#live logs and proper

[tuttle-did-it]

Star Trek: Picard- Nostalgia is the only thing that matters. Specifically, cis-het white middle class middle age nostalgia.

Star Trek: Prodigy- Nostalgia degrades over time, and is almost always inaccurate. Nostalgia can literally poison a fandom.

THEY FUCKING LANDED ON A PLANET WHERE PEOPLE TALK LIKE WILLIAM SHATNER AND WORSHIP THE FEDERATION - BUT THEY GET EVERYTHING JUST A LITTLE WRONG BECAUSE NOSTALGIA IS BASED ON WHAT YOU THINK SOMETHING WAS NOT WHAT IT REALLY IS

NOSTALGIA IS LITERALLY POISONING THE PLANET AND KILLING OFF ALL THE 'FANS' OF THE ENTERPRISE

Expanded rant here - https://www.tumblr.com/radarsteddy/716306124007260160/the-two-are-not-mutually-exclusive-you-can-have-a?source=share

[tuttle-did-it]

oh they changed it didn’t anyone let you know

How am I supposed to live long and prosper under these conditions

[httpsgfg]

[deepspacedukat]

ILYSM FREN ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

ILYSM TOO FREN 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Hab a pretty lizard mans

[ssaalexblake]

Watching some prodigy this very boring afternoon where everybody else's activities are meaning I'm stuck in one room with nothing to do but watch TV 🤷

[wildishmazz]

Love/Death by Kuzushiro

[almostfoxglove]

ONE NIGHT EARLY

a secret santa surprise for @talaok ! ✨ as part of @pedrostories' #pedrostoriesgift24 event ✨

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Joel Miller x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.2k | CW: Established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, brief reference to canon-typical violence / danger / the end of the world, but you're safe.

SUMMARY: You vow to find out where Joel hides his Christmas gifts while he's away on patrol.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

It has to be here somewhere.

In the three years since you moved in with Joel—hell, even in the two years before that—you have never found your Christmas present before the day. The man’s determined, sworn to his secrecy. Takes great pride in catching you snooping around, digging, scurryin’, as he once muttered under his breath, shaking his head with that charm and smirk you can’t help but fall for. Every year, you swear you’ll find it, and Joel just crosses his arms with a shrug, cheek dimpled and eyes dark with affection, and tells you good luck, darlin’, confident you won’t.

This year, though. This year will be different because for the whole week leading up to Christmas, Joel is away with Tommy on patrol and you have the house to yourself. Seven days of freedom to pry and stick your nose where it probably doesn’t belong.

It takes you two days to tear the house apart. Every dish yanked from his cupboard, every shirt and worn pair of jeans thrown from the closet, every pocket turned out—you flip the mattress and unbundle his socks and rip the covers off all the couch cushions and find fuck all. One old, oxidized penny. Dust bunnies, dryer lint, wood shavings. Spent matches, a bullet case. A fossilized receipt robbed of its printed contents.

You spend two more going through everything again. The place is a dump; when Ellie swings by to borrow his guitar she lifts one eyebrow at you from the doorway, weary of the tornado you’ve left scattered across the first floor. Says, “Good to know four days is all it takes for you to lose your shit.”

“I’m not losing my shit,” you say, one hand waving dismissively as you climb the stairs. 

Quick on your heels she mutters, “Whatever you say, grandma,” just loud enough for you to hear. 

When she’s gone, you take a deep breath. The living room is a slaughter, more disastrous than the aftermath of any raiders or weather event. Couch cushions stand mountainous and stripped naked, the carpet’s rolled up against one wall, all the charcoal and half-spent logs have been scraped from the fireplace onto the floor. You’ll admit that might not have been strictly necessary, but you’ve looked everywhere, checked everything, and uncovered zilch. No gifts. And at the very least, Joel has—with his handsome, freckled, silvered face proud and smiling—conceded that his hiding spot is in the house. Doesn’t stash nothing at Tommy’s or in Ellie’s garage. It’s here. Somewhere. Driving you up the goddamn wall.

It’s not like you even know what you’re looking for, but you’ll know when you see it—of this you are sure.

Room by room, you reassemble the house, shuffling all the knick-knacks you’ve each cautiously assembled in this bizarre second chance at a life into their proper positions. His carvings are your favorites, and you rehome them on their shelves with care. You slide the few photographs each of you has into line on the mantle, behind the string lights. It ain’t the same as the world that for nearly thirty years has been dead and gone, but now and then you get flickers of that long-absent comfort. The day the Christmas lights go up in Jackson. The snowmen built by your neighbor’s kids in the street. Jars of homemade strawberry jam. 

Ellie and Joel playing guitar, his deep timbre humming along to her clumsy chords. 

The tight squeeze of your chest when his boots croak the porch and you know he’s finally home. 

The softness of his face first thing in the morning, scarred and weathered, kind. All the long tresses of his graying hair slumped out of place.

As you restore the house’s comfort and clutter over the shrinking days of his absence, you recheck and recheck and recheck and continue to come up empty. At night in the black veil of your shared bedroom, you sleep on his side of the bed with your face crushed in his pillow, breathing him in. 

On the 24th, you wake prepared to wave the white flag when he returns in the evening. You’re going to pout about it, but you’ll give in. Surrender to the superiority of his stupid, squirrelling mind, and admit once and for all that he’s bested you. You have no fucking clue where he hides his gifts. He wins. But you sulk as the day bleeds by, and more than once catch yourself affixed with a frown as you trudge through the crunch of Jackson’s snow-packed streets. As you groom the horses due for the next patrol shift and eat your dinner in the mess hall across from folks you’re only half listening to as they regale you with tales of their day, too distracted by the scrape of spoons against bowls and the emptiness of your hands.

Greedy, that’s what you’re being. Wanting all of him for yourself. You just miss him. You hate when patrol stretches this long, leaving you alone with your cloying worry.

After the sun has set and bowls have emptied, Jackson goes blue. All the snow piled to frame the gravel roads glitters with fresh frost and ice. On your way back to the house, you watch your shadow slide and flicker as you pass beneath the warmth of streetlamps. Someone down the road has a window open, letting the notes of their piano ribbon through the air. 

Even with all the lights and the chatter that tonight could bring fresh snow to the valley, you can’t help but feel a hollowness that you’ve only managed to shake when Joel’s around and the two of you are alone. It’s not all the time, but it happens—a magic you’d believed impossible before you stumbled across this Eden half-dead and were brought inside. Impossible until you met him, and everything latched into place. 

You’ve loved before. Almost got married once, in the world that’s gone. But there’s no comparing how it felt to fall slowly, clumsily into Joel. 

You’re not sure when he’s due to return tonight. Hopefully soon.

Shedding layers as you tread into the hollow house, you light a weakling’s fire in the hearth you know he’ll tease you for, then ascend to your bedroom to change, flicking the light on upstairs so he knows, whenever he gets back, that you’re home. Waiting for him, empty-handed but no less relieved. But as you cross the gold-lit bedroom, a floorboard near the foot of the bed wheezes strangely. This whole house croaks and groans just like everything in Jackson—that sure ain’t new—but this sound is different. You’re not sure you’ve heard it before. Not sure you’ve ever stepped in this exact place.

A grin slips sharp across your face at the smell of victory. You kick back the corner of the rug to bring your heel down hard against the board beneath it, and pop. Up comes the plank, perfect as a seesaw, revealing the black cavern beneath. 

In the shadowed hideaway, a small box lies in the dark beneath the floor.

There it is.

But all the world beyond this room, this box, disappears the moment you set it in your palm.

You don’t hear the porch steps’ announcement, nor the turn of the latch. You don’t hear the squealing door or how the heavy footsteps soften as he removes his boots to leave outside. Not even your name, often intoxicating on his tongue, reaches you in the bedroom—nor when he repeats it on the stairs. 

You’re too busy staring at what you’ve found after all you’re searching.

Then Joel’s in the doorway behind you, and you wake from what you’ve just now begun to believe must be some strange dream.

“Stubborn,” comes his voice, and at the sound you smack the box against your chest to hide it as you whirl around, still on your knees. Stupid you know. Useless. He can see the rug peeled back and the hole cut out of the floor, slender as a piano key. He knows you’ve won.

Broad in the door’s wooden frame, pink-cheeked and snug in his leather coat, Joel stands with the frosting of fresh snow clinging to his hair. He’s been growing it out, to your great pleasure, letting all his silver and curls go free. “I didn’t—” you start to say, but the words thin out and crumble. Your head’s not on quite straight, your heart not yet settled. Eyes still nickel round with shock.

You hadn’t considered how he might react if you succeeded. Maybe he’ll be mad. Take it back. 

But as you stare up at him, all bambi, Joel shakes his head and one snow-dotted curl slips out from the shell of his ear. As he rights it, his scarred hand rising, you see the dirt under his nails in the warm light. The stain on the knee of his jeans. You see too his lips, plush and touched by winter’s aridity, as they twitch in one corner, curling into his cheek. Curling up. Smiling as his eyes hold yours, not mad. Not shy. He’s been inside long enough now that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the color in his cheeks might even be a blush. 

“Are you mad?” you ask, your voice soft enough to call a whisper.

He shakes his head again, steps over the threshold, and amber light from the lamp falls over him like Midas, turning him from man to gold. One step more and his mouth pulls wider, cuts that wink in his cheek you can’t help but stare at. “Course not,” he says gently. “Knew you were lookin’. Y’can have it one night early.”

It probably doesn’t mean what you think it means, but you’re surprised to discover you’re hoping as you swallow hard, blinking some of the shock from your eyes. He’s here; you ought to get up and hug him—welcome him home, your person here, safe and whole—but you’re too scared to move. Terrified that any flinch will make the box and its contents disappear. 

“Is this for me?”

Wry, he rolls his eyes. “Think you know it is.”

“I feel bad,” you say. “I got you a shirt.”

He’s generous enough to chuckle, and the low, earthy sound of it strikes flames along the column of your neck. “Could use a new shirt,” he says, smirking a little. “This one needs a wash.”

“Shut up,” you chide, but the words come out weak. He’s not allowed to joke right now because if you laugh, you might start to cry.

“Darlin’,” he says too softly. That’s the tone that makes honey of your insides, cruel in the gentle way it asks you to let him in.

Though your vision starts to puddle, you wrestle the feeling back. “S’pretty.”

The slightest nod. Then he unzips his coat to lay over the armchair in the corner of the room and you watch him, pinned to the floor despite the ache in your knees. “Was hopin’ you’d think so,” he admits with his back to you, the blades and muscles in his shoulders and back sliding gracefully beneath his flannel like waves on a lake. Antithetical to the thunder of your heart, Joel moves with a patience you can’t quite believe. In no rush at all, like you’re not holding what you’re holding in your shaking hands. Like some little band of metal doesn’t mean what it did before the world bit the dust and fell away.

The question sits like an icicle on your tongue, slowly melting, pooling behind your teeth. 

Joel lumbers back, the soreness of his body just barely visible in his bow-legged stride, to sit on the edge of the bed just behind you. The mattress squeaks. One hand cards through his hair. Slow is his next breath. Steady. But on the exhale, you swear you hear the tiniest shake, a tiny tremble. 

Realization strikes down at you like lightning: electric and tingling, zipping skull to spine to fingertips, blinding and white. He’s nervous. 

Which means the ring in your hand isn’t just a ring.

Lamblike, you force yourself to your feet and the mattress mouses as you sink against his side. Igneous is his body against yours—such a familiar warmth. Rigid and walled to all but a few. Open to you, in moments like these, when he lets you glimpse the whole of him in his eyes and you swear you might be capable of reading the thoughts straight from his mind. Joel nudges his arm harder to yours, and you see the question coming before it slips from his tongue. You see it brewing in the gilt of his eyes just as clearly as you hear your own answer ricochet in your head. 

You don’t cut him off, jump to yes. Instead you lower your hands from their hold against your chest at last, letting the box sit in your lap, open to his regard. Evening lamplight makes ice of the clear stone set squarely on its ring, and the heat of his breath kisses your cheek as he leans in to mumble,

“Y’gonna make me get down on one knee?”

dividers by @saradika-graphics!

NOTE: I am officially moving away from tag lists as they've gotten lengthy (thank you for that <3) so please follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications to get alerts for future updates!

[htchnr]

ミ★ bewildered ꜜ COOPER HOWARD.

𖦹 masterlist. 𖦹 buy me a coffee!

「 ꜜsummary,, requested by anon ; Maybe reader asks to borrow his hat to keep the sun out of her eyes and maybe Lucy is there just watching in disbelief as he actually loans reader it for a while. 」

「 ꜜcontent,, the same x reader dynamic from this fic! ⋆ Cooper being shockingly sweet to you ⋆ sap!Cooper ⋆ but lowkey bullying Lucy ⋆ ꜜwc,, 0,3k. 」

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

you groan, rubbing the bridge of your nose. the sun was particularly harsh today, beating down on you and worsening your headache. "i should look for a hat like yours, Coop," you huff, glancing over at him before slowly continuing to walk. "would make days like this with headaches like this immensely more doable," you muse out loud, not really thinking much of it.

Lucy walks slightly behind you, then Cooper behind her. it's taking him a bit to trust her still. she watches Cooper shake his head and sigh as he walks past her and steps beside you. her eyes widen as she watches him pull his hat off, and drop it atop your head. the quick gentle and comforting pat of his hand on your lower back doesn't go unnoticed by her either as she watches the interaction with bewildered eyes.

"thank you," you mutter with a pained smile, looking up at him from under the brim of his hat.

Lucy's lips part in shock as she watches Cooper crack a genuine smile at you, before reaching for your hand. "not a problem darlin'," he sighs, and Lucy can hear the smile in it, though his head is now turned away from her. "i'll keep my eyes out for somethin'."

Cooper squeezes your hand in a comforting manner, and you move a little closer beside him while you all pick up the pace again. Lucy picks up her pace as she walks behind the pair of you, eyes still wide, yet also basking in Cooper's nice manner for a change.

though, she supposes, he's always nice to you. maybe a little rough or handsy, but she can't think of one genuinely mean or harmful thing he's done to you when you've been around. it's really just Lucy that Cooper picks on for whatever reason.

"chop chop Vaultie, ass up front now." Cooper drawls, a tight and derogatory whistle sounding from between his lips. so much for the nice moment, she thinks as she huffs and moves around you to walk up front.

TAGLIST ; @live-logs-and-proper @looonytooons @seeingstarks @thewastelandwriter @lacey-mercylercy @marina-and-the-memes @p4rsuade @anonymous-creep @likoplays @iceviolet11 @https-junebug @silverose365 @athanza @songbirdemerald-blog @justt-myth @looneylooomis

[lay-z]

dollhouse | 1 (prologue)

Based on personal experiences. This will be fun 🥰

Pairing: Cpt. John Price x AuPair!F!Reader Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | smut (male masturbation); humor; age gap; cussing

Synopsis: John Price needs a trustworthy nanny to take care of his precious baby daughter. Signing up as a host parent on an Au Pair agency website, he eventually matches with you.

When John finally accepts the fact that he can’t possibly do it alone any longer, he caves in and starts researching various Au Pair agencies. 

He reads reviews, experiences and even has Laswell investigate some of those agencies, before he eventually decides on one – Cultural Care Au Pair – and signs up as a host parent/family, looking for an international nanny. 

A whole process goes into signing up and getting approved as a host, a good amount of money and paperwork too, but John appreciates the agencies' effort to make sure the host families as well as the Au Pairs backgrounds are thoroughly checked. 

It took him long enough to accept that he will need help with his precious baby girl soon, so now he must make sure to find the most absolute trustworthy and perfect nanny for her. 

And it takes for fucking ever. 

His standards are quite high, he admits that; his Au Pair needs to have decent English skills and must have enough driving experience if she is to be trusted with his princess in the backseat, she needs to be in her mid-twenties at least and preferably has worked with children before. 

“A nice rack an’ bonnie face would be plus points eh, Cap’n?” 

John clicks his tongue in disdain and furrows his dark brows as he shakes his foolish Sergeant’s words from his head and keeps scrolling through profiles on his laptop instead. 

Oh, his bloody team of menaces had a proper blast when they found out their Captain is looking for an Au Pair to host; a young woman he’ll provide with a roof over the head and a weekly allowance in exchange for her services as a caretaker of his precious daughter. 

It does sound like the setup of a bad porn movie. He knows that. A single dad/military man looking for a young woman to live with him to take care of his child? 

He’s all too aware of how wrong it sounds, Thank you very much, MacTavish. 

Even this feels wrong somehow – checking out the Au Pair’s profiles, reading through their motivational letters, previous work experiences, hobbies, looking through their photos... 

John is sitting in his spacious living room, laptop perched on his lap again while he’s sitting in his favourite armchair, feet propped up on the matching footstool, browsing through profiles of young females, 17+.  

It’s even more bugging and tedious, because both host families and Au Pairs can only be matched with three profiles at a time – so no one can get overwhelmed, which means John is even more reserved with the matches he makes. Then again, the cards to find a good match are stacked against him as it is, being a single dad in his late 30s. 

He’s already figured out that most Au Pairs don’t want to work for a single dad, no matter how tame he looks in his profile picture, no matter how fancy his house is and no matter the fact that he will pay way more than the necessary allowance if it means his daughter is well taken care of. 

Bloody hell –  

John is about ready to call it a night again, log out of his profile and push this task to the next day, when your profile picture suddenly pops up on his screen, making him nearly choke on the sip of bourbon he just took. 

Your sweet smile, those sparkling eyes looking right at the camera, the way you’re holding that chubby baby in your arm, perched on your hip –  

He reads your name, says it out loud a few times and tests it on his tongue approvingly. 

And in a burst of vanity and rashness, John clicks on the ‘match’ button before he even realizes what he’s done and yet he doesn’t regret it once he’s practically studied your profile. 

It’s almost too good to be true, really. 

But then he looks through the other pictures you’ve uploaded to your profile; pictures of you with family, friends, at a café all casual and – there's that selfie of you in a white sundress, flashing another bedazzling smile and showing off a hint of your womanly curves – and John knows he’s in trouble when his cock gives a twitch of interest in his underwear. 

He shouldn’t be doing this; shouldn’t be looking at you with any other thought in his mind than ‘This could be a potentially good nanny for my sweet daughter’. 

“Fuck–” He grunts quietly, shifting in his seat as he sets his glass of bourbon down on the vintage side table to his right, because as much as he hates himself for it, he is currently looking at you with other intentions in his mind. 

The alcohol has turned his insides all warm and now the sight of you in that sundress is already burned into his retinas without his conscious consent; it’s not your fault, no – Gods, no.  

It’s the fact that John hasn’t seen a pretty and friendly-looking thing such as yourself in such a long time. It’s the fact that John wasn’t bothered to look at another woman since his ex-fiancée and mother of his child cheated on him and then disappeared to fuck knows where with another man. 

And now John’s large, calloused hand is already palming his half-hard erection through his slacks absentmindedly, working up that steady blood rush south while his eyes are trained on your picture, until they flicker briefly to scan around his dimly lit living room, almost expecting Gaz and Soap to pop out from behind the drawn curtains, pointing their fingers at their perverted Captain – laughing at him, because they were right in the end. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” John curses again, shaking those thoughts off his tired mind, because he needs this now and he’s going to indulge this once. 

Once. 

And then he will withdraw his match request with you before he loses all his self-restraint, because there is no way he can be trusted with you potentially living in his home. 

John keeps the laptop steady on his lap with his left hand while he rucks up his shirt enough to expose his buff chest and the dark coarse hair covering it and then he pops the button of his slacks open with ease, pulling the zipper down before his other hand dives past the waistband of his boxer briefs. 

An almost pained, low groan escapes his throat when he finally touches and frees his throbbing cock from his pants. 

He should feel ashamed by the sight of his leaking cockhead, knowing he’s getting this worked up because of an innocent picture of you – a young woman who has signed up on a website to help families take care of their children and definitely not to help some perverted single dad and soldier get off – but instead of stopping, he swipes his thumb over his slit and spreads the pearly slick along his thick length, using it as lube while he gives his cock two, three slow pumps. 

The musky smell of his own arousal hits his nostrils, and it only confirms the need to revoke the match again, to stay away from you at all costs, because he can’t remember the last woman who had this strong of an effect on him, but it was surely not his ex. 

John lets out another low groan when the image of you kneeling between his thighs and smiling up at him eagerly is conjured up in his mind against his will while he fists at his cock in faster and firm strokes, and then he finally lets go – lets his mind run free for a moment. 

He imagines what your voice might sound like, soft and angelic, perhaps a little raspy and sultry, calling him ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Price’–  

His eyes flutter shut and his head lolls back against the headrest of his armchair, his chest heaves with a wanton moan, “O-oh... F-fuck –” 

And then, his blistering orgasm nearly catches him off-guard when the tension coils rapidly in his gut, his balls draw up taut, the muscles in his abdomen flex uncontrollably and John barely has time to cup his palm over his tip before he makes a complete mess of himself; thick, hot cum leaking through his scarred knuckles onto his dark happy trail while his hips keep bucking up into his own fist. 

Now, John is breathing heavy, his cheeks flushed uncharacteristically sheepish beneath his thick beard while he catches his breath and post-nut clarity begins to settle in. 

He feels like a complete degenerate and more than ashamed as he looks down at himself with a disdainful click of his tongue, poking it into his cheek as he assesses the situation. 

His cock is still hard in his grasp while his milky seed already threatens to dry up and become all sticky on his skin – so he needs a shower and another wank if he plans on sleeping peacefully tonight. 

John clenches his jaw when his eyes flicker back to the laptop screen on his lap, where your picture is still in full view, and his cock throbs meekly in his hand once more with a dirty mind of its own, and John exhales a huff through his nostrils. 

This is pathetic.  

It’s Friday, way past midnight, and Captain John Price has just knocked one out over an innocent, single picture of a beautiful woman on his search for a nanny for his daughter. 

No one could ever waterboard this information out of him. Ever. 

With his right hand a mess, John uses his weak hand to scroll, bids his non-verbal goodbye to your pics, albeit reluctantly, and goes back to your profile to un-match with you after his debauched deed just now. 

But then, his eyes narrow briefly before they widen, brows raising up to his hairline, when he realizes that he cannot take back his match request any longer. 

Because you have already accepted it. 

[tuttle-did-it]

THEY FUCKING LANDED ON A PLANET WHERE PEOPLE TALK LIKE WILLIAM SHATNER AND WORSHIP THE FEDERATION - BUT THEY GET EVERYTHING JUST A LITTLE WRONG

I AM IN TEARS

WHY WOULD ANYONE WATCH PICARD WHEN THIS IS ON TV

Took a break from Murder She Wrote to get caught up on Star Trek Prodigy. This is the only new Star Trek I like.

Unlike Picard, which has made me hate TNG, Prodigy just makes me appreciate Voyager even more.

[sims3fiend]

Sims 3 Settings Setter

DON"T USE OLD USE THIS INSTEAD: https://sims3fiend.tumblr.com/post/777075618948005888/s3settingssetter-new-new-version-new

SORRY ONE DAY I'LL LEARN HOW TO DO THIS PROPERLY LMAO I KEEP FORGETTING Proper release notes and beta edition

I've added support for setting any Config or Option setting, plus live editing of many many others, so it's now release time. Full feature explanation below, but essentially this lets you edit lots of settings ingame directly instead of having to make .package mods, and provides a "better" and more shareable way of editing GraphicsRules.sgr settings (IMO). Sorry if a new post is annoying idk what I'm doing

THIS IS A BETA, I haven't tested a lot of the settings, there are bugs, etc.

DOES NOT CURRENTLY WORK WITH THE EA VERSION

Downloads: Sims File Share Sims File Share - Less stutter config GitHub

More info about what it is (I yap a bunch) under :)

Installation and use

Please note, some settings wont appear until you load into a world.

Download the ASI file and wack it in to your Sims 3 base directory, where the ts3w.exe is located. If you're using one of the presets, make a folder called s3ss_presets and pop them in there (you'll need to activate them in the presets menu ingame).

Make sure you have an ASI loader, these are either from Smooth Patch's ASI portion or dxwrapper. I recommend dxwrapper, just make sure you set the LoadPlugins value to 1 (should be default)

Start the game, you might experience a little more of an initial "freeze" when starting the game than usual, this is from the script logging a bunch of config calls during initialization, there's like 800 or something nuts. It should not have any negative impact on regular loading or gameplay, and I plan to turn the logging off… eventually.

Press Insert to open up the menu. Go crazy and change everything, make the sun huge, crank bloom up, live.

Check the box next to a live setting to have it save for next time you launch, same thing for config but you also have to press save down the bottom because I forgot

Help I crashed/the game doesn't start with the mod!

Please send me your hooks_log.txt if you're experiencing any crashing issues. If the crash is because you set some value to like 7 billion, that's on you, you can just delete the line out of script_settings.ini or go to Settings -> Clear all settings

If you can't get the game to run with the mod, lmk also, please tell me if you're using a launcher, if you're using any other .asi mods, using dxvk, etc. as well as what operating system you're on.

Features

Live Edit

This is the new™ and now main part of the mod. I've mapped out several/most of the exes main "settings" (anything that interacts w/ 0x005a00a0 and some that don't) areas, which allows you to now, in game, change these values whereas before it was a whole arduous process of making .package mods. I mapped these all statically so some of the offsets/addresses might be wrong.

I was gunna list the settings but there's 260~ of them so maybe not?

I plan to add missing specific individual settings from Config eventually. If you think a setting is missing, or if you think I've mapped a value wrong (i.e. you know it has an effect but it's not working with my mod or is crashing you, or one value is changing multiple things), please let me know. Render/er is definitely missing some, that's because the function is scary and I don't like it.

Values (sometimes) have sliders with the min and max value I found in the exe set, if you want to go higher, you can double click to type in your own number.

Some interesting things you can do with the settings:

Set max lots higher than 8 AND increase the radius so it actually shows (will crash if set too high ~35+, need to investigate) by changing values in Streaming

Play in a game where the sun never sets or rises by editing Sky Common -> Sunset/Sunrise Time

Change shadow settings (includes the same thing as LD's shadow extender mod under), extending shadows (they will still look hideous, writing a post about why currently)

Change various light settings to get the perfect look for your game. Some popular mods edit these values for their looks (presets soon?)

Do whatever… this is…?

Game Config

The function we're hooking (0x0058c380) only seems to effect Config (GraphicsRules.sgr in the .exe directory) and Options (Options.ini in the documents/Sims3 directory), but logs a whole bunch of other thing. Feel free to toggle the option in the settings tab and try changing a bunch, it should in theory work because the function is reading and writing but somewhere it gets overridden or something idk 🤷

It lets you set any that fall under those two categories/headings, which means there's some like ForceHighLODObjects that aren't in the actual file and are settable. You might notice some show different values than what they're set as in your config, this could either be that I'm hooking it too early (I don't think I am), or the value is getting overwritten or changed somewhere in the exe. If there's a setting that's in the file but not in the list that you think does something, lmk, but it should capture everything.

I haven't mapped all of the Config/Option settings to Live Edit as they're all split up in the exe, if there's one you want in particular, lmk.

Presets

I've prepared a preset with just the essentials from my GraphicsRules file post with the idea that you can then use this with a stock GraphicsRules file instead of having to manage different versions, giving you the ability to toggle certain things back to default. I might make some visual "enhancement" presets or something later, either based off popular mods or my own insanity, we'll see.

Presets go into the s3ss_presets folder, and currently they stack rather than replace (not intentional but I might keep it)

Known issues:

Rendering toggles need to be re-toggled each load - Easy fix I'm just lazy

Options settings overwrite the actual Options.ini file (idk why??)

Occasionally D3D9 wont hook, I can't replicate this reliably to test so lmk if you can lmao

I mapped all the settings pretty hastily, so some are bound to be wrong

Was flagged as a virus briefly??? Praying this never happens again because I have no idea what to do to fix that dshjakfhhsdaj

Presets stack, if you apply a preset and you have existing values, they stack together… I kind of like that though as a concept so I just added a clear all option to settings, I might rework it later.

Some Live Edit value locations might change during gameplay, resulting in the menu displaying them incorrectly and crashing the game if edited in a broken state. I've checked most off them and they don't seem to, but Render ones did. Let me know if you experience it as I can probably find a static pointer like I did for Render.

Planned things:

Searching. God that'd be good…

Go over existing maps again, some I did early on before I supported static values, 4 float arrays, etc. so I've probably messed some up

Adding every single GraphicsRule.sgr setting to Live

Maybe adding some of my performance mods to it? Or should I keep them as their own individual thing? Mmmm I dunno

I still haven't looked at the way everyone else has been editing the "live" settings, so I should probably do that, there's probably a lot of info out there but at this point I'm too invested in my weird approach djsakfsksaffsa

Updates:

18.10.24 - Hopefully fixed an issue effect people using launchers, as well as a fix for the process hanging after quitting (would look closed but the process is still there in the bg). Also fixed presets applying. 17.10.24 - Hopefully fix a D3D issue that might've resulted in the game freezing/looking frozen. Handles D3D device resets. Will expand in the future to cover other areas maybe.

[uvobreakmylegs]

Refuge

part 1 of a werewolf!Nobunaga x female!reader fic

Part 2

Warnings: blood, gore, self harm, mentions of death

Word Count: 8.2k

The pale full moon shone down upon the quiet forest, illuminating the pure white snow that lay like a blanket across the forest floor. Light from the moon made the shadows of the barren tree branches even more obvious when combined the bright surface beneath them, and the pattern they made upon the snow resembled that of gnarled arms with outstretched hands, forever reaching out with extended fingers. Any animals that lived within the vicinity were asleep, either only for the night or in hibernation, waiting for the weather to warm before they dared venture out again.

Within the sleeping forest sat a wooden cabin, an obvious and out of place interruption to the quiet landscape of the endless trees. Someone had carved out for themselves a home within the woods with the small, simple cabin in the equally small clearing. It could either be viewed as a cozy space or an invader of the natural state of the forest, but regardless, it stood there, the chimney softly carrying up the last remnants of smoke from a dying fire. Above it, the moonlight hit the man-made building in a way that made it instantly noticeable.

And in the forest, there was one that noticed it immediately.

Where almost everyone and everything was asleep within the dead quiet of the wilderness, one was awake. And when he noticed the cabin, he stalked closer, his snout sniffing the dry air as he tried to discern who or what was inside the small structure.

Not many chose to live so far away from the rest of civilization, and when they did, it was for a specific reason, some job or craft of theirs that was better suited for out in the wilderness. For what reason was this cabin here, he wondered. A quick glance showed nothing of interest; only a small, frozen over garden to one side, and a dead log on the other that had clearly been used as a way to chop firewood.

Who was in there? A family? Or perhaps a couple that intended to start one?

Regardless of who was in there, they would be easy targets. Being so far away from anyone else and being attacked in the middle of the night would make them as much, as the sudden chaos that would interrupt their sleep would catch them off guard.

But perhaps, he thought to himself, there might be just enough time for his hunt to become interesting.

Standing between two pine trees, he breathed in.

Only a single human scent could be identified.

And as he listened with sharp ears that strained to hear of the interior of the cabin, little else was to be noted other than the faintest noise of someone breathing evenly.

Only one.

The longer he stood, the more he was certain that there was only a single person with in that structure, someone who was asleep like the rest of the forest.

That revelation dampened his mood.

Someone being alone in the woods must have been some elderly person who was stuck in their ways, he thought. They wouldn't be able to move fast, and they would hardly offer up any sort of challenge should he choose to attack.

While it wasn't always what he was looking for in his hunts, the thought of it being too easy was unappealing.

It would be several miles to the only town he knew was in the area, however. He would spend several miles trekking there and back to his own little camp if he chose to head that way. If he killed the person within, he'd satiate his hunger and have a better shelter for the night, possibly the next few days.

It was far more pragmatic to attack the cabin. While there would be little sport, he could always wait for the next month if that was what he wanted.

Yet even as he told himself that, he continued to stand there, staring at the quiet cabin.

….. No.

After waiting a month for this night to return, that wasn't the way he wanted it to end. Perhaps it was his own instinct that told him that. The need to have a proper hunt.

Regardless, he made his choice as he stepped away, turning and heading towards the direction of what must have been the nearby town as he followed his nose, picking up bits and pieces of more human scents that the gentle breeze brought his way. The cabin behind him was quickly forgotten as he continued forward. Thus the cabin and the woman within were left in peace.

And not an hour after, gunshots could be heard ringing through the night, though in the safety of your home, you weren't aware of any of it as you slept through the ordeal completely.

Winter was rarely kind.

That was a harsh truth that everyone in the region had learned, as the area where you lived was always hit with heavy barrages of thickly layered snow. Icy winds would shriek through the open spaces, running past trees and buildings as it brought with it a torrent of ice that clung to whatever surface it could. The blizzards would always beat down upon the wooden doors of the homes that did their best to keep the harsh weather out, and sometimes those storms would last for several days if not longer.

All of that left everyone chilled to the bone and desperately clinging to whatever shreds of warmth they could get their hands on. As such, everyone would ensure that their fireplaces or their wood burning stoves were in proper order. Nothing would grow during this time either, so if one wanted to survive, having ample food stored away was required. That could be a difficult task depending on how many mouths one had to feed.

Though for you it was a bit easier as you only needed to worry about yourself.

You lived several miles away from the nearby town of Willsden, and the area of the woods where your cabin stood allowed for enough extra space for you to grow your own crops. The summer and autumn months were spent growing your own food in the little garden, harvesting the vegetables when they were ready and storing them away. And for the food that you couldn't produce on your own, you would buy or bartering for whatever it was that you needed. All you needed was enough in your storage that would last you until spring came, and then the process would repeat itself.

Though the winters weren't always the same; sometimes the snow would thaw later than anticipated and that would cause you issues as you scrambled to find a way to provide for yourself, but overall you managed to do fine. The fact that you were surviving on your own for so long was proof enough of that. Even if it was difficult, you were happy with what you had and what you were able to accomplish.

As you stepped out from the warm confines of the cabin and into the harsh cold, you shuddered as a chill instantly set into you. The winters were far too cold and you wished you could simply stay beneath the covers where it was far more cozy.

But with the work that needed to be done, that simply wasn't an option.

The empty basket on your back shifted as you closed the door behind you, though you quickly readjusted it as you turned towards the forest that surrounded your home. Today's chore would be tiring: you needed to collect wood that could be chopped up and be used as fuel for your fireplace. It was simple enough to say that, but all parts of that process would be obnoxious, from finding and putting what you found into the basket, to carting it all back to your home and then chopping it up so it would be fit for use.

Obnoxious, but you needed your fireplace to remain lit so you could survive the winter.

Though as you looked up to the sky, you noted that the weather didn't look promising. Whereas the day prior had been rather clear, now the skies were dark and clouded, and there was something in the air that felt strange.

If you were to guess, a blizzard was likely going to hit the area, and soon.

You sighed to yourself. That work would need to be completed in short period of time. The last thing you needed was needing to go out and try to chop wood while a blizzard raged around you.

Best to get to it now.

After pushing your scarf up over your nose, you adjusted the basket once more before you walked forward, your boots sinking into the snow as you did so.

But when you had traveled a few steps, you noticed something.

At the very edge of the clearing, in between a pair of large pine trees, you spotted two prominent footprints that were set deep into the snow. Curious, you walked in that direction, wanting to know what might have left those prints. Most likely it had been some sort of animal.

You felt you were correct when you reached them and saw a faint indents in the snow where the claws had at one point gouged in. And when you looked at how long the prints were, it was clear that whatever had been standing here had been large.

A bear?

The thought made you gulp; bears being awake during the winter was dangerous, as they were always angry if they were awoken before the season had ended. They'd be hungry, too, and with a lack of food to be found in the forest, they were generally driven to find the food they wanted in the homes of people like yourself. Glancing back at your cabin, you found that the prints had been facing the door directly. An image came to mind from that: one of a bear standing in the snow as it watched your home while you were blissfully unaware inside.

But you hadn't heard anything the night prior. You had slept rather soundly, and that was part of what left you being reluctant to exit your bed that morning.

If you had made more noise in your sleep, would the bear have tried to come in?

A shudder ran through you as you thought of what might have happened if it had heard you. No doubt you would be dead, torn to pieces by a wild animal.

That would have been a gruesome way to go.

Looking back down at the footprints, you noticed that there were more than just the two, and your eyes followed along as you saw that the beast had decided to turn west, walking away from your home.

That was the direction of Willsden, you noted. Worry then hit you as you hoped everyone there was alright. Ideally, you would have tried to head towards the town and see if that was the case, but when you glanced up to the sky again, it was clear that you didn't have time for that. You still needed to collect your firewood, and even if you did decide to forgo that, the journey both to and from the town would eat up too much of your time. At the absolute worst, you would get lost in the snow and freeze to death.

It was better to continue doing what you needed to, and then, once it was safe to make the trip down to Willsden, you would do so.

You set off again, telling yourself that the people of the town would be fine. The town had a lot of people living there, after all. If some lumbering beast was on the attack, they would no doubt notice quickly. They also had the manpower to defend themselves, so whatever fight might ensue likely wouldn't last long.

Before you turned your mind completely to the chore you needed to start, you glanced again at the set of tracks.

…. Strange.

Looking at the placement of the tracks, it almost seemed as if the animal had been walking on it's hind feet the whole time.

….. The thought was utterly ridiculous, you told yourself.

That was the last you thought of the prints before you settled onto your task.

The basket on your back was nearly full with the soon-to-be firewood when you noticed an unexpected flash of color within the whites and browns of the forest. Turning your head to look, your brows furrowed as you couldn't quite make it out whatever it was as a dead bush stood in your way, blocking you from seeing whatever it was clearly.

Whatever it was, though, it was red.

You shouldn't have bothered to get a closer look. You had work to do and a short time limit to do it, if the clouds above you were any indication. All you would be doing by pushing your way past the bush was wasting spare seconds that you needed to make sure you would continue to live comfortably through the winter.

Yet your curiosity managed to be stronger and you did just that, the tall branches of the bush clinging to your clothes as you made your way by, snapping a few of them in the process. The sounds echoed out into the empty forest as you did so, and it served as a sign as to how alone you were within that space.

Though, evidently, you weren't alone completely.

The thing that had caught your attention could now be seen clearly, and as you stared down at the ground just as you had earlier outside of your cabin, it was obvious that this thing that had caught your attention was blood.

It marred the pure white snow with bright red spots, spattered across the surface like ink blots on parchment. They were sporadic and spread out, and you realized then that they trailed off in a singular direction. As your eyes followed them, you found that alongside them were gouges in the snow, like something had been dragged through. Almost seeming like footprints.

You would have noted another strange parallel when compared to what you had found hours earlier had it not been for the question that interrupted you:

Were these made by a human?

The size and the way the feet had dragged seemed similar to the footprints you might leave behind in such conditions. It certainly seemed unlikely that these would have been left by an animal. So a person had been through here. Given the blood trail that followed after the messy prints in the snow, whoever it had been was wounded.

Grievously so.

Without another thought you began to walk forward, following along the trail as you kept your eyes open for any sign of the person who had left it behind.

The trail was a long one, and often meandered about as the drops of blood and the footprints in the snow were erratic, going from one end of a clearing before doubling back and continuing the opposite way. You wondered what had driven this person to walk about in such a way – had they been out of their mind from the cold? Or had they been looking for something? Perhaps some sort of shelter before they attempted to dress their wounds. It was possible they had managed to find such a place.

Though with how much blood you could see, you had a bad feeling that whoever it was would be long dead by the time you found them.

The wind was picking up, you noted. You needed to be home before the storm hit. But it felt just as important to follow and see who was at the end of the blood trail and what condition that person was in, if just so you could leave a marker to indicate where their body was so they could be retrieved at a later date.

You felt that it was the least you could do.

Time seemed to pass slowly as you followed. How far you were traveling away from your cabin worried you – it wasn't smart to rely entirely on the trail you had followed, not with a blizzard that lurked overhead and threatened to cover the path you had made for yourself with freshly fallen snow. If you didn't find the wounded person soon, you would be forced to turn back, despite knowing the guilt that would weigh on you after such an action.

Just a little longer, you told yourself. If you didn't find this person within the next few minutes, then you would abandon the search effort.

As luck would have it, it was only a few paces more before you heard something. Something that sounded like a human voice groaning out in pain. Hearing that renewed your energy, and you rushed forward along the blood trail, your neck straining as you looked around the trees, trying to spot the person you had heard.

And when you walked past a gnarled old oak tree that sat upon an incline, you saw someone.

A man.

One that you didn't recognize. Not from the town or even beyond the slice of the world you called home.

His long black hair was frayed and messy as it flowed down his back and shoulders, and the blood that was speckled in his hair matched the blood that was present in the slight bits of hair upon his face. More worryingly, there was a wound on his shoulder, a small puncture wound that could have come from a bullet if the dried blood that still managed to look bright against his pale skin told you anything. His skin was also decidedly frostbitten, and the patches of red marred his cheeks, feet and hands in particular. As for his clothing, he only had on a ragged pair of pants that looked ready to fall apart.

He looked as though he was on the verge of death. But none of that seemed to concern him.

He was fully focused on the knife he was stabbing into the side of his torso. On the left of his body, just beneath his ribs, a curtain of blood had long since fallen and dried, and it was clear that at one point, he had been walking with the open wound as the left leg of his pants was also soaked in the substance.

Fresh blood was dripping down his skin as the blade he'd forced into his flesh moved to and fro, his numb hands moving the hilt as best they could with their limited mobility. His teeth were clenched as he did so, and the look on his face was nothing short of desperate.

Why was he doing that?

Then he let out a pained noise, and with both hands, he pulled again on the hilt.

You stood still, staring at him as you tried to understand why he was doing this.

It was almost as if he was trying to dig something out of his side.

He breathed hard as he continued to pull on the hilt before eventually giving up, letting out a loud gasp of pain as he fell back against the tree trunk in frustration.

Then he noticed you.

Gray eyes widened upon the realization, and he sat still for a few moments, as though he was amazed that he had only just now realized that he wasn't alone.

You didn't get a chance to speak before his face scrunched up in pain and he doubled over.

You didn't know what his situation was, but seeing that was enough to break you out of your stupor, and you rushed over immediately, pulling the basket off of your back before you knelt down and put your hands over his, trying to get them off of the knife hilt so you could remove it from him as safely as you could.

Only you weren't allowed to do so.

Without removing his grip on the knife, he pushed himself against you to shove your hands away. With how weak he seemed to be, the amount of strength that was in that shove was surprising.

You almost didn't hear it when he spoke at first, his heavy breathing making it difficult to understand him.

“I need it out of me.”

After a moment, you responded.

“It?” you asked, confused.

He didn't reply. Or rather, he couldn't. He was groaning in pain again, and you saw the veins in his forehead pulse as he struggled with the knife.

“You're going to kill yourself,” you told him.

He wasn't listening.

He only continued to dig that knife into his side.

Once again, you watched, truly uncertain of what you should do.

Except no, you knew what you should do. You should get that knife away from him. Stop him before he hurt himself any further, so then he might have a chance of surviving.

But with how determined he was to do whatever it was he thought he was doing, you didn't think you would be successful in getting him to stop. Nor did you want to wrestle a knife away from a man who was clearly crazed from the cold and his other injuries, and especially not when he wasn't as feeble as you had first thought. He could easily injure you if you tried to do that, or worse.

So then what were you supposed to do? Wait like this? Leave him?

Your thoughts were interrupted when you heard a strange sound come from where he had stabbed the knife into himself. A sound that resembled metal scraping against metal.

…. Something really was stuck in him.

And since it was clear that he wasn't going anywhere until it was out of him, you had little other choice.

The warning glare he gave you when you reached your hands out to him was harsh, but his gaze softened when you placed your hands on top of his as you said “please, let me help you.”

The man didn't answer, but he turned his attention back to the knife. This time, your steady hands helped his shaking ones when he began to pull at the knife again.

It didn't feel as though this was the right thing to do. Even with the knowledge that there was something inside of him, surely the correct thing to do was to take him somewhere warm and bandage his wounds, and then once the weather was more mild you would take him to the local physician. Surely whatever it was could wait to be taken care of until after he was out of the cold.

With every passing second that you tried to help you worried that you were only hastening this man's death. That the chances he had of surviving even until the next hour were only growing more and more slim the longer you kept this up with him. With every pull you made on the knife and the blood that came out of the gash that was only increasing in size, you were forced to wonder that if this man were to die, how much of his fate would ultimately rest upon your shoulders?

Then it came out.

You had felt it through the way you held the end of the knife hilt, how it traveled through the open wound, over his exposed insides until it reached the outside. The knife came out from his side forcefully and the thing inside of him fell out. It was too small and the blood coming from the wound was too great. Whatever had fallen out of him, it vanished into the snow next to him. The only thing you could discern was that it had been silver in color.

You didn't need to tell him that something had come out; immediately after his shoulders relaxed and he let out a sigh of relief, the kind you hear when a moment of great agony had finally passed.

Now that it was out, he might listen to you.

You took that opportunity to speak, saying “we can't stay here. There's a storm-”

He fell forward.

Onto you.

You barely managed to catch him, holding him beneath his arms and keeping him from falling face first into the snow. His head rested against your shoulder and he shuddered, his eyes now closed. He was unconscious.

Though if he stayed out here in these conditions any longer, he'd be dead soon. With all the blood he'd lost, it was amazing he'd held on for as long as he did. You needed to get him to shelter as soon as possible.

But at this point, would he even make it?

Despite his chances being grim, you knew that you needed to try to get him back alive. After tearing off a bit of your skirt to wrap around the wounds on his side and shoulder, and then wrapping your own cloak around his shoulders in a desperate bid to keep him somewhat warm, you began the task of taking him home.

The way you transported him through the woods was unceremonious, to say the least. His height and weight when compared to you meant that you couldn't sling one of his arms over your shoulder and carry him that way, and even if you could, the basket on your back would have gotten in the way. So you were forced to hook your arms beneath his armpits and drag him back to your cabin while you shivered from the cold after having given up the protection your cloak offered for his sake. The basket only made the task all the more difficult with how heavy it was. It was exhausting, and a look at all of the blood still spattered on his skin had you doubting more and more that he would make it back alive. The state of his heels was also worrying, as with every pull you made over a rough tree root, they appeared more scraped and raw every time you looked at them.

All you could do was hope that the makeshift bandages you'd fashioned on the spot were enough to staunch the bleeding in the areas that were worst.

Somehow, you managed it. After a grueling forty five minutes of dragging the unconscious man and praying that he didn't die on the way there, and after the anxiety that swelled within you once the storm finally started with the snowflakes that began to rain down from the cloudy sky, you caught sight of your cabin in the distance, and that was enough to give you a burst of energy to take you the rest of the way.

It was good timing. The wind was picking up and it was only getting colder. By the time you dragged him inside and slammed the door shut, a great deal of snow had managed to get inside as well. And with how high the snow had risen when you had returned, you noted that you very well may need to dig a path out from your door.

But that wasn't important right now.

You turned your attention to the man. The exhaustion of having dragged him through the woods had you falling to your knees before you crawled over to where he lay and placing your hands on him, reaching for his mouth and the side of his neck to see if you could feel some sign of life. Either his breath or that of a pulse.

…..

It was soft, but you felt a little bit of hot hair hitting your fingers when you gently pulled his lips apart. The pulse you felt in his neck was just as faint, but it was still there.

He was still alive.

The relief you felt upon that realization was so great that you reached down to hold him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pressed your face against his hair.

“I'm so glad,” you murmured, “I'm so glad you're alive.”

With the way you had your face pressed against him, you didn't notice how his eyelids fluttered open.

It was only for a brief moment, and when you pulled yourself away from him, he was unconscious once more.

The first thing you had done once you had fully composed yourself was properly clean and dress his wounds for fear of infection. You had no idea how long he'd been in that state, and the knife that he'd been stabbing into his side certainly wouldn't have helped in keeping that side wound clean. Although oddly enough, when you went about cleaning and dressing those wounds, you found that they didn't seem as bad as they did when you had first discovered him. And despite your certainty that he would be suffering from frostbite, his skin now showed little sign of any such issues. Perhaps he hadn't been out there as long as you thought.

Your mind went to your second priority, which was to get him warm as he was still ice cold to the touch. Once again you were forced to drag him awkwardly, this time to your bed as you had no other place to put him. By that point your limbs were screaming over the amount of exertion you had put them through that day, and now your movements were even more slowed and pained as you dragged him across the wooden floor. Getting him onto the bed was no easy task either, as he slipped off once or twice while you were trying to place him, forcing you to grab at him as best you could to keep him from tumbling onto the floor.

Eventually you were successful in placing him on the bed, much to the relief of your sore muscles. Given that you had no clothes that would fit him, the best you could do was cover him with as many blankets as you were able to spare. The man ended up bundled on your bed, the sheets up to his neck.

After taking a step back, it didn't feel like there was anymore you could do for him.

Whether he lived through this or not all depended on his own resilience.

You then took a moment for yourself to breathe, and from that point, the rest of your day didn't last long. The amount of effort you had put in to bringing him back to your home had drained you, and you barely had the energy to make yourself something to eat before you felt the strong pull of sleep overwhelm you. You ended up settling onto the floor not far from your fireplace, a few blankets placed beneath you to protect you from the hard surface of the floor while another was pulled around you.

You spared one last glance at the man from your makeshift bed, and found that he was the same as he had been earlier.

There wasn't anything more you could do for him, you reminded yourself.

Nothing other than sincerely hope he would pull through.

The blizzard was going strong when you awoke the next morning, bursts of wind hitting the entrance of your cabin repeatedly as the winter chill tried to force its way in. But the front door stood strong, and as you sleepily added more wood into the fireplace, the warmth within the room remained as it was at a comfortable temperature.

As much as you wanted to focus on the stiffness in your back that came from sleeping on the floor and the ache in your limbs from the strain you had put them through yesterday, you turned your attention to the man you had rescued.

He was still unconscious. But as you took a few steps closer, you noted that some color had returned to his cheeks. His breathing was also more even, though the longer you stared, he showed no signs of waking up anytime soon.

But he did seem better than he had when you went to sleep, and that was a sign of good progress for his recovery.

You hoped it was, at least.

With the blizzard keeping you inside, you spent your morning doing your best to care for him. After propping his head up, you managed to get a bit of water down his throat before you checked his wounds. The gash on his side seemed better. It actually looked smaller than you remembered it being when you first saw it. And the wound on his shoulder didn't seem serious at all once you lifted up the bandages.

That seemed a bit odd, though with all of the focus on the side wound, perhaps you were incorrectly remembering how severe the one on the shoulder had been. But as long as he was getting better, that was all that mattered.

Once you had changed out the bandages, you set about cleaning him up a bit more. You wiped away the blood that was still on his skin, doing your best to apply enough force to wipe it off but not to cause further pain. You even went as far as to brush out his hair, removing the tangles and the blood that had dried and clotted in the long black strands.

He looked much better once you had finished, and you remained seated on the edge of the bed while you watched him steadily breathing in and out.

Though you were still unable to tell when he would wake up, at that moment it seemed guaranteed that he would be alright.

A relieved sigh left your lips before you got up from the bed to make yourself a meal.

The mystery man slept through the entire day, and again on the day that followed. You did your best as you looked after him, making sure he was warm and that his bandages were clean. And while you weren't sure if there was anything you could feed him in his current state, you made sure to bring cups of water to his lips to ensure he had enough fluids in his system.

That night you felt that he looked better than he had before, and you went to sleep hopeful that he would soon awaken.

Your wish was granted the next morning.

A chill in the air awoke you suddenly, pulling you out of sleep as the warmth you so desperately craved was snatched away from you. You pulled yourself up with a groan as you looked about, trying to find out what had caused you to lose your rest.

You figured it out quickly when you turned and saw that the cabin door standing wide open with a pile of snow that had tumbled inside.

Your mind became clear in an instant as you wondered who had done that.

Then your gaze went to the bed to check on your guest, only to find that it was empty.

He had gone outside? In his condition?

Now that you were fully awake, you jumped to your feet and rushed to the door, worried that he had wandered off so far that you wouldn't catch sight of him. The snow was still coming down hard, and if he wasn't in the immediate vicinity, there would be little you could do for him. You couldn't take the risk of getting lost yourself to go after him.

It was a relief when you stopped at the open doorway and saw him.

He stood out in the open, between a pair of pine trees, clothed only in the trousers you had left him in and one of the blankets you had wrapped around him. Though it didn't remain there long as it slowly dripped off his shoulders before it ended up on the snow around him. Yet he didn't seem to notice or care that he was standing half naked in the freezing cold.

Instead, he was facing your direction, staring at the cabin in what seemed to be…. Amazement? Surprise? You weren't sure; it was hard to tell what exactly that expression was with the snowflakes that were still swirling about.

Right. The snow. The snow that was fast entering through the open door of the cabin, that was showing no signs of stopping and that your injured guest was still standing in. Enough of the snow had fallen that it was deep enough to submerge up to his knees, and he had no shoes. Or socks. Or anything other than the tattered trousers that were barely holding themselves together.

Best to get him back in case the frostbite managed to get him this time.

His attention was finally turned to you when you walked out, calling to him as you did so.

“Come back inside!”

He didn't make any move, and it didn't look like he understood what you said.

Wrapping your own blanket tighter around yourself, you huffed as you approached him. Trudging out into the snow like this was the last thing you wanted, especially when you weren't dressed for the outdoors. Your nightgown did little to protect you in that moment, so you tried your best to move fast, though the large amount of snow made it difficult.

The man continued to stare at you and said nothing, even when you reached him. Even when you knelt down and pulled up the blanket from the surface. Even when you once again wrapped it around him, he still seemed out of sorts, so you decided it was best to be gentle with him.

“Come back inside,” you repeated.

That time you put one of your hands in his while the other went to his shoulder, doing your best to be encouraging as you added “please?”

After a few moments more of him staring at you with a bewildered expression, he nodded. With that, he allowed you to lead him back inside, much to your relief. The cold air was brutal against your exposed skin, and you didn't want to imagine how bad it must have been for him.

The door was slammed shut once the two of you were back within the cabin, though now without some difficulty as quite a lot of snow had gotten in by that point, much to your dismay. Oh well. It would melt soon enough, wouldn't it? Besides, right now you needed to give your full attention to your guest.

The snow that covered his hair and shoulders quickly joined the pile on the floor as you brushed it off of him as best you could before you ultimately took off the blanket you had wrapped him in and grabbed another off of the bed, repeating the action you had made outside when you placed the fresh one on his shoulders. He only continued to stare at you with that same bewildered look.

While you found the way he acted strange, you decided not to think much about it – if he had any memory of what it had been like a few days prior, perhaps he was just astonished that he was still alive.

“Here,” you said, taking hold of his arm as you prepared to lead him again, “lay back down. Your injuries are bad.”

Again, he said nothing but allowed you to do as you pleased, letting you take him back to the bed and tucking the sheets over him once he took his place on the mattress. Part of you wanted to ask what he'd been thinking by going outside, but that was a question to be saved for later, if you remembered it.

“Are you feeling alright?” you asked him. It felt best to keep your questions to ones that could be answered with a 'yes' or a 'no', at least for the time being.

He was looking about the cabin, taking everything in when you asked your question, and when he turned his attention back to you, he nodded.

That was a relief, and you smiled at him as you replied “am I right in thinking that you're hungry? You must be, after all the time you spent asleep.”

Again, he nodded.

“Alright. If you'll wait, I can make a breakfast for the two of us,” you said.

He replied with yet another nod.

Things were quiet as you cooked, and you were happy to be next to the fireplace after the brief amount of time outside. The minute or so you had spent out there had chilled you to the core, and you hated to wonder about what it had been like for him.

You glanced over to find him watching you, and you thought that perhaps now you might try to get some answers, if he had any.

“Was there a reason for why you went outside?” you asked.

His brows furrowed, and he turned his head so he was staring up at the ceiling. And then, for the first time, he spoke.

“I don't know,” he said.

“Ah. Alright then.”

Clearing your throat, you decided to push forward with your next question.

“Do you know what happened to you?” you asked.

At that, his mouth pressed into a line and he looked uncomfortable. Quickly, you added “if you aren't able to talk about it, that's fine.”

“No, no, it's not that,” he told you, “I…. Uh, I don't…. I don't remember.”

“Oh.”

What exactly had he gone through before you found him?

“It looked as though you'd been attacked,” you said, “you have bullet wounds.”

“You were behaving strangely when I found you, as well,” you added.

He shook his head.

“I don't remember,��� he reiterated.

Then he turned his head towards you as he asked “where are we?”

“In my cabin?”

“Yes, but where is it?”

“Ah. We're outside Willsden. About eight miles away from there,” you explained.

“Have you been in contact with anyone from there?”

You blinked.

“No?” you responded.

“I see.”

He went back to staring at the ceiling, though you noticed movement beneath the blankets after. His hand went to his side – the one that he'd been digging the knife into, where he'd gotten that bullet out of him.

Foolishly, you only then realized why he had been asking about where the two of you were.

“I'm sorry – with the weather still being bad, it'll take some time for the roads to clear up even after the snow stops, but as soon as it does I'll fetch a doctor for you,” you told him.

For some reason, he seemed surprised when you said that, and again he stared at you for a few moments.

You wondered if you really were as strange as he seemed to perceive you to be.

When the food was finished cooking, you moved to help him sit up in the bed only to be surprised at how easily he lifted himself up without your assistance. After the way you had found him half frozen to death in the snow and then the days that had followed, you would have thought him to be weaker, yet he moved without much trouble, though the wound in his side seemed to still be giving him some trouble as you saw him wince and grab at it again. At least the shoulder wound seemed to be better.

He spoke again when you were in the middle of your meal, having paused with his own as he asked you “what's your name?”

You answered him, and asked for his in turn.

Nobunaga, he told you.

The introduction seemed to help him, as once the two of you had the other's name, he was more open with you when he spoke. He'd been traveling, he told you, going from town to town in search of work. While he had been on his way to Willsden from Doveport before he wound up where you found him in the woods. Again, he told you that he didn't remember what had happened to him, but it seemed safe enough to conclude that he had been attacked, robbed and left for dead.

Hearing that, and remembering the way he had been when you first laid eyes on him, all you could feel was immense pity for the man. What sort of people leave another person to die in such a manner? Although it was silly to ask that question as you knew the answer – the number of people in the world who had no issue cutting short the lives of others for the sake of their own greed were far too many.

“I don't suppose you have an idea as to how long you were out there,” you said.

“Since the night prior,” Nobunaga answered as he sighed.

“The night?” you asked, confused. It didn't seem likely to you that one man could have lasted that many hours outside in the cold with the way he was.

Nobunaga seemed to realize that as well, as he corrected himself with “ah, maybe I'm misremembering. I couldn't have been out that long. So it must have been the morning at the latest.”

You nodded, as that made more sense.

“I wonder why I didn't hear any gunfire,” you then said, “wherever it was where you were attacked, it couldn't have been that far from here.”

“I do remember bits and pieces where I was walking for a long while. Maybe the area where I was attacked was further away,” he suggested.

Nobunaga then added “or maybe you were in too deep a sleep.”

“Ah… I suppose.”

It felt slightly embarrassing to admit it, but that explanation would make sense. It didn't bode well for you to sleep so deeply if something was wrong, however. But regardless of that, the person or people who had attacked Nobunaga posed a threat and they would need to be taken care of.

You got his attention again as you said “as soon as the road opens up, I'll fetch a doctor for you, and I'll report the crime as well.”

“Report it?” he asked.

You nodded.

Instead of seeming relieved, he seemed wary, his eyebrows furrowing as he said “I don't see much point in doing that. Those thieves are likely long gone by now. It's best to not bother.”

“Not bother?”

That didn't seem like a normal response. Was Nobunaga ashamed that he had been attacked?

“No one will blame you for what they did,” you said.

“I'm not worried about that.”

“Then may I ask what you are worried about?”

Nobunaga paused, his mind seemingly racing to find an excuse.

Why was he trying so hard to convince you to drop it?

“I just think there's no point because,” he began, waiting half a moment before he continued with “I'm…. I'm not getting any of the things they stole back. And I don't care much about what they took, anyway. I'm also still alive, so I have the satisfaction of knowing that they failed to kill me.”

He seemed hesitant about everything he said except the last part. That seemed to be the only part that seemed genuine from what he was telling you. Though why he wanted you to stay quiet was still a mystery.

…. Maybe he was still confused after that time he'd spent in the cold.

“I think you're right about that, that we won't retrieve your items,” you agreed, “but if there are murderers running about the area, others should be warned about it. What if they attack someone else? We could help the others in the town if we tell them.”

“Ah…… Right….”

It was clear he hadn't thought of that, and he didn't have any argument to make against that point.

Nobunaga leaned back on the bed as he continued “shouldn't you be worried about yourself, though? It doesn't look like you have any way to defend against murderers.”

“I don't, but I also think we'll be fine for the time being.”

“Why?”

“There is an advantage to the weather being so poor,” you stated, “no one will be coming here while the outside is still like that.”

Nobunaga nodded slowly, though his gaze was a bit distant after you said that. Was he worrying about his attackers finding him again?

“We'll be okay,” you told him, “I'm certain of it.”

He nodded slowly again.

Shortly thereafter he said that he wanted to rest more, and you retired to read quietly beside the fireplace while he settled back into the bed.

It was almost pitch black in the room when you were suddenly awoken as an unsettling feeling washed over you, a feeling that your subconscious was able to recognize. That it was strong enough to rouse you from sleep was odd, and even more odd was the sensation that had been recognized.

It felt as though someone had been watching you.

Someone had been standing over you, watching you as they took every slight movement you made, every soft breath you took as your tightly wrapped blanket rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

Why had they watched you so intently?

Some part of your mind told you with certainty that was what had happened; even though you hadn't been awake for it, you felt certain of that fact. After taking a few moments to process those thoughts, you glanced over at the one person who could have been doing such a thing.

Though it was hard to make out in the dark, you were able to see enough of Nobunaga's form to tell that he was in bed, and it appeared that he was asleep.

Your eyes adjusted to the darkness further, and though you couldn't make out everything, you felt that he didn't look as though he had moved from the bed at all; he was still in the same position he had been in when you both had retired for the evening. It certainly didn't seem as though he had quickly returned to the bed once he realized you were awake, and you surely would have heard him if he did. Not only that, how could he have moved that fast with his injuries still being as grave as they were?

It seemed unlikely.

You looked away from him as you stretched out your arms.

You were imagining things, likely due to the poor quality of sleep that came as a result from resting on the floor. But you had no alternative to that at the moment, so it was all you could do to simply make the best of it.

Once again, you laid down on your makeshift bed while you did your best to ignore the feeling of discomfort that it brought.

Instead, your mind went to the brief conversation you and Nobunaga had before you both had gone to sleep. Right before you had settled down, he had asked you about what you had said to him when he was on the brink of death.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“When you brought me inside,” he clarified, “I think I was partially awake for that, and…. I thought I heard you say something.”

“Oh. Ah….”

You remembered the words that had tumbled out of your mouth at that time, ones that were brought out through sheer relief when you had realized that he was still alive. For whatever reason, that moment felt more embarrassing now that you knew he was somewhat conscious for it, though the source of that embarrassment was unknown.

“I… I may have said something, yes,” you answered, looking away from him.

He nodded again, his eyes going back up to the ceiling.

The next morning he was awake before you were, and the way he sat up in bed almost made it seem as though he was waiting for you to wake up.

You weren't able to get out a greeting before he spoke.

“I realized that I haven't thanked you once for saving me,” Nobunaga said, “so…. Thank you. I really mean it.”

You hadn't even thought of that until now, but his gratitude was appreciated as you smiled at him as you answered “I'm just happy I was able to help.”

Nobunaga looked away quickly as a blush formed on his cheeks.

[riacte]

Links:

Martyn makes the Dogwarts Red Winter axe in Rats SMP

Ren reacts to the above axe: “A horrible sacrifice for his loyal hand” (and the lore implications of 3L and Rats being in the same universe)

Ren wants to do a "wife swap" with Gem in WL, implying Martyn is his wife

Yellow!Ren getting a kill in WL so he can turn green and live with Martyn because it’s not “proper” otherwise

Martyn is jealous of his captain’s blonde lover in Rats

Ren to Martyn on Rats: Let me paint you like one of my French girls

False tells Ren and Martyn to get a room

Martyn logs in on Rats under his captain’s desk

Martyn puts a Ren TCG card in his Pokemon TCG tweet

[endless-ineffabilities]

Chemical Override (bonus chapter three) - In the Modern World

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: I knew I wanted to do a fun bonus chapter after part seven, but I wasn't sure what about. Then came this music video, with this feral slimey cat, and the rest is history. Not to mention this brilliant anon further fueled the idea for the plot!

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Seems so hard just to be If it matters You complete me 🦎

This is set between part two and part three of the story. Right after the rumours of the reader with Jacob surface and she clarifies to Ewan that it's all just PR, and before he gets boozy and sends the voicemail.

Ewan

Martin’s room is typical of any unemployed and aimless outcast in their late 20s. Particularly, one with a penchant for conspiracy theories, reptilian critters, diorama building, and surface-level anarchy. 

“So he’s just like a regular guy,” Ewan jokes, making the director Luna laugh. 

“Sure, I bet this is how your own room is like back in… Derby, was it?”

“Yeah,” Ewan nods. “I actually have a place here in London now, too. The room is the same. But I’ve got more than one lizard.”

“Good one, mate,” she claps him on the back, before walking further into the room. She stops in front of the craggly stands that Martin passes off a workstation. “Here is where he keeps his pets. As you know, he’s got spiders, iguanas, and the rogue chinchilla.”

“Look at that little guy,” Ewan stoops down to inspect the grey rodent. “You lost there, buddy?”

“That one is our cameraman Eddie’s,” she remarks. “The bugs - we borrowed from the local habitat. All under code, of course.”

“Mmm,” he looks around the room. Maroon sheets, used up art supplies like glue and various unclean brushes, pieces of silver wire, old cables, duct tape, painted figurines, a scattering of old tickets for an underground fighting ring. Propped up on the headboard of his bed is a stolen street sign. On the wall is an assortment of posters - some of bands, some of comic strips, but mainly just scraps of art Martin finds from the internet. A rabid dog with its teeth bared. Grotesque humanoid figures. 

Standard, regular pictures. 

“You like the posters?” Luna notices him perusing the wall. “You know, I had the idea of incorporating something you like here. Maybe a band or… you like Metallica, I heard?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah, I love them. So I get to choose a poster that would fit Martin?”

“Sure,” she shrugs. “Something that represents both yourself and Martin, why not? Make up a backstory for it. It can be anything you set your mind to, really. Let’s start with - what would you have on your wall?”

He considers just taking her up on her suggestion of Metallica, maybe a live image of the band in their 2009 Mexico show. But he didn’t want to settle on that idea just yet. What is he fixated on at the moment? What film, what song, what popular character…

Then it strikes him, causing the blood to rise to the surface of his pale cheeks. Of course. There is you. 

But if he props up a full-blown image of you, just you, maybe from a photoshoot or a candid photograph, would that be too much? Would he be crossing the line?

Last he heard from you, he found out that the supposed relationship you have with Jacob Elordi is but a ruse for the sake of publicity. Thank the gods, as Aegon screamed before Aemond set him ablaze. 

But in this instance, Ewan’s relief is not entirely unfounded. You aren’t with anyone. He knows he should make a move, a proper one, and not just drop hints of his admiration in interviews like the one he just did for Vanity Fair. But what can he do? You’re all the way across the Atlantic, far from his desperate reach. 

As selfish as it sounds, he couldn’t bear the thought of hearing you’re with someone else and knowing it’s true. The confession is yet to stumble out of him, but he knew he was already yours. 

He calls you whenever he can, whenever he misses you, which is quite often, as evidenced by the lengthy log of long-distance calls on his phone, from England to America. 

“What about something House of the Dragon related?” he asks. “Could serve as a nice easter egg for the fans, if they see this.” 

“I don’t see why not? If you can convince us of Martin’s motivation for it, of why he would put that poster on his wall, then we can add it right away.”

He smiles shyly, glancing down at his sneakers. He knows his own motivation for putting your image up on his wall, but what about Martin’s? He tests some ideas out, gauging Luna’s reaction, “What if he’s a sci-fi, fantasy fanatic? If he’s a devout follower of George RR Martin, and so… naturally, he had a look at House of the Dragon as well?”

She purses her lips, tilting her head in thought. “That’s something right there, yeah. But we kind of saw him as being against television, you know? Against popular media in general, and he's a guy with an affinity for obscure dark video games and comic books.”

“Hmm, yeah, yeah,” he does his best to form the proposition in his mind. How does he offer the suggestion without being too obvious? “So what if, you know, he happened to see this one character in the show, and he’s just enamoured with them for some reason? This makes it remarkable, because he does admire her, but as an act of rebellion, he still doesn’t watch the show and only bothers himself with her scenes and the art style to her character, and - ”

“Wait, her?” Luna smiles, her confusion dwindling. She’s heard the rumours. Or fan theories. Or whatever the kids call it nowadays. She hasn’t been living under a rock, and Ewan definitely hasn’t kept mum about his crush either. 

“Yeah,” he scratches the back of his neck, unable to look her directly in the eye, “I was thinking of having a poster for a character from the show.”

“I thought you wanted a poster of a dragon or something,” she jokes. “So, which character? Apologies, I’m not too familiar with a lot of them.” Ewan would recognise the knowing glint in her gaze, if he wasn’t too busy pretending to inspect a scrap of faux moldy wallpaper sticking out of the wall. Set design really outdid themselves in the details, all to give the impression that Martin is a negligent slob.

“Uhhm,” he dithers, a crooked smile breaking out despite him chewing on his bottom lip, “she’s, uhhh, one of the new characters this season.”

“Oh?” she plays along, nodding, “Which one? From what I saw, there’s two camps, right? And your camp is green, is she in that?”

“No, actually,” he shakes his head, “she’s in the opposing team, you could say.”

“That’s interesting,” she nods, slowly, trying to encourage him to simply spit it out. “You know, Ewan, mate, if you don’t actually tell me which character you want to put up, then this poster idea isn’t going to work out.”

His gaze snaps back to her, and he awkwardly titters under his breath. “Right, right. Uhhm, she’s called Alyna… Alyna Rivers.”

Luna’s mouth forms an O, as if she’s enjoying this little gotcha moment. She realises that Ewan, while reserved, wears his heart on his sleeve. What a lucky girl you are. 

“And… why would Martin want her specifically up on his wall?” 

The emphasis on Martin came off as superficial, her tone humorous, leading Ewan to believe that she actually pertains to him and not the character.

“He might see her as some sort of muse, you know… she’s a fighter, she’s got a fire in her…”

“And he’s got a crush on her.”

“Oh… well…”

“He likes her.”

“Uhhh… yeah I guess…”

“You guess?” she raises her eyebrows, grinning, “come on Ewan, what does Martin feel about her?”

“She’s his… his ray of light,” he decides. “His world is a mess. He’s lost. His one release entails getting beat up bloody every other day. But the idea of her is his beacon of hope. Untainted, you know. She’s… she’s perfect. She wouldn’t hurt him like the rest of the world already has.”

Luna nods in understanding, satisfied. She casually slings an arm over his shoulder, then says, “You know something, mate? That sounds a lot more than a crush to me.”

“Mmm,” he smiles, agreeing, the welcome image of you flooding his mind like always, “it sure does.”

The entire cast and crew for In the Modern World have the subsequent three days to accomplish filming.

Ewan sits in the makeup trailer, awaiting his cue, his vision now impaired by the unkempt strands of his long black wig. Spiky grunge cuffs decorate his wrists. He wears an ill-fitting pair of jeans and a t-shirt, the costume for the first scene to be filmed. 

He has already gone through the process of trying to get in Martin’s head, seeing what makes him tick, what drives his actions, priming himself to jump inside his skin. He’s ready. At this point during filming, he has the habit of eliminating any distraction to maintain focus, and his phone is tucked inside his backpack on airplane mode. 

Defying his routine, he retrieves his phone, nervous fingers clicking away until they land on your contact. He hovers over the voice call option, opting at the last second to do a video call instead. 

The front camera turns on, catching him off guard with how messy he appears. Maybe this was not the best idea, he falters, what am I doing? I’m gonna scare her off.

“Ewan?” It’s too late to change his mind when your cheerful voice answers, your expression curious and inviting. His ray of light. “Is that you?”

He timidly brushes his hair - his wig - away from his face. “Hello, darling. I thought I’d ring you for a second.”

You laugh openly, drawing your face closer to your phone to get a better look at him, “Are you shooting the music video right now? Oh my god, look at you!”

He smiles sheepishly, teeth clamping over his bottom lip. “What do you think?”

“Wow,” you shake your head, the sunlight reflecting on your face from wherever you are. Likely walking around outside the studio, as he spots the white buildings in the background. “You look so… cool. This is like Aemond in the modern world, rebelling against his mother with the help of cheap hair dye.”

He appreciates your clever assessment, feeling much better about himself. “Don’t I look shabby?”

“Ewan,” you click your tongue, “judging by what you told me about your character, I think you’re supposed to look shabby.”

You’re right. He shakes his head, mostly at himself, for being so concerned if you still find him attractive even in this get-up.

“I feel like Kirk Hammett. Very rock n’ roll.”

You smirk, “I’d say this is your hottest look yet.”

He blushes profusely. You think he looks hot. It may just be a passing quip, a casual thing to say, but it has him in a grip. His reaction would nearly rival that of Martin’s, who would probably jump right on to making a mini-figurine of Alyna. After just a single interaction with you, Martin would probably spend the next few weeks occupied with objectionable fantasies. You and him, rolling around in the car. Only, car jitsu wouldn’t be the physical activity at play. 

Ewan shifts in his seat, adjusting his trousers. In the end, he’s no better than Martin after all. 

“Ewan?”

“Oh sorry, darling, I was just - ”

“I said that I have to go back inside,” you say, “I do appreciate your call, though.”

His face falls, despite the fact that he has to be on set soon anyway. “Of course, darling, go ahead.”

“Kick some ass for me?”

For you? Anything. “You got it, baby.” The name jumps out of him before he can stop himself, and he justifies it as a ‘Martin’ reaction. He’s in character, isn’t he?

You roll your eyes. It is your turn to blush and fail at hiding it, and you do. “Okay, rockstar. Talk to you soon, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, then adds, “Wait!”

You raise your phone again. “Oh, what is it?”

“I, uhhh, I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” you smile, and he commits the image to memory. This moment is his, just his; Martin can bloody wait. 

Martin

Martin throws himself down on his bed, limbs limp and flailing about. It must have been the hundredth time for that afternoon -  getting up, rolling back on the mattress, prodding his pets, jumping around the room to incoherent punk music, cigarettes burning out between his chapped lips. 

He has nothing to do today, not until it’s time. Just like every other day, every other week, in this drudgery of an existence. Everything means nothing, and the twisted truth of it is that he thinks himself free. 

Free of the cycle. Free of meaningless friendships. Free of love. Free of her.

The ghost of his ex-lover still haunts him, golden haired and rosy-cheeked, bundled up in her puffy coat like some cheap caricature of an angel. But she was no angel. Angels would not abandon someone they claim to love, with a mere snap of their manicured fingers. 

But she haunts him. What they had, and what they could have had. Was it even his? Would it have come out with a thin sprig of dark curls? He did not care to know now. 

She was his everything once. But isn’t that overrated? Falling in love is so overrated. 

His fingers clumsily mess with the controls for his toy helicopter as he lays down. The apparatus hovers above head, filling the room with a buzzing noise. His lit cigarette stumbles from his lips, and the noise is joined with his frantic, fuck, fuck, fuck, as he tries to shake it out of his hair. He succeeds, but the helicopter teeters in the air, until it slams against the poster of Alyna Rivers displayed over his headboard.

He lets it fall, becoming distracted with her image. It’s a promotional still of her in her complete hunting attire - a fitted leather jerkin over a dark red tunic, tight breeches tucked into knee-high boots, a dagger sheathed in her belt. But his favourite addition is the longbow she grips in her hand, her fierce expression making it known that she is prepared to draw it back at a moment’s notice. 

Martin gets on his knees on the bed. He kisses two fingers, then gently touches them to her poster in a gesture of reverence. 

If only…

“Good morrow, my lady,” he says in a sing-song voice, “always a pleasure to come upon your visage.”

He leans closer, tracing her figure with precision, “I bet you can fix me. I bet you can make me feel alive.” 

He chases after euphoria that night, over and over, fucked up and depraved and empty. But it hits different this time. It’s better.

As white spots flicker and dance in his vision, and the fog in his mind threatens to swallow everything, it’s not the vision of his ex that flashes before him - it’s Alyna he sees. 

Her face is sharp and real, cutting through the haze like a beacon. She holds him together as exhaustion takes over him and the oxygen is slowly cut off from his windpipe. She anchors him, even on the precipice of oblivion.

The opponent is alarmed by Martin’s eyes rolling back revealing the whites of his eyes. He loosens his hold, letting go even if Martin refuses to tap out. 

“Fuck, you alright?” he rasps. 

Martin doesn’t hear him. His bloodstained, cracked lips curl into a ghost of a smile as his hand trembles, reaching out to press against the fogged-up windshield. 

With a fragile sense of peace, he murmurs, “You fixed me.”

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Some notes in the margins...

I know I said I would include the reader's reaction to the music video, but I decided to use the time to work on part eight... I still might get to writing this idea as a drabble though 🤷🏻‍♀️

Not Ewan having beef with his own character HAHAHA this lad I swear

Part eight out very, very soon! It'll be a wild ride. Oh, I'm not even kidding :)

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₇

This is Chapter 7 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 8.2k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 7

The next day dawned over Berk with a crisp, golden light, the kind that turned the sea into a shimmering mirror and filled the air with a restless, electric hum. The village had returned from the dragon's nest yesterday now, their boats laden with stories and spoils—some so torn or missing that you wondered who didn't make it back this time.

Berk was lively more than ever again too, now the paths buzzed with life—more than you cared to tangle with. You set out for the cove alone, deliberately skirting the busy lanes where Vikings hauled crates and logs for more construction, their voices overlapping in a chaotic din.

You stuck to the quieter trails, your boots crunching over dirt and stone as you wove through the underbrush, dodging the main routes where the air thrummed with the clatter of carts and the shouts of haggling fishmongers and traders.

As you slipped past a cluster of houses, a pair of burly Vikings lugging a barrel of mead nearly pushed you over, their laughter rumbling as they steadied their load. 

"Oi, watch it!" one called, but his grin was friendly, his beard flecked with rye. 

"You headin' to the arena later? Hiccup's up against the Gronckle—can't wait to see what the lad's got. Never seen him in action proper-like that is," A man asked his friend beside him a little way from you.

His companion nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Aye, who would've thought hm? Stoick's boy's been quiet about it too—haven't even seen the lad, but I hear he's got tricks up his sleeve. Gonna be a sight!"

You sidestepped them, your pulse ticking up—not from their chatter, but from the thought of Hiccup, and his unknown plans for the Gronckle later. Speaking of the devil, he was currently waiting for you beyond the village's noise. Further along, a gaggle of kids darted across your path, wooden swords clacking as they play-fought, their high-pitched voices cutting through the morning. 

"I bet Hiccup tames that Gronckle in ten seconds flat!" One piped up, swinging his stick wildly. 

A girl with cute braids snorted, shoving him. "Nah, he'll trip over his own feet first—then tame it!" They dissolved into giggles, oblivious as you edged around them, ducking under a low branch to keep your distance.

Their excitement hung in the air, but your mind was already drifting—to the cove, to him, to the way your heart seemed to skip a little harder every time you saw him thanks to these past few weeks. 

The village's clamor faded as you broke free of the outskirts, the wind picking up to tug at your tunic with that familiar faint salt-and-pine bite. You couldn't fight the smile creeping across your face, wide and unguarded, as last night flooded back—the rush of Toothless' wings, and their powerful forms weaving through the air with a rhythm that thrummed in your bones. 

The aurora that had shimmered overhead, a cascade of emerald and violet ribbons rippling across like Valhalla welcoming you, casting an otherworldly glow that danced in your eyes. Hiccup's warmth pressed against your back, his frame a steady anchor as his arms encircled you, holding you close. 

Each jolt of the Night Furys' flight pressed him tighter against you, his heartbeat a soft, quick thud pulsing through your tunic, syncing with the rush of the wind. His voice, low and earnest, wove through the gusts next to your face—making your heart race.

Your cheeks warmed, and you shook your head with a soft laugh, kicking a pebble down the trail. It'd been. . .everything. A feeling in the moment you couldn't quite name at first, but now, with each step, it was growing clearer. Your crush on him had been simmering, bubbling up over these weeks of stolen moments and shared secrets, each glance and laugh stitching you closer than you'd ever been growing up as childhood friends. 

Your heart skipped again, just thinking of him, and this time you didn't brush it off—you liked it—felt it settle deep in your chest: your feelings for him were real, confirmed in the quiet thrill of last night's flight and it made you warm to think maybe he felt it too when you had felt his own heart race.

The cove loomed ahead as you crested the final rise, its rocky cliffs jagged against the brightening sky. You paused at the edge, peering down, and there they were—Hiccup, Toothless, and Menace—waiting below. Hiccup stood by the water, one hand scratching Toothless' neck as the dragon huffed, restless, his arm swishing. 

Menace perched on a rock next to them, gnawing a fish with her good wing fluttering, her yellow eyes flicking up as she sensed you. Hiccup looked up too, spotting you against the cliff's rim, and his face lit with a smile—bright, unguarded, crinkling his eyes in that way that made your stomach flip and your heart stutter all over again. He tilted his head, nodding toward Toothless in a silent, eager "Let's go fly", the dragon bouncing slightly as if he'd burst if he waited any longer for you.

You stood there a beat, caught in the sight of him—of them—and felt your blush deepen, heat creeping up your neck as his grin sank into you, tugging at that growing ache in your chest. 

Shaking your head at yourself, you muttered, "Gods, pull it together," under your breath, but the smile wouldn't fade—not when you knew what it meant now, not when he made you smile like this, not when he was down there waiting for you. 

You started down the steep path, boots squishing on mossy stones and grass as you descended, anticipation sparking with every step, your feelings for him a quiet, growing-steady flame you couldn't—and didn't want to—put out. Hiccup watched you the whole way, that quiet warmth in his gaze, and Toothless warbled a greeting as he met you, his excitement mirroring the flutter in your chest as you gave him a hug then headed toward whatever waited in the sky today.

The sun blazed high overhead, its light spilling across a boundless blue sky as Toothless soared far beyond Berk's prying eyes. You'd left the village's chatter and everything behind, the cove shrinking to a distant memory as Hiccup guided Toothless into the open expanse above the sea. 

This time, you were behind him on the saddle, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, fingers digging into his tunic to keep from slipping. The wind roared past, sharp and wild, tugging at your hair and stinging your cheeks, but you pressed yourself closer, your chest flush against his back and chin resting on his shoulder as you smiled.

Toothless banked into a wide, lazy arc. Menace clung to your shoulders, her small claws gripping your tunic like it was no big deal, her tail coiled snugly around your upper arm for balance. She chirped occasionally, her good wing fluttering against your neck as she basked in the ride, utterly unbothered by the height or speed—enjoying it to the fullest.

Hiccup's shoulders shifted under your grip as he adjusted the reins, and though you couldn't see it, his face burned an endless red beneath his windswept hair, a sly smile tugging at his lips every time your hold tightened. 

"You good back there?" he called over the rush, his voice teasing but soft, like he already knew the answer. 

You huffed, burying your face briefly against his shoulder to hide your own flush. "Fine—just don't drop me, dragon boy!" you said back, and he laughed, the sound bright and warm, vibrating through you where you pressed against him. 

Toothless swooped low over the waves, his wings skimming so close that saltwater sprayed up, misting your face. You yelped, clinging harder, and Hiccup chuckled again, tilting his head just enough to catch your eye

"Thought you'd like a closer look!" he said, grinning as Toothless pulled up sharply, climbing back into the sky with a triumphant warble. 

Menace squawked in delight, her tail flicking against your arm, and you couldn't help but laugh too, the thrill bubbling up despite yourself.

"Show-off," you muttered, but your arms stayed locked around him, your heart skipping—not just from the flight, but from the way he leaned into it, like he wanted you to feel every second.

They kept it up—Hiccup and Toothless taking turns flexing for you in their own ways. Toothless spiraled into a tight corkscrew, his wings cutting the air with precision, and Hiccup whooped, throwing you a quick, proud glance over his shoulder. 

"See that? Perfect control!" he said, his voice laced with that quiet excitement you'd grown to adore.

You shook your head, tightening your grip. "Yeah, yeah—don't get cocky."

But your smile gave you away, and he caught it, his own widening as he nudged Toothless into a gentler glide, letting you catch your breath. The dragon leveled out, coasting over a cluster of tiny islands, and Menace stretched her neck, nuzzling your cheek with a soft purr. 

"She's enjoying this so much," you said, and Hiccup's laugh drifted back. "She's not the only one."

The air stilled for a moment as Toothless floated high above the clouds, the world below a distant patchwork of blue and green. You rested your chin on Hiccup's shoulder, your arms loosening just a fraction as you took it in—the sun blazing bright, the horizon stretching endless. 

His hand brushed yours on his waist, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through you, and you wondered if he felt it too—this quiet, growing thing between you. 

"It's. . .so beautiful up here," you admitted, your voice softer now, and he nodded, his head tilting closer. 

"Yeah. It is." His tone matched yours, low and warm, and for a beat, it was just the two of you—Toothless' steady breathing muted, Menace's faint chirps quiet, the wind a gentle hum around you as you felt both your hearts beat.

But Hiccup wasn't done. He glanced back at you again, a glint in his green eyes, and before you could ask what he was up to, he clicked his tongue. 

"Hold on tight," he warned, his sly smile creeping back.

You barely had time to protest—"Hiccup, what—?"—before Toothless tucked his wings and plunged into a steep dive. 

The world flipped, your stomach lurching as you screamed, arms snapping around Hiccup's waist in a death grip. The sea rushed up fast, a glittering wall of blue, and you buried your face against his back, your heart hammering as the wind tore past. Menace squealed, her claws digging in as she clung to you, her tail whipping wildly around you again, but Hiccup just laughed—bright, reckless, his shoulders shaking under your hold.

He wanted this, you realized through the panic—wanted you to cling to him, to feel the rush with him—and it worked. You pressed yourself so close you could feel his heartbeat, fast and alive beneath your hands, and despite the terror, a shaky laugh broke free.

"You're insane!" you yelled, but he only grinned wider, unseen, his face alight with a flush he couldn't hide.

Toothless pulled up at the last second, skimming the waves before soaring back into the sky right before flying under the arch of a rocky cliff and you loosened your grip just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against Hiccup's shoulder as your pulse slowed.

"Why do you insist on doing that," you muttered, but your arms stayed around him, and he didn't move, his hand brushing yours again as he murmured, "Because it's worth it." 

The flight stretched on, the four of you weaving through the daylight—Toothless showing off with flips and dives, Menace purring against your back, Hiccup stealing glances you didn't catch, his quiet smiles tinged with something new. 

Toothless's wings flared as he swooped low, the wind easing into a gentle hum as he circled a small cliff island jutting out of the sea a little way behind the island of Berk—a rugged slab of rock crowned with patchy grass covered in snow, trees and framed by crashing waves down deep below. It was tucked far enough from Berk to stay hidden, a perfect slice of nowhere just for you. Hiccup grinned over his shoulder, his hair still wild from the flight, and nodded toward it. 

"How's that for a new spot?" he asked, his voice bright with the thrill of discovery. 

You peered past him with a smile. "Looks like ours already," you said, and Menace chirped from your back, her tail flicking against your side as if she approved too. 

Toothless touched down with a soft thud, and you slid off the saddle, stretching your legs as Menace hopped down from your shoulder to scamper across the grass, her broken wing twitching in her soft makeshift wing-sling for her recovery. Hiccup rummaged through a satchel tied to the saddle, pulling out a bundle of bread with cheese for you both, and fish dor the dragons, and a small jug of water—lunch scavenged from the village before your escape.

You settled on a flat stretch of rock, the sun warm against your back as he plopped down beside you, passing you a chunk of bread. Toothless flopped nearby, gnawing on his own fish, while Menace darted over to steal a nibble, earning a grumble from the bigger dragon.

You laughed, tossing her a fish of her own, and Hiccup shook his head, smirking. "She's got you wrapped around her claw."

The conversation flowed easy as you ate, the sea's rhythm a quiet backdrop. Hiccup leaned back on his hands, staring out at the horizon before his voice dipped, a little hesitant.

"So. . .my dad was waiting for me in the forge when I got back last night," he said, picking at a piece of bread. 

You glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "Oh? How'd that go?" 

He let out a sigh, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. "It was loud, chaotic, and honestly, pretty confusing. Awkward, too as usual. He slapped my shoulder so hard I stumbled backward and crashed right into a basket. Told me he was proud of me—kept going on about it. Then he launched into this whole speech about 'warrior spirit' and 'mounting dragon heads' and how—" He trailed off, a slight frown creasing his brow as he sighed again. "For once, it felt like we actually had something to talk about." 

You bit your lower lip, shifting closer to him, your voice soft and reassuring. "Hey, it's some start right? Something small to go on. He might not see you like I do—yet. But he's going to get there. He's proud of you, Hiccup. I am too. And I'm glad you got that moment with him."

His eyes softened, a small, appreciative smile tugging at his lips as he nodded faintly, clearly touched by your words. 

He paused mid-thought, a grin slowly pulling at the corners of his lips, like he couldn't quite believe what he was about to say. "He gave me a Viking hat," he announced, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and something softer, almost shy. Your eyes lit up, and a delighted laugh bubbled out of you in pure glee.

"Though—um, the thing is—," He faltered, letting out a sigh that was heavier this time, tinged with embarrassment. His cheeks flushed faintly as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It's a matching set with his."

"Oh?" you said, tilting your head, curiosity sparking in your voice. "Why does that embarrass you?" You leaned in a little, genuinely puzzled, trying to catch his gaze as he avoided it.

He shifted uncomfortably, his hands fidgeting in front of him. "It's not that part that embarrasses me," he clarified, his tone dropping as if he were confessing something delicate. "You see, the hat is—or, well, it was—my. . ."

He hesitated, his hands moving slowly, almost reverently, to trace the air in front of him, forming to cup each side of his chest like a breast holder. "My mom's." 

"And?" you pressed, your brow furrowing in confusion at that and him cupping himself as if he had a boob, still not quite piecing it together. You watched him closely, waiting for the rest of the story to unfold.

Then, all at once, the words tumbled out of him in a rush, too fast, like he was trying to get it over with. "It was a part of her breastplate," he blurted, his face turning a deeper shade of red as he glanced away, clearly mortified by the admission. 

You stared at him for a split second, processing his words, and then it hit you. A snort escaped before you could stop it, "Oh, gods, Hiccup—," and then you were gone—laughter erupted from deep in your chest, loud and uncontrollable.

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as your whole body shook with the force of it. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you gasped for air, rolling onto your side in a helpless heap, the image of him wearing his mom's old breastplate-turned-hat too much to bear.

He watched you, a sheepish "ha-ha" slipping out as he reached into his bag and pulled it out—the Viking hat, slightly dented and unmistakably shaped like a curved, metallic cup. The sight of it in his hands sent you into another fit, your laughter peaking so hard it went silent, your mouth open in a wheeze as you flailed weakly staring at it then him.

He chuckled, louder this time, his own embarrassment melting into amusement at your contagious reaction. "Hey, come on, breathe," he teased, holding the hat up like a trophy, his grin wide and playful as he watched you struggle to regain control, your silent laughter only making him laugh harder too.

"Boob—," you finally managed to choke out between gasps, pointing at the hat with a trembling hand, "You're—you're wearing a boob holder—," Your voice cracked, and you dissolved into another round of hysterics, barely able to get the words out as he shook his head, laughing along with you. 

The laughter gradually softened, fading into the quiet rustle of the trees around you, both of you catching your breath as the absurdity settled. He shook his head with a grin, still holding the Viking hat, and then—almost impulsively—plopped it onto his head. It sat there, slightly crooked, the faint dents and curves of its origins still visible. You sat up, wiping a stray tear from your eye, and noticed a strand of his messy auburn hair falling into his face, half-obscuring his eyes.

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his forehead as you tucked the strand back under the edge of the hat, adjusting it so it sat just right. His laughter quieted, and he froze, staring at you with wide eyes. A soft flush crept up his neck, tinting his cheeks as he blinked, caught off guard by the gentle gesture. 

"It suits you, Hiccup," you said softly, your hand lingering for a moment before you pulled it back, offering him a warm smile.

"Haha," he let out a nervous little laugh, ducking his head slightly, the blush deepening, but you mistook it for in a mocking way.

"No, really!" you insisted, your tone earnest as you leaned forward a bit, your smile growing. "Really, you earned it. You have." 

There was a sincerity in your voice, a quiet pride that made your words feel heavier, and you held his gaze just long enough to see his shy smile bloom in response. His eyes darted away for a second, then back to you, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he nodded faintly. 

The suns light shifted to catch you at a soft angle, gilding your hair and tracing the curve of your smile. Hiccup's gaze lingered, unnoticed at first, his breath catching as he watched you tear off another piece of bread, the golden glow painting you like something he couldn't quite look away from. His chest tightened, a quiet ache he didn't know as he furrowed his brows at the feeling, and when you glanced up, catching his stare, you tilted your head. 

"What? Do I have food on my face?" you asked, brushing your cheek self-consciously.

He blinked, startled, and coughed into his hand, his face flushing red. "Uh—yeah, yeah, just a little," he lied, gesturing vaguely at your chin.

You didn't—your face was clean—but he couldn't admit he'd been staring because the sun hit you just right, because you looked. . .pretty.

You swiped at your mouth with your sleeve, muttering, "Gods, that's embarrassing," your own cheeks tinting pink as you scrubbed harder than needed. 

Hiccup bit his lip, stifling a smile, and turned his gaze to the sea, then pretending to focus on Toothless rolling in the snow. The moment passed, but the air felt heavier, charged with something neither of you touched—too shy, too unsure. Lunch wrapped up too soon, and Hiccup sighed, brushing crumbs off his hands.

"Gotta head back—training with Gobber. Gronckle match prep." He stood th0ugh he wished not to, then offered you a hand, and you took it, your fingers brushing his as you rose. 

"Yeah, and I've got kitchen duties piling up," you said, grimacing. "Marta's been on me ever since the trials were over for me—says I owe her for all the shifts I missed." 

Menace scampered up your arm to perch on your shoulder, and Hiccup climbed onto the saddle, patting the spot behind him as he gave you a hand. The flight back was quieter, your arms around him again, the cliff island shrinking behind you as Berk loomed ahead—a new secret spot tucked away for you, him, and the dragons, a little piece of peace you'd claim again soon—at least you hoped.

Three long, restless days had crawled by since your escape to the cliff island, with each day stretching out like an eternity under the looming dread of the final trial—the decisive clash that would crown the victor with the honor of slaying the Monstrous Nightmare. In that time, Hiccup could barely escape the watchful eyes of his father so it was up to you to bring sacks of fish to the dragons and in that time neither of you could go flying as Stoick and Gobber insisted Hiccup work endlessly.

Berk roared to life everyday now. Heavy with spoils and their tongues wagging with tales of valor that only stoked the fire of anticipation—thrumming with a feverish energy, the air thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, and expectation, and you could see it pressing down on Hiccup as the hours ticked closer to the moment of truth. 

The night before the trial, Hiccup and you had carved out a rare pocket of stillness, tucked away in the familiar warmth of your small home where no one could bother him—save Gobber of course. The hearth glowed low, its embers casting a dance of flickering shadows across the rough-hewn walls, painting the room in hues of amber. 

You sat across from him at the scarred wooden table, a bowl of stew cooling in front of you both, its steam curling upward like a ghost in the dim light. Hiccup leaned forward, his elbows digging into the hardwood, his voice a hushed thread of determination that wove through the quiet. 

"I'm not gonna fight it—not really," he confessed, his green eyes flicking up to meet yours, searching for a flicker of doubt or understanding in your gaze. 

"The Gronckle. . .I'll dodge it, let Astrid take it down. She'll win, and I won't have to—," He broke off, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous tic you'd come to recognize over these past weeks spent with him and of this match growing closer. 

"It'll disappoint everyone, I know—my dad especially—but I can't do it. Not after Toothless, not after everything we've seen. I can't. . .kill a dragon." 

His words hung heavy, laced with a quiet resolve that made your chest tighten—pride for his courage warring with a gnawing worry for what it might cost him. You nodded slowly, your fingers tracing the edge of the bowl as you studied him, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. 

"They're expecting a show—blood and glory, the whole Viking mess," He sighed, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his lips, the kind that always softened the tension in the air between you. 

"Yeah, well, they'll get one—just not the one they want. You'll give them a stumble and a dodge, let Astrid shine this time. It's better this way," you agree. 

The conviction in your tone had settled over him like a blanket, and though the weight of tomorrow loomed, you couldn't help but trust him—believe in him no matter what choice he went with.

The day of the trial arrived with a biting chill, the sky a stark, pale blue that seemed to sharpen every sound and edge in the arena. You perched high above the pit on a rickety wooden bench, the rough planks groaning under the weight of the packed crowd—villagers' shoulder-to-shoulder, their breaths misting in the cold as they craned for a view of the spectacle below. 

The village had turned out in force since their return, warriors still clad in battle-worn leather, kids perched on shoulders, elders muttering predictions through grizzled beards. You leaned forward, your hands gripping the splintered rail until your knuckles whitened, your voice rising above the din as you cheered for Hiccup with all the strength your throat could muster. 

"You've got this, Hiccup!" you shouted, the words raw and fierce, though they barely pierced the roaring sea of noise around you. 

Down in the arena, he and Astrid stood ready, two figures dwarfed by the towering walls of timber and stone. Hiccup glanced up, his auburn hair messy and Viking hat catching the light as his eyes found yours for a fleeting second, and he flashed that nervous, lopsided grin. 

Beside him, Astrid stood poised, her axe gleaming in her grip, her jaw set into a frown of determination with the focus of a warrior born for this. The Gronckles' gate rattled, a deep groan of iron and wood, and then it swung wide, unleashing the Gronckle into the ring—a rolling mass of scales and grunts, its stubby wings buzzing as it lumbered forward. The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of sound that shook the stands, and you held your breath, eyes locked on Hiccup as the trial began.

It unfolded slowly but like a dance—one Hiccup had choreographed in his mind but couldn't quite control. Astrid charged in first, her movements a blur of precision and power, her axe slashing through the air as she drove the Gronckle back with a flurry of strikes before it knocked her where she then hid. 

Hiccup played his part, skirting the edges of the pit, his lanky frame darting and weaving as he dodged the beast's lumbering charges and spurts of molten lava—hiding behind each wooden wall. You bit your lip, watching him stumble, barely sidestepping blasts with quick, clumsy grace—letting Astrid take the lead, just as he'd planned. 

You watched as Hiccup and she ducked behind the same weathered wooden wall, their figures partially obscured by the rough plank barriers. She leaned in close to him, her lips moving as she says something too quiet for you or anyone else to catch. A moment later, she darted out with a quick, graceful leap, slipping behind another wall a few paces away, leaving Hiccup alone. 

He rose to his feet slowly, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. His gaze flicked toward his dad, then over to you. With a half-hearted shrug, he nudged the Viking hat back on his head, the gesture almost automatic, and flashed a tight, unamused smile—more of a grimace, really—that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Just then, he caught sight of you frantically waving your arms, your wide eyes locked on something behind him. He paused, brows furrowing in confusion, until you jabbed a finger in the air, pointing urgently. He turned just in time to see the Gronckle barreling toward him, its stubby wings buzzing furiously as it hurtled through the air, a blur of scales and rumbling growls aimed straight at his back.

The crowd cheered Astrid on, their voices swelling with each near hit, but the Gronckle wasn't following the script like Hiccup had planned. Its beady eyes narrowed, locking onto Hiccup as if it sensed his reluctance, and it barreled toward him, head lowered, a snarl rumbling from its throat.

He froze, feeling cornered, his plan unraveling in a heartbeat. Your stomach dropped, a shout catching in your throat, "Hiccup, move!"

But before it could escape, he acted. In a flash, his wrist flicked, a pinch of dragon nip tumbling from his sleeve like dust in the wind. The Gronckle skidded to a halt, its snout twitching as it sniffed the air, then collapsed at his feet with a heavy thud, dazed and drooling, its tongue flopping out in a stupor. The arena went dead silent, a collective breath held, then exploded—cheers, gasps, shouts of disbelief crashing together like thunder.

Astrid had already launched herself forward, axe gripped tightly in her hands, her legs pumping as she charged toward the scene. But she could see it was too late—the Gronckle was down at Hiccups mercy. She skidded to a stop, her boots scuffing, then let out a furious wave of swears and curses, her voice sharp and biting as she waved her axe in the air, frustration spilling out in a chaotic mix of Viking grit and exasperation.

At that moment, Gothi, the village elder, shuffled forward, her hunched figure cutting through the chaos. Her gnarled staff tapped rhythmically against the ground, a sharp, insistent sound that demanded attention. The crowd’s clamor began to falter as heads turned toward her.

“Wait! Wait!” Stoick’s booming voice rose above the din, his massive hand waving high to silence the uproar. “Okay—quiet down! The elder has decided!” 

Inside the arena, Gobber stepped up, his broad frame positioning Hiccup and Astrid on either side of him like a gruff referee. The tension hung thick in the air as he raised his hook-hand first, hovering it above Astrid’s head. The crowd held its breath, watching Gothi for her verdict. The elder’s wrinkled face remained stern as she gave a firm shake of her head—no. Astrid’s shoulders slumped slightly; her axe still clenched tight.

Then, with a flicker of surprise, Gobber shifted, lifting his intact hand over Hiccup’s head instead. The motion felt almost hesitant, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. Gothi’s expression softened into a rare smile, and she pointed her long finger at Hiccup with a decisive nod—yes, and Hiccup is chosen.

The arena erupted. Cheers exploded from every corner, a roaring wave of sound unlike anything you’d ever witnessed for Hiccup before. It was wild, unrestrained, a thunderous celebration that shook the wooden stands and metal chains and echoed off the stone walls. 

“Oh! Ye’ve done it! Ye’ve done it, Hiccup!” Gobber shouted; his voice nearly lost in the frenzy. “Ye get to kill the dragon!” 

Hiccups eyes widened, the Viking hat still perched crookedly on his head, as the weight of the moment—and the crowd’s deafening approval—crashed over him. 

You leapt to your feet, a wild mix of fear and pride surging through you, your voice joining the chant of his name as it echoed through the stands. He stood there, his chest heaving as he stared at the fallen Gronckle, his expression a tangle of shock and dread—nothing like the triumph the crowd expected.

Astrid lowered her axe, her jaw tight with something between disappointment and frustration, but she didn’t challenge it—instead glared at him like he would catch fire under her stare. You needed to get to him—to wrap your arms around him, to tell him he’d done it, even if it wasn’t the way he’d wanted—that they’ll work it out together.

Your heart pounded as you shoved off the bench, pushing into the sea of bodies flooding the arena floor the moment the trial ended. The village was wilder than ever, a storm of Vikings twice your size, their hands clapping Hiccup’s back, their voices roaring as Fishlegs' hoisted him up like a prize followed by Snotlout and the twins.

You fought against the tide, elbowing through sweat-soaked warriors and shrieking kids, shouting his name, “Hiccup! Hiccup!”

But the crowd was relentless, a living wall that shoved you back with every step. Hands grabbed at him, pulling him into their center, and you caught only flashes of his auburn hair, his wide panicked eyes, before he vanished into the throng.

Your chest tightened, frustration burning hot as you strained on tiptoe, searching for him, but the mass of Berk swallowed him whole, leaving you stranded at the edges, breathless and desperate. You worried for him; this was not what he wanted.

The chaos took an age to thin, the villagers trickling out of the arena with boasts and collecting bets on their lips, their footsteps kicking up dust that stung your eyes. You darted down the steps at last, heart hammering against your ribs, your legs aching from the tension as you wove through the stragglers toward the Great Hall—where they had taken him to celebrate. 

The massive doors loomed ahead, and you slipped inside, the cavernous space swallowing the sound of your boots on the stone floor. It was jammed full, the long tables heavy of their usual clutter, the fire pits blazing along with the hearths, the air heavy with the scent of food and ash.

“Hiccup?” you called, your voice barely visible compared to the loudness of the Hooligans, sharp and hopeful, but he was nowhere in sight—no rustle of movement squeezing through the crowd, no familiar lilt of his voice. The hall was full—still celebrating, but he had left, and a knot of unease twisted in your gut as you turned back, a man told you he had already left and that pressed down like a weight.

Next, you tried the forge—he’d promised to meet you thereafter. The thought spurred you on, your pace quickening as you jogged through the village, dodging a cart of barrels and a gaggle of gossiping women. The forge’s open side glowed faintly with the embers of a dying fire, but the familiar clang of hammer on metal was absent, the bellows still, the tools untouched on their racks. You stepped inside, your breath hitching as you scanned the corners. 

“Hiccup? You here?” you called again, softer this time, but the only reply was the creak of the roof under the wind. 

He wasn’t there—no sign of his lanky frame hunched over a project, no scatter of sketches or tools to betray his presence. Your hands clenched at your sides, worry creeping up your spine like ivy—where was he? The crowd had taken him, but now he’d slipped away, and the village felt too big—and you continued to worry.

You stopped in the forge’s doorway, catching your breath as you ran a hand over your head. “Come on, Hiccup,” you muttered, your mind racing.

Of course—the cove is all that’s left. You knew he’d avoid home, avoid Stoick’s booming pride and the weight of expectation that came with it. The cove was his refuge, where Toothless and Menace waited, where he could breathe away from Berk’s clamor.

Cutting through the ache in your chest—he’d be there, of course he had to be. You nodded to yourself, the path to the cove pulling you forward like a lifeline, your boots hitting the dirt with renewed purpose. Suspense still gnawed at you—was he wrestling with the fallout of his win?

Slipping inside your small home, you grabbed a rough burlap sack from the corner near the hearth, its coarse weave familiar under your fingers. You’d planned to bring fish to the cove anyway—a stash you’d set aside with Hiccup’s own for Toothless and Menace. You stuffed it with smoked cod—Menace favorite, the oily scent seeping into your hands as you slung it over your shoulder, its weight grounding you against the worry swirling in your chest.

With a quick, furtive glance out the window—no prying eyes, no curious neighbors—you slipped out again, the two-hour trek to the cove stretching before you like a gauntlet, each step a test of your resolve to find him.

The journey unfolded in a haze of determination and unease, your breath puffing in short bursts as you pushed through the forest’s tangled embrace, steering clear of the main trails where latecomers might spot you. The sack thumped rhythmically against your back, the fish shifting with every stride as you climbed over gnarled roots and ducked beneath low-hanging branches, their leaves brushing your face. 

You hated going there on your own—the noises of wild boars and other creatures lurking about put you at unease. Your bandaged arm throbbed faintly, a dull echo of the trial’s toll, but you pressed on, driven by the need to see him—to know he was alright. Your mind churned with questions.

The memory of his fleeting grin in the arena, the way his eyes had sought yours for that brief, steadying moment, fueled your pace, your boots digging into the soft earth as twilight crept in. The sun bled into the horizon, painting the sky in fiery streaks of orange and pink, and by the time you crested the final rise to the cove, the world had softened into a muted tapestry of blues and grays, the light fading fast.

You paused at the cliff’s edge, chest heaving as you caught your breath, and peered down, your heart braced for the sight of Hiccup’s lanky frame by the water, Toothless sprawled lazily nearby, Menace darting about in her usual chaos. But a cold wave of disappointment crashed over you—the cove lay empty, its stillness broken only by a small, familiar figure bounding up the path toward you.

Menace reached you in a flash, her good wing flapping as she leaps into your arms with an excited chirp, her yellow eyes glinting like tiny lanterns in the dimness. She nuzzled your cheek, her raspy purr vibrating against your skin, and though her warmth eased the sting of your letdown, it couldn’t fill the hollow space Hiccup’s absence carved out. 

“Hey, little one,” you murmured, scratching her head holding her close as you scanned the cove again, willing him to appear. 

The water lapped quietly against the rocks, the air heavy with silence—no Toothless, no Hiccup, just you and Menace in a space that felt too big without them. You sighed, setting the sack down with a soft thud as Menace wriggled free to sniff at it, her tail flicking eagerly. 

“Guess it’s just us for now,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, swallowed by the vastness around you. "He must've felt so overwhelmed and went off—Hiccup. . ."

Hours could stretch before they returned—flight tests often dragged long when Hiccup lost himself in the sky—and exhaustion tugged at you, a bone-deep weariness from the day’s trials and the trek. You slumped against a boulder, pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders as Menace curled up beside you, her small body a warm weight against your leg.

The fish sat untouched—save for Menaces’ portion—in the sack, their scent mingling with the damp earth, and soon, the rhythmic lap of the water and Menace’s steady purring lulled you into a fitful doze, your head tipping back against the rock as sleep claimed you.

A sudden rush of wind snapped you awake, your eyes flying open as the unmistakable beat of Toothless’ wings thrummed overhead, cutting through the quiet like a blade. You scrambled to your feet, heart leaping—he’s back—and brushed the sleep from your face, Menace stirring with an annoyed grumble beside you. 

The dark, sleek shape of Toothless swooped low, slicing through the night sky, and you took a step forward, ready to call out, your voice catching in your throat—when another figure stopped you cold. Astrid. She was with them, clinging to Hiccup on the saddle, her blond hair whipping wildly in the wind as Toothless landed with a heavy thud near the water’s edge. 

Panic surged through you, sharp and icy, freezing you in place as you ducked back behind the boulder, your breath hitching in your chest. Why was she here? Why had he told her about Toothless? No, she must’ve followed him. Your mind spun, questions piling up one after the other, but as you peeked out, you saw her slide off. Hiccup dismounted too, and you watched, heart pounding against your ribs, as they stood close, their voices drifting up in muffled snatches that tightened the knot in your gut.

You should have stepped out—waved like you normally would, crack a joke, joined them like it was nothing—but the sight of her with him pinned you in place, doubt of his feelings now sinking its claws deep. What was going on? Were they closer now than you’d realized? Your fingers curled into the boulder’s rough surface, and you held your breath, straining to hear as their conversation sharpened into focus. 

“It controls them!” Astrid said, her voice urgent when she had hopped off Toothless, rushing forward with an energy of excitement. “Let’s find your dad!”

Hiccup’s face paled, panic flashing in his eyes as he leapt after her, his voice rising. “No! No.”

He caught up, grabbing her arm to stop her. “No, not yet! They’ll kill Toothless. No. Astrid, we have to think this through carefully.” 

Your brows furrowed, confusion warring with the unease bubbling inside you—what were they talking about? Astrid spun to face him, her tone sharp with disbelief. 

“Hiccup, we just discovered the dragons’ nest—the thing we’ve been after since Vikings first sailed here—and you want to keep it a secret? What? To protect your pet dragon? Are you serious?” 

Your eyes widened, a silent gasp catching in your throat as you leaned forward, desperate for a closer look, careful not to rustle the leaves or snap a twig. The dragons’ nest? Your pulse raced—she’d seen it, and Hiccup had taken her there?

Anger flared hot in your chest at her words—pet dragon? Your brows knitting tight as you glared from your hiding spot. Hiccup turned, his back to her, with a seriousness in his stance. It was a look you knew well, one he’d shown you in quiet moments that others hardly saw, but seeing it now, directed at her, stopped her short. 

“Yes,” he said, his voice low and firm, unwavering as he faced her again, and Astrid’s expression faltered, clearly taken aback by the shift in him. 

“Okay,” she said after a beat, softer now, still reeling from his resolve. “Then what do we do?” 

Hiccup looked down, his hands clenching at his sides, anger and frustration simmering beneath his words. “Just give me until tomorrow. I’ll figure something out.” 

Astrid nodded, her surprise lingering. “Okay,” she said again, then hesitated, a blush creeping up her cheeks. 

She punched his arm—hard—making him wince and clutch it with a groan. “That’s for kldnapping me,” she said, grinning, and before he could recover, she grabbed him again. 

He flinched, eyes squeezing shut, but she planted a quick kiss on his cheek instead. “That’s for. . .everything else,” she added, then dashed off toward the path, leaving him stunned.

Hiccup stood there, his mouth agape for a moment as Toothless stared at him, head tilted in silent judgment.

“What? What are you looking at?” he muttered, flustered, before shaking it off and turning to the dragon. 

He rested a hand on Toothless’ snout, his voice softening. “Goodnight, bud. Get some rest, okay?”

Toothless huffed, nuzzling him briefly, then padded over to a shady spot near the water, curling up with a contented warble. Hiccup watched him for a moment, his shoulders slumping as the tension drained out of him, then turned and started climbing the steep path out of the cove, his boots scuffing the dirt as he disappeared over the ridge toward home. 

The shadows cloaked you as you remained frozen, your breath barely daring to disturb the air, shallow and ragged, as if each inhale dragged shards of glass deeper into your chest. The hurt was a tangled, vicious thing—jealousy gnawed at the edges, yes, her kiss to Hiccup stirred inside you making you angry with yourself, but it wasn’t the whole of it. 

No, this was something more brutal, a raw, searing wound that pulsed with every heartbeat, born from the betrayal of seeing him—Hiccup—slip away to chase the very plan you’d woven together in late-night whispers over the possibility of finding Hels’ gate yourselves.

He’d gone without you, took Astrid instead and that truth clawed at your insides, leaving you dizzy and unarmored. You couldn’t move—not when Astrid’s footsteps faded into the distance, not when Hiccup scrambled up and out of sight, not even when the cove sank back into an oppressive silence that pinned you to the cold earth, a prisoner of your own spiraling thoughts—that maybe he didn't feel the same. 

Time bled into an endless, suffocating void, the night wrapping around you like a shroud as it deepened, the stars above piercing through the jagged canopy like cruel, distant eyes watching your unraveling. Your chest ached with every breath, the weight of what you’d witnessed sinking into your bones, pressing you harder into the rock until you felt you might disappear entirely—You had fooled yourself.

It wasn’t until Menace shifted beside you—her small, trembling form brushing against your side, a faint chirp of distress escaping her—that the stillness shattered. Toothless’ head jerked up, his keen senses cutting through the haze. His heavy paws thudded softly against the ground as he approached cautiously, those luminous eyes catching the faint glint of moonlight, narrowing as he sniffed the air and found you, curled and broken behind the boulder. 

He pressed his snout against you, a low, resonant warble vibrating from his chest—warm, steady, and achingly perceptive, as if he could taste the bitterness radiating from you, the waves of anguish crashing against your ribs like a maelstrom was swirling inside. Menace scrambled into your lap, her tiny claws pawing at your tunic as her purring grew loud and desperate, a plea to pull you back from the edge. 

Your breath hitched, a shaky, fractured sound spilling out as you surrendered to the moment, wrapping your arms around Toothless’ broad, scaly neck. You buried your face against him, the cool roughness of his scales grounding you as tears burned behind your eyes, your voice a trembling whisper against his warmth.

“It's fine.”

He huffed in response, nudging closer, his solid presence a lifeline as your heart stuttered under the weight of it all. 

You lingered there, suspended in the quiet sanctuary they offered, clinging to them as if they could stitch the fraying edges of your thoughts back together. Menace’s tail tightened against you, her small body a fierce little anchor, while Toothless’ steady breathing pulsed beneath your grip, his heat seeping into your frame like a balm. 

The disappointment and hurt in your chest didn’t vanish—it ebbed and surged—but their presence dulled its sharpest edges, giving you room to breathe, to feel something beyond the suffocating hurt. At last, you drew back after a few moments, dragging your sleeve across your eyes to smear away the tears that hadn’t yet escaped, a small, sorrowful smile tugging at your lips as you looked at them—your truest companions in this wreckage of a night.

“Thanks, you two,” you murmured, your voice soft and raw, still thick with the emotions you couldn’t fully shake.

You shouldered the sack once more, its weight a familiar burden as you rose to your feet, legs unsteady from sitting for hours of waiting—but resolute. With a final, lingering pat to Toothless’ snout—his eyes following you with a quiet understanding—and a gentle chin scratch to Menace—you turned toward home.

The cove receded into the darkness behind you, swallowed by the night, but their soft croons trailed after you, threading through the stillness like a fragile thread of solace. You carried it with you, a faint shield against the heavy, bruising beat of feelings that clung to your every step, echoing into the vast, unyielding dark by yourself with only the moon to lead you back.

This is Chapter 7 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying

[deathsmile36]

As someone who loves TCF novels, I'm addicted to Rok Soo's character and life, so I want to talk a little about him. Let's list his problems that we remember.

His body and life were stolen.

He was affected by the White Star's curse.

His parents died at a young age. It's not mentioned how old he was, but it was likely between 7 and 8.

He was taken in by a distant relative who was good at first, but changed and began treating him badly, beating and starving him to the point where he would eat filth or go hungry for days.

He was so afraid of his uncle that he was afraid to even go to the bathroom. So, being a helpless child, he resigned himself to his fate.

He received help from some people who took pity on him, so with their help, he escaped from his uncle and entered an orphanage (we still don't know how, nor do we know how long he lived with his uncle).

His life in the orphanage was the only period of peace in his life, but he later discovered that he had been the target of an assassination attempt by hunters and had been used as bait by a wanderer. He was erased His Memories 8.. He was worried and afraid of taking responsibility for his own life when he left the orphanage, so he studied hard and intended to enter college (Note: Rok Soo's goal was to enter college and build a life. He worked hard to achieve this goal, but when the world was destroyed and he joined the company with the Su duo, he changed his goal to becoming a lazy rich man.) 9.. He worked various part-time jobs (We didn't know what these jobs were except for being a waiter in a restaurant. The rest of the jobs are a mystery.)

He witnessed the disaster at the age of 20. Everyone in the restaurant was killed. He suffered from fear and hunger for 3 days. (He stayed alive by drinking rainwater that seeped through cracks.)

He was rescued and entered the shelter. We all know his suffering in the shelter, and how he witnessed everyone's death, like Grandma, Jin-tae, and others, in order to protect him and everyone else because they were weak and powerless. (I bet he gained the ability to record when he witnessed their deaths, and the first thing he recorded was the moment of their tragic deaths, so he felt guilty because of his weakness.)

He joined the company and met the Soo duo, and he had a family for the first time. (They were always losing and getting beaten because of their weakness and lack of numbers and equipment.)

Because he was physically weak, he was protected by his two friends and witnessed their deaths and the brutal deaths of his team. His arm was broken and he bled, and no one asked him to take care of himself or wipe the blood because they were focused on his explanation. (Of course, he recorded the deaths of his friends and felt guilty. He asked support to collect their bodies because he was powerless. He didn't stop explaining at the same time because his friends entrusted him with the team and what (He remained.)

He was subjected to all kinds of insults, curses, and humiliation because he didn't cry over the death of his friends and became a leader at a young age (he bowed his head to many scoundrels to protect the team and the company he was now responsible for).

Because of the curse and the death of his friends, he created a barrier between himself and his new team. He ate and took care of his health, but he couldn't sleep, take vacations, or get proper rest (we all know because the log works by itself when Rok Soo is alone and the atmosphere is quiet. I can't imagine the psychological torment he went through for over 10 years).

After the death of his friends, he activated his Instant Ability, and we all know the amount of pain he went through and the scars he received every time he used it.

He always wore long-sleeved clothing for fear that people would see his scars and be frightened or disgusted by them.

He worked hard, memorizing all records of the monsters and other things, and working like crazy to protect his team and prevent any casualties (his casualty rate on his missions is 0%).

He received numerous offers to give speeches and lectures, but none of them were successful due to the monsters that suddenly appeared or the terrorist acts that only occurred during his appearances.

The general public knew nothing about him or his accomplishments.

Finally, he was suddenly thrown into another world without his knowledge or even his opinion being asked.

Let's not forget that he was monitored since birth by Death and was watched for over 10 years by Soo duo. They laughed at his injuries while he suffered psychologically every day due to his regret and grief over losing them.

This is about his life as Kim Rok Soo. I haven't yet written about his struggles as cale Henituse. If I've forgotten anything else, please let me know so I can remember.