmas tree, Harley dutifully began whistling. Muck, meanwhile, grabbed Donald Malarkey's hand and dragged him into a dance, to the amusement of all. Once the song concluded and applause was parroted around the room, Bill turned to Harley to tell her she should've been a songbird in another life, but then he noticed something he hadn't before and forgot what he'd been about to say.

"Fuckin' hell, shutterbug, ya didn't think to mention those?!"

"What?" she looked down at her chest and grinned. "Oh, you mean these?"

As she smoothed her thumb over her shiny new jump wings, Bill surged forward, and she hardly had time to drop her hand before he threw his arms around her. This time, his hug was meant to pick her up and twirl her around, and she laughed and laughed, appreciating him ever the more. His hair was messy from the shower; when she ruffled it as he set her back down, she caught a whiff of soap and a little bit of pine. She liked it. She went in to kiss his cheek but didn't get the chance before a well-meaning Muck tore her away, avidly shaking her hand. Most of the men had already left for dinner, but those who were left gathered 'round to congratulate her the same. George Luz declared jovially that she was really a part of Easy now; though he teased, Bill and a few others (namely Malarkey, Bull Randleman, and Johnny Martin) could tell Harley was genuinely touched.

"That's one helluva high note to end the day on," Muck said, and Luz laughed.

"But we've still got dinner!"

They raced each other out the door, the others following at various speeds, and Randleman turned in the doorway to tip his head at Harley.

"You two comin'?" Johnny asked, flicking his cap to buff it out. "I'm not savin' you a spot if you're late."

"Oh, c'mon, Johnny-"

"You snooze, you lose, Gonorrhea."

"Fuck you," Bill groused, but Johnny, smirking, gave no response and followed Bull out.

"Bill-"

"What?"

Harley grabbed for the comb Bill was yanking through his tangled hair. He lifted it out of her reach. She jumped again, but he kept the comb away, smiling curiously at her wanting.

"Lemme-"

"What?"

"You're gonna break it, lemme try."

Bill snorted and went back to his task, telling her he was just fine. Less than half a minute passed before he swore and threw the comb. Harley caught it in midair and shot him a peeved look, and he wilted.

"Damn thing makes the tangles worse," he grumbled as she marched over, stool in hand, and when she ordered him to sit, he held his tongue.

"You're awfully stubborn, you know that?"

"Hmph."

A few seconds of silence passed. Harley began to whistle again, and that, combined with the soothing sweep of her hands and the comb through his hair, all but forced Bill to ease up. The rigors of the last two weeks were starting to catch up to him. His shoulders slackened, he leaned back slightly against her legs, and when he yawned, he heard her giggle.

"Better?"

"Better."

She was almost done with the tangles, magician that she was, and Bill was truly grateful for the help. Still, he was glad none of the guys had stuck around to see this—he'd never live it down.

"I'm taking you out to dinner tonight."

"What?"

She repeated herself, and Bill scoffed.

"Ain't it my job to take you out?"

"Well," she replied, sounding a little put-off, "you owe me a second date, and there's no way I'm makin' you go bike racing again after two weeks in the woods-"

Bill would have ridden that motorcycle all night if it meant freeing her from the anxiety creeping into her voice.

"-so we're going out to dinner, so there."

Before he could think better of it, he turned around and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his face into her stomach.

"You're an angel, you know that?"

Harley's blush deepened. She ran her hand through his hair affectionately. Her fingers felt nice, catching on no tangles, and Bill had to stifle a sigh of satisfaction. He got up and went around to his pack a few bunks over, and Harley watched him, frowning.

"Where're you goin'?"

"To get my tie." He flashed a grin over his shoulder. "Ya think if I rented a tux I'd be too overdressed?"

"Definitely," she laughed nervously, "why?"

"I gotta spruce up if my girl's takin' me out."

Realizing her assumption had been wrong—that he was, for some ugly reason, offended at the notion of her being the one to take them out—she visibly relaxed, and, in turn, buoyed Bill's spirits.

"Your girl, huh? Since when?"

He shrugged, still poking through his pack. 

"I'm workin' on it."

Harley tried to bite back a smile to no avail, then hid it behind her fingers.

"Working, huh?"

"Yeah." He flashed her that cheeky grin of his, tie now in hand. "How'm I doin', boss?"

"I think I could see you getting that kind o' promotion sometime soon."

Apparently, he hadn't expected her honesty, and she was duly rewarded for it by the hope leaping through his eyes. She hid her hands behind her back to hide how they'd started shaking when he nuzzled his face into her stomach and mustered a smile. Bill returned it as he made quick work of his tie, and they proceeded out the door side by side.

"Where we goin'?"

"Dinner."

He chuckled. "Any place specific?"

"You'll see."

There she went, back to her mystifying self. Bill was starting to suspect that obscurity was the shield she put up around her heart and not a peculiar facet of her personality.

"Are we takin' Puck?"

"Nope," she replied, popping the 'p', "we're takin' a jeep."

"Oh, yeah? How'd you work that one out?"

Harley grinned. As soon as they were around the corner onto the less-populated road, she grabbed his hand and held on.

"First Sergeant Evans' owes me the keys. Beat 'im in a poker game and now he owes me the keys for a night."

Bill whistled his wonderment.

"Goddamn, sweetheart, remind me never to bet against you."

“You wouldn’t, anyway.”

He couldn’t help a small smirk—she was right on the money.

"Oh-" She smirked. "-and I beat Sobel, too."

Bill almost stopped in the middle of the road. Harley giggled and tugged him along, and he stared at her with comically wide eyes.

"You did fuckin' what?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[dameronology]

love in a time of p.t.a. meetings {marcus moreno} - 5/5

v summary: you hadn’t expected to find anything at a stupid p.t.a. meeting - but somehow, you found everything {series masterlist} 

warnings: swearing, one very mild innuendo 

there’s a long message at the end but...this is the last official part and i’m very sad about it. with that said, i hope you enjoy❤️

- j

Being a parent was tiring.

So much so that you hadn’t even made it to bed last night.

In fact, none of you had. The entire household was slumped together on the sofa; Marcus was in the middle, with one arm wrapped around Missy on his left side and the other stretched across you and Jack on his right. You’d completely flopped into his chest, with your kid passed out on you in a similar manner. The dogs (plural - but more on that later) were both stretched across the four of you on your laps, snoozing quietly. It had been a long week, clearly; between the school year coming to an end and the hot weather, you were all worn out. It had been a rush of finishing up projects at school, evenings in the pool and ordering take out. Marcus had been working late and your cooking skills were...well, calling them skills was an overstatement in itself. 

You grumbled slightly as you woke - why the fuck did your neck ache so bad? Right, because you’d fallen asleep tilted sideways. You probably would have stayed passed out for hours more if it hadn’t been for the sunlight streaming through the blinds. The TV ahead of you had stopped now, displaying an are you still watching Friends? message. You’d started watching it at what...six o clock the night before? 

Rubbing your bleary eyes, you sat up. Instead of waking up, Jack simply flopped into your lap, clearly not phased by the sudden movement other than letting out a tiny oof! as he fell. The kid had fallen asleep on the log flumes at Coney Island, so really, it wasn’t a surprise. Plus, him waking up would mean having to get up and make breakfast, which you really weren’t ready for just yet. 

‘D’you know what day it is today?’ Marcus quietly muttered. 

‘One year.’ You peered up at him, a sleepy smile spreading across your face.

‘So where the hell do you think you’re going?’ He pulled you back towards him, broad arm wrapping around your shoulders to trap you against his chest. ‘Happy one year, baby.’

‘Happy one year.’ You leant up to a soft kiss to his lips. 

You stayed like that for a minute, head resting against Marcus as you gently ran a hand through Jack’s hair. It was sort of a moment of...reflection. A lot had changed in the last year and yet somehow, it felt like your life had always been like this. The four of you have had gelled together into a slightly chaotic but ever-loving entity and you loved it. With the combined antics of your energetic children, everything was in disarray practically all the time but you wouldn’t have changed it for the world. It had been the thing you’d had all along and the very thing that Marcus had been looking for; you had been the one to bring it into his life and he had been the one to teach you to appreciate it. 

The two dogs had brought a lot of chaos into your lives as well. After weeks of Missy and Jack insisting that the garden was too big for just Optimus Prime, you’d ended up traipsing to the dog shelter late on a Saturday afternoon. Bumblebee had become a valued member of the Moreno family within a matter of hours. 

‘I love you.’ You murmured. You could feel yourself getting sleepy again. 

‘I love you more.’

‘No, you don’t.’ You pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

‘At least that’s the only fight we’ve had over the last year.’ He reasoned. ‘What time d’we have to be at cook out?’

‘Twelve.’ You replied. Glancing at the screen of your dying Apple watch, you squinted at the screen. ‘It’s just gone eight.’

Every year, the PTA threw a cook out on the school field to celebrate the end of the semester. In previous years, you’d avoided it like the plague but this year you were actually excited. The last one had been in the very early stages of your relationship, and you and Marcus weren’t publicly showing affection when you’d been. There had been a lot of lingering glances across the field and knowing looks at one another but this time, you were solid. Everyone knew they were together and like hell where they gonna say things about you when you were with Marcus Moreno. Whether it’s because they’d suddenly got a newfound respect for you or because they were scared into silence by his reputation, you didn’t know, but you weren’t going to complain.

‘Do you want breakfast, hermosa?’ He asked.

‘Yeah, I’ll help-’

Having heard the b-word, Jack suddenly shot up. He was six now (too old, in your book) and just as much of a tiny, evil genius as ever. He’d upgraded from a Chewbacca onesie to an Ewok onesie, so that was something too, and you were proud of him. 

‘- what’s for breakfast?!’ He demanded. ‘I want waffles.’

‘Then waffles we shall have.’ You stood up, sticking your hand out to him. ‘What about you two?’

‘I want waffles.’ Missy sleepily murmured.

Jack followed you through to the kitchen, swiping his iPad off the side as he did. Despite the fact you’d put it in a nuclear bomb proof case, he’d still managed to crack the screen. There had also been at least five occasions where he’d tried to take it in the pool. And this was the same kid who’d insisted he was responsible enough for his own hamster. 

Marcus breezed into the kitchen a few moments later, pressing a kiss to your cheek and ruffling Jack’s hair as he went by. You heard him rustling around behind you for a few minutes whilst you prepared the food; he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He placed a terribly wrapped gift on the counter in front of you, head coming to rest on your shoulder. 

‘Happy anniversary, baby.’ He murmured.

‘Hey.’ You dropped the knife you were holding, turning around to face him. ‘You didn’t have to get me anything.’

‘I know we said we wouldn’t do presents but since you got me a present last night and-’

‘- Marcus!’ You clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘There is a child in the room.’

‘He has his headphones in!’ He protested. ‘Just open it, please?’

‘Of course.’ You smiled. 

‘Jack even helped me wrap it.’ He said. ‘And decorate it.’ 

‘That would explain a lot.’ You replied.

Pulling the paper off it, you felt your heart drop in your chest when you saw what it was. 

It was a bright red photo with random doodles in puffy paint; the photo itself was one of you and Jack from when you’d all gone to New York for the weekend a few months previous. You were stood on top of the Rockerfeller Centre, the Empire State in the distance behind you and Jack on your shoulders. You were both grinning despite how windy it was, and his hat had blown off seconds after the photo was taken.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t - ah, dammit.

‘I love it.’ You tried to keep your voice steady, but it wobbled despite your efforts. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’ He flashed you a lopsided grin, pressing another kiss to your forehead. ‘I figured we could hang it up in place of the one he managed to smash last week with the broom stick.’

(He’d recently watched Harry Potter. Don’t ask.) 

‘Of course.’ You gave him one last kiss, before heading over to the empty space on the wall. It fit perfectly in the space, right between the photo of Marcus and Missy, and the sign that said 0 days since Jack’s last incident.

---

Four hours later, and after consuming enough waffles to feed a small army, the four of you finally reached the school. Both of the kids seemed excited to see their friends, but you were a little nervous.  What if people asked questions about you and Marcus? About your divorce? Or Jack’s behaviour, or whether or not-

‘You okay, baby?’ Marcus had suddenly appeared beside you, an arm coming around your waist. You’d been stood on the sidelines of the football field for way longer than you realised. ‘You’ve got eyes like dinner plates.’

‘I don’t know how to interact with these people.’ You murmured back. ‘They’re all...you know.’

‘They’re all what?’

‘Perfect. And shiny.’ You huffed. ‘Look at their cars! There’s not a dent in sight. And their kids aren’t wearing an Ewok onesie to a cook-out in July.’

‘I think Jack is admirable for embracing his unique sense of fashion.’ You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. ‘C’mon! They’re gonna run out of food if you keep longingly staring at their minivans.’

‘You’re right.’ You stumbled slightly as he dragged your hand, pulling you towards the crowd in the middle of the field.

‘I mean if you want a minivan, we can get one.’

‘Moving to the suburbs was already a big deal for me.’ You grumbled. 

Marcus continued to laugh, pulling you closer into his side as you reached the other parents. 

Naturally, he immediately jumped into conversation about one of the other dads with...actually, you weren’t really paying attention. You switched off as soon as you heard the word football. One thing you did notice, however, was his ability to be completely and entirely charming with anyone. You lacked that, normally shying away from talking to strangers. Especially strangers who had previously cast you out for being a single parent and constantly given you the side-eye. The only reason they’d stopped was because you and Marcus were together now.

You tried to remind yourself that it didn’t matter, that their thoughts and feelings weren’t relevant. They shouldn’t have been. You had the best guy in the world by your side and two amazing kids. The people most important to you were the ones whose opinions mattered - and they all thought the world of you. Marcus loved and supported you unconditionally, and Missy thought you were a bad-ass. Jack, though probably a little bias, thought you were the best parent in the world. That was what counted. 

But still, you couldn’t help but feel a little angry. You’d worked your ass off to get where you were, to raise your kid and make him a semi functional human being. You’d single-handedly kept a roof over both of your heads and provided for your family, even when you’d been married to a dead beat husband. 

Things were different now; brighter, happier, filled with more dogs and more love than you could ever have imagined. You didn’t want to linger in the past, not when everything else was moving forward. If anything, being here had just solidified your faith in your relationship. If all you wanted to do was go home and be alone with your partner, then that was a sure sign. 

‘Mum!’ You heard Jack from across the field. ‘Can you get my football out the car?’

‘Duty calls.’ You finally spoke. Marcus had noted how quiet you were, having made a mental note to bring it up later. ‘I’ll be back in a second.’

‘Okay, baby.’ He pressed a kiss to your check. 

The sun beat down on your back as you trudged across the field, Doc Martens kicking up grass around you. Your outfit was cute at least; a pair of denim shorts and an old tank top with one of your boyfriend’s plaid shirts thrown over the top. You hadn’t even realised it was his until the lingering smell of aftershave hit your nostrils when you got in the car. After that, there was no way in hell you were taking it off.

The car park was around the corner from the field -- it was nice to get away for a minute. Even though you’d simply stood beside Marcus like an older man’s sidepiece at a business meeting, just being in the presence of the people and listening to them talk about their kids was exhausting. At least he had been good at pretending to be interested in their sugar free diets and screen time limitations and how their French lessons were going. You, meanwhile, hadn’t even tried to look like it piqued your fancy. You’d been half-tempted to put your sunglasses on so they couldn’t see you roll your eyes. 

Pulling Marcus’ car-keys out your pocket, you opened the boot and began to rifle around. His car was a thousand times more put together than yours, but it still accumulated a bunch of crap. 

You jumped backwards when you heard the gravel crunch behind you. 

Glancing over your shoulder, your eyes fell on Carol. It had been a while since you’d last seen her, but she looked a little worst for wear. What’s more was that she had a cigarette between her lips, despite being the one to run the entire school’s anti-smoking campaign.

‘I didn’t know you smoked.’ You commented, catching her attention as you slammed the boot shut. 

‘Oh!’ She jumped, quickly throwing it onto the floor.

‘Hey, I’m not bothered.’ You leant against the back of the car. ‘A lot of people do it.’

‘I don’t normally.’ She stamped on the remains to put it out, dusting off her bright pink work-out jacket. ‘I’ve just been stressed lately.’

‘Are you okay?’ You raised an eyebrow at her.

‘I’m fine.’ 

You tossed the football between your hands, giving her a nod. ‘If you’re sure.’

With that, you locked the car and began to make your way back towards the cook-out. If you could wear Jack out by playing with him all afternoon, then you might be able to catch some peace and quiet that evening. Then, you and Marcus could celebrate your first anniversary by ordering take out and watching Friends.

(Which is ironically, what you’d done for the last four nights).

‘Y’know, I’ve always been jealous of you.’ You froze when Carol called after you.

‘What?!’ You turned around to face her, confusion etched on your features. ‘Are you talking to someone else, or?..’

‘No, I’m talking to you.’ She muttered. 

‘Why me? I thought you hated me?’

‘Because I was jealous of you.’ She said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

‘Carol, you’re the perfect one here. You’re married to your high school sweetheart, you’ve got a big-ass house - with a gate! - and your kids are perfectly well behaved. And you drive a fucking minivan!’

‘Oh, please.’ She groaned, falling back against the nearest car. ‘My husband is married to his job and my kids are more interested in their iPads than me!’ 

‘So’s mine-’

‘- you’ve always provided for yourself.’ She continued, cutting you off. ‘Always put your kid first and just did what was best for you without worrying what anyone else thought. That’s..admirable.’

‘Thanks?’ You furrowed your brow. ‘I never really gave it that much thought.’

‘I never thought I’d wish for your life.’ She muttered. 

You gently approached her, placing a hand on her shoulder. With caution, obviously. You know that she had a tendency to be vicious and bite. Like a chihuahua. 

‘My life isn’t perfect.’ You said softly. ‘There’s a difference between happiness and perfect. And if you keep trying for perfect, you’ll never be happy.’

‘That’s deep.’

‘Actually, it’s a quote that you shared on Facebook.’ You snorted. ‘You just gotta appreciate what’s around you. Your house, your kids, your husband.’

‘Maybe you’re right.’ Carol nodded. ‘You’re a good parent. A good person. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel less than that.’

‘I mean...you were an asshole, I won’t lie. You’re nosey as fuck and you got involved with my kid, but I’d probably be doing the same if I wasn’t satisfied with my life.’ 

Okay, so you didn’t mean for that to sound so rude, but who could blame you? The woman had given you nothing but crap. You’d already felt bad for her, but now you felt worst.

‘C’mon.’ You stuck your hand out to her. ‘You have two lovely daughters and a husband waiting for you back on the field....you family waiting for you back on the field.’

Dragging Carol off of the car, you dusted off her arms and forced a smile. It didn’t make you happy that she was miserable, but at least offered an explanation for her behaviour. The fact she’d envied you this entire time didn’t make up for what she’d done - the rumours the spread, the things she said - but it at least helped soothe you a little bit. 

‘Can we be friends?’ She asked quietly, traipsing beside you. 

‘...maybe in a few years.’ 

---

As it turned out, Jack did not pass out early. Instead, the four of you ended up having another night on the sofa -- this time with an extra large pizza, just to celebrate the special night. 

Your head had been spinning since your conversation with Carol. You were glad you finally had closure on the whole thing, but it had completely fried your circuits. She was the queen of the hive, the perfect mum, the perfect wife. Her kids wore matching outfits to school and they never had a hair out of place. Her Facebook was filled with family photos of their international vacations and outings to all their activities. Was she not the blue print?

It made you take a step back and look at your own life, which was something you hadn’t done in a while. In fact, last time you’d done it, you realised you’d weren’t happy with your ex-husband. 

Now, it was the opposite. You were in love with somebody who was better than you could have ever imagined; he wasn’t perfect - he snored and he never did the dishes and he always forgot to put the bins out - but he was everything to you. You had a kid who, although was undeniably a tiny meddler, you loved with your whole heart. You had Missy, who had welcomed you into her life with open arms and embraced the chaos you brought. You had dogs, and a house with a fucking garden. 

You didn’t blame Carol for being jealous because, even though it was from perfect, you didn’t need it to be. You had everything you ever wanted and heck, you would have been jealous of it too if it wasn’t completely and entirely yours. 

For the first time all day, you finally had a moment to yourself. You were stretched out across the couch, feet propped up on a pile of cushions; Marcus’ shirt was still on, only now you had changed out your shorts for leggings and your boots for socks fluffy enough to be dangerous on the wooden floors. 

‘Hey, baby.’ Marcus quietly greeted you, shutting the living room door behind him. ‘Kids are asleep.’

You gave him a doubtful look. ‘Even Jack?’

‘Okay - Missy is asleep and Jack is on his iPad.’

You opened your arms to him, grinning. ‘I’ll take it.’

Marcus dropped onto the sofa, an equally big smile falling onto his face as you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down to kiss you. He wound both of his around your waist, lifting you off of the couch and into his lap. It always reminded you of when you’d kissed on your first date -- it seemed like worlds away now. 

‘Has it really been a year?’ You murmured softly, resting your forehead against his.

‘Yeah.’ He shyly smiled at you. ‘I don’t know how I got so lucky.’

‘We both got lucky.’ You reminded him. ‘I got lucky that Carol guilt-tripped me into that fucking meeting.’

‘And I got lucky that you were the person I chose to victimise with my small talk.’ He chuckled. ‘You know you’re my whole fucking heart, right?’

‘Yeah.’ You slowly nodded. ‘And you’re mine.’

You’d completely changed each other’s lives - blown them apart, and used the tiny pieces to rebuild everything back into one. Neither of you had even been looking and you’d still managed to find one another. You’d been hurt before and he’d been patient. He’d lost a lot before and you helped him find it again. What he lacked, you had. What you lacked, he had. 

Above all, Marcus had embraced what everybody seemed to encourage; he saw value in the things you’d been insecure about and when he fell in love with him, so did you. In return, you brought an energy and light to his life that he didn’t even know he needed.  In one another, you found unconditional love and support, and a feeling of security that you’d both lacked for so long.

This was it. And it was everything . 

--

OKAY i’m actually so sad this story is over -- i’ve written over the course of maybe 2 weeks but when i TELL YOU i have become so attached? u better believe it. if you check out the series masterlist, you’ll see that there’s a few little fics i’m gonna write to fill in the gaps that were in the time skips between chapters, so that’s still something to look forward to!

thank so so so much for all your support on this series; it’s been so much fun to write & your comments are what encouraged me to finish it so quickly. 

- jamie xx 

taglist: taglist: @naivara-duneimith @1-2-3-4-5metalfingers @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @phoenixhalliwell @crazycookiecrumbles @bitchin-beskar @comphersjost @absurdthirst @mjby @parkjammys @kteague @katdante @vonschweetz @cyarikashakira​ @mrsparknuts​ @starryeyedstories​ 

[strangerquinns]

I love Jersey Gray fluff !! How about y/n is crying over something and Gray comes in after building outside and he kneels down infront of her and wipes her tears and then kisses all over her face making her giggle and he’s happy that he can make her smile

You were coming to the end of college and finally have a graduation date. The pressure was on in your final months and you were feeling it. It seemed that the hardest was at the end for you and you could feel the cracks showing with each passing week. Grayson could see that you were stressed and thought a little time in Jersey would do you both some good. You’d fallen in love with his hometown, loving it almost as much as him. And it worked for the first few days, till your midterm was posted. 

You’d snuck away from Grayson, who was out back building something for his mom, leaving him distracted. Grayson said that this was a “school free” week, but you couldn't help yourself. You needed to see how you did. The test was a large percentage of your grade and you were barely passing as it is. You grabbed your phone and took a seat in the living room and logged in. 

You could feel your heart beating wildly in your chest as your eyes scanned over the screen before it sunk deep into your gut. The moment you saw the “D-” you felt your stomach twist and a nauseous feeling coming over you. The cracks finally gave and your hand began to shake as tears streamed down your cheeks. It was from the stress and pressure of everything that made you crumble. You set your phone off to the side as you dropped your head into your hands and cried heavily. 

Grayson looked up and around and noticed that you hadn’t come back. He saw you leave and assumed you’d gone to get water or maybe the bathroom. But you’d been gone for a while, and something within him told him something was wrong. Grayson liked to think that he was connected to you and knew any time you were in distress. He set his tools down before heading into the house, feeling some relief into the coolness of the house as he stepped in through the back. The moment Grayson walked from the kitchen and into the hallway that leads towards the front of the house, he could hear your sniffles.

When Grayson turned the corner and rushed to kneel down in front of you. You jumped slightly when you felt his touch on your knee. Your face was red and wet with tears, Grayson reached forward and quickly began to wipe your tears. 

“Baby, why are you crying?” Grayson asked with his voice laced with concern.

“I-I...I looked at my t-test” You cried as his thumb moved along your cheek and wiped your tears away.

Grayson frowned, he wasn’t even mad that you broke the small oath to not look at or deal with school. He was more concerned with the fact that you were upset and crying before you. 

“I’m so sorry, but you're only halfway through the semester and you have so much time to make up for it!” He caressed your cheek and had you look down towards him as you tried to shy away from his gaze. But your forlorn face didn’t change. “Come on baby girl, smile for me.”

When your face didn’t change, he moved to kiss along your cheeks over and over, switching to kiss all over your face. Soon a small giggle started to sound for you as his beard tickled along your face. You reached out and grabbed his face to stop him, a smile bright and wide across your face.

“There’s that beautiful smile,” Grayson smiled before leaning forward and kissing you deeply, making a warm feeling spread across your chest. 

[xviruserrorx]

Title: "Turn Off The Lights, I'm In Love"

For Day one of @camelove and for @merlinbingo and day nine of @fluffbruary as well! 😃

Fandom: BBC Merlin

Prompt(s): "OTP", I5 "Breakfast", " Poppy"

Relationship: Mordred/Daegal, Mordred & Daegal (can be read however!)

Rating: Gen

Word count: 2,335

"Did you mean what you said last night?"

Mordred's expression softened, "I always mean every word I say to you."

"I know just…" Daegal opened and closed his mouth with an ache in his throat.

How can you love me?

Continue reading below over on Ao3

With the start of the day, the sky was overcast a milky blue with a tinge of grey on the edges. The air held a subtle crispness that lingered on the skin and on his breath. So much so, Daegal found himself catching his cloak as Merlin tossed it to him on his way out the door.

All of Camelot was still fast asleep aside from the few servants that roamed the halls with platters, clothes, and pots full of warm rocks. The sun had yet to come out of the clouds and illuminate to its full potential across the sky. Leaving the few chirps of the waking birds and falling leaves that scratched against the incoming breeze like a ripple of applause, the only prominent noise.

His footsteps echoed as they pounded down against the stone in rapid succession. He caught the only pair of open windows by the edge of his sight, briefly turning and leaving a glance before he continued running.

Once loud steps became dampened by the forest ground, every so often being caught in the splash of a puddle caused by the downpour of the night before. He jumped over small streams, pushed past bushes, ducked under vines and branches. He lined up his feet, one behind the other as he balanced along a fallen log over a shallow river.

His destination was met at the other side, in the calmness of a memory and ghost presence before being plucked from the earth. Gathered in a fond grip of a blood-red feathery silk touch. The traces of the forests followed back over stone grounds once again and into the castle.

The hustle slowly became more and more as others awoke. Missed platters and wine-filled decanters were ducked under as he finally reached the kitchens where the platter was. Topped with fruits, bread, meats, and cheeses; he placed his items in hand beside the assortment of food as he dodged and made his way out of the kitchen

Knocking was long forgotten as he pushed open the familiar door and saw the comforting sight. Windows from earlier laid open as Mordred peered out them from the ledge. His attention was caught on the open book in his lap, though it quickly switched to Daegal as he entered and set down the platter on the table.

Mordred smiled, "You really don't have to do this every morning." He stood up with his book in hand.

Daegal shrugged his shoulders, "I enjoy it." He popped a couple of grapes into his mouth and sat down at the table, "besides, it's my excuse to see you every morning."

His hair was ruffled as Mordred passed by, the book set down as he stared down what was beside the platter. "Poppies." He picked one up, bringing it up to smell it before he admired it once again.

"I'll put them in some water." Daegal got up and quickly replaced the flower's in a vase on Mordred's desk from the day before with the fresh red ones. Yellow daisies had occupied the previous day with one being snatched away and kept by Mordred. And the day before held its own unique pick of flowers, as did all the days before.

"Thank you." The platter was pushed more towards Daegal as he sat back down.

He plucked another grape off the vine and into his mouth as he tilted his head at Mordred's book laying on the table. "New book?" He questioned. He grabbed it and quickly realized it was indeed new from the few pages marked that were read.

Mordred nodded, "You would like it, I'll read some of it to you tonight?" His words ended with a raised eyebrow giving Daegal his own choice to make.

He flipped through a couple of the pages seeing only blocks of text that just looking at them lost his interest. He shook his head and passed the book back with a scrunched up nose.

"Bring your normal book then," Mordred chuckled, "we'll read that."

And as Mordred said, he kept to his word. Daegal returned as normal back to Mordred's chambers that evening with the book in hand. A collection of short fables that Geoffrey had given him one of the times when he helped every so often in the library.

Dinner was had there as he didn't stay with Merlin for the meal before he became engrossed in the book in wait. Tucked into Mordred's side in his bed as he was told of splendours unheard of. Story after story, many told from previous nights before, were revisited in fragments. His excitement started high before turning in contentment, somewhere which he felt safe and allowed his eyes to droop close as Mordred's words blurred into something soothing that lulled him to sleep.

A few more seconds of bliss passed before the short story came to its moral ending. Mordred ended it in a soft The End muttered as he saw Daegal's sleeping state. His arm now stuck with his refusal to move Daegal, the few flickering candles were put out with a quick spell of magic. The book was softly closed and put aside, while he pulled the covers up and over both of them as he situated himself as carefully as possible.

He let a few seconds linger with his hand busy moving Daegal's hair from his face before he softly pressed his lips to his forehead.

"I love you," he said. There was a soft whine in response that he lightly chuckled and took as his answer.

Daegal shifted, his head tucked under Mordred's chin and arms scrunched up with hands balled in Mordred's nightshirt. Safety allowed as arms wrapped around him and pulled him closer for deep slumber.

They both woke as normal; Mordred up far too early for Daegal's liking as the knight quietly had escaped to the window sill edge with a book in hand once again. Daegal was behind a few hours as he was greeted with a soft good morning before heading to the physicians' chambers to let Merlin know he was okay.

Though all through getting changed into clean clothes and forced to stay to eat breakfast, he found himself thinking of Mordred's words the night before. Words that he found sounded foreign in Mordred's and Merlin's mouths when spoken to him despite all meaning and intention present.

"Merlin?"

"Hm?" The older man hummed through a mouthful of food.

He pushed his food back and forth around his bowl as he pressed his lips tight together.

Merlin stopped as he swallowed and focused all his attention on him. "What's wrong, Daegal?"

Daegal let the spoon rest in his bowl and his figure slouched as he took a deep breath. "Why do you say you love me?"

Eyebrows furrowed as sympathy laid in Merlin's expression. "Because I do."

"But why do you say it?"

Merlin cleared his throat as he reached across the small table and covered one of Daegal's hands with his, "I want you to know I do, Daegal. Sometimes people worry when you don't know these things."

He almost hated the sombre look Merlin was giving him, the one he often got when he asked certain questions. Things he felt he should know or understand but didn't.

"Just me saying it isn't the only way for you to know though," he continued. "Everything, all the little things like this," he gestured to their breakfast and his hand over his, "are also ways to show that you care and love others."

A small smile slowly climbed on his face as he nodded.

Merlin returned the smile, "Why do you ask?"

How can you love me? He wanted to ask. How can Mordred? He shook his head as he returned to his breakfast with a concealing smile, "no reason."

He lied through his teeth with a heavy heart. A content okay returned from Merlin made him swallow hard through a forced smile.

He abandoned the rest of his breakfast after a few bites so Merlin wouldn't bother him about eating. The sun told him to hurry as he found what he needed all in time as he made his way back to Mordred's chambers.

Once blood-red flowers were replaced in a quick manner before Mordred had to rush out of his chambers clad in chainmail and armour. Blue Cornflowers sprouted from Daegal's hands as he held them out, catching Mordred momentarily off guard. One was plucked from his hands with a quick thank you and a bashful smile before a billowing red was the last thing he saw.

Mordred's words replayed in his head and intermingled with Merlin's as well as his own thoughts. What they meant tangled with what he thought they meant, nothing exactly clear in the end.

His prior sleepiness of the night before led him to believe it was just the beginning of a dream but a part of him knew that wasn't true. He tried to keep his head down throughout the day, contemplating things he tried hard to understand and find a meaning to. Yet his coyness to act okay but hidden at the same time soon came to its fault.

"What's wrong?"

His head snapped to where Mordred was changing out of his armour from training behind the screen. The rustling came to a stop as Daegal sat up from where he was laying on the ground by the fireplace.

"What?"

"What's wrong?" Mordred walked out. "You've been quiet all day, you're never this quiet. Well… at least with me." He closed the distance and slipped his palm over his forehead, "You don't feel warm or look ill for that matter."

Daegal shook his head, "none of that."

A grimace appeared on Mordred's face as he kneeled to the floor, "what's wrong then?"

He shrugged, "just…" he couldn't put together the right thoughts and words to say how he was feeling. He fidgeted his fingers before looking Mordred straight on, "Did you mean what you said last night?"

There was a momentary blank before what Daegal was talking about resurfaced. Mordred's expression softened, "I always mean every word I say to you." He spoke in surety.

"I know just…" Daegal opened and closed his mouth with an ache in his throat.

"People do love and care about you, Daegal," Mordred said. "Me included. And just because I say things doesn't mean you ever have to say them back, okay?"

To say words in their full nakedness and honesty, with nowhere to hide, scared him. But not knowing another's honesty scared him even more. He knew every word Mordred spoke, he knew the compassion that laced his voice, that lingered in echoes even long gone to be unheard of. Yet to fathom genuineness of actions and words for only himself, he didn't want to.

He nodded his head, "Okay…"

The night came quickly as he found himself sitting in front of the same fire from hours before. Though the night brought its chill, making the stone floor colder than before as he opted for the chair rather than the floor. The crackling filled the air along with the soft brush of pages from Mordred's book.

Every few minutes, despite his lulling eyelids, they would flutter back open with every flick of a new set of pages. He tried the comfort in the lone fire but couldn't without hearing of Mordred's presence. Even when the pages closed and the rustle of the bedclothes followed, bare feet met the cold floors in a sultry longing that made Daegal smile at the uncommon habit.

A soft bout of silence lingered between a small thump of the book returning to its rightful place and the warm arms that wrapped around him.

"You should get to bed, it's late." Soft words were muttered as he tried to regain some semblance of consciousness. The billowy light sleeves from Mordred's tunic tickled his bare skin, almost mocking his night tone of voice.

"I can always stay here?" He muttered, lifting his head as Mordred's arms left with more pattering of his feet. He heard the sheets flourish and hit the air, a small quick breath before they landed softly in silence.

"I don't want you in the antechambers," came Mordred's voice, "it's far too cold in there."

He stretched over the chair before turning to face Mordred.

The top blanket was thrown back as Mordred patted the right side of the bed, "Come on."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, Like we haven't slept together before," He teased. The previous night and many nights before all evidence of his words.

He got up as Mordred went to his wardrobe, grabbed a nightshirt and quickly disappeared behind the changing screen. Shoes were discarded on Daegal's part along with the layers he wore over his tunic.

Mordred appeared again, extinguishing the rest of the candles aside from the one by the bedside. All while Daegal sat at the edge of the bed, his mind wandering once again before his restless notions made themselves known.

"Mordred?"

He quickly got his attention as Mordred continued to move around.

Words formed to come out but stopped in his throat. "I…"

As if he read his mind, Mordred gave him a fond smile before walking to his knight attire that was still hanging from the changing screen. He reached into the inside of his gambeson and pulled out the blue cornflower from that morning, "I know." He twisted it between his fingers as he walked closer. Laying the flower on his bedside table along with the previous days.

The sheets were pulled back as he slipped under them and held open the other side for Daegal to climb under.

He held no hesitation, allowing the blankets to cover him and his own selfish conceit in Mordred's warm embrace. His actions spoke for him even if he struggled with his words.

He received a drowsy smile as the last words were spoken between them both.

"I love you too."

[sock-bread]

HEY I WROTE A BOOK

here’s chapter 1. i assume no one will read this BUT if you do, pls tell me what you think

Two-Thirds Blue

Chapter 1: Ruins

Dusk had learned a long time ago that if he couldn’t smile while wearing a sword, he’d probably never smile again.

He remembered the first time he held a sword. Gravid with the promise of violence, the weight at his side was a constant reminder of its necessity. He also remembered the moment he realized he’d gotten used to it, less than a week later.

“How much farther?” Dusk asked. “It’s almost curfew.”

Rade patted his shoulder. “You’ll know when we get there. Only a little ways to go, I promise.”

“I don’t see why we can’t do this when we’re on patrol or something.”

“Because then you’d complain that we’re supposed to be on patrol instead of sightseeing.” Rade jumped onto the side of a fallen tree that lay half-submerged in leaves and soil. He slowly turned and scanned the woods, surefooted despite the rotting bark. “Right. Syk should be here soon.”

Dusk started to climb onto the tree beside him, but his boot slipped and he collapsed against it.

Rade winced. “You alright?”

Dusk brushed himself off and readjusted his scabbard. “Yeah, I was gonna stay down here anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Rade folded his hands behind his head and shut his eyes, leaning into a beam of sunlight that scored yellow streaks across his slim, pointed face. Dusk suspected he’d specifically positioned himself at the right angle for the breeze to snag the tails of his coat.

Footsteps crunched through the trees ahead. Dusk took a nervous step back, but Rade opened his eyes and raised one arm in greeting. “Syk! How’s it look?”

“We’re clear.” Syk’s broad silhouette emerged over an earthen mound. “Last patrol just came through. C’mon.” He waved them onward.

“That’s curfew,” Dusk grimaced, but he moved to catch up with Syk while Rade jumped down from the log.

“You’re upset about breaking the rules?” Syk said. “I’m missing dinner for this.”

“What exactly is ‘this,’ though?” Dusk asked.

Syk raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t tell him?”

“He’s already agreed to come, hasn't he?” Rade said. “Plus it would ruin the surprise. Have some respect for presentation.”

“I don’t usually like surprises.” Dusk stumbled as his boot caught on a tangle of ivy. “And I don’t want to be out here any longer than necessary.”

“What, you got other plans?” Rade asked. “Some engagement you haven't told us about?”

Dusk shrugged. “No, I just don’t want to get caught.”

“Dax isn’t nearly attentive enough to catch us,” Rade said.

“What’s the penalty for sneaking out again?”

“‘Course you wouldn’t know. Suspension and cleaning duty for a week.” Syk splashed through a shallow stream, automatically extending an arm to help Dusk hop to the other side. His weight anchored them both to the shore.

Rade crossed the stream on a series of protruding stones without breaking stride. He moved like a branch in the wind, gliding over the uneven terrain. “They let me off after three days. I told them it was an accident.”

Syk gave a bark of laughter. “Oh, right. You accidentally snuck out and fell asleep in a tree for six hours?”

“You haven’t?”

“Never been caught.”

“You’re going to get kicked out at this rate,” Dusk reprimanded him.

“I doubt it,” Syk said. “The way things are going, we’re taking every soldier we can get.”

Any retort died in Dusk’s throat, sobered by the reminder of the impending warfront. The ancient forests of the Woodendale region teemed with life, a natural haven once insulated from the conflict at the eastern border. Wildflowers floated in pools of sunlight. Bronze leaves drifted earthward, shaken from their branches as birds fluttered from perch to perch. Dusk couldn’t stop himself from wondering how much longer the tranquility would last.

“I’m sorry,” Syk said at last. “That was thoughtless.”

“How many have we lost this month so far?” Dusk said quietly.

“Twelve,” Syk reminded him. “The last two were on patrol this week.”

Dusk’s hand automatically moved to his sword. Its weight returned to the forefront of his mind.

“Dax is slipping,” Syk said.

Rade jerked his head dismissively. “He’s never been particularly efficient.”

“No, I mean he’s been careless. Undermanned patrols. Ignoring rozkod sightings. It’s been going on for months.”

Dusk acknowledged the Arborguard commander’s skill as a warrior, but held little fondness for his leadership. Hallen Dax’s bravery in battle often verged into recklessness. Dusk suspected that the militia’s proximity to the Mallekhan warfront could have made them a valuable advance guard if not for Dax’s ego.

Rade came to a halt. “Ah, here we are.”

Dusk surveyed the scene before him. Several large boulders lay piled up against the base of a squat cliff, draped with a verdant waterfall of vines and ivy. It was a nice vista, Dusk decided, but hardly worth the risk of latrine duty.

“Oh, good. Rocks. My favorite.”

Rade shook his head. “If you like the rocks, wait until you see what’s behind them. Come along.” He took the lead, unhooking his sword from his belt and easing his wiry frame between the massive blocks of mossy stone that jutted out from the overgrown soil. Syk, the tallest of the three, grabbed hold of the top edge of the base rock and hoisted himself upward into a larger gap. Unhindered, he kept his sword at his side.

“Rade!” Syk peered down into the crevice. “Be careful with your coat. I’m not stitchin' that patch on again.”

Dusk allowed himself a moment of amusement as he watched the mismatched pair. Rade, narrow and dark; and Syk, broad, tanned, and stolid as the boulders he climbed. Despite Rade’s mischievous, darting eyes, he quickly befriended everyone he met. Meanwhile, Syk’s hard-edged features often made strangers nervous before they realized that his arms were more for hugging than punching.

Paler and shorter than the others, Dusk found himself generally unremarkable, apart from the unusual red color of his right iris. He kept his dark hair long and shaggy to help hide it, preferring to avoid the question he couldn’t answer.

“What’s in there?” Dusk called to them.

“Just come on,” Rade called back, concealed by the stone.

“Are there rats?”

“No rats. I swear it.”

Dusk sighed in resignation, but when he placed his sheathed sword on the ground next to Rade’s, the day warmed considerably.

“Coming,” he said, and squeezed himself between the boulders.

“Don’t get your amazing hair stuck in there,” Rade advised, still out of sight. “That would be a shame.”

The massive walls of stone constricted Dusk’s chest. His hair fell over his eyes, but fortunately didn’t catch on anything. “Do you speak from experience?” he grunted.

“Possibly.”

“He lost a loc,” Syk said proudly.

Dusk spilled out into a dusty cavern, nearly falling to the ground before Syk caught him.

“Shan't happen again,” Rade said, patting the surviving dreadlocks he’d knotted into a loose ponytail. “Did you lose anything on the way in?”

Dusk righted himself and stepped away from Syk. “Just my dignity.” The birdsong and rustling leaves of the forest came to a sharp end, replaced by a thin echo as he spoke. He turned to look at the interior of the chamber as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “So, where have you brought me?”

The hill was hollow, its floor paved with concentric circles of inlaid stone. Broad pillars surrounded it on all sides, several having long since submitted to the ages and crumbled. Smaller rooms extended deeper into the walls between the pillars, and in the center of the chamber sat a raised stone plinth, illuminated by a shaft of light spilling in through a ragged hole in the ceiling.

“Well, wow,” he understated, walking around its circumference. “This is… this is ancient. What is it? Looks like a temple.”

Dusk had seen plenty of ruins in his time, but an unclaimed chamber such as this was a rare find. While Ralevior was littered with ruins, the thick forests had consumed many of them, sprouting between stone blocks and taking them into the earth. Some had been long since stripped bare by scavengers looking for enchanted relics, and some offered suitable conditions for narlacs to lay their eggs. Others remained intact and habitable, allowing locals to use them as foundations for further construction.

Rade hopped onto the central platform and adopted a heroic pose. “I don’t know, but this lighting makes me look great.” The evening sun cast his dark northern skin in bronze and drew shadows across his angular features. When he stood completely still, Dusk could almost mistake him for a statue.

“Yeah, we were thinking some kinda temple,” Syk said. “Figured you’d know whose.”

“Personally, I claim it as a temple to Rade Carstas.” Rade shifted into another pose. “Pretty great, right?”

Dusk nodded. “Beautiful.”

Rade tossed his hair back. “Much obliged.”

“I meant the ruins.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit sacrilegious?” Syk said.

Rade scoffed. “Are you suggesting I defile my own temple?”

“Rade, I don’t think it’s yours,” Dusk said. “That pedestal thing– First Tree temples usually had those for offerings and such.”

Rade made a loud gagging noise.

Syk frowned. “You got an issue with the First Tree?”

“You know how many alchemists those guys have killed?” Rade said.

“Wait, really?” Syk said. “Always thought they seemed nice.”

“No, it’s true,” Rade said. “They had this holy war with the alchemists a while ago. And the First Tree adherents are still forbidden from practicing it.”

Dusk inhaled deeply. The ruins smelled of old leaves and time, like the back room of a library. A pleasant kind of decay. Not a decomposing carcass, but fresh soil.

He waved at the surrounding structure. “Rade, what do you think of the stonework? Alchemy or handmade?”

“Handmade for sure,” Rade said. “Stone shaped by alchemy is much smoother.” He crouched and ran a hand across the surface of the pedestal. “See how uneven this thing is? Knocking bits off with a chisel, that’s not going to make a smooth surface. But alchemy changes the shape of the material without adding or removing any mass. It’s mathematically precise.”

Dusk raised an eyebrow. “Not that you would know.”

“Excuse you, my alchemy would be extremely precise, if I could actually get it to work.”

“But a lot of old temples like this were made using alchemy, yeah?” Syk said. “Why does the First Tree have a problem with it?”

“I don’t really get it, to be honest,” Dusk said. “The First Tree was all about nature, and a lot of them felt like alchemy was, y'know, unnatural.”

“That’s only half of it,” Rade said. “So one of the limitations of alchemy is that it’s impossible to transmute a living creature, right? The theory is that it’s because souls can’t be tampered with. The First Tree adherents believe that trees have souls, but since you can transmute wood, they take it as blasphemy.”

“Huh.” Syk rubbed the back of his neck. “And I thought they were just a bunch of well-meaning hermits who really liked nature.”

“Well, usually, yes,” Dusk said. “Orthodoxy tends to push things. So if it’s one of theirs–” He crouched and put a hand on the floor, brushing off a layer of dirt and dust. “Okay, see that? There’s kind of a root pattern carving here. It’s definitely the First Tree.”

Dusk continued tracing the carving on the cobblestone floor. It wrapped around the outer edge of the pillars. With some amusement, he found that the roots of the surrounding forest had begun to creep through the gaps in the stone, weaving their way through the carved channels. The suggestion of roots had become a template for the genuine variety.

Syk snorted. “Rade’s gonna get killed by a falling tree for defiling their temple.”

“I defile nothing!” Rade protested.

“I mean, you’re standing on the altar,” Dusk said. “If that’s not an act of defilement, then you’re offering yourself as a sacrifice.”

Rade frowned at the dias under his feet, then hopped onto solid ground. “Well, at least you’re having fun.”

Dusk nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, this is great.”

“Worth the expedition?”

“You know what? Yes. Absolutely.”

“Of course. You really love your ancient mysteries.”

Dusk stood up straight and turned around slowly. “Y’know, if it’s a First Tree temple, there might be a vault somewhere.”

Rade’s head swiveled toward him, eyes alight. “Vault?” he repeated. “Vault as in treasure? As in Riches untold?”

“We haven’t looked at those other rooms,” Syk added. “Could be anything in there.”

Rade bounded toward the offshoot closest to the exit. “I lay first claim to whatever we find!”

Dusk hurried after him. “Rade, if you break anything, I’ll never forgive you.”

Rade vanished into the shadows of the offshoot seconds before Dusk and Syk joined him. The floor stretched barely ten feet before terminating at the base of the rear wall. Stone shelves lined the other two walls, populated by years of accumulated grit and the occasional dead insect.

“Ooh, this is nice.” Rade stooped down and pulled something off a low shelf with a clatter.

“What is it?” Syk asked.

“New sword,” Rade announced, turning around to show it off. The blade was snapped off, leaving only a foot of rusted steel above the handleguard. He flipped it downward and offered the handle to Dusk. “Riches untold in these ruins, indeed. What do you think, historian?”

Dusk accepted it gingerly. Nothing but metal remained intact, any wood or leather additions having long since crumbled to dust. Thick wire bound the grip, likely brass for balance. “Old,” he said.

“Old, got it,” Syk nodded. “Anything else?”

“Very old,” Dusk continued. “You don’t see swords with wire grips anymore unless they’re ceremonial. A few hundred years old, maybe.”

They moved on to the next room. On its identical shelves, Syk found an ancient, rusted helmet, half its faceplate lost to the ages.

“Here, try this on.” He slotted it over Rade’s head and leaned from side to side to consider his appearance.

Rade turned his head obligingly. The helmet wobbled, clearly made for someone much older than he. “Looks good?” he asked.

“Don’t match your coat,” Syk grimaced. “Green with rust? Not great.”

“Does it accentuate my cheekbones?”

“Can't even see 'em.”

“Oh, never mind, then.” Rade removed the helmet and placed it back on the shelf where Syk had found it, brushing debris from his locs. “It’s probably cursed, anyway.”

Dusk reached out and rotated the helmet to study the faceplate. “Really simple style,” he said. “Could be a trophy from the holy war.”

A cave-in rendered the next room inaccessible, moss and roots growing over the crumbling wreckage. At the base of the collapse, Dusk found a single fragment of what might have once been a clay jug or vase. He turned it over in his hands, but found nothing from which he could draw any history.

“See, typical First Tree impracticality,” Rade said, gesturing at the pile of rubble. “Alchemical architecture doesn’t collapse like that. It’s all one solid piece of stone.”

“There’s artistry in doing it this way, though,” Dusk said. “Imagine the work it took to build this place.”

“Yeah, and look what happened.” Rade kicked a hunk of fallen stone. “All that work for a pile of dirt.”

They searched the rest of the rooms in sequence, finding nothing but dust until they reached the last one. The rear shelf held a row of thick glass jars, each sealed tightly with resin to protect their contents from the centuries. One was missing from the row, dust marking the length of its absence.

“What’s in those?” Rade asked. “Looks like seeds.”

“Seeds?” Syk pushed past Rade to look closer.

“Gonna find some new additions to your herb garden?” Rade said.

Syk picked up one of the jars and inspected it, watching the deep red seeds tumble over one another as he rotated it. “Looks like lindwood. But the shape’s kinda– oh. Oh.” He hurriedly replaced it on the shelf. “Let’s not touch that, actually. That’s extremely poisonous.” His brows knit as he scanned the rest of the jars. “Yeah, that one’s carnivorous, that one’s a really aggressive weed– I don’t even recognize the others, but I doubt we’d wanna eat ’em.”

Rade sighed. “Well, as far as vaults go, this has been a bit of a disappointment. No treasure, nor riches untold.”

“Afraid not,” Syk said. “Unless you want to keep that sword.”

Rade looked down at the broken sword in his hand. “Yeah, kinda.” He left the offshoot and returned to the central chamber. “Do you think anything's to be done about that hole in the roof? I’d love to live in these haunted ruins, but rain might be an issue.”

Dusk smirked. “That would ruin your lighting.”

“We’ve got options. Torchlight really brings out my eyes.”

“How'd you even find this place?” Dusk asked. “I mean, it’s practically invisible from the outside.”

“Syk was foraging,” Rade said. “Thought he saw some herbs or something on one of the boulders. Climbed up to grab them and he fell right in.”

“I didn’t fall,” Syk corrected him. “It was a graceful descent.”

“You landed directly on your face.”

“Gracefully, yes. Don’t make fun of me for trying to make you a nice dinner.” He patted the brown leather satchel he kept over his shoulder, likely containing whatever new ingredients he’d found, then looked up at the light spilling in through the hole in the ceiling. “And speaking of falling, we’d better make sure this place ain't about to collapse on us.”

They followed him out of the hollow and through the rocks concealing the entrance. Dusk didn’t find the trip any more enjoyable the second time through. “Isn’t there an easier way in?” he lamented, wedged between the same two boulders.

Rade grabbed him by the arm and tugged him free. “Of course, we could fit better if we took out a rib or two.”

Dusk lost his balance as he emerged and collapsed messily on the forest floor.

“Oh, apologies.” Rade offered his hand and helped him to his feet. “I assume that means it’s getting late.”

“What?”

“Because Dusk has fallen.”

Dusk sighed wearily. “Unbelievable.”

Syk took several steps back and scanned the cliff wall. “I could probably climb up the boulders again and make it to the top.”

“Let’s go around,” Dusk said, retrieving his sword and handing the other to Rade. “I... don’t think Rade and I could reach that.”

Syk patted their heads. “It’s okay, you’ll hit that growth spurt someday.”

“I’m just glad I didn’t end up a gangly freak like you,” Rade countered.

“Gangly freak I may be, but at least I can do this.” He turned back around and pulled himself up, clambering over the stack of boulders towards the top of the cliff. “Meet you there!” he called over his shoulder.

Rade watched him scale the haphazard terrain. “We could just leave him.”

Dusk scratched his chin thoughtfully. “But what if we need to get something off a high shelf?”

“Ah, of course, I knew we kept him around for something.” Rade walked parallel to the cliff, scanning for a suitable route. “Look, it slopes down that way, see?”

Dusk followed him to the indicated section, picking his way through the twisted underbrush. Rade quickly clambered up the steep angle, using roots and protruding stones as handholds.

Syk had already reached the top when they crested its summit, crouched over the hole in the chamber’s ceiling. “Looks stable enough,” he reported. “The trees up here might be holding it all together with their roots.”

“What exactly are we going to do with this place?” Dusk said.

Rade shrugged. “Why wouldn't you want some ancient ruins all to yourself? Good place for a nap. Nice atmosphere.”

Dusk stood and looked around. “Great view, too.”

He could never see the full breadth of Ralevoir’s three regions from the valleys of Woodendale, but gaps in the trees granted view of the northern plains of Raemoare. To the east rose the Mallekhan highlands, their horizon stuttering with canyons and rivers, dominated by a solitary mountain. Woodendale’s vast forests continued behind him to the southwest, obscuring the distant sea he knew lay beyond them. Their western summits rose to a singular peak, the First Tree itself, visible even from such a vast distance.

The Woodendale region had been his whole world until the first time he’d seen a complete map of Ralevior. To see that his home occupied only a single corner of the continent, neighbored by far greater stretches of land to the north and east, initially filled him with vertigo. But wonder replaced his fear when he considered that Raemoare and Mallekhan were as rich with history and mythology as Woodendale, and he felt himself drawn to uncover what stories they held.

“I can see my house from here,” Rade said.

“Since when did any of us have a house?” Dusk asked.

“Look at it this way,” Syk said, still peering into the chamber from above. “We lived everywhere before the Arborguard. Our home’s everywhere. Any part of Ralevoir we’ve walked on.”

Rade laughed. “You sound like an old man.”

“I was born old.”

In a way, it was true. All three had been orphaned by the war. Syk had met Rade and Dusk years before, naturally falling into the role of their surrogate guardian. They’d drifted between villages in Woodendale for several years before deciding to join the Arborguard militia.

“As far as living quarters go, this place wouldn’t even be the worst we’ve had,” Rade said. “Remember when I worked for that smith?”

“Down south, right?” Dusk said. “Didn’t you have to sleep in the shop?”

“I always tried to find the softest bits of scrap metal to use as a pillow,” Rade nodded. “But at least I was never late for work in the morning.”

“Wait a minute.” Syk stood and scanned the forest around them. “D'you hear that?”

Dusk walked to his side and strained his ears. A faint droning sound came from the east. “What is that?”

“Don’t know. See anything?”

Dusk turned in a slow circle, searching for any irregularities. “Too many trees.”

“Let’s investigate,” Rade proposed. “I love mysterious noises.”

They continued away from the cliff, descending the hill on its opposite side. The low rumbling increased in volume as they neared its source. Soon they could hear distinct voices amidst the clamor.

“Don't sound human,” Syk remarked.

Dusk felt his stomach lurch. “This close to the Arborguard?”

They reached the top of a knoll overlooking a small valley, surrounded by trees and rocks on all sides, providing natural cover for the camp that lay within.

“Rozkod,” Syk spat.

Temporary structures and extinguished campfires dotted the camp while dozens of rozkod milled about inside. Several small teams worked to set up walls of uncut logs around its perimeter. They shouted as they sparred, they shouted as they ate, as they sharpened weapons, as they argued. Always shouting, always roaring.

The hulking, savage, humanoid creatures had plagued Ralevoir for over a decade. They stood as high as seven feet tall, bound in dense muscle and thick, slate-gray skin marbled with splashes of deep red. A ridged, angular horn protruded from each one’s forehead, adding several inches to their already imposing stature. Some rozkod bore jagged bone ridges across their faces or forearms, adding another weapon to their impressive natural arsenal. But their dull obsidian eyes betrayed their simple minds and brutish demeanor.

They had invaded the Mallekhan region first, armies marching without warning from an unknown land. Though once home to great wealth in precious metals and gemstones, Mallekhan fell in mere months, and the warfront spilled northwest to the borders of Raemoare. The open warfare lasted for years before dying down, but eastern Ralevoir belonged to the rozkod now. Only recently had the rozkod begun to mobilize again. If they planned to invade Woodendale next, the Arborguard would be the first to know.

Dusk, Rade, and Syk retreated into the treeline. “This is recent,” Rade said. “They weren’t here yesterday.”

“Do you think–” Dusk’s words caught in his throat. He swallowed and tried again. “Do you think this means Delrox is coming?”

At the sound of the name, Syk put a hand on the charm around his neck and muttered a prayer. Rade’s grin fell completely for the first time that evening.

“Dusk,” Syk said. “Delrox hasn’t shown himself in years. There’s no way.”

“But there’s– there’s too many.” Dusk’s voice rose with fear. “There’s never been this many.”

“If Delrox were coming, he’d bring more,” Rade said. “There were thousands in the army that destroyed Mallehkan.”

No human had set foot in Mallekhan for over ten years, but everyone had heard the stories. Legions of rozkod marching through cities, razing them to the ground, slaughtering thousands. And at their helm, Delrox. Neither human nor rozkod. Only a handful of survivors had ever seen him, and few were still sane enough to describe him.

“How many did you see?” Rade asked.

“Counted thirty or forty,” Syk said. “Couldn’t tell exactly. Might be more in the area. Hunting parties or patrols.”

“Awful lot of weapons on those racks,” Rade remarked.

“This isn’t just a camp,” Syk said. “It’s an outpost.” He waved them on. “C’mon. Back to the ruins.”

Rade followed close behind. “So what are we gonna do about this?”

“We’ve got to tell Dax,” Dusk decided. “I mean, this is exactly what the Arborguard is for.”

Syk shook his head. “No way. We’d have to tell him we snuck out.”

“If we wait too long, they could even attack us first,” Dusk said.

“There weren’t enough of them for that,” Syk said. “Fifty at most, versus how many Arborguard soldiers? Three hundred?”

When they arrived at the ruins, Dusk and Rade retrieved their swords. Its weight settled back on Dusk’s belt. It had grown colder in his absence.

“They were still building,” Rade said. “Could be setting up for more troops. And this might not be the only outpost.”

Syk crossed his arms and fixed Rade with a narrow stare. “Don’t tell me you’re considering turning yourself in.”

“Hey, I’m not that stupid.”

“I’ll tell them it was me,” Dusk offered. “Won’t mention either of you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rade said. “There are other ways. An anonymous note, for instance.”

Syk relaxed, his shoulders falling. “That’d work,” he nodded. “So long as no one sees us delivering it.”

“I’ll do it,” Dusk said. “I’ve got a clean record so far.”

Rade laughed and patted his shoulder fondly. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“I take a certain pride in my behavior.”

“Oh, I know, but I take pride in my misbehavior.”

“Why don’t you take your pride back to the Arborguard,” Syk said. “We’re well past curfew.”

“Fine, dad,” Rade sighed, turning his back to the ruins and setting off into the woods.

“I’m no one’s dad.”

“No, you kind of are,” Dusk said.

“You’re both grounded.”

Their laughter was warm and genuine, but it wasn’t enough to block out the sound of the rozkod behind them.

[clevercxs]

Believer - Sigefrid Thurgilson [Ch 4]

[MASTERLIST]

Pairing: Sigefrid Thurgilson x female oc

Warning: nsfw ;)

Word Count: 8.8k

_______________________________________________

Midday rode in on its valorous steed, ridding Beamfleot of the prior night’s grim misfortunes and the fading afterglow of suffrage. 

The sun’s rays, in their curious nature, seemed to peek through the fort’s highest window in an attempt to wake the Saxon princess, who snored away in a blissful, much needed slumber.

Unbeknownst to the sleeping beauty upstairs, tensions had risen amongst the Danes still hungover from the last night’s revelations, who were greeted with a rude awakening upon finding an empty cage in the centre of the hall. Their coveted princess had been intentionally freed and was virtually nowhere to be seen; she was not there, on display, for them to childishly taunt and harass.

Beneath messied curls of raven locks that had fallen over her pale face during the night, the princess’s eyes fluttered open, ever so slowly, and began to take in her new and unfamiliar surroundings. With a wide, breathy yawn that seemed to tug at the corners of her chapped lips, Blædswith carefully propped herself up on two feeble elbows that wobbled beneath her weight. Upon doing so she could feel the entirety of her shoulder ache, and broken ribs shift like creaky floorboards giving way. 

Peering down, Blædswith was taken aback to see herself fully clothed in a woolen, sleeved nightgown that seemed to reach just above her ankles. 

Her memory was a clouded haze, seeing as she couldn’t remember how she ended up where she had awoken; somewhere strange yet all familiar. 

The room was dark and unnerving, though oddly enough felt cozy and inviting to the woman it confined. The walls were of beautifully aged stones, each one telling a story of famous Lords and Ladies past; of victorious songs chanted and arduous battles won. To the left of the king sized bed where she found herself, loomed a stone fireplace stretching towards a high ceiling of beams, encompassing a small kindling fire just large enough to warm the room without roasting the Saxon alive. 

She could hear embers and small logs crackling, bringing a subtle grin to her lips out of its comforting familiarity. Plush fur rugs lined the wooden floor, forming a convenient trail towards the bedroom door carved in unfamiliar runes and other intriguing symbols. 

Overwhelmed by the sudden change of scenery, Blædswith found herself curling into a ball beneath layers of thick fur pelts that had been draped over her sleeping form. Clutching a hand-sewn pillow tightly to her chest, she rolled over to dodge the blinding rays of light illuminating the cavernous room. Glancing up from where she lay still, she noticed the beautifully carved designs in the bed’s wooden frame, and the wrought iron candelabra hanging overhead by a single chain.

It was rather strange to finally be alone, where no prying eyes could violate her every move. For a brief moment, she almost allowed herself a feeling of freedom and joy, only to realize that the room had become her new cage. The only window was barred by thick wooden posts while the door, undoubtedly, was locked and heavily guarded on the outside. 

Sigefrid wasn’t a complete fool to leave his most prized possession unattended and unprotected. Surely, he had learned his lesson, therefore no man was to be entrusted with her safety other than himself, the remaining few he trusted, or perhaps his merciful brother, Erik, whom the princess had already grown fond of.

Anxious, she began running her fingers through the pelt’s thickness, painstakingly trying to recall what happened last night…

While Sigefrid’s hand guided the princess away from the shore by the small of her back, she couldn’t help but stare at the carnage left behind in his wake. It looked as if his traitorous men had been slain by an entire army; dozens of arrows pierced their armored chest plates and their throats had been slashed by, undoubtedly, the blade upon Sigefrid's hand out of pure fury and rage. The limp body of the slave girl whom Blædswith befriended was carried off into the night, and to be forgotten, as if she had never been there.

As Sigefrid and Blædswith trudged uphill towards the fortress, she could feel him pulling her away from where a defeated Hæsten knelt in the dirt - mangled and disfigured beyond recognition. It seemed as if Sigefrid tried to avert the princess’s gaze from such a horrific and gruesome sight - one he was responsible for. 

Blædswith could feel her frightened heart pounding within her chest like a battle drum, somehow in perfect unison with her heavy footfalls.

Though in brief passing, Blædswith witnessed for the first time the extent of Sigefrid’s vengeful brutality - or rather, the aftermath. It was as if Hæsten’s face had been trampled, repeatedly, by the metal-clad hooves of Sigefrid’s black steed. Hæsten’s dark, bloodshot eyes were swollen almost completely shut. His beard, once a curly nest of honey blonde, had been stained a crimson red from thick, oozing streams trailing from his broken nose. Beneath the skin of his swollen cheeks were distinct purple bruises outlining four knuckle prints. Surely, they were left over from Sigefrid ruthlessly pummeling the side of his face, where each blow became more excruciating than the last. Hæsten’s ankles and wrists were bound in coils of coarse rope not unlike a slave fresh off the merchant's ship after a long, godless voyage.

Blædswith peered down at Sigefrid’s hand that had slithered around her lower back, now resting upon her waist just below her tender ribs. To her dismay, his knuckles were split wide open and stained with another man’s blood. As their pace quickened the further they got from the shore, Blædswith couldn’t help but fear for what she had gotten herself into after seeing what Sigefrid was fully capable of. 

Initially, she found herself drawn to the danger and mystery behind Sigefrid’s piercing eyes; seduced by his undeniable courage, god-like strength, and power over those inferior to him, the Lord of Chaos. But after that night, who was to say that he wouldn’t treat her this cruelly if she were to cross him? The fearsome Dane whose armor she clung to for dear life was a damning beast of a man capable of unimaginable acts… that much was clear.

There remained a glimmer of hope within the princess that she would be the exception; the one thing he could never allow himself to do any harm to. She believed him capable of being good, towards her, and hoped it would remain true of him in the end - when it really mattered. Blædswith marveled at the thought of being with a man such as Sigefrid, intimidating and ambitious, yet capable of being gentle towards his one beloved - her.

With the mead hall approaching in the near distance, Blædswith suddenly felt lightheaded, disoriented with fatigue and fear-fuelled adrenaline. The last thing she recalled hearing was the sound of Sigefrid’s voice calling out her name as her knees buckled beneath her and the night faded to pitch blackness with the collapse of her body...

Startled out of her thoughts by an indecipherable uproar of men arguing somewhere in the near distance, Blædswith found herself sitting upright once more, defensively on high alert, after hearing wooden tables and broken chairs being upturned and thrown rather aggressively across the mead hall, below. 

What is going on? Is Beamfleot under attack?

With a stiff groan, she climbed out of bed and shuffled towards the bedroom door, pressing an ear against the carved wood. The princess audibly gasped when she identified Sigefrid’s voice amongst all others, bursting at the seams and fuming like a maddened, rabid dog off its leash. 

“Dear God.” Blædswith gulped as Sigefrid’s tone seemed to grow louder by the minute while Erik struggled to calm him down. It sounded as if a hundred Danes were shouting in a jumbled unison, leaving Blædswith only able to comprehend mere bits and pieces of what was said.

In a panic, the princess frantically searched through every table and desk drawer, tearing the room apart in search for any weapons or weapon-like objects to defend herself with in case Sigefrid were to come for her next. This time, it appeared, Erik hadn’t left anything behind for her. Distracted by the commotion downstairs, Blædswith did not hear the light feet approaching her room, and hadn’t the slightest clue that someone was headed her way until the bedroom door quickly unlocked and swung open. Out from behind the door entered a quaint slave girl trembling in her work shoes, balancing a tray of food in one hand with an assortment of combs and brushes shoved down in her pockets. 

“L-Lady.” She greeted timidly, “I-I am sorry to disturb you. Lord Sigefrid sent me-” The young girl nudged the door closed with the pad of her foot, cautiously walking through the room to place the food down on the nearest bedside table. 

Startled, Blædswith practically jumped out of her nightgown at the sudden intrusion, withholding crude language after she realized how nervous the poor girl already was - out of fear. Her complexion was as pale as a ghost as a result of what was occurring downstairs, and likely whatever Sigefrid had threatened her with.

“What is Sigefrid doing? Downstairs?” Blædswith questioned, crossing her arms over her chest and taking a seat at the foot end of the bed. “Of course, I... have my suspicions.” Her words faded into silence after noticing a rather sharp steak knife conveniently placed beside her meal. 

“L-Lord Sigefrid is…” The slave gulped dryly and began fidgeting with the bristles of a large brush in her pocket, “he is asserting himself, a-after what happened last night. To you. He is upset… he feels he can no longer trust anyone, n-nor protect you.”

Blædswith exhaled sharply, cocking her head to the side ever so slightly. Worried by Sigefrid’s sense of doubt, she questioned, “But he trusts you, does he not? After all, you are here. If you intended to kill me you might actually have a chance.” She motioned down to her shoulder before stiffly rotating it in circular motion.

“H-he does, yes, lady.” She nodded solemnly. “I have no intention to harm you. I have been nothing but loyal to Lord Sigefrid-”

Blædswith, immediately, picked up the steak knife from the tray, reached across her bed, and tucked it beneath her pillow. “I need you to be loyal - to me. You will not tell Sigefrid, nor Erik, that I have a knife. Hæsten still wishes me dead, and this is the only way of protecting myself. Do you understand?” Blædswith leaned in, closing the distance between their faces, thus causing the young slave girl to tremble in fear. She then added, darkly, “If you tell anyone, I shall kill you with it.”

Frantically nodding, on the brink of tears, the slave whimpered,

“Y-yes, lady. I-I understand.”

After Blædswith had been well fed and groomed, the young girl was dismissed so the princess could be left alone to her growing sense of paranoia. Before the slave could reach the door, apprehensive to step foot outside, Blædswith couldn’t help but feel guilty for the way she treated her. “Girl.” She began, causing the young slave to stop dead in her tracks, gratefully. “What is your name?”

Slowly turning to face the princess, she replied shamefully, “I-I have no name, lady.”

Blædswith slowly rose from the bed, strolling towards the beautiful, brunette haired girl cowering before her. “I shall call you Moira. How does that sound?” Blædswith reached forward, tucking hair behind the young girl's ear as she once had, to the first slave she’d met. “It is a beautiful name, for a beautiful girl. Do you not agree?”

Moira nodded humbly, caught off guard by the princess’s sudden interest in her. “I-I agree, yes. Thank you.” Moira then proceeded towards the door, sheepishly asking, “What shall I call you, lady?”

“Blædswith. You may consider me a friend... if you do as told.” The Saxon grinned, now propping herself up on pillows and carefully pulling the fur pelt over her chest. “I can offer you far more than the Thurgilson brothers for your loyalty.”

Moira’s eyes seemed to sparkle with a sense of hope. “I-I shall see you again soon, Blædswith, when I return to tidy Sigefrid’s chambers.” With a courteous bow, she slipped out of the room and back into the realm of chaos instilled by Sigefrid Thurgilson, leaving Blædswith’s head suddenly spinning.

It all made sense, now, why she had slept in a room so breathtaking; so fitting for a princess, even. 

Lady Blædswith of Wessex had spent the night in Sigefrid Thurgilson’s private chambers,

and she doubted it would be the last time.

____________________ ➴  ____________________

With the descendence of evening fall came a sense of tranquility over the land. In recent hours past, the clan’s discord had simmered down as the Danes dispersed, returning Beamfleot to its once habitual state of being. 

Blædswith, after restlessly tossing and turning, found herself buried beneath a mountain of fur pelts and pillows as if she were a child hiding from her parents. The princess stirred uneasily, wondering what would happen to her come dusk. She wondered why Sigefrid had not visited her, though it was likely for the best if he was still tense from earlier. However short-tempered Sigefrid was, Blædswith believed his company was better than none. A sense of loneliness and abandonment had overcome her vulnerable mind after spending an entire day imprisoned by herself.

When Blædswith finally began to drift off to sleep, she could hear the bedroom door knob fumbling as someone struggled to unlock it from the outside. With a loud creak, an unwelcome figure crept into the room and locked the door behind them.

Blædswith could feel her dry throat clench, and stomach coil into a tight, fearful knot. She listened as their footsteps drew near to the bed. Not a word was spoken in greeting, as if they intended to surprise the bed’s sleeping inhabitant. Ever so slowly, Blædswith’s fingers inched beneath her pillow and towards her knife. Her trembling body was otherwise still; frozen, even, as a paralyzing fear surged through her veins like a potent venom. 

She could hear a pair of shoes being unlaced, and sloppily tossed against the nearest wall with seemingly little care of waking her. Something heavy yet soft fell to the floor, such as a fur pelt, before they began high-stepping out of something.

Somebody was taking their clothes off.

Tightly gripping onto the handle of her knife, Blædswith threw back her blankets and sprung to her knees, holding her knife outwards towards the foot end of the bed where her intruder stood completely naked from head to toe.

Having expected it to be Hæsten, or perhaps even Sigefrid, the frightened princess was flabbergasted and utterly appalled to see a bare-chested woman standing before her whose surprised look mirrored her own. 

The two, in unison, gasped like fish out of water.

“Gahhh! What are you doing?!” Blædswith shrieked, turning away from the woman who showed no sense of urgency to cover herself. “W-who are you?!”

“I am Sigefrid’s mistress.” The dark haired woman sneered rather sharply, as if insulted that Blædswith hadn’t heard of her. 

“Bloody Hell.” Blædswith groaned, chest rising and falling quickly with each rapid breath she drew, “Well, I am not Sigefrid! Y-you may…” She nodded with utmost caution, seeing as the woman was easily twice her size. “...you may put your clothes on and leave. Now.”

“Oh?” The large woman chuckled lowly with the shake of her head. “You do not get to bark orders. You are that damned Saxon princess Sigefrid won’t shut up about.” She quirked an eyebrow down at the princess as her lips formed a devilish grin. “But... he will have nothing to talk about if you are gone.”

“Gone?” Blædswith croaked. “I-I do not wish to leave-”

“You will leave, here, when I send you to meet your false God.” The woman snarled, suddenly lunging at Blædswith like a wild cat springing towards its prey, pinning her elbows to the bed causing the knife, her main source of defense, to fall to the floor.

“Shit!” Blædswith gasped, as she began awkwardly wriggling beneath the maddened woman, trying her best to divert her gaze from the Dane’s exposed breasts. Blædswith began kneeing her repeatedly in the gut, crying out in pain while doing so as pain scorched through her own torso. “Get off of me!” Blædswith whimpered, able to free an arm from the Dane’s clammy grasp to strike a fist at the side of her face. 

The bear-like woman seemed virtually unphased. 

“I do not want to kill you!” Blædswith leaned forward, head butting the brawny Dane though seeming to do more damage to herself than her attacker. Blædswith attempted to intertwine their legs together, only to have her shins kicked at until bruises began to form.

“Is that all you have got, princess? You could not kill me if you tried.” Sigefrid’s mistress chuckled menacingly, suddenly taking a firm hold of Blædswith’s throat with both hands in an attempt to choke and suffocate her. With the larger woman’s full body weight atop of her small frame, Blædswith was physically unable to push her off, nor pry her claws from her throat.

“I thought you wanted to be a Dane?” The mistress goaded, watching the color drain from the princess’s cheeks as she writhed and gasped for air. Scorching tears burning trails down her cheeks as she choked on her own sobs. “You are a sorry excuse for a Saxon. For a Christian.” She then dug her fingertips into Blædswith’s freshly cauterized shoulder, causing the princess to whimper and cry out like a dog that had been run over by a cart.

With a low growl, Blædswith managed, 

“I am not a Christian.” 

With her remaining strength, Blædswith wrapped an arm and leg over the nude woman’s back and jerked them both off the bed and onto the floor, causing the Dane to momentarily let go of her throat. Diving away from the bed, gasping, the princess began painfully crawling on her elbows and knees towards the knife, shouting and kicking out behind her like a wild horse after feeling a calloused hand grasp to either of her ankles. 

With a loud cry, and all that she had left within her, Blædswith took hold of the knife once more after continuously crawling forward and being dragged back. Just as the Dane lowered herself towards the princess, hoping to pin her again, Blædswith flipped onto her back and slashed the throat of her assailant with a loud grunt, causing the woman to clutch her gaping wound with both hands as thick streams of red seeped between her fingers. Sigefrid’s mistress fell onto her side, gurgling profusely, as she began to accept her fate dealt by the hand of a Saxon princess.

Blædswith, now hovering above the dying woman, took it upon herself to jab the knife beneath her ribs, driving it up towards the Dane’s gaping throat as if she were skinning a deer, or even performing a reverse blood eagle. 

“We could have lived together... peacefully.” Blædswith grunted, forcing the knife deeper into the woman’s core. “You did this, not me! I never would have wished you any harm!” The princess began twisting the knife as the Dane let out a final gasp. “You killed yourself. Tell that to your gods.”

The light in the Dane’s eyes began to fade, though she quietly managed through airy pants, “I… knew I was… done for when... he… he called out your name…” Her head rolled lazily around her shoulders, allowing her to look the princess in the eyes and whisper, “Blædswith.” 

The Dane fell limp as a dark pool of blood engulfed her massive form. It looked as if she had been mangled and sacrificed to the Pagan gods above. Blædswith opened the mistresses’ large hand, and placed the handle of the knife within her palm before closing her fingers into a tight fist. With a sigh, she whispered, “Valhalla calls you. I will not deny you your gods… even if you did try to kill me. Perhaps, in another life, we shall meet again.”

Crawling away from the fresh corpse, Blædswith found herself crumpled and hunched over against the other side of the bed facing the door. She looked down at her sticky, bloodied hands resting palm up on her lap as a rogue tear caressed the side of her cheek. Her nightgown had been stained with hand prints and smears of red, and the skin of her neck felt raw to the touch as if she had been gripped by the devil himself. 

Sobbing, she feared she would never truly be safe, and never be accepted by the Danes no matter what she does. She worried she would always be a target - always the enemy - even if she has denounced her Christian God. Until she has regained her strength, she will never be able to fully defend herself in Sigefrid’s recurring absence. Angrily, she questioned whether or not he had intentionally, repeatedly, neglected her.

Was Sigefrid testing her? Proving that what he said about her was true?

Not a single guard rushed to her aid. Not even Sigefrid, nor Erik. Blædswith understood they were busy, therefore could not be her caretakers. Most of the Danes she knew weren’t nurturing by nature… however, she had expected the Thurgilson brothers to better protect such a valuable asset - especially if Sigefrid expected her to stay. 

There was something different in the air; something off. There wasn’t a single doubt in Blædswith’s mind that Hæsten was behind the attack. It was likely he dismissed Sigefrid’s guards as he did by the lake, and encouraged Sigefrid’s woman to visit his chambers knowing full well the princess would be there, instead.

Was Hæsten planning, in secret, to overthrow his lords? Or was he simply trying to get revenge on the Saxon princess anyway that he could? Perhaps his plan was to kill two birds with one stone… and that Sigefrid’s hostile mistress was just the first of many to come...

____________________ ➴  ____________________

Shadows filled Sigefrid’s chambers as twilight descended upon the fort. It felt as though the gods above had readied themselves for a blissful night’s slumber after a long day of watching over Midgard and its Danes. 

On the hard wooden floor she remained, even all these hours later. Her hands were stiff with dried blood; her mind, body, and soul numb to the feeling as she stared off into the distance through heavy lids, anticipating someone unpleasant to burst through the door at any moment. She feared she wouldn’t have the strength to resist their advances in her current state of lethargy.

Every so often she swore to have seen Moira, or perhaps the spirit of, the first slave girl she met, lying atop the bed with her fragile hands folded over her chest. Guilt feasted on her insides like hungry Danes supping at the Great Hall. When Moira was no longer there, behind Blædswith’s head, she would see the face of Sigefrid’s mistress. Her ghost seemed to lurk in the shadows of the room’s darkest corners, haunting Blædswith even in death. 

Blædswith ran the backs of her shaky hands over her drowsy eyes. In the end, her own mind; her own guilt and grievances had truly gotten the best of her. 

A gentle knock on the door, followed by the friendly voice of Moira II, seemed to be enough to lift the princess’s spirits as she entered the room with a fresh outfit draped over her forearm. Upon noticing the princess bloodied and on the floor, Moira gasped and immediately dropped the clothes before running to her aid. Once knelt before the Saxon, she began looking her over to see if she had been mortally wounded.

“Blædswith!? Are you alright?” She panicked, placing a small, child-like hand to the princess’s cheek. Moira sighed in relief, feeling a heavy weight lifted off her shoulders as Blædswith nodded ever so feebly. “W-what happened? Who did this to you?”

Raising a shaky arm out to her side like an injured raven preparing for flight, Blædswith pointed a single finger towards the other side of the bed. 

She didn’t utter a single word, for she couldn’t find the right thing to say.

On her hands and knees like a hound, the slave crawled around the foot end of the bed, now following a smeared trail of blood until she found the body of Sigefrid’s old woman - one she knew far too well. 

“Christ almighty.” She shrieked and motioned her hand in the shape of a cross over her chest. That caught Blædswith by surprise - how anyone, let alone a slave - could possibly preserve their faith in God whilst living in Daneland.

“Sigefrid’s mistress intended to… seduce him. She found me instead.” Blædswith croaked dryly with a faint grin, now pressing a hand to her ribs. “She tried to kill me.”

“There were no guards outside your door, Blædswith.” Moira cried, hurrying back to the princess’s side with a look of worry and concern engraved on her face. “Sigefrid ordered them to stay, I-I heard him. I fear they... took orders from someone else-”

Blædswith nodded her head and interjected, “Hæsten is behind this, he must be. He will not stop until I am dead, and rotting at the bottom of the sea. There are many who follow him… I fear he is planning a coup against the brothers, but they are blind to it...” The princess huffed and firmly pursed her dried lips together. “The men Sigefrid trusts are disloyal. I have seen it many times in my short while. I must help him see what he can’t. For if I do not… we may all be killed.” 

Moira rose to her feet and approached the pile of clothing on the floor, scooped it all up in her arms and displayed the garments on the bed as nicely as she could. “Perhaps you can tell Sigefrid tonight. Well, after I-I get you cleaned up. Y-you look as if you slaughtered a pig.” She grinned and kindly helped Blædswith to her feet. 

“What do you mean, tonight? W-what is tonight?” Startled and confused, Blædswith’s thick brows furrowed together, though she found herself staring in awe at the beautiful Danish garb laid before her. 

What is all this for?

“Sigefrid has requested your presence, tonight, for dinner in the mead hall.” With a quick nod, Moira escorted Blædswith to the nearest armchair where she was to wait patiently for her return with a rag and bucket of water - not unlike she had done the night prior, where she waded in the frigid lake water.

“Then I must go.” Blædswith inhaled sharply, glancing towards the door as if expecting another intrusion. “This may be my last chance to warn him before it is too late.” 

Before leaving, Moira retrieved a small, sharpened axe from beneath her shawl that she had looted from one of the brothers. 

“Sigefrid could kill you for this.” Blædswith warned though graciously took the axe from the noble slave girl.

Moira, within feet of the door, nodded solemnly over her shoulder with a kind smile and soothed, “I know.”

____________________ ➴  ____________________

“I do not wish to be humiliated tonight.” Blædswith pouted, running her hands down the front of the apron dress Sigefrid chose for her to wear. She muttered beneath her breath, “I have been tormented enough.”

As a base layer, Blædswith wore a white, long sleeved smock that brushed against her ankles. On top was a shorter, red apron fastened by a string of beads across her chest strewn between a large, silver brooch on either strap - both beautifully engraved in Danish runes. Her feet had slipped into a pair of lace up shoes made of soft, pliable leather. Blædswith’s elongated fingers and narrow wrists were embellished in the finest silver jewelry in the land.

Atop of the princess’s head were three intricate braids running from her hairline to the back of her skull where they were joined by a thin band of leather. While her loose hair cascaded down her shoulders, on either side of her neck hung a single braid that lay against her free flowing locks.

“The brothers will protect you. Y-you have little to worry about.” Moira soothed, approaching the princess from behind to drape a small, light-brown pelt over her shoulders. “You look beautiful.” Moira complimented in awe as she pulled the length of Blædswith’s dark mane out from beneath the fur. 

Stepping in front of the princess in place of a mirror, Moira clasped her hands together against her chest and studied Blædswith from head to toe to ensure she looked as Sigefrid wanted. “You look every bit a Dane, and a-a lovely one at that.” Moira began fiddling with the fur pelt draped over Blædswith’s shoulders, adjusting the brooches upon her chest, and flattening out any creases in her skirt. 

Astounded, Moira chirped, “T-the gods truly favor Lord Sigefrid.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well…” Moira grinned from ear to ear, cocking her head to the side, “Why else would they have brought him you?” With that, the unlikely pair interlocked arms and headed towards the door, only for Blædswith to halt in her tracks.

“What about her?” Blædswith motioned towards the Danish woman she had slain. “We can not just leave her.” She began to panic as the potential consequences for her actions flooded through her mind. Moira quickly shook her head and guided Blædswith to face her, rather than the lifeless body of her assailant. 

“I will take care of Yrsa.” Moira spat the woman’s name bitterly with a hateful snarl. “I never liked her. S-she will be cut up, and served to Sigefrid’s hound for dinner. You have my word.” Moira placed a firm hand to Blædswith’s shoulder as the two exchanged comforting glances. 

“You are mad.” The princess teased with a quiet chuckle. “Thank you.” She couldn’t help but crack a smile as she noted, “He likes his meat well done, by the way.”

Stepping out into the noisy hallway, arm in arm, they strolled towards the staircase. Blædswith could hear the merry laughter, chanting, and singing of jovial Danes downing horns of ale by the minute. To her discomfort she felt their arms suddenly unravel, realizing just how tightly she had been holding on to her escort. “You are not coming with me?” Blædswith frowned. “Why?”

Moira shook her head, and took a courteous step back towards Sigefrid’s chambers. “Y-you must do this alone. I will dispose of Yrsa’s body.”

“I can not-”

“Do you have the axe?” Moira pressed firmly.

Blædswith nodded in defeat, patting the right pocket of her apron. “I do.”

“Then go.” Moira hummed with a shooing motion. “Sigefrid Thurgilson awaits you.” 

Like a moth drawn to candle light Blædswith’s feet carried her to the top of the stairs where she found herself clutching tightly to the support rail, looking down at the night’s festivities that beckoned her. 

Her beating heart drowned out the sounds of Danes laughing and chatting amongst themselves. Those up and about, dancing around like children of the night seemed to move in slow motion.  Everyone around her had come to a halt, paralyzed in time as the world simply stopped. 

All because she saw him - though he had already been looking up at her.

Once engrossed in hearty laughter and storytelling by a large bonfire, Sigefrid’s attention suddenly fell elsewhere, towards the divine woman overlooking the mead hall in all her glory. It took him a moment to realize who had captivated his being; the entirety of his lonesome heart with her ethereal beauty. To no surprise, it was none other than his beloved princess, Blædswith.

Sigefrid’s slowly lowered a cup of ale from his parting lips. His eyes, crinkling in the corners, dazzled with such fondness and desire for the woman he admired so dearly. His bearded lips curled into a wide, toothy smile as he tossed the cup aside and excitedly jumped to his feet. His hand quickly readjusted his armored chest plate prior to greeting the lady of the hour, the eldest daughter of King Alfred.

As she descended down the stairs, fingertips running along the railing, she bashfully looked away from Sigefrid who was smiling like a fool upon her arrival. Blædswith could feel a warm heat beneath her cheeks as virtually everyone in the hall stopped what they were doing to stare in awe. There were mixed feelings - some were relieved to see the princess healthy and alive, while others regretted not killing her, or worse, when they had the chance.

“Lady Blædswith.” Sigefrid greeted ever so charmingly and strolled closer. “What a lovely surprise.” Upon doing so, he noticed the redness of her neck and frowned, exhaling sharply through his teeth at the mere thought of someone laying a hand on what was rightfully his. His brows suddenly furrowed as he took hold of her forearm and pulled her closer. “Who did this?” Sigefrid snarled as those spectating returned to their prior festivities. Frantically scanning her face for answers, he grew impatient when Blædswith remained silent. 

Troubled, Sigefrid rattled her arm and sternly repeated, “Who?”

With the shake of her head, the princess caressed the side of his face and closed the gap between their bodies. “Now is not the time.” She glanced over each shoulder. “Rest assured, they are no longer a threat.” Pushing off of her toes, she rested a hand against his chest and pressed a gentle, comforting kiss to his lips. 

Sigefrid did not fathom how ravenous he had been until he tasted, once more, the sweetest gift from the gods. Pulling her lower body against his, Sigefrid hungrily devoured her lips, fighting the urge to abandon the grand feast he had planned so he could ravish her within the privacy of his chambers. His calloused hand rested at the base of her skull, sending chills down her body as he intertwined strands of her hair between his fingers. Blædswith pulled him impossibly closer by his armor and deepend the kiss, taking his bottom lip between her teeth as a low growl rumbled in his chest. 

Sigefrid chuckled to himself with a wide, boyish smirk, as Blædswith began placing a trail of kisses down the length of his neck, stopping just above his collarbone. A stifled moan escaped through his lips after realizing he’d been holding his breath. His eyes fluttered shut, and his tongue dragged over his lips to savor the taste of hers, all while marveling at his wildest fantasies coming true. 

“I missed you.” Blædswith cooed in his ear before pressing her greedy lips onto his once more, no longer resisting the urges within that she had fought long and hard to suppress. When they parted for air, they found themselves gently nudging one another with their noses - smiling like dumb, lovestruck teenagers.

“Oh,” He chuckled amusingly, “how I have missed you.” He could feel his lower half stiffen uncomfortably in her presence as his heart beat inhumanly fast against his armor. Biting the tip of his tongue with an irresistibly flirty smile, he motioned for Blædswith to walk alongside him towards a long, wooden table seated with Danes challenging each other to eating contests and arm wrestling matches. “Come.” He reached back, taking her hand in his. “I need to wash away the taste of betrayal.” As Blædswith followed closely behind, cheeks flushed and core left aching after the heated moment they had just shared. She felt as if she were floating on cloud-nine, bit buzzed from the feeling of euphoria he instilled within her. 

However, that feeling quickly faded as she cowered away from the looks of hatred and pure disgust she received. Blædswith could hear whispers of her name throughout the hall from those wondering what Sigefrid’s intentions were with the king’s daughter.

“Why is she not in her cage?”

“What in Odin’s name is Lord Sigefrid doing with our princess?”

As they neared the table Blædswith searched for an empty seat, preferably one close to the dark haired Thurgilson brother. Apprehensive, the princess distanced herself whilst Sigefrid continued ahead of her. Noticing her absence by his side, he turned on his heels and frowned. “Is something wrong?”

The princess shrugged sheepishly. “I-I do not see a place for me to sit.” 

“You will sit… with me.” Sigefrid squeezed her hand reassuringly and led her to the short end of the table where two carved, wooden thrones awaited them. Erik, she noticed, was comfortably seated in a third throne at the other end of the table.

“I hope... it is to your liking.”

“I-I do not know what to say.” Blædswith smiled as he helped her to her seat before making himself comfortable in his rightful place beside her. Before he could notice, she plucked the axe from her pocket and dropped it behind the throne. 

She felt safe enough in Sigefrid’s presence, that surely, it would not be of use to her.

The Danish lord couldn’t help but stare, seeing how tall and powerful she sat where his brother had. Once broken and defeated, she held her head high and overlooked those who despise, yet envy her all the same. With a freshly brewed horn of ale now in hand, Sigefrid’s eyes fell to her exposed chest concealing her lonely heart that yearned for him; for their souls to collide as their warm breaths intertwine beneath Odin’s watchful eye. 

Peering across the table, Blædswith fortuitously caught Erik’s attention. The two exchanged gentle smiles as Erik nodded, assuring her that she was safe, and in good hands with his brother. She mouthed a quiet “thank you”, not only for allowing her to sit upon his throne, but for every kind gesture he’s done since they met.

“Two days ago…” Blædswith spoke down at herself, “it was as if I were a caged animal. Scared… afraid. Now I feel like a queen.” The corners of her lips squirmed as she fought to conceal an overwhelming feeling of joy, and finally, of freedom. “Why?” She looked up at Sigefrid with glossy eyes, and a faint half-smile. “We used to hate each other. W-what are we doing?”

Sigefrid leaned towards her, resting an elbow upon the armrest of his throne. He exhaled sharply, “While I have not been kind to you, Lady… I never hated you.” He spoke grimly, lowering his serious gaze that seemed to sparkle beneath the overhead candelabra. “I have learned from my mistakes; my failures as Lord of Beamfleot… and as a man.” Sigefrid reached forward and poured her a cup of ale, offering it to the princess in which she graciously took and drank from. 

Clearing his throat, he leaned in even closer. “I will make things… better… between us. I presume my chambers were to your liking, were they not?” 

“Your chambers were lovely… though a bit lonely.” Blædswith grinned faintly, feeling herself give in to the burning subject on her mind. “Sigefrid… I would not advise you to sleep there furthermore.” The Saxon whispered discreetly in between sips of ale. “It is not safe.” 

“What do you mean?” Sigefrid suddenly shot upright, throwing a half empty horn of ale over his shoulder, nearly hitting a slave girl passing by with a tray of food.

With a heavy sigh, Blædswith chugged the rest of her cup and tossed it aside, too. Carefully choosing her words, she mumbled nonchalantly, “Your mistress did not take too kindly to another woman in her bed.” She could feel the skin on the back of her neck burning as if inches away from a blacksmith’s forge. “She entered your chambers, and upon recognizing me, she... tried to kill me.” Blædswith gently rubbed her throat, grimly recalling when she had been strangled. 

“And… what did you do?” Sigefrid, practically perched on the armrest like a bird, held onto her every word as if it were to be her last. A mixed array of emotions overcame him, from nauseating worry and dread to fear of the worst. His mind couldn’t fathom how his mistress slipped past his guards, so he felt embarrassed and burdened with guilt that Blædswith found out about Yrsa that way, or at all. While he knew his mistress to be short tempered as he is, he never would have imagined her to attack King Alfred’s daughter out of pure jealousy.

“I slit her throat and gutted her like a deer.” Blædswith deadpanned before an unfamiliar slave girl offered her a second cup of ale, in which she quickly drank from and muttered a quiet “Sköl” as she turned to face the hall.

“Sköl.” 

“I am sorry about Yrsa. I tried to reason with her. She would not listen.”

“She was a mad woman.” Sigefrid shook his head shamefully and downed more of his ale. “There were times... I feared this would happen. Not to you, but… to someone.” After a big gulp of ale, he wiped his beard with the back of his arm and shamefully sunk back into his throne, closing his eyes and cursing himself to the gods for neglecting their gift to him.

“Your guards were dismissed from their duties. When your slave came to get me, they had been long gone.” Blædswith stirred uneasily, distracting herself by glancing around the hall. “That is how Yrsa got in.”

“Those men will be dealt with. I can assure you that.” Sigefrid growled darkly through gritted teeth, his knuckles turning white from gripping tightly onto his horn of ale. “They will be slaughtered, like that whore of a woman, Yrsa.”

“You speak of your mistress as if you do not care. Surely you must?”

“Yrsa... was a good hump. She passed the time. Unlike her, it is not your ass I want. It is yourself.” Sigefrid turned towards the Saxon, sitting as his equal, beside him. “If you will have me.”

Blædswith gasped quietly beneath her breath. “If I didn't know better, I would have thought you wanted me to stay.” Teasingly, she quirked an eyebrow as if she couldn’t tell how he felt by the way he held her close - when they exchanged such a moment of tenderness; of love, even. 

“Well, do you?” The Dane teased, excitedly toying with his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Do I what?” Blædswith hummed with a faux, innocent pout.

“Know better?” 

Blædswith smiled down at her folded hands resting upon her lap, closing her eyes as a bright smile overcame her lips. “Even despite those who wish me dead or to be sold back to Wessex?” Blædswith then peeled the fur pelt from her shoulders, pooling it behind her.

“Even so.” Sigefrid nodded with a wink. His lips slowly parted in awe as he watched Blædswith rise from her throne, now standing before his knees. She began bunching the skirt of her dress at her hips, stepping over his large boots to place herself deep within his lap; his hands immediately shot to her lower waist, pressing her hips firmly against the front of his bulging pants with a breathy groan. 

Numerous Danes whistled and hollered at Blædswith’s sudden gesture.

“I am giving up everything for you. My family, my kingdom. My crown.” Blædswith pinned his wrists to the throne’s armrests, causing Sigefrid to throw his head back against his seat. She could see him gulp drly; the muscular veins of his neck protruding as he fought every primal urge within him to tear her dress to shreds. “I have conditions.”

“Name them.” Sigefrid groaned as Blædswith began to slowly grind her hips against the mighty Thor’s hammer beneath her. She could feel the muscles of his arms flinching beneath her grasp, knowing full well he was stronger than her and could pry her hands off at any moment. His chest rose and fell beneath his armor as he shifted frustratedly in his throne. 

“I want to be your equal.” She purred in his ear. “I will not be treated like a common whore, or slave. You will not have any mistresses, for I will kill them all. I am all you need.” Blædswith whispered dangerously close to his lips as her knees tightened around his hips. “I am your gift from the gods…”

Sigefrid nodded, panting, “I agree to your terms,” before learning forward for a kiss, only to be stopped by Blædswith leaning back, and ceasing all movement of her body.

“Oh, I am not finished.” She taunted rather seductively, maintaining a few inches between their faces. “I no longer wish to be called lady or princess. I am Blædswith.” She paused, biting her bottom lip to suppress an unexpected whimper after feeling him move against her. “I want to learn your ways; t-to train and fight alongside you, as a shieldmaiden. That has always been a dream of mine. I-I am a Dane at heart.”

“That is… quite the ask.” Sigefrid groaned beneath the warmth of her shifting weight. “It would be an honor to fight; to drink, and lie, beside you. I have wanted this - you - ever since we met.” Sigefrid, no longer able to resist her, freed his arms from her grasp with a loud grunt. She could feel his hand wandering down her lower back, undoing the tie of her apron. “I need you to be mine. No other man can have you.”

“Then take me,” Blædswith pleaded, her tender lips mere inches from his. She cupped the sides of his prickly face with her soft hands and whimpered softly, “Take me as yours.”  With a quick, affirming nod, Sigefrid crashed his lips onto hers, tangling his hand in her youthful, free flowing locks. Tilting her head to the side, he began sucking and nipping at the skin of her neck, leaving a warm trail of bruises down to her collarbone to establish his claim over her. Pushing the sleeve of her apron dress down, he sloppily kissed around her cauterized shoulder, wanting her to realize that it wasn’t appalling enough to drive him away. He wanted her to feel beautiful; wanted and desired despite her wound.

Blædswith took his hand in hers, placing atop her breast for him to knead through her dress. If it weren’t for the room full of Danes surrounding them, perhaps her dress would have been discarded ages ago. “You are not,” she gasped quietly in his ear, “disgusted by my shoulder?”

Flicking a thumb over her swollen lip, he growled, “No.” Sigefrid’s eyes were dark; completely dilated as if he were a predator consuming its prey. He looked up at her as if she were his entire world, his beginning and his end.

How strange, he thought, that in so little time Blædswith, a Saxon princess, could mean so much to him… and she may and never know it. “You could never disgust me.” Sigefrid slid his hand around her arse, giving it a firm squeeze as he made his way to her undergarments, pulling and tugging on the fabric until it tore at the seams. 

He could feel the warmth radiating from between her legs as his fingers neared, only for Blædswith to shake her head and whimper, “No, we can’t.”

“You do not want to?” A confused Sigefrid panted quietly, almost offended that she had denied him entrance to her most sacred body. “I do not understand-”

“Of course I want to.” She smiled with an airy chuckle. “When I give myself to you,” she gently caressed the side of his face as his arms rested around her waist, “I want it to only be us, and the gods, in the room. I do not wish to be in pain, either.” She motioned down to her ribs, which had ached the entire time. “Besides, if we start now, I-I won’t be able to stop in time for the main feast.” She teased lightly, causing Sigefrid’s chest to rumble with laughter. 

“I am not hungry.” Sigefrid chuckled with a sly grin, flicking his tongue over his lips. 

“Of course not.” Pressing her forehead against his, she couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear. “Well, I am starving. After tonight I am not going anywhere. I promise.” Blædswith soothed, tracing her fingers down the length of his arm, until she reached his hand. Taking it in her own, she raised his knuckles to her lips and gently kissed each one. “I have denounced the Christian God. My engagement is invalid…” Blædswith courteously pushed herself off of him, adjusting her straps of her apron and pulling down her skirt to avoid flashing the entire hall. “I am a free woman.”

“Not anymore.” Sigefrid smirked with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Before Blædswith could ask what trouble he was up to, Sigefrid blew through a large horn, immediately gaining the hall’s attention. Blædswith was left standing upon wobbly legs, flustered and breathless. Her entire body was flushed pink, nearly matching the color of her apron. Even a half-conscious drunk could look at her tangled hair and know what she and Lord Sigefrid had been up to - there was no keeping it a secret. 

The entire mead hall fell silent, except for a quiet hum of music in the near distance.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, Sigefrid began, “I have something to say, to each of you.” A low murmur rose out of suspicion. “You will now be disappointed to know, that Lady Blædswith of Wessex, here, is now mine.” He couldn’t help himself but to chuckle haughtily. “No man is to touch her. Not with his hands, and not with his tiny cock… unless he wishes to lose it.” As he raised his hand-blade to the crowd, he couldn’t help but smile down at the beautiful woman whose warm hand rested upon his chest - a feeling he would truly never grow tired of. 

From across the hall, the sight of his brother gazing down upon the woman he admired warmed Erik’s heart, seeing as Sigefrid’s gentler side rarely saw the light of day.

“What about our wealth? Our promised glory?” An older, toothless Dane called out, followed by an uproar of support from those standing around him. 

“Blædswith is a great warrior, whom I have grown fond of.” Sigefrid argued with a scowl, glaring down at his followers. “She is far more valuable, than any silver.” 

Blædswith let go of Sigefrid’s armor, and stepped forward to address the room. “I hope it brings you peace, knowing that I am no longer a Christian. I am not your enemy, but King Alfred’s. It would bring me no greater joy than to raid Wessex and pillage my father’s wealth. If you will accept me, as a Dane, I shall reward you greatly.” Blædswith could feel Sigefrid’s chest press against her back as he protectively stood by her side. 

After a few moments of silence, cheering and applause rang throughout the entire hall. Upon Sigefrid’s request, a slave girl brought them each a third cup of ale, in which Blædswith raised into the air and shouted, “Sköl!” 

Immediately following, Sigefrid, Erik, and those in support sang in unison, “Sköl!” and the night’s festivities continued on. Once finished with their ale, the unlikely Saxon-Dane duo found themselves laughing, singing, and dancing to the upbeat rhythm that was sure to play into the early hours of the morning. Sigefrid found himself upon his throne once more, arms wrapped around Blædswith’s waist who sat across his lap. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, playfully nipping and planting kissed along the marks he’d already left. The two swayed back and forth to the music, engrossing themselves in the stories being told at the table before them.

“Sigefrid?” The beautiful woman sitting upon his thighs whispered, running her fingertips over the length of his beard. Sigefrid hummed in response, brushing fallen strands of hair from her ethereal complexion. “I have… something else to ask you...” Interrupting her train of thought, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of strikingly familiar face slithering through the clusters of Danes until they reached the table where Lord Sigefrid and his new woman sat enthralled with one another. 

“Why is he here?” She groaned against Sigefrid’s neck, only for the eldest lord of Beamfleot to shake his head with a sigh in defeat.

With a large cup of ale in hand, a disfigured Hæsten took one last gulp and let the cup fall from his fingertips, now rolling under the table. Before Blædswith, or even Sigefrid could properly react, he looked between them and slurred, “Sigefrid. Blædswith? What did I miss?”

_______________________________________________

A/N: Well Hæsten, it’s safe to say you missed a lot - lol. Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, but I hope it was worth it! 

I’m contemplating whether or not to add real smut to the story... 👀

🏷 Tags: (hope I didn’t miss anyone!)

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[jackest-jack]

I would very much like to hear about your spooky scary Sirens, pretty please 🥺

AJKSJAKISJAJAJF Ok so I almost had a heart attack when I saw you were following me because YOU’RE SO COOL so thank you

I already wrote about my spooky scary sirens over here, and they have pictures and I would be willing to write a short thing with them later but for right now I’m gonna pick a different thing and blab about it.

The most fleshed out and cohesive thing I have is the vampire band nerd slasheresque story with a police chase followup as well as a separate zombie apocalypse thing, so ig I’ll go with that. More under cut and warning for like a lot of gore and death and angst. I’m also only doing the first part of that because this is taking a long ass time

I came up with this in junior high, and I was in band, and I noticed that each instrument section had different personalities sort of, so I made characters around that and put them in a horror plot where they all die horribly, because what else are you gonna do? This is gonna be a plot rundown and it might get real long. (It is no longer a rundown. Its just unedited word vomit.)

anyways a bunch of friends, who I’m just gonna call by their instrument names, go camping in the woods for a couple weeks. They all take one car and set up in the middle of fuckin nowhere.

Clarinets a vampire pretending to be a high schooler for kicks, because she was 15 when she turned 5 years ago and got dragged away to the magic underworld (basically a series of safehouses and towns for the supernatural) and she wants a letterman goddamnit.

She gets adopted into a friendgroup despite her best efforts, and gets dragged along on the camping trip in the small car and close quarters with a buddy system and she hasn’t eaten anything substantial in like two months and its proving to be a problem when she starts thinking of her friends as snacks instead of people.

one night, percussionist gets up to go on a 3 am lake walk. But, the buddy system. So he takes Clarinet, who never seems to sleep anyways, with him.

They’re on the edge of a lake littered with huge old chunks of driftwood, looking out over the water, when Percussionist steps on something sharp. It went straight through his sandal and he pulls it out without much trouble, but “that nail looks kind of rusty and I’m Pretty Sure I’m bleeding a little bit, oh I hope I don’t need a shot-“

she falls on him like a cat on a wounded songbird. She has enough of her mind left to cover his mouth and stop the screams as he slowly loses blood.

He tries to fight back. He does. he jams the nail deep into her throat and twists away, but she catches his wrist and slams him backward, a sharp stick going through his stomach, sticking him bloody at the base of an old driftwood branch still attached to its old tree.

She stops draining just before he dies. And she waits, and waits, and waits. Finally, hours later, the corpse takes a deep gasp and its eyes fly open. It begins the excruciating process of pulling itself off the tree.

his wound is closed less than a minute later.

he comes to and sees her sobbing on the ground, bloody streaks under her eyes from where she tried to wipe away her tears with hands soaked from putting pressure on his stomach in a feeble attempt to save him.

“Vampires, huh?” He says, half joking, half looking for an explanation.

—-—

they’re sitting around a small campfire, and Clarinet tells him that he’s a vampire, he needs blood, he cant go back to camp or he will eat his friends. She leaves to find him something substantial before he loses it.

back at the original camp, its around sunrise. Flute notices a small trail of smoke not far off, realizes that Percussionist is missing, and gets French Horn to help him look for their idiot friend (and maybe put out a small fire.)

They make it about 3/4th of the way to the smoke when flute trips on a tree root and scrapes his knee. About a mile away, Percussionists head perks up.

He distantly realizes that he just left the campfire that he’s supposed to stay at, but he can‘t seem to care. The hunger doesn’t gnaw at him or hollow him out. Its not like looking for a fix either. Its an itch in his whole body, a near unavoidable function of his being. The hunt is as natural as a cough, a spasm of muscles to take away the awful itch.

He moves faster than he ever could before, and just to see if he can, he jumps up and begins running across the branches of trees. Its slower, but sneakier; his prey won’t see him coming.

Finally, he reaches them. He jumps on the smaller one, sending it crashing to the ground. It’s blood is what brought him here. He sinks his hollow teeth into its neck and begins feeding.

There is a scream and a crash as the taller one runs away. Thats ok. He only needs one.

———

French horn, for her part, is freaking the fuck out. The sun had just peaked over the horizon and orange light was streaming through the trees when everything went to shit.

The pale thing had fallen on Flute, and the noise he made… she was almost certain he was dead now.

She kept running. If she could make it back to camp, then maybe she could get help, or maybe leave before the rest of them died too.

She charges through a thicket, sharp thorns scraping and tearing every inch of her as she shoves her way through. She shuts her eyes as she goes, to avoid the thorns poking them out.

When she comes out the other side, she feels her gut sink.

She doesn’t recognize the trees or bushes around her. She doesn’t see a path.

She’s lost.

She wants to break down, to scream and cry the injustice to the heavens, to kick and punch and fight the thing that killed her friend, to sit down and rest and have a moment to breathe, to be home-

She picks a direction and runs.

———

Percussionist stops draining Flute just before he‘s dead, following the instinct that drove him to where he is.

He wants to be horrified. He does, really. But he was so hungry, and the itch is still there, waiting beneath his skin to pounce on him again. But for now, its gone, and he can think clearly. He can move without the instinct tainting his every twitch.

He turns to look at the person he drained and sees-

He sees his friend. And it hits him all at once.

He killed a person, a person he knew, a person he cared for, and he had been powerless to stop it. He didn’t even know- he didn’t realize- he would never have done it if he-

but he knew he would have. Even if he knew. He would’ve killed Flute, and he hates himself for that.

So he sits by the body of his dead friend, maybe in solace, maybe because some instinctive tick tells him to. He doesn’t want to know. He refuses to.

When Flute sat up and gasped, Percussionist could‘ve sworn he had a heart attack (even without a functioning heart.)

To Flutes credit, he made it through Percussionists halting and confused explanation before letting himself ask about the smell.

”what smell?” Percussionist asked, and lifted his nose to the air.

He got his answer. The smell of blood, salty and sweet and with a coppery tinge to it drifted through the air, leaving a hunger and odd comfort sitting in his gut. It reminded him of smelling baking cookies from the kitchen as a kid.

A leaf crunched, and he snapped out of his trance. Flute had stood up and broken into a run, faster than any human could’ve gone. After the person that had been with him.

After his friend.

Percussionist sprinted after him.

——

He had the chance to notice how fast he was really going, now that he could think through the hunger. He practically flew through the forest, leaping over a fallen log half his size that blocked his way. He ducked and dodged branches that threatened to slash his face, and if he were running for something else he may have threw his head back and laughed.

As it was, he was following the occasional red flash of a windbreaker that he could barely keep up with without being hit by a tree.

He could heal now right? Did he really even need to be worried about being hit by trees?

He let one slap his face just to test, and he felt the stinging pain all across his face as a deep cut opened across his nose and eyes. He faltered as his vision went red with blood. A second later, it was gone, and he could see again. ….And he‘d lost flute. Great.

He sniffed the air, remembering how he’d been able to smell the blood, and tried to look for his friend.

He could smell the whole forest. Sap and pine and rotting leaves, rotten flesh and mushrooms and a skunk miles and miles off, the sweet sting of honey and dew and campfire smoke, and over it all, the most lovely smell-

Well, looks like he couldn’t find him that way. He thought for a moment, and groaned. He could just follow French Horn and get to her first!

He began running again.

———

Clarinet had just made it back to the campsite, a live deer kicking around over her shoulder. She would’ve killed it, but she couldn’t quite figure out how without losing any of its blood, and since she drained and seriously injured Percussionist he would need a lot of blood-

and the campfire had a suspicious lack of vampires around it. Great. She could only hope that no one had cut themselves-

She stopped as the scent of blood hit her nose. She cursed and took off running, dropping the deer as she did.

——

French Horn thought she was going to die when she heard a bush rustle and snap behind her. She had stopped for a rest, thinking she was safe (if very lost). She was braced for her death when Percussionist crashed through the bushes.

”Oh, good, you’re still alive. We need to go like right now.”

Before she could protest, he grabbed her wrist and began pulling her away. With his very cold, very pale hand.

”Wait. Was it you?” She said, planting her feet.

”Yes.” his voice was solemn, and his eyes downcast. “But unless you want Flute to get you, we need to go”

She tore her wrist out of his grasp.

“Flutes dead. Flute’s dead and you killed him!”

And Flute hit her from the side. He sank his teeth deep into her neck, but only for a moment. Then he pulled back, looking horrified and ran away.

French Horn stands up dazedly. “That was…”

”Yeah.”

she lifts a hand to her bleeding neck where the bite is still gushing blood.

A rustle of trees comes from the side, and Clarinet skids to a stop in front of them. She takes in the situation and drops to her knees, tearing loose a piece of her shirt and holding it to the holes in French Horn’s neck.

”Wheres the third?”

French horn points to the copse of trees he disappeared into.

”I think we might actually be jinxed.” A pause, then “That was supposed to be a joke. Go after him. He’s heading towards the camp, and chances are he won’t be able to stop himself a second time.”

Percussionist nods, and then stops. “How do I get there?”

”just run straight! GO!”

and he does.

———

Clarinet gently explains to French Horn that vampires are real, and that she is one. When asked why she isn’t bloodthirsty, Clarinet answers that she has a lot of blood left in her still, and that she’s not all the way changed, and that the change will, in her words, “Stink. Its kind of the worst thing you’ll have to go through, and it’ll take way longer since you have blood, and you may not notice at first.“

French Horn pursed her lips. “Theres no way to stop it?”

Clarinet shook her head.

”Okay. Okay, shouln’t we help Percussionist?”

Clarinet swore. “You won’t be much help in the state you’re in, but I can drop you off by the camp. Pack our things and be ready to go.”

Clarinet scooped French Horn up and took off into the woods.

———

Percussionist got there just as Tuba was ripping Flute off of his neck.

Despite Flute being the smallest out of all of them, and Tuba being the strongest, he was struggling to keep the scrabbling, biting Flute away.

So, Percussionist did the only logical thing and full body tackled Flute, trying to hold him down. It worked, sort of. Long enough for Tuba to start running. Long enough for Sax and Trombone to see what the ruckus was.

Flute burst out of Percussionists grip, grabbed Trombone and ran.

Sax sprinted after them, and percussionist was left in the dust, standing dumbstruck as they all dashed off. He snapped out of it when Trumpet pressed an axe to his shoulder and told him to not move.

———

Flute knows this: he is very hungry. He also knows that blood tastes very good.

His last two meals escaped. He thinks he let the first go, but he can’t seem to remember why. The second was ripped away from him by someone like him, which was rather rude.

But this one won’t get away. He is far to hungry to let that happen.

He feeds as he runs, draining the squirming thing dry, pinning its flailing limbs against his chest. It stops wailing eventually.

He slows as he becomes able to think clearly again. He holds the body in his arms and revels in the fact he is no longer hungry. Then, he looks at the thing he drained.

And it’s his friend. He feels his stomach drop, and a hollow pit grow in his chest. His friend is dead, and it’s his fault. He tells himself there’s nothing to do but run, so he does.

Really, though, he just doesn’t want to see what she’ll become.

———

“What did you do to them.” Said Trumpet, each word slow and dangerous. She lifted the axe off his shoulder, and he felt relief before he realized she was lining up to take off his head.

He may be able to heal, but he did not want to see how far that ability stretched. Not like this, at least.

He swallowed his fear and asked, ”What makes you think I did something?“

She barked out a harsh laugh. “You go missing in the middle of the night with Clarinet, who still isn’t back. Flute and French Horn go to look for you and have mysteriously disappeared. Tuba came running from this direction, bleeding like a stuck pig. And here I find you, in the center of it all.”

Ah. He was fucked. Time to implement the worst plan ever, considering how fast Trumpet was.

”that’s- that sure is some pretty overwhelming evidence that I did something. I swear I didn’t, though but I know you won’t believe me so I’m just gonna RUN!”

He ducked under the axe she swung at his head, and took off running into the trees. He glanced behind him to see her struggling to keep up, and grinned. He was actually getting away with his head, and beating Trumpet in a footrace for once-

He turned back around just in time to see the tree that crumpled his skull.

———

He wished he could say he didn’t feel every excruciating twitch of his skull righting itself as he laid there. As it was, it was painful enough he was functionally passed out.

Which is why he was surprised to see trumpet dragging him by his feet deep into the woods.

Not half as surprised as trumpet, who dropped his feet and swore when he sat up and gasped.

”What the hell? You were dead! that killed you!” She yelled.

Percussionist was still reeling from how much growing his skull back sucked, and latched on to the first thing he noticed.

”Did you steal my shoes?”

”what are you?” She asked in a tone that was decidedly horrified.

He fiddled with a piece of grass somewhere to his left. “A vampire, as of yesterday. Really though, why do you have my shoes?”

“Not important. What do you mean as of yesterday?”

”Last night, really. Me and Clarinet-“

”Clarinet and I.” She said.

”Whatever. We went on a walk and turns out she’s always been a vampire, and then she did the vampire thing, and now I’m a vampire, and things have just been spiraling from there-”

”That explains a lot, actually. Who else is a vampire?”

Percussionist, feeling slightly more alive, realized they weren’t by the camp anymore.

”Where are we? Why do you have my shoes, and why are you so calm about this?”

”oh.” She said. “I may have made an action plan for something like this. You know, in case of murderers, or if supernatural stuff was real.”

”thats cool. Why steal my shoes?“

”I was framing you for murder.”

an awkward silence settled over them.

”We should get back to camp. Stop more people from getting vampired and all.”

”Yeah. Lets do that.“

———

Sax skidded to a stop in front of Trombones body. She was limp, and pale, and by all accounts dead. He whipped out his phone to call anyone, anyone at all, and pitched it into a tree when it read no service.

He sat, and he cried by his best friend, who always made the shittiest puns, who was the worst at sports, who thought anything with soulmates was stupid but still read all the stuff he suggested her. Who was dead.

He was still crying when she sat up and latched onto his neck, draining him dry.

———

French Horn and Clarinet ran across Tuba, who was holding gauze to his neck where he had been bit. French Horn was starting to feel slightly feverish, but otherwise okay.

”Guys! Are you okay? The weirdest thing just happened.” He said.

”We need to leave.” Said Clarinet. “Now.”

”No argument here. Have you guys seen Flute? He was with you last time I saw him.“

French Horn and Clarinet shared a look.

“I’ll go find him. You two pack. we leave before dusk.”

They watched as she disappeared into the leaves.

”Whats going on?” Asked tuba, a hint of worry in his voice.

French Horn took a deep breath in before saying “Vampires are real.”

Tuba burst out laughing.

“Oh. You’re serious.” He said as he hefted a tent into the back of the van.

”you don’t believe me.”

“How could I? I haven’t seen any proof that they exist.”

She threw a bag of trash in the van with more force than nessecary.

“What attacked you then?”

At this he paused. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a vampire.”

———

Percussionist and Trumpet made it to where Trombone was crying over Sax, the late afternoon sun reflecting off of their now pale skin.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. He’ll be alright.”

Trombone looked up at him and snarled, all teeth and rage, and Percussionist jumped back.

”He’ll end up like me, won’t he.”

Percussionist nodded.

”I don’t know what world you’re living in, but this isn’t fucking alright!”

Trumpet walked over and knelt in front of Trombone. She held out her hand, and Trombone scrambled away.

”I don’t believe you would hurt me. Not right now. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

”so what?” She scoffed. “I still did it. Should I just go on existing as whatever I am now? Just kill people so I can live?”

”Actually,“ Percussionist said, “we can live off of different types of blood.”

Trumpet looked back and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shut up you twatwaffle, can’t you see this is a delicate moment?”

”just figured it would be some good information to have.“ he said.

“Are you seriously telling me my angst fest was for nothing?” She asked.

Percussionist leaned against a tree. “Oh, don‘t worry.” He said. “Theres still plenty of angst about the immortality.”

“Sax did always say he wanted to be sixteen forever.”

Trumpet rolled her eyes. “Lets go home.”

Trombone reached out to take Trumpets hand, and Sax shot up and clamped his jaws around her throat. Trombone grabbed Trumpets wrist and pulled her away as Percussionist peeled Sax away.

”Let him.“ choked out Trumpet. “I‘ll be one of you either way.”

”Absolutely not!” Said Percussionist. “Trombone, go find literally anything else with blood.” Sax kicked and snarled in his grip. “Hurry! I’m not sure how much longer I can hold him.”

———

“Flute!” Yelled Clarinet. She had been looking for him for an hour now, and still couldn’t find him.

She was walking along an old trail that went out of use years ago when she almost tripped over him. He was curled up in the shade of a tree, hiding away in a hollow.

“What do you want.”

”I want to take you home.” She said.

he laughed. “Something like me doesn’t deserve a home. I killed people, and I knew there was another way, but I did it anyway. Just leave me here to rot.”

She remembered when she’d been like this. She had forgotten to eat, had slipped up. Its not a hard thing to do. When you’re a vampire, you brain tricks you into feeling fine by your old standards until you‘re so hungry you can’t stop it.

She believed it was all her fault, though. The only way someone had gotten through to her was something they had called twisting the knife. She had always called it shitty.

She sighed. “I wanted to say sorry.”

He poked his head out a little, peering up at her. “You didn’t do anything.”

”But I did.” She said. “I drained percussionist dry last night, and then I left him to find you. I watched while you attacked your friends, and now, I’m giving you a chance to fix the harm we caused. What will you do with it?”

”You made me like this?” He asked.

”Yes.”

he lunged at her face, fingers clawing for her eyes. She turned around and ran for the campsite, making sure he was behind her, and praying that he would forgive her for the stunt she just pulled.

———

The campsite was packed, and Percussionist and Trombone had made a game of who could catch the best songbird for Sax. Sax was less murderously inclined, though it was hard to tell if it was because the blood he had consumed or trumpets growing nonhumanness.

After the third or fourth time of watching Sax suck down a bird or squirrel like a juice box, Tuba was forced to admit that maybe vampires were a little real.

(He noticed his neck wound had already scabbed over and was halfway gone. He was afraid to ask if he was becoming one.)

The sun was slipping behind the tops of the trees when Clarinet charged out of the forest, leapt over the van, And yelled “Flutes trying to kill me!”

Flute burst into the clearing and lunged at Clarinet. Percussionist stepped in the way.

”What happened?“

”She did this in purpose! She said she dropped you in the woods to kill us!”

Percussionists blinked. “No she didn’t. She told me to stay where I was while she got something for me to eat.”

he stopped yelling. Now, he just looked confused. “But she turned you.”

”Yeah? It was an accident. She obviously regretted it.”

Percussionist backed off, and Flute looked at clarinet.

”why did you say all that then?”

“You were’t gonna come with me if I didn’t. Besides, you were spiraling and this was the easiest way to stop that.”

”Sounds like the shittiest way to stop it, too.” Scoffed Tuba.

She sighed. “Yeah. It was.”

”Hey,” asked sax. “Are any of us still human? I know me, Percussionist, and Trombone aren’t-“

”Percussionist, Trombone, and I.” Said Trumpet.

”-And I saw you two jump over my van, but whats up with the rest of you?”

”Basically,” said Clarinet, “anyone who was bit is or will become a vampire, depending on how much blood they had left in them after the bite. Was there anyone who wasn’t bit?”

everyone was silent as they all glanced at each other, looking for anyone who could say yes. It quickly became awkward, and was broken by Clarinet muttering “Fuck.” quietly under her breath.

”Who all, um, died today?”

Flute, Sax, and Trombone slowly raised their hands. Clarinet squinted at Percussionist, which prompted him to say “What? I died last night.”

French Horn yelled “past twenty four hours, dingus.”

He rolled his eyes and raised his hand.

”Alright. You three,” -she made a sweeping gesture towards the three with their hands down- “Are going to have the worst couple weeks of your life. Take a few days off of everything. Don’t go to the hospital. Stay isolated. Call me when the pain’s mostly over.”

Tuba’s lips pursed. “What, exactly, is going to happen to us?”

”The way it was explained to me was that your body slowly cannibalizes itself. It sucks.”

”hm.” He said. He looked very troubled.

They got in the van and drove through the night.

For now, they rest. A short break, before they have to figure out the rest of their lives.

[atvir]

Crossing The Threshold Part 2, Day 1

Distinguish the Dreamer. Light the incense for the Perception of time - Kingsblood, Vanilla, Purple Lotus, Peacebloom, Tiger Lily, and Firebloom. Recollection of Memory. Strand of Body and Spirit. Word of Exiting - “Mithryn”.

Let the Memories be inscribed upon the bark. Once again, I have crossed the threshold and swam through the glass pool into the Emerald Dream.

The subtle aroma of kingsblood enters the nostrils as I look around where I am. I am within a ring of towering white mushrooms, warped at the very top to create a canopy where the Dream’s skyline of blue, greens, purples, and yellows pierce through. Even in my corporeal, viridian state, there seems to be a soft sensation of warmth that embraces me.

As I look forward, the fungal structures part as to open an accommodating gateway for myself. How considerate of them! Exiting the white walls, I turn around and observe the closure of the doorway and cannot help but smile. Thus, my journey begins once anew.

The great tones of the Dream begin to sing as I wander away from the enclosure, all captivating in their own way. Creeping beneath the orchestra, there is a low, soothing hum of an oaken wind flute, beckoning one perceptive enough to seek the source.

As the serene tones become more and more present, a waft of maple cuts through the air.

No. It can’t be.

I begin to run towards the composer of such a song, the permeator of such a scent, leaping across quiet streams, bounding over fallen logs, and sidestepping all manner of curious beasts.

I view an enclosure not unlike the mushrooms I arrived in, but instead of towering toadstools, I am met with a barring bush. Wisps of faint blue light exit between branches and leaves, and as I push them aside, I look to see that An’she’s golden honey has bathed the individual in his radiance.

A massive Tauren sits on a crudely sprouted wooden chair, near-corporeal in form, radiating the same deep blue hues that came from where I entered.

I cannot be certain if this is some sort of trick. As I take my first steps within the copse, a smile cracks upon the corner of his lips. The Tauren lets out a hearty chuckle.

“Kid, if you’d think you can get the jump on me after all this time, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Caution be damned. A foolish notion, I know, but this has to be him. I run up to face the ethereal tauren, still coated in the deep blue that I witnessed upon arriving here. He stands up and looks down at me. Stars, I forgot how huge he was. He starts to laugh as I start to cry.

I leap towards old Mosshead with the widest possible hug I can give a Tauren, tears streaming from my eyes. As we did many times before, he reciprocates with a firm squeeze of his own. Even as translucent beings, the embrace still had that unique warmness to it - more pleasant than An’she’s gaze and far more memorable than any dawn I had the pleasure of being awake to see.

I take a step back and he uproots a stump from one of the lower layers. We sit across from each other in our makeshift chairs and stare in silence for a brief moment.

“Ardenweald. That explains it. How are you even here, then?”

Mosshoof laughs. “Atvir, kid, I wish I knew that myself. There were unpleasant stirrings in the Weald. Part of me thinks I yearned to be away from danger, while part of me thinks I was getting tired of the color purple.”

Anteph lets out a deep sigh. “I am glad to be here, even if it is brief. I see that things are chewing at your spirit, kid. Let’s talk.”

And so I rambled on and on about all that happened since his passing. He surprised me about one thing.

Letting out a wide grin, Anteph laughs. “The Dreamer! Hah! She’s residing in Ardenweald. Her wildseed arrived and was drawing all sorts of attention, both good and bad. I have no idea how the Queen did it, but she is there. I’ve seen her wander around.”

The rambling continued. As it was before, Shan’do Mosshoof listened intently with great interest as I told him of my latest experiences.

As I concluded my discussion, he had a sly grin across his face. “You talked about one woman a lot. Do you love her?”

I blink in response, face turning a deep purple, and shrug slightly. He laughs. “Hah! Three hundred years old and it’s like you told me some sort of dark secret. Love is a great thing, isn’t it? It can be scary at times, being close to someone you care for deeply. I’ll not bore you with the hypotheticals as you seem to have more than enough on your mind. I have a question for you, though - what would you do if you weren’t afraid?”

I take a deep breath and smile. “Nothing. Were I not afraid of such a prospect, I do not think I’d be me. I suppose if I was less afraid before, I would have let my feelings be known sooner.”

The deep blue is starting to fade into form as my Shan’do becomes more corporeal. He puts on the great mask resting on his chair and nods. “Good. Being your honest, true self to share with someone you care for is important. Stand, Thero’shan.”

I do as my teacher tells me. He gently presses his ghostly thumb upon my forehead as the colors of Ardenweald continue to escape his being, tendrils dissipating in the air. “Sometimes, you have no opportunity to prepare. Let the focus of the staff take rest and become one with the wood. Let the claws coil in and become a great shillelagh. The simplest of things can be the greatest of solutions.”

I feel a surge of something radiate throughout the body. It feels like no natural magic, but I am filled with an insight that I did not feel before. He lowers his hand and takes a step back. Only the upper half of his body is present.

“I return to the Weald, Atvir Leafshadow.”

I slowly bow towards him. “Farewell, Shan’do Anteph Mosshoof. Shanna melor'ne adala fal.”

All but the head remains now as I notice him nod towards me. “Theia-shoush ahmen.”

A faint echo reaches the back of my mind. “I wish I told you sooner, but I love you like a son. Take care.”

I never realized that the scents of kingsblood and vanilla ran their course, as the bitter tinge of purple lotus permeates the air.

I sit upon the stump he generously provided and begin to laugh which is immediately followed with tears of joy.

“I love you, too.”

(Other days below)

Day 2

Day 3

[mamabearcatfanfics]

Be My Baby

Was going through AO3 to see if there were any new comments I hadn’t answered, and I came across this, which I wrote way back in March 2019. Doesn’t that seem like forever ago? I need to get back into writing for Fairy Tail. I miss Natsu and Lucy. And even though I don’t know if I’ll ever write this Dirty Dancing AU, which is still at the scribbly planning stage, I still loved writing this. Mutual pining rich girl Lucy and rough around the edges dancer Natsu - what’s not to like? I’m tempted to do a piece of art to go with this.

If you prefer, you can read this on AO3

Natsu stood straight and poised, his arms stretched outwards. “Now, the most important thing to remember in lifts… is balance.” He rose up onto his toes and jumped straight up suddenly, the fallen tree trunk they were both standing on shuddering under the sudden pressure as he landed. Lucy squeaked, immediately dropping to grab onto a convenient branch, giggling as she sat down and watched Natsu shuffling around to regain his balance.

“I got it now”, he grinned.

She watched as he walked gracefully along the fallen tree spanning the stream underneath them, the dappled sunlight highlighting his tanned skin, almost sighing at the smoothness of his movements. It seemed unfair that any one person could be so attractive and at ease in his own skin. A sudden thought struck her. “Where’d you learn to be a dancer Natsu?”

“Well, this guy came into this luncheonette one day, an’ ya know, we were all sittin’ around doin’ nothin”, he shrugged, sitting down on the log, ruffling his rose-pink hair nonchalantly with one hand, watching her interested expression as he answered her question. “He said that Fairytail was givin’ a test for instructors. So, if ya passed they’d teach ya all these different kinds of dances, show ya how ta break ‘em down, how ta teach ‘em, ya know?” He placed his hands in front of him and jumped back to his feet in one fluid movement.

Lucy’s eyes widened as he bent his knee, lunging forwards in a fencing pose and flicked his finger towards her with a smirk and a glint in his eye.

“What?”

He grinned at her, his finger beckoning first to her and then to the spot right in front of him.

“No”, she said, without hesitation, shaking her head at him so her blonde hair tumbled around her shoulders. Was he insane? She had trouble doing the dance steps on level ground, let alone standing on a tree trunk thinner than a balance beam.

Ignoring her protests, he strode forward and reached down to grab her hands, helping to balance her as she wobbled, looking down with trepidation at the drop below them. She suddenly realised that the water in the stream below them really wasn’t very deep, and those rocks looked bone-breakingly jagged. Why on earth were they up here again? Oh, that’s right, because Natsu had absolutely no concept of how normal awkward people tended to fall off things and hurt themselves.

“Good – don’t look down, look here.” She felt gentle fingers brush her chin momentarily as he tilted her face upwards and gestured towards his own eyes. “Right here.”

Swallowing nervously, she placed her hand on his bare muscular shoulder, left uncovered by his black singlet top, trying to remain outwardly calm, but internally blushing up a storm. Out here, away from the pressure of the dance studio, it felt different. The warmth of his slightly damp skin under her nervous fingers made her heart ricochet in her chest, and the warmth in his dark green eyes seemed to pull her in... She wondered, not for the first time, if she had been temporarily insane when she had agreed to do this.

Arms locked in the correct position, she grinned up at him as he began moving, and couldn’t help cackling as she lost her balance almost immediately, breaking her dance frame and clutching onto his shoulders. He steadied her, grinning like a Cheshire cat, guiding her forwards until they were almost at the centre of the trunk bridge. He let go of her arms, and then winked at her roguishly, standing with his feet together.

She nodded, placing her own feet together, the base steps of the mambo chanting through her head. “Left forward, together, right backward, together”, she muttered under her breath, arms held out to keep her balance, beginning the steps, her head watching her feet for a moment until she figured out exactly where the edges of the log were. She still felt a little bad about losing her temper with him before in the studio, even though he had kinda deserved it.

She had to remember she wasn’t doing this just for Natsu. She was learning this dance for Lisanna too, taking Lisanna’s place so she could make it to that appointment at the abortion clinic. Her heart still burned at the injustice of it. She knew she was naïve, a doctor’s daughter who had lived a privileged life, but she also understood that it took two people to get a girl pregnant and couldn’t understand how Dan could put a girl he’d been intimate with in that position and not take responsibility for it. Noticing her serious expression, Natsu tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

“Hey, lighten up Luce. We came out here to make this fun, remember?”

She smiled at him, watching as his usual graceful movements became silly as he wiggled his hips, rolling his fists and then doing the monkey. She giggled, doing her best to dance alongside him on the narrow trunk, her heart warming as he steadied her wobbles with his strong hand yet again.

She tried to lose herself in the moment, but she just couldn’t. She needed to know this dance in two days, not only know the steps, but look professional while doing it. She didn’t know if she could pull this off. If she didn’t deliver this could cost Natsu and Lisanna their job; it was her first look at how the real world worked and it wasn’t pretty. Natsu’s voice snapped her out of her reverie.

“You’ve got that look on your face again, you weirdo.”

She sighed. “It’s just… there’s only two days left Natsu”, she said quietly, looking down at her bare feet again. “Two days. I don’t want to let you down. I know how important this is for Lisanna, and I know I’m clumsy and awkward and probably the last person you would ever choose to do this with, and we haven’t even tried doing the lifts yet and it’s… it’s freaking me out.”

Natsu’s gaze softened, and he rubbed her upper arm in a comforting way, making her raise her eyes to his. “That’s not true Luce. I’m sorry if I’ve given you the impression that you’re not good at this. You’re doing really well for someone who hasn’t danced like this before.” He sighed. “Even though Lisanna and I haven’t been a couple since we were in school, I still care about her, ya know? I want to make this right for her, and it’s not somethin’ I can fix by myself.” He swallowed, looking away from her as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, a dull flush rising in his tanned cheeks. “I don’t like feelin’… powerless. I’m sorry if I’m puttin’ that pressure onto you. The fact that you’re willing to help us like this, it’s… you’re… amazing.”

A fiery blush tinted Lucy’s cheeks and she squeaked as Natsu took her hands. “Right. We can’t practice the lift here, let’s go back over to that field where I parked the truck.” Lucy nodded, still speechless, carefully following him off the log and back down the slope to the soft grass.

_________________

Lucy stood poised, ready to run at Natsu, wiping her sweaty hands on her white jeans. She was never going to be able to do this! She was gonna fall on her arse, and quite possibly crush Natsu in the process. She forced herself to try and concentrate, listening to Natsu’s last instructions.

“Now, bend your knees, and go up. Go, go.” His arms were held out for her and she ran towards him and jolted to a stop as his hands went to her hips. She heard his grunt as he half raised her in the air, and then lowered her down again. “Good try.”

Lucy shook her head as he backed away to put some space between them, biting her lip. She just knew this wasn’t going to work. Natsu took in her worried expression and smiled encouragingly at her.

“Hey, it’s okay. That was just the first try. But you’ll hurt me if you don’t trust me, all right?”

Lucy breathed out in a big whoosh, but nodded her head, ready to try again.

“Now, go, go. Go.”

She ran again, jumping at the correct time and he lifted her a bit higher, grinning at her. He lowered her back down and backed away again, giving her a longer run up this time.

“Good job, Luce. Now, I’m gonna go up.”

He nodded at her encouragingly and she ran towards him again, feeling his strong fingers digging into her hip bones as he lifted. All of a sudden she felt her centre of gravity change and she instinctively fought it, screeching as she tipped forwards, landing on Natsu’s chest with a thump, as they crashed to the ground, leaving him momentarily winded.

She rolled off him, giggling uncontrollably, her legs flailing, trying to apologise but unable to speak for laughing.

Natsu propped himself up on one elbow and sighed at her, a mock serious expression on his face at the laughter at his expense, but after a moment he couldn’t help breaking into a smile.

“You know, the best place to practice lifts is in the water.”

That stopped Lucy’s giggles. “What do you mean, in the water?” she said, looking at him nervously.

“You’re worried about falling right? You don’t trust me to catch you. Practicing this in the water should take away that fear.”

All of a sudden a very different type of fear hit her in the gut. Her and Natsu, alone in the water. She licked her lips nervously. Her thoughts flicked back to that first night she had met him, when he had beckoned her out onto the dance floor of the party in the staff quarters, all raw masculinity, wrapping her arms around his neck and rolling his hips against hers, showing her a world she’d never known to exist.

She realised she was moving further and further away from her original reason for doing this. It was no longer only to be helpful. Her innate need to see a problem and find a solution, to fight against injustice, was being replaced by a growing hunger to be near Natsu, wanting to feel the heat of his hand on her back as he moved her body around the dance floor, wanting to earn those small words of praise when she did well.

She flopped back against the grass, feeling like her well-ordered world had just been turned upside down. This was getting more than a little out of control. What would happen after the dance at the hotel was over? Where would all these feelings go then? She was pretty sure Natsu considered her a child, not a potential romantic partner. What would happen when her family went home? She could feel her heart cracking a little already.

Natsu dragged her up, pulling her to her feet. “C’mon Luce, I know just where we can go.”

__________________

Natsu pulled off his black singlet and dropped it onto the bank, wading barefoot out into the cool dark water of the lake until he was waist deep. His black jeans dragged on his hips, pulled down by the weight of water. He turned back just in time to see Lucy sliding in, squealing and almost slipping a little as her feet hit the sludge near the edge. She’d taken off her flowy button up shirt and was now only dressed in a white singlet and white jeans. Taking a breath, she held her nose and ducked her head underneath the water.

“Fuck.” Natsu held his breath. When her head had broken through the water when she came up for air, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Water dripped down the now darkened blonde hair, falling in rivulets over her shoulders and down into the valley between her breasts, now clearly defined as her drenched singlet clung to her like a second skin. He could see her lace bra through the wet white fabric, her hardened nipples pushing against it. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to mentally erase the image, but it only seemed to make it more ingrained. Probably because every ounce of blood and willpower he possessed was making its way southward.

He’d been fighting this attraction for a while now. He’d only dragged her out onto the dance floor that first night to tease Sting for bringing a guest back to the staff party. He’d thought she was cute and that was as far as it went. But then when she’d agreed to help them, had committed time and effort to help his friend even though she could have just turned her back and returned to the safety of the world she had always known, his esteem had skyrocketed.

She was pretty, sure, but it was her soft heart, her sense of humour, her willingness to work hard and treat him like any other guy she might have met in the rich boy circles her family moved in, even though he was a nothin’ whose skill at dancing was the only thing he had going for him. She was a guest, one of those people with time and money to selfishly spend on themselves, but here she was, sweating alongside him, throwing everything into learning a dance that was gonna save his job and Lisanna’s career. He was so close to breaking that cardinal rule of not falling for guests, in fact he was pretty sure he was careening down the slippery slope with no hope of stopping. This was going to end badly for him if he didn’t nip these feelings in the bud right now.

“Natsu? Are you okay?”

He opened his eyes and forced a grin onto his lips. “Sure thing. You ready?”

She bit her lip, then nodded determinedly.

“Just bend your knees.” His hands moved towards her hips, wanting to linger on her curves of her waist but forcing himself to be all business. “And… go.” He lifted her up into the air as he felt her push upwards, raising her up above his head. “Good, good. Now, hold the position. Hold it. Good. Don’t break! Don’t break!” He felt Lucy’s centre of gravity slip behind him and they both splashed into the dark water, falling down into the chill.

Lucy spluttered back to the surface, laughing and shivering. Natsu reached out his arm, dragging her back to where it wasn’t too deep for her to stand and she clasped both arms around his neck, giggling, her eyes bright with laughter, smiling at him. It suddenly struck him that today was the first time he’d ever seen her laugh like this. He wanted more of it. Her fingers around his shoulder were cool, chilled by the water, but he felt a warmth in his heart that he couldn’t remember feeling for a long time. He helped her stand up, swiping his wet fringe out of his eyes, watching her do the same. He nodded at her, placing his hands back on her hips.

“Let’s do it again. One, two, three…”

He lifted, and she straightened her legs and arms, wobbling a little as she found her balance. “Oh, sorry…”, she murmured, struggling to hold the position.

He squeezed her hips a little as he held her above his head, trying to convey that she was doing well. “Good.” Then she shifted a little too far one way. “Keep… no, don’t…” And they splashed into the water again.

He watched her push up out of the water again, already smiling. Tugging her towards him, listening to her laughter as she hung one arm around his neck, he realised it was already too late for him. He’d fallen for her, wanted nothing more to be part of her life, be by her side. He didn’t know how the fuck that was gonna work, but he was gonna try. He was gonna risk his heart, because she was worth fighting for.

She stood in front of him, grinning, wet hair plastered over her face, singlet and bra falling off one shoulder, teeth chattering slightly in the cold. His hand moved without thinking to slide her shoulder straps back up her arm just as her own hand moved to fix it herself. And then the look she gave him. He realised it wasn’t only his heart on the line, and he was simultaneously elated and terrified.

She smiled softly at him. “One more time, Natsu?”

Reaching out his hand, he tucked a wet chunk of hair behind her ear, feeling her head tilt its weight into his hand. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her, right now, but he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop at just a kiss. They would work this out, somehow. They just needed to get this dance over with first.

“Okay Luce.” He placed his hands on her hips again as she straightened herself, ready to work with him. “Over my head. Go.”

[platypanthewriter]

Vines

Harringrove April day 19, Vines!  Maid Stephanie Harrington encounters the Outlaws of Sherwood Forest.  I wrote this all in one swell foop today, so it's unbeta'd, and I'm very sorry.  XD

The Fair Maid Stephanie Harrington, ward of the king, was riding.  She liked riding, in general, when the horse wasn’t too slow, except at some point the riding always stopped, and she arrived, and she had to give her regards to whoever her presence was supposed to convey the depth of the royal regard to.

It was like being a medal, she thought, sometimes—the prince gave a few weeks of her time to someone, as a prize, and they showed her around at feasts in her honor, and kept her locked up in a box.

Whoever pleased him enough, she’d marry, she was pretty sure, hoping it wasn’t Guy of Gisborne, the current recipient of the prince's favor.  He always smiled just a little when she was angry, and the thought of being near him forever was not to be borne.  She blew through her cheeks, trying to enjoy the ride through Sherwood Forest, and urging her horse just the tiniest bit faster.  

One of the sheriff’s guards grabbed her horse’s bridle, slowing it back to a walk.  “I can lead you, my lady,” he said, smirking.  “If you can’t control such a large animal.”

Stephie stared at him, biting her lips together before she called him every name she could think of.  “I am fine, sir,” she said, thinking, I hope the girth breaks on your saddle, and you slide right off.  

“There have been thefts in the area,” said the sheriff.  “A band of bandits.”

“I’ll protect you, Milady,” her guard told her, pulling her horse closer.

She was about to dig her heels into her horse’s sides—just run, jumping over the tree limps fallen in the path—when she remembered she had nowhere to go, and she closed her eyes, wishing she’d been born a man.  She could have gone with the king, were she a man.  Coul have fought bravely and well, and won honors—a castle of her own, perhaps.  A wife, she thought, feeling a twist in her stomach as her cheeks flushed.  She imagined taking her helmet off after winning a tournament, and accepting a victory kiss from someone with dark curls and a sweet smile.

Or, she thought bitterly, she could have died.  Chosen to leap in front of the king, saving his life at the cost of her own.

Chosen.

The guard refused to return her reins, smiling as though she was a petulant child, and she rode along gritting her teeth and imagining him snapped off his horse by a dragon, his spine gleaming in the sun.  The dragon would steal her away, she hoped, imagining flying, when an arrow shot by her face, and all around her.  The guards yelled, their horses stamping and rearing, and in the confusion, she snatched her reins back.

“Guests in our merry wood!” came a voice, and Stevie jerked aorund, staring at the massive oak above them to see two women, one laughing, one with an arrow drawn, smirking faintly.

Of course they’re in trousers, Stevie thought vaguely, staring.  They could hardly have scampered up a tree in gowns with long daggered sleeves.  They were in command of the whole clearing, Guy of Gisborne, the sheriff, and his guards all staring in shock, and that was probably why Stevie’s heart was pounding, she thought guiltily.

“Welcome all!” yelled the one standing, holding the vines, as the one with the bow narrowed her eyes at Guy of Gisborne, Stevie’s current host.  Everyone aorund was muttering “Outlaws!  It’s her, it’s Robin Hood!”

“You won’t take the king’s ward from us!” yelled Stevie’s idiot guard, trying to grab her reins again, and she groaned inwardly, along with the guards around her, who groaned aloud.  She nudged her horse into sidling out of his reach.

“The king’s very own ward?!” the loud one called down.  “Welcome, my lady!  What fine neighbors these, to bring us not only the taxes, but the loveliest guest in all of England!”

“You’ll have to kill us all first!” yelled the daft guard, yanking his sword out, swinging it as though he could reach the women in the tree, and nearly beheading Stevie.  He nicked her horse’s neck, and it reared, whinnying in righteous indignation as arrows started flying again at the guard’s arm.  The other guards rushed at the people in the trees, who started swinging in on vines, and it turned into a melee.

Stevie clung to her horse like a burr as it kicked and reared and the guard swung wildly at the arrows, and then she heard a yell, and saw a flash of green behind and beside her as the louder of the two women swung down on her vine and kicked him off his horse.  She started to fall under their hooves, struggling to sheath her sword in the mess of horses, and Stevie grabbed her, grappling her close.  

“Hang on to me,” she hissed, and her rescuer did, locking strong arms around Stevie’s waist and panting in her ear as Stevie directed her horse out of the mess with her thighs and heels, and charged up the path, her whole body buzzing with the energy of the air before a thunderstorm.  Her horse galloped, finally, leaping the fallen logs with ease, and Stevie whooped with excitement and relief, laughing.  They galloped until her horse slowed, blowing and prancing, and sidling around as she glared out at the forest.  

“Good girl,” Stevie told her, patting her neck and panting, as her passenger slid her arms from around Stevie’s waist.  

“They’ll call us kidnappers, now,” she breathed in Stevie’s ear, her hands patting at the saddle as she tried to find purchase not on Stevie.  

Stevie reached around behind and pulled her closer.  “I’ll tell them you rescued me,” she laughed, turning to grin over her shoulder.  “He’d have beheaded me, in a moment.”

Her kidnapper had wide, blue-grey eyes, long eyelashes, and flushed cheeks, from close up, and Stevie laughed again at the gold in her curls, remembering the curls she’d fantasized sinking her fingers into moments ago, as the winner of the tournament, getting a kiss.  She was giddy, she thought, unable to stop smiling.  

“...I’m Billie,” said Billie, licking her lips, and grinning back, a little.  She was warm and solid against Stevie’s back.  “My lady.”

“Stevie,” Stevie panted.  “I kidnapped you, I think, more than the other way around,” she told Billie, gripping her hand, and tugging it back around her waist.  Her horse jerked her head up at a stream, and trotted towards it.  When it stopped to drink, Billie swung down, then, as Stevie dismounted, caught her around the waist.  

“Hello, princess,” Billie said, smiling.

“I’m not actually a princess,” Stevie confessed, reaching up to see how the curls felt against her fingers.  “I’m sorry.”  Billie’s lips were soft, she thought, against her thumb.

“Everyone knows who you are,” Billie told her, smirking a little, and leaning into her hand.  “Stevie,” she whispered, tasting it.

Stevie couldn’t stop thinking about all the things she’d known, until today, she couldn’t do, and she watched Billie’s half-lidded eyes, and her smile that looked like she knew something Stevie didn’t, and then just...threw her arms around Billie’s neck and kissed her.  Billie made an undignified snorting noise, then kissed her back, warm and breathless, and Stevie started laughing again, when she pulled back enough to breathe.  

 Billie offered to walk home, but Stevie didn’t want to leave her, just yet, not when she told such entertaining stories, and the blush over her freckles was so warm.  When they got to the camp, everyone was feasting.  Guy of Gisborne tried to apologize to Stevie at least six times, gripping her arm hard, but she shook him off, and kept walking away, following Billie to see the little school in a tent, and the still, and the treehouses.  

A weight drew them up on another vine—creaking as it swung them up through the air—Stevie’s arms around Billie’s neck to hold the rope, Billie’s arm around her waist.  They stepped off onto a swaying bridge of woven rope, and Stevie staggered.  Billie grabbed her, bouncing on the ropes so it shuddered, and Stevie yelped, but Billie laughed, pulling her close, and kissed her again.  

“You think I’d let you fall, Princess?”

“I think you might,” Stevie panted, her stomach somewhere on the ground below, but she followed Billie across the bridge to a little house chipped right out of the living wood of the tree, with a walkway all around it, and a shingled roof.  There was a cot, and a lute, and Stevie leaned to look down over the camp, hanging on to a tree branch dizzily.  “...I would never come down,” she whispered, and Billie laughed, her eyes widening again.  

“You feel right at home in tall towers?” she asked, and Stevie elbowed her, sighing.  

“When I saw someone coming to take me somewhere,” Stevie said, softly, so Billie had to lean in, “—I could cut the rope.”

 When they left, Robin Hood herself saw them off—Stevie at the head of the party, allowed to keep her small knife, and everyone else’s arms and armor loaded into a wagon, while they rode out of the forest in their smallclothes, escorted by the merry souls of Nottingham forest.  Billie grinned up at her, walking alongside them, and Stevie beamed back, then jerked her head forward so Guy of Gisborne wouldn’t write to the prince that Maid Stephanie had come unhinged.

 Two nights later, Stevie heard her name by the window, and ran to see Billie clinging to the vines.  “I see you do live in a tower, princess,” she panted, once Stevie had hauled her inside.  

“Why are you here,” Stevie whispered, delighted, and Billie grinned back, her eyes flicking towards the door.  

“I thought this was how it was done,” Billie whispered back, leaning in for a laughing kiss.  Her curls swung down from her shoulder, and Stevie tucked them back up over Billie’s ear.  She’d kissed winners of tournaments, on the cheek—dodging their attempts to capture her lips—but kissing Billie was nothing like that, all soft lips and quick smiles.  “I brought my lute,” she said, swinging it down over her shoulder.  “I’m no dab hand at poetry—”

“Ssssh!” Stevie hissed, laughing, and then she ran and barred the door.  “No poetry.  No music, you’ll be caught—”

“I meant to sing under your window,” Billie said, frowning over her shoulder, “—but I would fall in the moat.”

“Do not fall in the moat,” Stevie told her, giggling again, because she couldn’t stop, the glee of kissing Billie hitting the wave of fear of Billie found, Billie slashed in half for climbing her tower.  She grabbed her outlaw and hugged her, squeezing her like they were swinging through the air again, and breathing the smell of the woods, and the river she must have washed in, and a little perfume that smelled expensive, that she’d definitely stolen.  Billie arms were muscular, and Stevie’s hands fit comfortably at her waist, and around her hips.  

Billie leaned in to kiss up her neck, soft and a little wet, and Stevie leaned her head away, her hands everywhere, feeling Billie’s strong shoulders from climbing, and—daringly—cupping the softness of her chest.  Billie felt no hesitance there, sliding a hand down inside Stevie’s kirtle, and finally Stevie set her jaw, pulled away, and yanked her whole kirtle and cote off until she stood there in her chemise, so thin she shivered.  Billie stared back, and then laughed, her whole face reddening as Stevie drew her over to the bed.  

 “...I meant to bring you a rose,” Billie whispered, as they both panted, after.  “It fell.”

“I am glad to see you,” Stevie laughed, watching Billie’s fingers on her hip, where her chemise was rucked up to her waist.  “Rose or no rose.  Bring me a weed next time, and I’ll be just as glad—but you mustn’t come here again.”

“Why not?” Billie asked, her freckles shining with sweat, and Stevie leaned close to taste her skin.  

“You will die,” she whispered against it.  “Someone will see you, and you’ll die, and if I never see you again, at least I’ll know you’re in the trees, safe and well.  Better than than full of arrows, and drowned in the moat.”

“No one will see me,” Billie whispered, and Stevie pinned her.  

“Promise me,” she hissed.  “Promise me you won’t come again.  Billie, please.”

“There are promises I can’t possibly make,” Billie whispered back, smiling unsteadily up, and Stevie groaned, and let herself fall on top of her, and kiss her until she laughed again.  

 Billie came many times more, and they fell into bed easily, Stevie daring to undo her trousers—and try them on, afterwards, turning the shiny brass of her dinner tray to see herself from all angles.  Billy lay naked, smiling, the candlelight making her skin glisten, but her eyes were red. 

“...when are you leaving,” she asked, softly, and Stevie stopped, and walked over to press kisses down Billie’s side, until she giggled and kicked, and pulled Stevie down on top of her.  Stevie leaned on one elbow to kiss the slight softness of Billie’s stomach, and the curve of her breasts, and sighed.

“I am not sure,” she said, watching the muscle flex in Billie’s jaw, and kissing it in apology.  “You know I would stay, for you.”

“Stay for what,” Billie whispered, curling away, and swallowing hard, and Stevie curled around her, pressing kisses to her freckled shoulders, and then her neck.  “A house in a tree,” Billie said hoarsely, and Stevie stopped, remembering the way they’d soared up in the air, on the vines.  

“I would stay,” she repeated.  “...and they’d burn the forest to find me.”

Billie cried harder, and Stevie’s eyes burned.

 The next time she went into town—restless without Billie in her bed, and furious at herself for the longing in her kisses goodbye—she heard Billie’s name in the mouth of the Sheriff, and rode over, her veins running stiff and cold.  The hammering on the gallows sounded louder, suddenly, echoing like a gong.

She’d been caught holding up a tax payment, and everyone in the crowd was very quiet, whiteknuckled as the Sheriff took down the posters of Billie’s face.  Stevie walked forward and snatched one, clutching it close as she stalked back to the castle, her attendants running behind her as she ran up five flights of stairs to her room, to the seal of the king, and wrote a pardon.  She signed it, and sealed it, and hid the seal again, running back downstairs to give it to the sheriff—but he told her to see Sir Guy of Gisborne, and he laughed in her face.

“I am ward of the king,” Stevie told him, trying not to yell, or shriek, to stay calm and lovely, to get a man to listen to her, but he shook his head, smiling, and tossed the letter on the fire.  

“I know you looked on these outlaws fondly,” he told her, knowing the tax rates, knowing the prince was months from a rebellion by every barony in England, “—but we are harsh on lawbreakers, as we must be.”  He patted her cheek.

Stevie walked out, ordered her horse saddled, and then yelled “YAH!”, and took off at a gallop, ignoring the shouts behind her.  

It wasn’t hard to find outlaws, in the wood.  

She’d ridden barely a mile in when a voice ordered her to halt, and she drew her horse to a stop, even as it huffed, stomping in a circle, catching her nerves.  “I’m here for Billie,” she said, as loud and clearly as she could.  “Billie Hargrove.”

“Haven’t you heard,” the someone said.  “She’s hangin’ tomorrow.”

“No, she’s not,” Stevie fired back, gripping her reins.

 Robin Hood herself recieved her, sharpening the heads of her arrows.  

“How can I help?” Stevie asked, crouching next to her, and watching the others fletch arrows in silence.

“Haven’t you helped enough already?” Robin scoffed.  “She’s nearly been caught a dozen times, climbing your tower.”

“I told her not to,” Stevie whispered, her throat closing.  “What—what is the plan, how can I…”

“There is no plan,” Robin said, snorting softly.  Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen in the light from the fire.  “Do you have a battering ram for us?  A trebuchet?  Thirty or so archers can hardly take the Keep.”

“You can’t give up,” Stevie shouted back, aghast.  “You have to—”

“I can not get inside,” Robin hissed, whipping around to lift Stevie’s chin with the arrow.  “I am known.  I can blend with the spectators, and what then?  Watch her drop?”

“Blend with the spectators, then,” Stevie told her, grabbing her sleeve.  “Fill the crowds with—”

“And do what?” Robin asked, her eyes shiny in the firelight.  “What then?  Should we throw dung, Milady?”

“Your bows and arrows,” Stevie breathed, realizing.  “You can’t bring them inside.”

“We will attend, and keep vigil for an old friend,” Robin said, flatly, as her eyes spilled over.

“I will bring the weapons in,” Stevie told her, shaking her arm.  “I can help, I can—I will bring them.  Get me a wagon.  Bring me the king’s deer.”

“...what?” Robin asked, glaring at her.  

“I am the ward of His Majesty King Richard,” Stevie breathed.  “I am allowed to hunt the deer.  There will be a feast, for the hanging of an outlaw of Sherwood.  Put your weapons in a wagon.  Cover them with the deer.  I will get your weapons to you, inside the Keep.”

Robin stared at her, and then grabbed her arm, bruisingly tight.  “Bring me a wagon!” she yelled, her voice raw.  

 The three outlaws that joined her blended in well—Alanna Dale, the minstrel, whose flip responses to the guards made them laugh, a friar who brought them ale, well dosed with liquor from his still, that made a grown man stagger after only a few sips, and Much, who introduced himself as “the miller’s son”.  Stevie busied herself calling orders to everyone that contradicted the last orders she’d given, until half the courtyard was bringing her a litter, half bringing the kitchen to her to view the deer, and Much, Alanna, and the friar made off with the well-wrapped weaponry in the confusion.  

Sir Guy came to see her on her return, and raised his eyebrows at the deer, and Stevie nearly lost her head, gripping her sleeves from inside as he laughed.  

“So quickly does the female mind turn,” he said.  “Just this morning you were eager to save this outlaw, and now you celebrate her demise?”

“I offer proof I am King Richard’s ward,” Stevie shot back.  “Will you remember, now, and grant my pardon?  We can as well celebrate her release.”

He smiled at her, and patted her horse, and Stevie had half a mind to order her horse to turn and kick, but she gritted her teeth instead.  Guy of Gisborne watched her face, and then beckoned to the guards.  “Escort my lady to her room,” he said, smiling, "—and see she does not leave.  Her emotions are running high.”

Stevie gasped with fury, finally screaming all the thoughts she’d had at him, that he was a coward, and he’d die on the rope himself when King Richard returned and she could tell him all about the taxation, until he stepped forward and covered her mouth so hard her head smacked back against the wall, and she saw colors behind her eyes.  They threw her in her room none too gently, and then, they searched for the royal seal.

They didn’t find it.

Once they were gone, Stevie reached out her window, and tested the vines.  She left her hair down in a braid, unadorned, and her gilt overdress behind, and tied only her knife, the royal seal, and some money to her belt before tucking her long skirt into her belt, and swinging a leg out the window.

The first foothold she found yanked loose from the wall, and she bit back a scream, clutching the vines to her as her heart pounded, but the ivy was old and thick as her arm, and it held.  She was shaking with exhaustion by the time she could step onto the wall, and fall the dozen or so feet into the Keep.

 She could hear the crowd around the gallows, some jeering, some screaming—it was hard to tell through the noise.  She saddled her horse quickly, charging into the courtyard to see Billie with the noose around her neck, her eyes wide as they took in Stevie on her horse.  She smiled as the executioner pulled the lever, tears spilling out of her eyes, just as Robin’s arrow whooshed through the air with many others, and cut the rope.  The executioner fell, and so did Billie, stumbling forward to where Stevie could shout her horse forward and grab her arm, dragging her up alongside.  

Billie’s arms were tied, so Stevie hauled her into her lap, slapping her horse’s reins against her neck and kicking her sides for a burst of speed, and no one expected King Richard’s ward to commit a jailbreak, so Stevie and her prize galloped by the dazed, drunken guards with little more than a startled “Oho!”

They ran until the Keep was far distant, slowing only to a canter, as Billie laughed and cried, shaking in Stevie’s arms.  “You came for me,” she kept whispering, and then laughing, as though it was hard to believe.

“I always will,” Stevie told her, wiping her own eyes, overflowing from sheer relief.  She squeezed Billie’s shoulders to her, kissing her hair, and her forehead, and occasionally bruising her mouth with Billy’s skull, because of the long strides of her horse.  “You came for me,” she pointed out, and Billie laughed, finally untied after much struggling, and slid her arms around Stevie’s waist and back.

Billie guided her to the camp—deserted, with the attack on the Keep, so they sat and talked nervously at the fire, exchanging kisses and wiping each other’s tears, until Robin strode back in.  “You have to leave,” she told Stevie, and Billie’s arms tightened.  “They’ll summon armies.  With you here, they’ll ride to war.”

Stevie pulled Billie to her for one last kiss, and it was salty.  Stevie cleared her throat,  cleared it again, and then gave up and nodded, biting her lips together, before taking one last look at the little house in the tree, and the vine that led there, and Billie’s furious, teary face.

The road back seemed long.  Guy of Gisborne locked her in again, and she sat at her table wishing she’d heard Billie play the lute, or sometimes she embroidered, wishing to set the world on fire.  

She wrote to Anne—Nancy, her friends called her—the girl she’d once fantasized about rescuing from monsters, but Guy was opening her letters, she knew, so she barely explained.  Still, when they finally rode on from Nottingham—finally, she thought, both longing to ride on forever, and never see it again, and longing to turn ‘round and never leave—Nancy was waiting for her in her quarters, and Nancy had a plan.

“You must disappear elsewhere,” she said, and Stevie clutched at her hands, her breath catching in her throat.  “You must disappear in a way they’ll never trace to your outlaw,” she said, and Stevie let her go, because Nancy sometimes needed to pace as she planned.  This was one of those times.  “What if you were thrown from your horse?” Nancy asked, turning to face her.  “Riding alone?  My wetnurse is nearly family, and close enough to a doctor.  If she told Guy of Gisborne you’d died…”

Stevie grimaced, a little, imagining the king returning to such news, but the problem was his absence, after all.  “Do you think it would work?” she whispered.

“Say you’ll ride a wilder horse,” Nancy suggested.  “Then when you fall, you can leave on your own.”

“They may kill the horse,” Stevie pointed out, with a pang of guilt.

“Leave that to me,” Nancy said, and Stevie did, striding into the stables the next morning to snatch the stallion from the wide-eyed stablehand, and riding out into the sunrise.  

 When she rode back into the forest, her fine clothes traded for trousers, her face hooded, the voices didn’t recognize her, but they hailed her horse.  “There’s Billie’s girl!” one called, and another, “No, didn’t you hear, she’s gone and died,” and a third, “Is the horse a gift, then?”

“Take me to her,” Stevie yelled, too tired for politeness, and they realized who it was.  

Billie was by the fire, her eyes red and swollen, and Stevie swung off her horse and knelt beside her, gathering an entire weeping outlaw into her arms.  “You came for me,” she sobbed, her arms so tight Stevie gasped.

“I always will,” she laughed, pulling Billie over to the vine that led up and away.

The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done