#we as a fandom don't talk enough about skids | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sanfangirl-cynicalromantic · 2 years ago

Text

The Lady Knight

HTTYD fandom, I am excited to announce my contribution to our fanfic archives! This is my first fic that I've ever posted, so comments and feedback are greatly appreciated!

Special thanks to @borrassofi, @bi-bi-want-dragon, @triumphantfury, and @macheriemila for all their support and inspiration and letting me tag them!

You can read my fic on AO3 here

Summary: Astrid Hofferson never cared about being a girl, much. But when she overhears her parents' discussion, she decides to become the son they don't have, and train as a knight. After all, how hard could it be? At Training she overcomes grueling exercises, carefully avoids suspicion, and grudgingly makes a friend - the Prince himself. But as she grows and matures, so do her feelings, both guilt and - something else.

She never wanted to be a boy, even though she had wished for it a few times. But a whimsical wish was quite different than devoting oneself to years of careful deception. She had been born into a long and proud lineage of Hoffersons, but this generation, there was no boy. No male to inherit the land and titles and follow in his father’s footsteps to become a legendary knight. To say that her father was disappointed was an understatement, but she took the fact she was female harder than the rest.

She supposed she could qualify as the tomboy of the family. All of the Hofferson girls were beautiful and strong. Their house was one of the most noble in the kingdom, and with only girls, more prone to kidnappings and ransoms; so her father had ensured that all of his daughters knew how to handle a sword when needed. But Astrid’s favorite weapon was her prize axe. She could ride straddle and sidesaddle, and her voice, while still feminine, was rougher than her sisters’.

She had never truly cared much about being a girl, except for the fact that boys got to wear more comfortable clothes and could go to war. She never understood a girl’s limitations until she listened to her father talking to Mother behind the door and realized that being a girl meant you could not inherit the estate, so when Father died, they would be homeless - and her father was nearly eight years older than Mother.

She was creeping down the corridor in her soft cotton nightgown to eavesdrop on her parents. Her fifteenth birthday was coming up soon, and she had caught Mother and Father speaking in hushed voices that would abruptly skid to a stop whenever she entered a room. She had made it a personal goal to find out her party plans or presents before she got them every year; her sisters and sometimes the servants were easy enough to pry the answers from, but it was her parents who she had never been able to best, and this year was her year.

The thick carpet muffled her careful steps and the aged wool scratched between her toes as she made her way to the flickering bar of light creeping out from under Father’s office door. Mother must be pacing inside. She slowly lowered her ear to the crack and closed her eyes to make out the voices better, for Father’s door was thick enough to obscure the words to any spy trying to gather important information. Astrid breathed evenly and ignored the rough pressure of the carpet against her cheek as she carefully tried to shift herself in a better angle. She prided herself on her stealth, knowing not to move too quickly or to try to run if she thought she was found out; those actions only created noise, but Valhalla help her if she was ever found in this embarrassing position!

“. . . what on Midgard are we going to do?” her mother’s voice filtered through - but with a shrill note of panic? Astrid frowned. Was Mother running out of ideas for her party? Surely she wasn’t so spoiled she wouldn’t understand if the celebrations weren't very extravagant? In fact, she was perfectly fine with it just being a quiet affair among the family. And she’d always thought the party ideas were Father’s.

“. . . no need to worry, my dear. I’m in great health; I’m not going anytime soon.” Father’s deep voice soothed Mother’s worry like a balm. What? Was Father not going to be there? He never missed any of his children’s celebrations! Except for that time a couple years back where he had to go help the King in the war, but while it wasn’t won it had calmed, and Berk was well on its way to winning - eventually. But that had nothing to do with his health. Were they even talking about her party?

“There’s no guarantee.” The click of Mother’s heeled shoes was replaced by a thunk and rustling of fabric as she presumably collapsed gracefully onto a chair. “And of course, in a few years we’ll have to find suitable husbands for our daughters while we still have the position to receive good offers-”

“Darling-”

“If only they could inherit! Or if Agor hadn’t-” her voice seemed to crumble at the mention of Astrid’s deceased brother’s name and even the light through the door crack seemed to dim in remembrance. He had passed away when she was very young, so she did not remember him, but he had been the closest to her age and the darling of her parents.

Her mother’s shadow grew bigger as Father joined her on the chair. Astrid could no longer hear what he was saying as he comforted his beloved wife. There was no need to; they clearly weren’t talking about her birthday party. She began to carefully raise herself to make her way back down the hall.

Laying in her soft bed, it was then that she cursed her gender; she hadn’t cared much about it before as she still learned to fight and read and figure like any boy. She enjoyed soft dresses and while her etiquette lessons were boring, she was good at them and had to admit she looked much more graceful from them. But now she wished she could have been a boy. She knew that she could take over her father’s lands easily. She was smart, decisive and strong. If she had been a boy she would have been perfect. But no one other than her servants and family took her orders and ideas seriously. If only she was Agor.

She was the second born of the Hofferson ladies. Her older sister, Astoria, was better accustomed to being a lady than she was; if one compared poise or smiles, they were the same, but her sister had a comfortable ease that Astrid did not possess, but maybe it was just because she was the eldest. She steeled herself and resolutely married into a good family to help the rest of her younger sisters. Astrid was more impressed at her sister’s bravery than she wanted to admit, as it forced her to recognize that she was selfish enough to have not done the same. So, she decided as the next oldest to become the son her father had always wished for, and become a knight. What could go wrong?

A few months after Astoria’s wedding she approached her parents with her brilliant idea. It did not go as well as she hoped. Her mother’s voice reached an ungodly pitch of indignation and disbelief, and her father looked terribly affronted, as if her suggestion had somehow invalidated all of their hard work, but Astrid was nothing if not tenacious and her father rued the day he enrolled her with the debate tutors. She argued that she was the least social of Lord Hofferson’s daughters, so she would raise the least suspicion. Plus, she was the closest in age to the deceased brother she was pretending to be, she continued as she elaborated upon her plan. She was already more skilled at fighting than most other noble boys her age - fifteen - and was confident enough to finally convince a gruff father to give her his honor and her mother to offer to cut her hair. She would be shipped off to training and become a squire that very week, as the annual training that was mandatory for all young aspiring knights was about to begin. The normal practice of squires assisting a knight until they turned eighteen had been done away after none of the said squires were able to pass the test to become a fully fledged knight, and now all squires would be trained together by the same instructor. Father had been very pleased with this announcement when it first came out, but now his enthusiasm for the program had been significantly dimmed.

Her story was that she (meaning Astrid) had a secret twin, Astor. Astor had always been sickly, and after the terrible death of their older brother Agor, Astor had been kept secret from society, as Mother would not be able to bear society’s pity if she lost her other son. She thought the entire idea rather brilliant, and Father sighed and began to mention this secret son of his who had miraculously recovered enough to go to training to anyone whenever business took him outside his castle. A new hair of Mother’s bleached wheat locks shimmered into silver with every passing day, but ultimately Astrid was sure Mother would see that Astrid was doing the best she could for her family. She was sacrificing her whole identity in an effort to create another one to better protect her family. No, it wasn’t marrying a well off lord, but Astrid could only do so much.

.oOo.

The first day of training was terrifying. She had never been so surrounded by warriors, and it thrilled her. All the noble’s sons were staying in the Great Hall, the ancient courtroom Kings used to sit in. Now, the old throne room was a banquet hall, the biggest guest rooms had been converted to classrooms; the smaller ones into separate rooms for noblemen who could afford to pay for their son’s privacy. Father had indulged her and rented one of those rooms so as to not compromise her identity. For if she was ever found out, her virtue and her sister’s by default would be put in terrible jeopardy.

She jumped at anything closer to her than three feet. She was pretty, she knew, what if her face wasn’t masculine enough? She didn’t talk, she was too afraid she wouldn’t sound right. Who on Midgard had said this would be a good idea? Father had left immediately after seeing her trunks deposited in her room, as he did not wish to make it seem he coddled her; fitting in would be hard enough as it was, but now she thought she would have given anything to have him take her back home. She barely slept, certain someone was going to burst through the door and expose her. She nearly cried, something she hadn’t done since she was ten. But if she didn’t cry as a girl, she wouldn’t cry as a boy.

Dawn came with an unbearable clanging. She groaned loudly and sat up as something metal hammered against her door.

“Rise an’ shine, lad!” called a cheerful Scottish voice through the door. Gobber, the retired knight with a peg leg and interchangeable hands. She had been introduced to him the night before, and he’d informed her he’d be in charge of the physical training. She recalled his accent being heavier and more slurred, due to the keg of beer attached to his left stump. How was he so clear headed so early in the morning after that? She emerged from her room a few minutes later, tunic rumpled, short hair mussed, glaring through tired eyes above dark circles. Gobber beamed good-naturedly.

“‘Attaboy,” he grinned. He clapped her on the back, hard, and Astrid stumbled forward a step.

Apparently, Gobber believed that waking up at dawn to learn how to manage heavy wooden practice swords before breakfast was the way to go. “If ye ever haf tuh fight fer yer life, ar’ they gon’ wait til ye finish yer beauty sleep?” He mocked the tired teenagers.

“My manly beauty would be too great for them to handle,” a short, stocky teenager boasted. He wobbled and barely managed to hold his position. The wooden sword shook. “Can’t we have had breakfast, at least?” he whined. Astrid, who had been staring stoically ahead, cast a glance at him. Square face, choppy black hair, whiny, privileged voice; Jorgenson, the Duke’s son.

After a week, Astrid was used to getting up before dawn. After a month, she was waiting outside for Gobber to come get her. He gave her an approving smile and that day he announced that everyone would have to meet him in the Armory on their own, and if anyone was late it would be noted. A chorus of groans followed this declaration, and Astrid resolved to be the first one there every morning.

The Armory was a large room off the side of the Great Hall, and led into the training Arena. The stone walls were rough with hooks and weapons, but the far wall was painted in tar and had a stand for chalk on it. At first Astrid hated how confined the room was, with dangerously sharp or dull weapons crowding everyone (although it did ensure no one cheated and leaned on the walls to catch their breath) and a dozen grumpy boys sweating and stinking up the place. As the days became colder, she was relieved they didn’t have to train outside, but was careful not to show it. If Gobber suspected they were grateful for the Armory, she was sure he’d drag them outside.

There weren’t too many noble boys her age but she managed to play arrogant and aloof well, so no one got close to her and found out her secret. She didn’t want to be friends with the boys, anyway. Did they not take their duty of bringing honor to their families? Her father received letters of glowing praise about his ‘son’ as she quickly rose to the top of the class, being the best at hand-to-hand combat, sword fighting, tracking, climbing, everything - well, except riding. That was the only class she was second best in, and it irritated her more than she wanted to confess.

Trying to be a teenage boy was harder than she thought. She had never thought of herself as dainty before, but almost all the boys were tight knit, clapping each other’s backs, roaring loudly with laughter, having food fights, and public baths. She shuddered at the thought. She bathed herself after everyone had gone, and the water was always freezing. She couldn’t wait until she could return home on her yearly visit and soak in a nice, hot, private bath for hours and wear silk robes under no constant fear of what would happen if they found she was a girl - well, young woman.

She had never been very attracted to boys in a romantic sense; she had always been too busy planning and working and practicing, but she feared she would never get married after living with a bunch of male adolescents. They were gross and hairy and sweaty and smelly and vomited after they drank too much. Occasionally one would make a disgusting comment about a lady servant and it was all she could do not to beat them senseless right then and there. The only boy she found herself mildly interested in was a quiet, skinny boy her age.

Everyone in training went by their surnames. She had become Hofferson, the prodigal son. Jorgenson had learned that he only went by ‘Hofferson’ the hard way: she had beat him when he tried to clap her on the back and called her ‘Hoff.’ For some reason, though, this other boy only went by ‘Hiccup.’

She hadn’t even noticed Hiccup in the beginning. At first she had been shocked - was there a noble family by the surname of Hiccup? Then she figured it must be a nickname, as Jorgenson had called him ‘Hiccup’ first. Perhaps he wanted someone with a name just as awful as his (with a name like Snotlout, she could hardly blame him).

Hiccup was scrawny and weak. He could barely hold a sword, much less swing an axe or a mace- which they were going to learn how to use in a few months. Astrid secretly crept out of her rooms every other night with her new axe, made heavier and more masculine looking, to practice. She was frustrated she didn’t see him at night either. She even went every night for a while to see if perhaps they were just missing each other, but no. He didn’t even try to get any extra practice. She didn’t know why the fact irritated her, why she wanted to see him try. It was just because he was exactly what she had been afraid of becoming, she told herself.

Despite his abysmal performance with weapons of any sort, Hiccup made up for it with other things. He was the best rider, and she hated that he just had a natural instinct with the beasts. He was . . . different from everyone else. They made fun of him because of his size, but she noticed that he was quick witted and diplomatic despite being shy. They had vied for the top spot in History and Strategic classes more than once. She knew it wasn’t wise, but she was drawn to him, and knew he was too afraid of her to dare pry or try to make conversation. She knew he was smart, and would have to be on her guard in front of him so he didn’t figure out her secret. Because if anyone was smart enough to find out, it was him. Still, she found herself sitting next to him during Strategy, or standing next to him before they rode their horses.

Winter was reaching its end, and the white, regal snow had turned to muddy slush that was somehow colder and infinitely wetter. Gobber, the wonderful, considerate instructor he was, had them training in the Arena now. Keeping one’s balance was even harder in the slippery sludge, and they were still practicing with wooden weapons, but they had moved on from swords. They were to learn how to handle every weapon, and by the end of the year, they’d be allowed to choose one or two weapons to continue in. Astrid already knew she’d choose her axe, but was enjoying learning to handle all the other weapons as well.

Hiccup was dismally trying to handle a mace. No one really liked the weapon except Thorston, who had declared his weapon’s name ‘Macey.’ Astrid was the nearest to him, executing the eight positions and enjoying the swish of wind the heavy wind made as it swung through the air. He fell, some of the slush splattering on her face. She sputtered, then rounded on him with a glower.

“Watch it!” she growled. Hiccup scrambled up, apologizing profusely. Astrid rolled her eyes.

“What are you even doing with that thing?” she asked sharply. “It’s just like a club, use the momentum and the same eight points of fighting we already know. Did your father teach you nothing?”

Hiccup scowled fiercely at her and picked up his too-heavy mace, gritting his teeth. She frowned. She must have said something wrong. Did he get sullen after she corrected him? Maybe he was just a spoiled noble boy, but no, that didn’t fit him. She resolved to keep an eye on him. She normally didn’t bother apologizing if she accidentally offended someone who wasn’t an instructor, but she felt like maybe this boy could use one.

After the session had finished, she hung up her practice weapon next to him. They were both the shortest of the class, and she had to stretch a little to reach the hook for her wooden mace. Her arms protested but she paid no mind to the ache. She was used to it after five months. Hiccup attempted to do the same, but his footing wasn’t stable and he stumbled, off balance, into the entire wall of practice weapons, the haphazard tumble of metal and wood ringing throughout the stone Armory as they jumped out of the way. Gobber whirled around and groaned in exasperation.

“Hiccup! What’re ye-”

“It was my fault, Sir,” Astrid interrupted quickly. Everyone’s eyes swung to her incredulously. “I lost my balance and knocked into him.” Hiccup blinked his eyes like an idiot. She shot him a look. Play along, it ordered. He blinked again before he caught on and then quickly nodded. Gobber raised one side of his dirty, blonde unibrow.

“Well, Hofferson, seeing as you are so keen to share Hiccup’s punishment, fifteen laps around the Arena. You’ll miss dinner but get a slice of bread before bed.” Astrid nodded stoutly, her stomach tightening in protest. Would word of this reach her parents? Hiccup shot her a glance; he thought she was crazy. That was fine. She thought she might be crazy too. She followed him out the Armory door back into the cold, keeping pace with him as he jogged painfully and slowly around. Her legs and arms were numb and her cheeks chapped red when they finally finished and headed toward the kitchens. Gobber eyed them and handed them a slice of bread each with a slab of butter. They accepted them gratefully and sat by a bench near a stove.

Hiccup frowned at her contemplatively. She didn’t meet his eye as she took a hefty bite of the bread, sighing in relief. He took a shaky breath.

“Thanks for that,” he said quietly. “It did absolutely nothing, taking the blame, but thanks anyway.” A cross between a grimace and a smile crossed her face.

“Don’t mention it,” she replied. She met his gaze and he gave her a small, grateful smile.

After that they kept each other company more often than not. They didn’t speak often; she wasn’t inclined to talk much, always wary of her voice, and he didn’t try to pull her into conversation, which she was thankful for. But there was something - comradery, maybe - that was developing as they worked side by side in silence. She wouldn’t say they were friends; it wouldn’t be wise to get close to him. To get close to anyone. You couldn’t make friends if you were keeping things from them, but they cold be friendly, she reasoned with herself.

What she hadn’t known was that he was also keeping things from her.

Training drew to a close. She grew more adept at faking her voice cracking. She learned to laugh in a way that would have made Mother faint. She still refused the alcohol other boys tried to sneak into their barracks, but had figured out plausible excuses. Then the yearly visit to their families came round, and their parents came to collect them. Astrid was curious to see who her ‘friend’s’ parents were. He seemed more nervous and fidgety than normal whenever she mentioned parents. She had guessed he probably didn’t get on too well with them. That was understandable. Her own relationship with her parents had been strained at best throughout the year, as they made it clear they were uneasy with her choice, and Astrid being the stubborn lass she was, never shared her hardships she had to conquer with them, or mentioned how much she dearly missed the rest of her sisters, or the nights she wondered if maybe being a wife was really so awful; surely it wasn’t so bad as her day had been. She’d share only her triumphs with them until they admired the choice she had made.

But despite all this, Astrid was excited to see her parents again. She had never been so close with them before, her interactions and love for them more dutiful than anything, but in her absence, she had received a letter every week and she couldn’t wait to reunite with them again and spend a month in silk gowns and practicing her poise. She would have never thought she would be so excited to be a girl.

The promise of going home soon made her more talkative than usual. Gobber seemed to be glad too, and gave them more time off of practicing weapons handling. After over ten months of handling them, he told them, there wasn’t as much need to practice. Astrid disagreed; she was of the opinion Gobber was tired of stupid boys and desperate for a drink, but she was grateful for the extra time all the same. The days were hot, and most of the boys went swimming, but she couldn’t join them, careful of her female body underneath her boyish clothes. She had stopped wearing long sleeves under her tunic and wrapped her forearms, admiring the toned muscles in her upper arms.

Hiccup still wore long sleeves and didn’t go swimming with the other boys either, so they had sort of mutually agreed to ride together during their free time. She found him in the stables, stroking his black stallion’s glossy coat. “He’s beautiful,” she greeted them, nodding at the horse.

Hiccup acknowledged her with a nod. He patted his horse again - Toothless - before leading him out of his stall. She crossed over to Stormfly, her horse, and led her gently out of her stall so she could begin brushing.

“Toothless?” she had asked incredulously when he had introduced her to his horse.

“Yep,” Hiccup replied, popping the ‘p.’

“Toothless,” she repeated, gesturing at the stallion who was contentedly eating the apple HIccup had just given him - with all his teeth.

“So he won’t bite me,” Hiccup said dryly. Astrid couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.

“I trained him myself,” Hiccup broke the silence as they began to saddle the animals. She peeked at him from the corner of her eye; she hadn't expected him to elaborate further.

“Where’d you find him?” she asked as she finished brushing out Stormfly’s coat. “I’ve never seen a stallion this fine.”

“He was wild,” Hiccup told her proudly. “We stumbled across each other one day. I was fascinated. He didn’t trust me at first, but I visited him everyday - and, more importantly, brought him snacks.” They snickered and Astrid could’ve sworn the horse rolled its eyes. “Eventually, we became friends, and . . . then I got on his back for the first time.”

“What was it like?” Astrid asked, entranced. She’d never heard Hiccup talk this long, and never so passionately. She realized she had stopped working to look at him, and hastily grabbed her saddle, fastening the straps securely, testing to make sure they were tight enough, but not uncomfortable for her beloved mare.

“He threw me off the first few times,” Hiccup admitted with a small laugh. “But after that . . . it’s like flying.”

“I know the feeling,” Astrid told him quietly. Their gaze caught, the boy’s bright eyes looking at her in understanding and - she felt a weird warm feeling settle in her chest. The hot summer air suddenly made itself known in her flushed cheeks. Had it been this warm a minute ago?

“That sounds amazing,” she said abruptly, wanting to change the subject. “I bet if he hadn’t been wild he would have been fit for royalty,” she joked, part serious. For some reason, Hiccup’s smile seemed to fade at that.

“Haha, yeah. Well, guess it was a good thing he was wild, right,” he scratched the back of his head with a strained smile. Astrid mentally berated herself. She had done something wrong, but she had no idea what.

“My girl’s pretty fast, too,” she challenged him, hoping to lighten the mood again. “Want to race?” She finished with Stormfly’s bridle and swung up easily into the saddle. That brought Hiccup’s smile back.

“Sure,” he agreed enthusiastically. He pulled himself into the saddle with enviable grace and winked at her, before breaking into a lighting-fast gallop. Astrid blamed the foreign fluttery feeling that arose on the thrill of a challenging race as she grinned and followed him.

.oOo.

The day to leave arrived, and she met her parents by the entrance with her luggage. For a second they said nothing, taking in the other’s appearance with wide eyes. Had her father’s hair always had so much gray? She had grown taller, and it was strange for her gaze to settle above her mother’s eyes. She set the luggage down and they embraced.

She pushed down the sudden tears that threatened and tried her best to keep her personality as ‘Hofferson’ rather than reverting to ‘Astrid’. Time for that later. Her parents chatted amiably with Gobber, the Head trainer, who was ranting about Astrid’ spectacular prowess, and Astrid excused herself to say goodbye to Hiccup. She hadn’t seen him at all that day, which was strange, because she was sure she knew all the spaces he retreated to. Where was he? Did he think they were going to leave before saying goodbye? Why did the thought of that make her feel upset?

She found him surrounded by guards trying to take his baggage for him despite his protests. She frowned as she recognized the livery colors; black and red. And the royal Haddock crest.

“There you are, your Highness,” one of the guards said cheerfully as he secured the last trunk to the back of the carriage and held the door open for Hic - no, Prince Henry. Because of course Astrid was so focussed on maintaining her identity that she forgot the Crown Prince was her age and named Henry. Prince Henry, with the extraordinary green eyes. The Prince who had managed to tame a wild horse. The Prince who looked almost entirely like his slim mother, not the broad king. Her mouth dropped open as everything clicked into place with a rush of confusion, disbelief, and anger. The prince turned to catch sight of her and paled.

“Hofferson-”

Astrid spun on her heel and rushed to her parents, suddenly anxious to be home.

Two months was too long to think, Astrid decided. She would come to a conclusion after hours of pondering in her delightfully hot bath (she had had one every day since she arrived home) but would change her mind in the next one. And she was furious; now she couldn’t even enjoy her hot baths, and it was entirely his fault.

She knew she was being unfair; how could she be mad at him for not mentioning he was the Crown Prince? It wasn’t like they were friends or anything, and he didn’t even know she wasn’t a boy. So why did a part of her feel betrayed?

Her options were to deem he was untrustworthy and avoid him, or to confront him about his identity. But he was the Prince; she shouldn't ostracize her future king. But then, none of the other boys in training seemed to have much respect for him. Did they not know who he was either? Why would he not tell anyone? Why hadn’t she ever realized? She was confused and her head was messed up, so after a delightful week of relaxing and regaling tales to her younger sisters, her father had her continue to train to stay in shape and she resumed lady etiquette lessons, trying to learn as much as possible in two months; after all, who knew how long she would stay a squire? Being so busy helped keep her mind off other things, and she decided to forget about Hic - Prince Henry and concentrate on her family. She would deal with him when they saw each other again.

She would never admit it, but he occupied her thoughts far too often. It was because she had nothing better to focus on while at Training, and boring poise made her mind wander. She didn't really find him that interesting.

When she arrived back Gobber allowed one day to settle back in before they went straight into classes. Most people were rusty after a month of lazing about and she silently thanked her father for keeping her in shape. She spied Hic - PrinceHenry making his way over to her a few times, but she always turned around and headed in the opposite direction to avoid him. She wore a fierce scowl, and the boys who had gotten a little more friendly before she left wisely gave her space.

She hadn’t reached a conclusion about what to do with Hiccup - with The Prince, but she couldn’t let him be the one to confront her. No. That would be cowardly, which was something she refused to be. So, one day after breakfast when they were on their way to another Training session, she walked up behind and punched him. Hard.

Hiccup yelped and jumped to face her, clutching his shoulder. “Wha-? What wa-”

“That’s for lying,” she said sternly as an explanation. He shook his head disbelievingly and glared right back at her, but their sort-of friendship was now closer to a real one. No, they were friends, she realized with a shock. Hiccup was her friend. She hadn't meant for it to happen, but she had a friend now. And her friend should be able to defend himself, she resolved.

She had been back in Training three weeks so far. She was top of the class like last year, but this year she had a different focus than doing well in class. She was looking for Hiccup. Everyone had gone to sleep, even the servants were gone and the kitchens dark and empty. She doubted Hiccup was situated in the barracks with the other boys, since Jorgenson - or Snotlout, as the boy had smarmily insisted - had his own room, surely the Prince would? She crept quietly down the dark corridor, listening through the doors. The door closest to her had no sounds or light coming from it. She knelt down to the door crack to examine further, but had to plug her nose to hold back the sneeze from all that dust. She doubted anyone slept in there.

She turned the corner of the corridor - the corridors were rather small, honestly. Father had at least five sets of rooms per corridor at home, but this was an old building. The next door she listened had a heavy snoring, an awful mix of snorting, choking, and grunting noises. She hoped that wasn’t Hiccup. A small boy like him wouldn’t make sounds like that, would he? Her fingers lightly traced the wood along the door. Ah. Someone had hung an elaborate carved ‘S’ on the door. It was Snotlout’s room.

She noticed a flicker of light down the corridor, and made her way over to the last door at the end of the hall. A slight glow could be seen if she crouched down and peered under the door, like there was a candle in the next room. She studied the dark wood for a minute. Did the Prince have a set of rooms? She tried the handle. It jangled softly. She let out a huff and cast a look around the shadowy corridor in hopes of finding something to help her. Snotlout’s snores were loud, would he wake up if she knocked on Hiccup’s door? What if Hiccup didn’t hear? She knocked firmly on the door and held her breath to listen. Snotlout’s noise didn’t stutter, but she thought she could make out a shift of a body on sheets.

She knocked again. Then again. She pressed her door against the door and heard a sigh accompanied by a thump. She debated knocking as the flicker of light under the door grew brighter. A key clinked and the door opened a crack. She quickly took a step back.

Hiccup, his brown-red hair longish and a bit tangled, peered out through a crack, a candle’s light illuminating his head’s silhouette.

“Hey,” whispered Astrid. He gave a terrified squeak and jumped back behind the door, another thump sounding and a muffled “ouch.” She pressed her lips together to keep from snorting. He must have tripped.

“You alright?” She asked, not bothering to hide her amusement. She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Yep, the Prince had a set of two rooms. The one they were standing in - well, one standing, the other scrambling to get up - was small, with a tapestry hanging on the wall across the doorway where Astrid guessed his bed and wardrobe lay. There were two comfortable chairs and a desk in this room. The desk was covered in parchment of different sizes and quality and various amounts of ink. She turned her attention away from them despite her curiosity. She had a point being here.

“Hofferson,” Hiccup laughed nervously. “What are- uh, what are you . . . doing here?”

“You weren’t sleeping anyway,” she began. Hiccup looked confused.

“How’d you know I wasn’t sleeping?” Astrid’s eyes widened.

“What? I - no, I didn’t know you weren’t sleeping until I came here and saw the light! But it’s good you’re not sleeping. This would be harder if you were tired.”

“What are we doing?” Hiccup asked. Get to the point, Astrid, she told herself. Quit messing around.

“Since you can’t sleep anyway, why don’t you train,” Astrid suggested. He stared at her, nonplussed.

“Yeah, okay, maybe this is just a crazy dream.” He turned towards the doorway, scratching his head. She scowled, and pinched his arm.

“Ow!” he recoiled. “Okay, not asleep. Unfortunately,” he muttered. Astrid raised her eyebrows at him and he rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not good at Training, or anything fighting at all,” he explained patiently.

“Exactly,” Astrid responded with equal patience. “That’s why you would practice, so you’d get better.” Hiccup sighed dramatically.

“C’mon, how’d you think I got so good at fighting?” She prompted.

“I dunno, you were born perfect?” Astrid fought the urge to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“No,” she smirked. “I snuck out every other night to practice.” She saw his jaw drop out of the corner of her eye, impressed. “And that’s what you’re going to do, now.”

“Who says it’ll even work,” he argued, although she didn’t sound as discouraged as he had a moment ago.

“It’ll be worth it,” she promised. “We’ll start with the basics.”

She had noticed during their training that Hiccup struggled with the basic eight positions, causing him to hesitate and lose momentum and focus.

“Did . . . did your father never teach you this?” she asked quietly after Hiccup flung down his sword upon the Armoury floor in despair for the second time.

“The King is a busy man,” he responded bitterly, “and it’s not like I’m built for fighting anyway.”

“I’m built the same way and I do fine,” Astrid argued, gesturing at her own slim figure. Liar. There were things growing on her in places that were becoming harder to conceal that boys didn’t have, but that was irrelevant. “Now pick up your sword, Your Highness.”

Hiccup scowled and picked up the sword. “No need to call me that,” he said, and struck at her instead of getting back into position two. Astrid’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she blocked his strike easily. He really didn’t like his honorifics.

“Watch your footwork, Your Highness,” Astrid continued, curious as to how he’d react. He adjusted his stance.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I should get to call you something too.”

“Call me what?”

“Something that annoys you . . . like, Hoffy.”

Astrid stopped still. “Hoffy?”

He snickered. “Hoffy it is.”

“Alright, Haddock, I shan’t call you your highness any longer.”

“But I still get to call you Hoffy?”

“No.” She went on the attack, and swiftly disarmed him. His mouth twisted into a displeased grimace.

“Tell you what,” she amended, “If you train with me every day, and every other night, you get to call me Hoffy once a day. And if you miss a day of training, that privilege is revoked, so use each time wisely.” Hiccup sighed dramatically.

“You drive a hard bargain, sir,” he said gravely, “But I accept your terms.” He held out his hand in an over-formal manner. She took it and they shook with straight faces before collapsing into laughter.

Astrid wasn’t the only one to rope her friend into her schemes. It turned out Hiccup enjoyed spending time at the smithy to the point where the blacksmith grudgingly accepted him as his sort-of apprentice. Astrid knew how to sharpen her ax or sword, but enjoyed hearing Hiccup explaining the finer art of smithing. He had his own little back room full of scrap metal and hasty diagrams. It was cramped and humid, and quickly became one of Astrid’ favorite places.

He had many ideas and contraptions he wanted to try out, most of which were unsuccessful, but she cheered her friend on despite the disasters and took to creating elaborate alibis to cover him so they wouldn’t get caught. Later, after narrowly escaping the ire of Gobber or Mildew the head servant or whatever poor soul had been affected, they laughed off their ridiculous cover stories, each one more impossible than the last.

They couldn’t always avoid getting into trouble though. Hiccup’s latest contraption, the Mangler, he called it, had been brought outside for testing. Hiccup wanted to see if it could take down the miniature catapult they had built. If the endeavor was successful, he explained, their army could use it to take out the enemy’s long range missiles. But the testing process was dangerous.

Astrid stood beside him, excitedly watching as he readied the launcher, checked the calibration, and enthused about everyone’s future reactions; he was sure this contraption would work, and they would be hailed geniuses. Personally, Astrid wasn’t so sure. They had never been this naughty before, but she relished it, and figured it would make her posing as a boy more believable; boys did do stupid, dangerous things after all.

“Ready?” he called out.

“Ready,” she confirmed. He bent over the Mangler and took careful aim. He took a breath once, twice. Then on the third exhale he pulled the trigger and the enormous weighted net-slash-bola went flying. She straightened up with a whoop as they watched it soar and plummet.

“Oh no,” cried Hiccup, panicked. She whipped her head toward him in alarm.

“What?”

“I, uh . . . The angle isn’t right; I overshot.”

“What? You’re kidding.”

“It’s heading toward the calves.”

She let out a healthy curse and grabbed him, running toward the calves and hollering. The calves scattered at the net came crashing down, wrapping around the fence posts and toppling them with its heavy iron weights. The cows and teenagers stood stock still for a moment, then the animals stampeded over the splintered fence.

"Well . . . I mean, at least it works."

"We're going to be in so much trouble if someone finds this mess."

Gobber discovered them desperately trying to clear the scene of the Mangler’s evidence, and they were given menial duties and extra exercises for two weeks. It was worth it.

.oOo.

After Snoggletog, Astrid came to a realization. Hiccup was growing.

First he shot upwards, and the developing muscles he was gaining were hard to recognize, as he still looked the same. But then, as they were sparring hand-to-hand one night, she became aware of the fact that he was taller than she remembered, and when he knocked her over, the weight of his body on hers was . . . heavier. And that was all she noticed when she was in that position. She still managed to throw him off and pin him down, but her victories were steadily becoming harder to reach, and their fights were lasting longer.

Hiccup went from being the shortest of the squires in Training to being the tallest. Thankfully, Astrid wasn’t too far behind in terms of height. The roundness of his face dropped off to reveal a razor sharp jaw and pronounced cheekbones. He was still lean, but you could tell he had muscles and shoulders underneath the fabric of his tunics. His pants got tighter (though Astrid would never acknowledge noticing the fact), and with the development of his body the Prince was suddenly more enthusiastic about swimming or sparring with his shirt off. He now looked like a young man, and the only one who called him ‘boy’ was Gobber, and that was just in jest. He was attractive, too, and even the boys who had made fun of him last year were a lot more interested in being friendly with him.

Unfortunately, Astrid was much less happy about her own body’s growth. She was relieved to find she had inherited Father’s height. She was the third tallest among her peers; the only two taller than her were Hiccup and Ingerman. She was not as pleased to discover the growth of her womanly curves, which she had undoubtedly inherited from her mother. She couldn’t allow herself to wear short tunics or too-tight pants (like Hiccup), or her decidedly not masculine hips might be noticed. She had to wrap her chest securely and wore layers to conceal the shapes, but it meant she was often hot. And she couldn’t utilize the baths nearly as often as she’d like. Although she had never put much stock on being pretty, she had always appreciated her fine features. But she had to be careful with how she did her hair and what length she allowed it to grow to. Mother had facial paints to enhance contours and such; Astrid would have to learn how to use them when she returned for the summer.

When summer rolled around and Astrid returned to her family, she found herself writing letters more often to Hiccup than she did to her parents over the entire year. She was the only one who called him Hiccup now. The other boys had taken to calling him ‘Haddock’ when they addressed him - except Snotlout who thought he was entitled to call his second cousin ‘Henry.’

“Why would you like to be called Hiccup if it is the nickname they used to make fun of you?” she had asked him.

“You never called me Hiccup to mock me,” he told her sincerely. His smile turned roguish. “You honestly thought that was my name; you couldn’t recognize your future king.”

She rolled her eyes in chagrin while he laughed. “I was busy with other things!” she defended herself. “And I’m not the only one who can be blind; I bet you couldn’t even recognize a girl if she was under your nose.”

He walked over to her to enhance the height difference between them, looking down at her over his nose. Astrid tamped down the hysterical laugh building in her throat. If only he knew.

“I don’t see you with many girls,” he challenged.

“I don’t bother myself with the ones here; but back at my estate, I’m surrounded by them every day,” she boasted, trying to remember Snotlout’s demeanor when regaling his exploits. What she was saying was true, just not in the way she was portraying it.

“Yes, well, girls have never been interested in me for anything but my position,” he said scathingly. “And I don’t care for simpering maids.”

She had no idea why his answer made her smile.

Back at home, Mother instructed her in the art of makeup, and Astrid practiced diligently until she was satisfied with the almost male face looking back at her in the mirror. She continued her weapons practice in her free time, but Mother insisted on dragging her out to garden parties along with her two unmarried sisters to remind the world that Astrid Hofferson still existed. A wig had been crafted for her to wear over her short hair, and the seamstress had to redo all the sleeves on her dresses, muttering about unladylike muscles. But her parents were pleased to find that Astrid could still conduct herself perfectly among ladies, even if she was a little behind on the latest gossip and scandals. Her curves and pretty features finally came in handy again, and Astrid couldn’t deny the thrill of wearing nice dresses instead of durable tunics, but she quickly grew to miss the freedom of fighting and running off with her friend. She barely knew no one at these parties; they couldn’t risk any of Astrid’s peers recognizing her and blowing her cover, but she felt lonely and out of place.

It was a relief to finally be back in Training. This year, their curriculum would be different; they were old enough to help out in the war - no actual fighting, but helping keep the camp guarded and the odd job that no one had done. Their fighting techniques were good, what they needed now was experience, Gobber had told them when he received his instructions to bring them there. And what better place to gain such experience than the battlefield where everything they had trained for was happening first hand?

They weren’t allowed to participate in the fighting. They were situated right behind the front lines, on recently conquered land. Injured men were carried on stretchers to the healer’s tent. One of the healers showed them how to bandage and clean a wound. Astrid was a lot better at wrapping than the others, what with her secret monthly bloods and chest bindings.

After they’d been on the battlefield for a week they watched a soldier die. His comrades carried him in, his left arm a stump and his abdomen caked in blood. They watched as his groans faded and the nurses tried to staunch his bleeding, one of his companions sobbing at his bedside. Astrid felt a sense of purpose as she observed the scene; this was what she was fighting for. This was what she was preparing to do for her family. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Hiccup quickly exiting the tent and followed him.

He was bent over, heaving. Once he was finished, she knelt beside him, careful to avoid the watery vomit. He didn’t acknowledge her, just closed his eyes and panted. She didn’t say anything, waiting for him to break the silence.

“He- he died,” Hiccup said at last, stunned. “He’s dead.”

“He is.”

He turned pleading eyes to his friend. “But what if - what if there could have been another way? What if he didn’t have to die? Can’t there be another option?”

“People die every day,” she replied carefully. “Maybe, in another world, he would have died today anyway, despite not fighting in a war. Maybe he wouldn’t have. But that man who died today, died for a cause. He fought for something until his last breath; isn’t that the best way to die?”

Hiccup said nothing and raked his hands through his hair.

“You’re going to be King someday,” Astrid continued. She wasn’t sure now was the time for him to hear this, but she wanted to explain her conviction to him, wanted him to understand. “You’re going to be forced to make decisions that get people killed.” Hiccup squeezed his eyes shut. “What's important is that you won’t let those decisions be in vain.”

But despite some of the sobering instances, everything was exciting. Even the tedious waiting behind the lines, doing the dirty jobs the fighters would order them to do and sneaking off to watch the seasoned warriors drink around the campfires and sing songs that made Astrid’s cheeks burn. They had never been to a battlefield before. The cold was biting, the soldiers grim, the landscape gray, and yet, to naive, blood-thirsty teenagers, everything seemed worthy of an epic ballad.

The battle moved further North, yet the knights-in-training stayed, so Astrid and the prince snuck out to practice sparring on an actual battlefield.

“We haven’t picked up a sword to use it in ages,” she coaxed. “Besides, we don’t want you getting rusty and back to fighting like last year.”

“Ha, ha,” Hiccup said dryly. “I won’t deteriorate that far. I almost beat you last time, remember?”

“Key word being ‘almost’,” Astrid taunted.

Hiccup checked his sword in his scabbard; it was perfectly polished and sharpened. “I’ll beat you one day, Hofferson, just you wait,” he promised.

Their sparring location had been conquered easily and the bodies had been cleaned up and buried or burned for a while, but the echoes of the swords clashing brought to life the recent ghosts of the battle that had just taken place. Before they had taken more than two steps, Astrid struck. Hiccup met her blade with his own with ease as they retreated and met again.

She lost herself in her battle cries and the ringing of the blades. She hit and rolled and twisted and jumped and flicked her blade, but Hiccup’s defense was nigh impenetrable. He struck at her legs and she danced out of the way, unable to get close enough to him to land a blow. Their dirks met again, the hilts so close together their hands were almost touching.

“Call it a draw,” Astrid suggested through a strained grin. Hiccup’s height and weight were an advantage when it was strength against strength.

“Not on your life,” he teased, out of breath, “I got you right where- oh!”

Astrid caught a flash of movement in the darkness off to the side. Without thinking, she leapt forward to knock Hiccup out of the way, taking him by surprise. She gritted her teeth against the sudden slice of fire along her right shoulder.

Henry swiftly rolled on top of her and rose to meet their attacker, gripping the hilt of his sword fiercely. He circled the figure, matching their footwork. They threw a dagger at him, and he moved out of the way at the last second. The blade embedded itself next to Astrid, who flinched but kept quiet. She didn’t need to remind their opponent there was a second person to watch besides the prince. The person drew a sword, and Hiccup attacked.

They were evenly matched, it seemed, and Astrid felt a glimmer of pride until the assailant pushed through Hiccup’s guard. Her friend was driven back, barely able to block each swing. She sat up carefully, breathing through the flare of pain along her shoulder, and grabbed the knife. Hiccup saw her out of the corner of his eye, and his retreats angled until the person’s back was to her. She leapt up and slammed the knife’s hilt upon their head and they crumpled.

She stood across the Prince, panting heavily as he stared down on their aggressor’s form with a savage expression. He blinked and shook his head as if clearing it. His face, usually so cheerful, was grave.

“Are you okay, Hofferson?” he asked, concerned.

“I’m fine,” she waved him off and walked over to her outer tunic she had shed before the spar, donning it quickly to cover her back. “We should turn him in to Gobber.” Hiccup nodded and they both grabbed an arm, Astrid holding back her wince as her shoulder strained.

Gobber was sitting in his tent when they entered. He shot up in alarm as he took in the figure strung between them. “Holy - are ye okay, lads?”

“We are. He might not be,” Astrid said as she and the prince dropped the body on the floor. “Caught him trying to sneak into the camp. Tried to kill us.” Gobber’s mouth formed an incredulous O.

“We think he’s from the other side,” Hiccup added.

“Thor’s soiled underpants on his spanked ass,” exhaled Gobber. “Ye could’ve - ye almost got yersel’s killed!!! What were ye thinking, ye daft bams!” He knelt to inspect the intruder’s face and inhaled. “Aye, yer lucky yer still alive.”

“Hiccup fought him,” Astrid said.

“Hofferson knocked him out,” Hiccup added. Gobber cuffed him on his head. He yelped, rubbing his tender scalp with a glare.

“What were ye two even doing outside?” Gobber asked in exasperation. They shuffled their feet and examined the specs on dirt on the tarp floor, dragged in by their boots. When neither of them said anything, Astrid spoke up.

“We were sparring,” she admitted quietly. She didn’t dare look up. Gobber sighed.

“I dinnae ken why ah’m still surprised anymore,” he said, shaking his head. “Ye did good, bringing him in.” Hiccup shifted, a small smile on his face. “But ye fools will be on chamber pot duty for a week!” The smiles fell at record speed. “Were any of ye hurt?” He questioned.

“No, we’re fine,” she interjected quickly. Hiccup shot her a confused glance, but she ignored it.

“Good. Yer dismissed; go! Sneaking off in the middle of the night . . .” Gobber muttered, waving them out of his tent.

Hiccup could clearly see his friend was in pain, but could also tell they didn’t want Gobber to know.

“Hey,” he tugged on Hofferson’s arm. “Let’s go to my tent and get that shoulder cleaned up."

“No need; I’m fine,” they assured him, but he could see the furrow between their brows indicating they were in pain.

“I’m not going to leave you alone until I know you’re okay,” Hiccup threatened. They paused, and rolled their eyes.

“You worrisome idiot,” they huffed. He grinned and pulled them along as they walked to his tent to clean his friend up (it was marginally bigger than everyone else’s).

Astrid was hesitant to let him treat her. No, she knew she should have just said no; but it had warmed her heart to see him so concerned about her. She was taken with a sudden urge to tell him the truth. She had been feeling these urges for a while, usually after the Prince had told her something personal or after a particularly close escape from trouble, but never as cripplingly strong as now.

She struggled with herself as Hiccup sat her down on the floor (his tent’s fabric was also thicker than hers) and procured water and some rags. He knelt by her with the supplies, ready for her to take off her shirt. She should tell him. She should do absolutely nothing of the sort. No, she was going to do this; he deserved to know if only to explain why she couldn’t let him treat her. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, the words abandoning her at the last second.

The Prince simply sat there, waiting. He trusted his best friend Hofferson, but he had had his own suspicions that something wasn’t entirely right about him. With his armor off and hair grown longish from their trip, the Prince couldn’t help but think he was remarkably pretty, for a boy. And Hofferson consistently got sick around the same time of month, and he always bathed apart from the rest of them. Hofferson always wore looser clothes than the rest, but no one was immune to sweat, and he had noticed that the tunics never stuck to him quite the same way it did to other boys. Or even sometimes Hofferson’s voice would go high without sounding like it was about to crack. He had a hunch, but had never dared confront him with it; what if his friend were offended?

Astrid braced herself for the plunge. “Hiccup,” she couldn’t meet his eyes. “There's something I need to tell you - Or, well, confess, more like . . .” This was hard. Her nerves built up, screaming for her to abort. There was still time to take it all back. But that would still leave her with an uncomfortable dilemma. She didn’t like lying to her friend - her best friend. She wouldn’t hesitate to throw herself in front of him to protect him, and she didn’t doubt he felt the same. So why should she hold back an important secret? Would he be mad at her for lying and ruin their friendship? Would he order her to be executed? No, that was ridiculous, but she had no idea what to expect. She swallowed and spit it out. “Hiccup. I’m not - I’m not like you guys. Like you boys. I’m a-”

“-girl,” the Prince finished for her. Her mouth dropped open in shock and horror. They were quiet for a moment, the world holding its breath as if waiting to see what happened next. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched the edge of her tunic. She wished he would just say something so she could stop wondering how in the world he had known that.

“It makes sense,” he said carefully, earnestly. Astrid gawked at him in disbelief.

“You knew?” she accused, outraged. After all that worry, the struggles, the guilt, he had known?

“No, no,” he assured her. “I mean I - I had a hunch - I suspected. B-but it wasn’t obvious. I was too afraid to bring it up for fear you’d kill me for the offense!” he chuckled thinly. "But it - it explains a lot of things."

“Are - Aren’t you going to tell anyone?” she asked shakily. He shook his head vehemently.

“Why would I? You’ve kept all of my secrets; I can keep yours.” She observed him through narrowed eyes, but she had every reason to trust him. And he was, after all, the Prince. If, or maybe she should say when, she was found out, it would only help her case if the Crown Prince supported her, she reasoned. But maybe her parents shouldn’t know she’d told him. That detail could stay between them. She held her hand out, and they firmly shook hands.

“So,” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and gestured to her shoulder, suddenly shy in front of a girl. “Do you, um, do you want help or-or should I leave? Since. You know, um, yeah.” Astrid couldn’t contain the girlish giggle at his discomfort and reddening face.

“So eager to get my shirt off without even asking my name; where are your manners?” she teased him. Hiccup’s eyes widened in shocked realization and, if possible, flushed harder.

“N-No!” he stuttered desperately. “I - I would nev- I - not what - so what is your name?” he fumbled as he scrambled to catch his dignity like one fumbled at a falling vase. Astrid was greatly amused; he hadn’t stuttered around her for almost a whole year, and hearing him stutter again made her nostalgic and happy.

“Astrid,” she said quietly, suddenly overcome by shyness. Would he like it? Did he think it suited her? Why did trusting him with such a simple fact feel so . . . intimate?

“Astrid,” he repeated to himself, as if savoring it.

She found herself swallowing hard and trying to calm her heart as it stumbled, unaware of the prince’s guilty stare as she unconsciously wet her lips.

Read Chapter 2 here

#httyd #hiccstrid fanfiction #hiccstrid #medieval au #httyd fanfiction #my writing #my fics #friends to lovers #slight pining #Astrid Hofferson as a knight #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #hiccup and astrid #The Lady Knight

46 notes · View notes

caelumsnuff · 2 years ago

Note

I'd love to know your stance about the Leftovers couple (Sam and Darlin's series) because with this back-to-back updates and Quinn is turning out to just be a cliche, abusive ex, I find that I'm seriously disappointing in their plot.

PS: This is the author of THAT fic 🤭

the controversial Sam and Darlin fic?????? omg hii!!!

the leftovers asdkfasdf thats so funny

You know, i feel about Sam and Darlin the way i feel about a lot of Redacted's character, I think they're criminally underutilized and i love everything that they could have been. Redacted's characters often, in my opinion, start out really strong with a lot of potential, and then all that potential and personality fizzles out as they get into relationships/their stories start to move forward. Thats.... not how relationships work, but i guess that's what happens when you shelf plot for fluff so often. It's really quite sad.

We had Sam, who was this mysterious Solaire vampire with a country accent and he somehow knew healing magic good enough to save Lovely's life. We got some of that southern sass that i am so familiar with in the beginning of Darlin's videos, and then it slowly started to reveal a little bit of care. Their story was supposed to be a slow burn, but it wasn't. They got into a relationship alarmingly fast for a character who wanted to take things "slow, very slow." And then...... Sam's personality got fucking sapped out of him, or at least that's definitely what it felt like.

And Darlin started out so strong as well! This (also mysterious) estranged lone wolf from one of the most influential packs in the city out on a search for a rouge old blood vampire. They were stubborn and reckless and chasing after a convoluted dream of killing a vampire that was way too strong for them in an attempt to act selflessly and ended up putting their entire pack in danger. Aaaaaand then they got a "Love Conquers All ❤️" speech from their Alpha who they are incredibly distanced from and some southern vampire cock and BOOM! Personality gone.

It's such a shame how often Redacted does this to characters and plot lines, its like he's immune to writing a story and characters that don't pathetically skid to a halt and underwhelm you. It probably has something to do with the audience and the potential (very likely, very common) backlash he'd get if he actually wrote something with some stakes, which i have talked about a lot (the relationship between Erik and the fandom, there's posts about it linked in my pinned post about it, and also linked in an ask i just answered today)

Just another example of why oh why i so desperately hope everything comes crashing down as the resolution to the overarching plot of the channel.

I have other asks that i have to answer on which ill talk more specifically about the Quinn plot line on, so look out for those, i should be able to get to them today.

Anyways! As always, thank you for the ask!

#anon #ask #redacted asmr

8 notes · View notes

youhaveforgottenmealready · 1 year ago

Text

We'll Find a Way to Offer Up the Night -- Chapter 13 exerpt

"Batman, we need to talk. That was unacceptable," he says. Batman looks up at him slowly. His armor makes him look darker than the night, more menacing than the gargoyle he had found him crouching beside tonight. Every line of his body is simmering with rage and who knows what else. What had Jason said? That Batman has an edge of something jagged about him? It's apparent now, as clear as day.

"I don't think you're in any position to lecture me," Batman says in a hiss. His words are low and dark, almost sibilant, but they hit like a hammer. Superman stops in his tracks.

He swallows back bile. It takes a long moment to collect himself. He can't let his own hangups keep him from getting through to Batman. "Maybe I'm exactly the right person to lecture you," he says and draws nearer. He only stops when he's near enough to count every fleck of blood on Batman's fists and armor. "This isn't you," he says.

"Isn't it?" Batman says and moves quickly to close the space between them. His teeth are bright and sharp-looking. He advances and Superman retreats. For the first time, there's a strange hitch in Batman's usual aura. It's spikey, more like Jason's. It's unfamiliar. It's pulsing and uneven and it makes him think of graveyards. Superman hates it.

Batman keeps moving and Superman has a moment where he isn't sure if he should stand his ground or continue to retreat. The choice is made for him when Batman lunges, snakes an arm around his neck, and tugs him down for a brutal, ugly kiss. Superman makes a surprised noise against that cruel mouth. He feels like he's reeling.

It's too hard and mostly teeth, and Batman snarls hungrily against his lips. It's an awful embrace. Every other kiss they've ever shared could be eviscerated by this grotesque thing. It's truly awful, but dammit if Superman doesn't still want it. He swallows a moan and tries to understand. Batman's cowl is sharp and strangely textured. It's unusual feeling it scrape across his skin as Batman's mouth moves frantically against his. Vicious, hungry, desperation mars every second of the kiss.

**********

We'll Find a Way to Offer Up the Night (100183 words) by YouHaveForgottenMeAlready

Chapters: 13/18 Fandom: Superman - All Media Types, Batman - All Media Types, DCU Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne Characters: Jason Todd, Lois Lane, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Alfred Pennyworth, Kara Zor-El, Krypto the Superdog (DCU), Perry White, James "Jimmy" Olsen Additional Tags: Past Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Anal Sex, First Time, Hand Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence Summary:

His feet hit hard and his knees buckle beneath him. It hurts when his hands skid on the decorative rug, the price he pays for catching himself to keep from flopping face-first into the ground. He's dumbstruck and just kneels there for several long moments staring at his hands, at the bloom of rug burn forming before his eyes.

"I can't fly," he says dumbly.

"Noted. Any pain?" Bruce asks.

Clark's world falls apart, and Superman is to blame. When he's at his lowest, Bruce Wayne gives him a gift: a room that strips him of his powers. A room where he can learn what it means to be human.

#batman #superman #superbat #fanfiction #exerpt #we'll find a way to offer up the night #This one was a bit rough to write because Bruce is being a jerk #angry kissing

3 notes · View notes

alittlefrenchtree · 5 years ago

Note

I feel so conflicted about Timmy. I loved the sweet, humble guy he was, but now he acts like the biggest diva, going to fashion shows, only hanging out with famous people. I miss the old Timmy, what I see now I don't like. And I don't like that he left earlier and didn't care about Armie, but can stop rehearsing to show his face at fashion weeks. I feel at the beginning it was only about his talent, now it's more about his fashion choices. I don't want to hate, I just feel different about him.

Me @ everyone who will read this answer : Please be kind?

Seriously, just be kind. That’s not a question, just be kind.

More important, unless you’re Nonny and looking for an answer of mine you really don’t have to read all of that. It’s mostly an observation on how Timmy’s career and image is handled right now and nothing groundbreaking at all. There a little bit about his relationship with Armie towards the end. Honestly even you, Nonny, you weren’t probably asking for an answer this long. I just love to hear myself thought, apparently. Sorry if it’s boring as hell for you 😅

I choose to believe that this ask isn’t coming from a wickedness place and doesn’t want to be mean. That’s the main reason why I’m answering this ask, instead of deleting it.

The second reason is because I’ve been contemplating the same kind of questions and the same kind of issues about Timmy for a while now. And since I’m now mostly at peace with all of it, and with the way I see him, I thought it could be interesting to share around that.

By sharing my view on how things are at this moment, I don’t want to invalidate your feelings, dear Nonny (or anyone who feels the same way). Like I said, I understand where they come from. I only hope that, by reading a different point of view, you’ll managed to feel a little bit less conflicted and maybe go back to enjoy some Timmy content like you used to. I hope I won’t sound to harsh or anything. This isn’t my intention at all.

I think the most important thing to remember is that 99% of what we see of Timmy is work. The work of an actor is not only acting. Especially when you have the ambition to become and to stay the kind of actor Timmy wants to be. Every time you see him at a public event, he’s working. Networking is working. Existing in the media eyes is working. Attending as fashion shows is working. That doesn’t mean that, in the case of fashion show for example, Haider isn’t also his friend. Of course they’re friends and of course he’s also showing support for his friend’s work. But it’s also a work relationship. That’s why it needs to be public. Haider is the one dressing him for the premieres of his movies. Haider is one of those who helped build his fashion reputation. Being seen together and publicly supporting each other work, it’s good for both of them, professionally speaking. What I mean is, when you see Tim at a fashion show or at a Hollywood party, it’s not free time for him. It’s a scheduled event on his work schedule. So when you said that he stops rehearsing to go to fashion show, that’s not entirely true. Firstly because it’s on week-end. Secondly, it would be like saying that he stops acting to do promo. Both things are work. Attending to Haider’s fashion show is also work.

Beside the London-Paris journey is hardly an effort. It would take me almost the same amont of time to go to Paris using public transports and I’m living like really close to Paris. And beside bis Timmy has seen SWM within the window of two days that was allowed by his work schedule so it’s not like he has never managed to make things work for Armie either.

For me, the problem is that Timmy has three jobs at the moment. He’s ‘one of the best actor of his generation’, the ‘most influential man in fashion’ and ‘a heartthrob for teenagers and young adults’. I’m phrasing things this way on purpose, because it shows how much weighs on him at the moment. All of this means a lot of expectations on him, a lot of judgements but also a lot of money depending on him. Even if all of his current statuts has been happening in a more or less natural way (he’s one of the best actor of his generation because he’s good at acting, his interest for fashion seems genuine and… well… He’s damn cute so of course he’s a teenage dream), my main concern is the fact that, right now, his public image is handled to encourage these three status at the same time. As long as his acting career is doing fine, it’s not a problem. If his acting career starts to be on the skids, or if one of his parts on a movie is suddenly having very bad reviews, the whole world will start to look at him and at his fashion/heartthrob statuts with different eyes.

But that moment hasn’t happened yet so I think it’s unfair to call him out on that now. He has shown nothing but hard work on the acting part of his career, and he has great things aligned for the next year. He’s a lead on the Dune remake by Denis Villeneuve, he’s starring on a Wes Anderson movie, he has that Bob Dylan thing who he seems really committed to and he’s about to do a run of a promising play. I think his choice on going back to theater, where everything is about acting, is really relevant of how focused is still he’s on acting.

I think it’s also interesting to notice the timing. For the past two years, Timmy has always been disappearing around that time of the year. So much that the Timmy drought has become a thing in the fandom. In the past, Timmy has expressed his need of disappearing and ‘going back in the mud’, both literally and figuratively, after being exposed to public eyes at this extend and for a long period of time. Truth is, I believe that Timmy is not allowed to disappear anymore. I don’t think you’re allowed to disappear for a while when Legendary Pictures is betting a lot amount of money on your pretty face. Because to disappear means media and social media will talk less about you and, in this industry, if people stop talking about you it basically means you’re dead.

So he can’t disappear. But somehow he found a way to focus on acting through theater, even if he has to do it in front of the public eyes. To be honest, I think it’s the least bad solution. I think the need to disappear for him (or anyone for that matter) for a decent period of time is really crucial for mental health and he hasn’t had this opportunity for a while, and I’m afraid he won’t have it either for the near future. Don’t get me wrong, I love that he’s doing theater again. I love having the opportunity to see him live perform I just wish he has a little bit more time to stay off the radar before going back for a whole year of craziness.

I understand that it can be frustrating to feel like most of the talks about him are about something else than his roles or his movies or his acting skills. Like I said, it’s part because of his/his team’s fault because they’ve been feeding the talk so it can keep going and going. It’s also part because the world works this way and is superficial as hell. Movie talks last a few months with the pre-promo/the premieres/the actually promo. A little bit more if you’re lucky enough to get nominations and awards. Then it becomes old news. Timmy’s persona exists every day. He’s doing and wearing new things every day and people are always more excited by what’s new. And the media will keep on using anything to have him as click-bait. It’s a win-win situation for both sides.

Except you never know when people are going to switch. One day they keep on waiting more and more of someone and the next day, they already grew tired of thi person. It’s been too much. They over did it. I sometimes use a tag that say something like « when can we say that too much is too much? » to react to what people and media sometimes do/write/say about Timmy to express this kind of feeling. Of course Tim and his team can’t control everything that is being said about him but I believe that the decisions they made in the past year? year and an half? have lead to this kind of craziness. This makes me think of that french paper, which was basically saying ‘why don’t we stop to consider Timmy as a kitten and make a fuss of everything he did and why don’t we start focusing on how he acts, because that is the real interesting thing to talk about.

Despite everything I can’t hold all of this too-much-ness against him when he’s still working so hard on his roles. I can’t blame him when I think of him giving so much on himself in that before-the-battle speech in The King that I want to go fight with and for him. I can’t blame him when I see him giving so much of himself for Laurie that he’s making me laugh and melt in the middle of a cinema room full of people when I’m usually pretty stoic in public. I just can’t blame him when I hear him talk about Dune and being so excited that he literally can’t stop himself for bouncing on his chair. I just can’t.

What I can do is not not pay attention to everything. I know it’s not an easy thing to do on tumblr and on social media when he’s everywhere and people are retweeting and reblogging the same things over and over again but if I’m not interested, I try to not pay attention. Back during CMBYN and BB era, I think I was looking at and reading everything. I’ve stopped shortly after. I didn’t read the article you’re referring to, for example. Because what’s Timmy is wearing interests me but not the shallow and irrelevant articles people will write about it. Most of them will say the same thing, that it’s Timothée Chalamet world now and us peasants are just humbly living on it. It’s going to be said over and over again until something newer, younger comes along. It’s ok. Being a teenage heartthrob will pass. Being the most influential man in fashion will probably also pass. I mean his fashion choices will probably keep on arousing interest but the world is going to catch up. Eventually.

But acting will stay.

And if in the meantime, he manages to enjoy a little bit of more superficial things and take a shot or two of confidence along the way without regretting too many decisions he made, I say why not let him do that? It’s not like we have a word to say anyway.

I understand what you mean about missing him being sweet and humble even if I disagree with you. I’m not saying that he’s not sweet and humble anymore but I felt something shift between the BB era and TK era. It’s also frustrating because it’s more a feeling than something I can prove or explain. I just don’t think he’s changed, I think he’s a little bit more guarded than before. And if I look at things from an human perspective, it makes sense?

The more people are watching me, irl or online, the more I’m going to be cautious about things I said and how I behave. The more guarded I’ll be. And in my case, we’re only talking about dozens from a few hundreds tops of people tops. Can you imagine living your life in front of millions people? I’d put some distance and some defenses between me and the world as well. He has to if he wants to survive.

We’ve been lucky to have witnessed something as precious and rare as what we have witnessed during the CMBYN and a little bit during the BB era. It was something beautiful but it wasn’t meant to last. Not in the same kind of proportions anyway.

So I don’t think Timmy is acting like the biggest diva. Like I’ve said, what we see of his life is 99% work-related and we see about 10% of his time? Less of that?

Like for example, he’s been in London for what? 10-12 days now? And if I’m not mistaking, we haven’t seen him anywhere except from fans meeting him briefly outside of the theater and him picking up food? Whatever he’s doing, if he has a wild life or if he’s in bed at 9pm every night, he’s being discreet about it. Like he’s always been discreet about his private life, his close friends and his family. Just because he’s discreet about it doesn’t mean he doesn’t see them — old friends and people who aren’t famous. He just doesn’t feel the need to post their face on social media or meeting them in front of paparazzis.

Of course if I wanted to see him as a diva, I could. I’d look at him wearing sunglasses inside and declare that he’s a diva. When there could be thousands of reasons for him to wear sunglasses inside. I wouldn’t surprise me to learn that flashes during fashion week are painful for the eyes, especially for people with color eyes as light as Timmy’s. Especially if you’re tired. Or hangover. Or maybe he’s just thinking of sunglasses as an integral part of his outfit. Like shoes or socks or jewelry or backpacks. Or maybe he just feel safer that way and it helps his anxiety. I tried wearing sunglasses all day long at a couple of occasions when I was particularly tired and it was kind of amazing. Plus it allows you to avoid eye contact with humans which is also amazing.

I wanted to touch a little bit on the fashion topic before moving on to the Armie one. I’m guessing you’re not really passionate or fond of fashion. It’s ok. You’re allowed to and fashion and haute couture don’t do much to help themselves. Or didn’t do much. I guess things are slowly changing like everywhere else. But there are a lot of ego, of superficiality, a lot of changes and improvements that could be made. A friend who has worked for designers and still work in the fashion industry once told me that the industry wouldn’t be that bad if designers stop acting like they were saving the world with their clothes. My point is, just because something has a reputation, doesn’t mean every person who takes part of this thing has the same reputation. There are people in fashion who are truly passionate about what they’re doing and teach you things about fashion that make you look at clothes as wearable pieces of art. Because when you look closely at haute couture, you can see that fashion can take its influences in architecture, sculpture, painting and in many many others artistic disciplines. It has its own history, its own revolutions, its own movements. It tells something about our time and ourselves as a society. All of that goes without even mentioning the close relationship between fashion, high fashion and movies, which I’m sure is very interesting from a Timmy perspective. (I swear I wrote all of that before reading the Dazed itw. Like pinky swear).

At this point, Timmy could have a seat in the first row for every fashion show of every brand. He could attend to all of them, with a different outfit for each, make a show every time and take all the clothes that designers would sell their cat to see him wearing. He doesn’t. He shows up for about two designers and communicate about one more and that’s all. It’s work. Something related to his red carpet premieres. It’s fun and something he uses to express himself and his personality. I think he said something in the Dazed interview among these lines. That fashion is fun but is main focus in on acting.

Here :

“With the development of my career, I also slowly entered the fashion industry. I can feel that fashion and movies are similar to a certain extent. For me, participating in a movie or wearing a suit is about the people I work with, not the brand or money. That's why I keep working with Haider and Virgil. I also maintain good relationships with many brands, but I will not be overly tied to fashion for this. Because my career is an actor, my dream is to be an actor, and I am very satisfied and very happy to be an actor.”

Regarding of Armie… Honestly I’m kind of tired of the debate. Because I’m tired of what the debate says about how we see relationships these days, without even talking about Armie and Timmy.

I’m still trying to understand at which point we has started to need public proofs of private relationships. Likes, Facebook statuts, pictures shared publicly, couple selfies… I mean what the point? How have we become so insecure about relationships and ourselves that we’re now feeling the need to share proofs of private relationships with the whole world to believe it? And to the point that we are now projecting our own insecurities on relationships of others? It makes absolutely no sense to me.

If I wasn’t talking with/seeing my close ones for a whole year or a whole decade for whatever reason, they would still be my close ones. I believe the same thing about Armie and Timmy. Except these two idiots seems to be talking to each other all the time and seeing each other pretty regularly. But because Armie isn’t about work anymore, we don’t have to see it.

Over the past four years, they’ve done nothing but showing and saying how much they care about each other and know about each other and how much they’re still close. Timmy literally said I love you to Armie in a damn public speech. Name me another person for whom he said that. The three words, plane and simple.

If you’re willing to believe that liking each other post on social media or showing up at a public events or pose in front of photographers are better proofs of closeness that what they’ve been doing so far, that says something about how you see relationships, not about how they really are.

Loving someone is not always about rubbing it off publicly for everyone to see. More often than not, loving someone is about answering your phone in the middle of the night, because the person you love and care about can’t sleep or is on another time zone and needs you. That something you can show off on social media or get papped. And maybe we need to start to believe that it’s even more valuable exactly because of that.

#alft asks

151 notes · View notes

prolestariwrites · 5 years ago

Photo

Time To Go [5]: Things Have Gone So Horribly Wrong At This Point

Fandom: Devil May Cry Rating: M Characters: Nero, Dante, Vergil, Kyrie, Nico, Trish, Morrison Tags: Mystery, Humor, Missing Person, First Time, Family Drama, Family Bonding, Post-Canon Chapter: 5/9 Chapter [1] [2] [3] [4]

Summary: When Kyrie goes missing, Nero goes on a desperate search to find her. Unfortunately, Dante and Vergil go too. Sparda boys shenanigans, fighting demons, a smattering of family drama, and male bonding (otherwise known as Nero’s worst nightmare). Please check it out below, or you can read on FFNet or AO3. Beta read by @copper-wasp.

Now posted! Chapter 5: Things Have Gone So Horribly Wrong At This Point, in which Nero meets a former President, Dante and Vergil race, and Nico’s van gets a makeover.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

The van screeches to a stop in an empty parking lot. One street lamp flickers in the corner; otherwise, it's quiet—there are no lights, no cars, no people. It is the perfect spot for them to regroup and figure out their next move.

Dante opens the side of the van and climbs out as Vergil and Nero do the same. Reaching inside, Dante grabs the demon by the front of his coat, ignoring Trish's protest, and sets him down, the demon's legs dangling over the side of the van. Planting his foot up on the edge, Dante says, "Start talkin'."

The demon looks up, shaking slightly. "I don't—"

"Listen, shit head," Dante sighs. "It's one in the morning, I got this kid up my ass, I've had to look at my brother's ugly mug all night, and a cat stole my pizza. I'm pissed, tired, hungry, and I want to go home. So fucking talk."

"I don't know anything!" the demon cries.

Trish leans her forearm on the side of the door. "I thought you said you were good at this."

"I thought you said he'd know something."

Next to Dante, Vergil huffs. "You might try asking an actual question."

"Okay, everyone back off!" Dante snaps, holding up his hands.

"Move." Nero pushes him out of the way, stepping up in front of the demon. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Abe Lincoln," the demon replies.

Nero nods. "Okay, Abe. There's a girl missing. Her name is Kyrie. One of you demon assholes took her, and I want to know who. If I like what you have to say, you get to live another day. If I don't, you get a bullet in your head, just like your namesake. Understand?"

It is hard to tell what exactly the demon's expression is with his human suit so mangled, but Dante assumes it hits somewhere between annoyance and disgust. "Fucking humans," he says. "What makes you think I know anything? You all look the same to me."

Nero takes out his revolver and pushes it against the demon's head. "You have five seconds."

"He's not kidding," Vergil says. "He shot me earlier."

Dante snorts, but notes how Nero's fingers flex and coil around the grip of the gun. If they aren't careful, he'll blow the informant away before they get any information. "All right, kid," he says. "Let's give him a chance to answer."

"You're crazy!" the demon snaps. "All of you are crazy!" It looks up at Trish hissing, "Why did you bring me here?"

"Just answer their questions," she says tiredly.

"Time's up," Nero says.

The demon puts his hands up. Half the suit falls off and hits the ground, and Dante wrinkles his nose in disgust as it splatters on his boots. "Okay! Okay! What's her name? I don't know, maybe I heard something—"

"Kyrie," Nero replies coolly.

The demon nods. "Okay. I mean, maybe? Lots of demons take humans for food or power or just for fun. I don't know their specific names though."

"She's from Fortuna," Dante offers.

"Fortuna? I don't fuck with Fortuna." The demon gives a weird hissing sound that could be laughter. "Anyone that has any sense stays the hell away from there."

"That's funny, I kill plenty of demons there," Nero says.

The demon looks at him scornfully. "Newbies," it replies.

Dante heaves a sigh. "Listen, Abe, you got something for us or what?"

The demon looks around nervously. "No! I don't know. I ain't heard nothing about taking people from Fortuna, and I ain't heard the name Kyrie. Don't kill me!"

The three men exchange a glance. "He's telling the truth," Trish says. "He wouldn't lie, would you, sweet?"

"No, ma'am," the demon answers.

Dante narrows his eyes at Trish but she offers only a cool smile. "I'd really, really appreciate you not killing this one. It took me a long time to find a worthwhile informant."

Nero makes an angry noise in his throat, but he lowers the gun. "If I find out you lied to me, I'm going to come back here and rip your heart out myself." Then he steps away and walks around the van, climbing into the driver's side and slamming the door shut.

Dante swallows uncomfortably. He looks at Vergil and says, "Got any other ideas?"

Vergil shoots him a look but doesn't answer. Dante nods and says to Trish, "Thanks for trying anyway. I guess we'll head back and figure out our next step."

"No problem." Trish hops out of the van and tugs the demon with her. "Give me a call if you need anything else." She walks away, dragging it behind her, until they disappear into the night.

Dante heaves a huge sigh. "What a damn mess."

"We should go back to Fortuna," Vergil says. "Start looking there. I'm still not convinced she didn't leave on her own."

"Don't push that with the kid," Dante growls. "He's feeling bad enough."

"Let's go." Vergil steps into the back of the van, leaving Dante to kick the tire in frustration.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

They are halfway back to Fortuna and in the middle of nowhere when something inside the van makes a loud popping sound. Smoke starts pouring out from under the hood, and with a series of curses Nero pulls over to the side of the road. The van sputters as it rolls to a stop, and all three men climb out and step around to the front hood.

The only light on the road comes from the van's headlights. There is not a sound, not even animals in the distance, and they had not passed another vehicle for at least an hour. Nero rubs the back of his head as Dante checks his phone, which has no signal bars above the time that reads 2:28 am.

"Now what?" Vergil asks.

"Guess we walk." Dante heads to the van and opens the side door. He climbs in and grabs an empty bag, rummaging around for anything they might need. He finds a flashlight, a smattering of knives, and a candy bar, the rest of it just being Nico's junk that he can't make heads or tails of anyway. He munches as he returns to the others, who are still staring at the smoking van. "You guys coming or what?"

Nero slams his fist on the hood of the van, leaving a small dent. "This is bullshit!" he shouts. "We came all this way, and for nothing! We're no closer to finding Kyrie and now the van—" He lets go a yell and punches it again, and again. His demon arm activates, the blue light looking eerie in the dark, and with a final growl Nero rips off the entire hood and tosses it towards the wooded area off the side of the highway.

It skids across the ground with a metallic, grinding sound until it comes to a stop. Dante swallows the rest of the candy bar as Vergil glances at him. He gives a shrug, and Vergil nods. They stand shoulder to shoulder and watch as Nero continues his tirade for another minute or so, the van left with holes and dents in the metal, and the windshield now sporting a nasty crack that runs diagonally through the glass.

Nero plants his hands on the side of the van, leaning his head down as he takes heaving breaths. His shoulders shake as he tries to get a hold of himself, and Dante clears his throat. "You good now, kid?"

"No, I'm not good," Nero hisses. "What are we gonna do now? She's still gone and…" Metal screeches as his demon hand bends the frame under his grip. "This is just like Fortuna. I was too weak to protect her then, and now she's been taken all over again. I'm supposed to keep her safe but this shit just keeps happening, because of me."

Dante wads up his trash and shoves it in his pocket. "Ah come on, you don't know that—"

Nero whirls on him, the edges of his eyes glowing, the devil inside him kept at bay with the barest threads of sanity. "It's because of me, and you, and him—" Nero points at Vergil, who tenses in response, "—and Sparda—I wish I wasn't a part of this fucking family!"

Dante can feel his own demon powers rallying inside in response, but he tempers it easily even as he sets his jaw. "Fighting me ain't gonna get you anywhere," he warns.

"It'll make me feel a hell of a lot better."

"Nero," Vergil says in a warning tone.

Dante can't help but stiffen a bit. He has no idea what to say at this point, if there is anything that can be said to calm the kid down. But he knows for sure whatever lecture Vergil has planned is going to end with them all bloody, so he sighs and shakes his head, bracing himself for it.

To his surprise, Vergil simply says, "Come on. It's getting late."

Nero blinks in surprise when Vergil turns and starts walking up the road, his strides purposeful. He glances at Dante who gives the kid a smile and a shrug, slinging the bag over his shoulder and following. He smiles at the stunned silence behind him, only broken when Nero shouts, "Where are you going?"

Dante turns and walks backward, squinting at bit at Nero's silhouette illuminated by the headlights. "Gotta be something up the road," he calls back. "Best to keep moving."

He stares at the back of Vergil's head as they continue on, and a half minute later the headlights go out. Dante can hear Nero's footsteps hurrying up behind them, and again he smiles to himself. He picks up the pace a bit, a renewed energy letting him pass Vergil, who makes a noise behind him. "Don't walk in front of me," Vergil mutters. He moves a bit faster to catch up with Dante, making sure to walk just fast enough to stay a half step ahead.

Dante picks up his pace in answer. "Too slow, old man."

Vergil starts walking so quickly he is nearly jogging, and Dante begins trotting along to pull ahead. "What are you doing?" Nero calls behind them, but neither brother answers. Their speed increases incrementally until they are both moving at a quick jog, when Dante gives Vergil a shove.

"Watch it!" he snaps.

"Watch you eat my dust," Dante laughs.

He sprints forward, running as fast as he can. "That doesn't even make sense!" Vergil yells behind him, and a moment later he appears by his side, the two racing down the highway in the dark.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

The little office of the rundown motel is crowded with all three Spardas inside. There is just the front counter in front of a wall with dangling keys, the attendant looking up at them in a surprised half-daze, as they squeeze into the waiting room. Nero looks around at the stained green carpet and the calendar on the wall that is three years late, his skin itching just being in here. "Van broke down about thirty miles back," Dante says. "You got a phone we can use for a tow?"

The attendant leans over to turn the volume down on the little television set on the counter. "Only tow around here is Richie, but he won't answer this late. You'll need to wait until morning."

Nero huffs and pushes his way through the other two. "We're in a hurry."

The guy squints his eyes up at him. "You fellas in the circus or something?"

Dante gives a loud laugh. "Something. Since we gotta wait, you got a room? Three of them."

"Yeah." He pulls out a book and starts to write. "It'll be ninety dollars, plus tax."

Vergil and Dante exchange a look. "All you, brother," Vergil says.

"I ain't got it." He nods to Nero. "You can cover, right?"

"Not after I had to pay that woman and then buy you pizza," Nero mutters. "I only have another thirty on me."

Dante leans on the counter. "What can we get for thirty?"

The attendance swallows. "One room for the three of you. Checkout is at ten."

Nero grumbles under his breath, pushing past Vergil to go outside. After chasing down the two idiots they had spotted the neon Vacancy sign, heading over from the highway. It is nearly three in the morning now, and Nero can feel tiredness in his muscles and joints between the driving, the fight, and then the run. A shower and a couple of hours of sleep actually had sounded good, even in a fleabag place like this, but he still itches to get back to Fortuna and look for more clues.

The room is as bad as he had feared. Two double beds are inside, the mattresses lumpy and the blankets looking unwashed. Dante immediately flops on one, his frame taking up the entire space as he crosses his legs and props his hands behind his head. "Not so bad," he says as Nero and Vergil exchange a glance.

"It's awful," Vergil says.

Nero reluctantly agrees, watching as Vergil steps through the room tentatively. He turns and looks at Nero and says, "I'm not sharing the bed."

"Don't bother," Nero snaps. "I'm not gonna sleep anyway."

He strides through the room to the bathroom. The tile is cracked and dirty and the shower looks like it hasn't ever been cleaned, and he doesn't even want to look as he closes the toilet and sits down on the lid. In the next room he can hear Dante flip the television on as Vergil gripes about the inch of dust on the bedside table. Guilt fills his stomach as he thinks about the way he destroyed the van and railed against them both. Nero heaves a sigh, dropping his head down. Despite his tantrum, they had stayed with him and hadn't given him any grief about the van. That has to mean something.

"Hey kid!" Dante pounds on the door, startling him. "There's a vending machine, you want something?"

Nero chuckles. "Sure," he replies.

#dmc #devil may cry #dante sparda #vergil sparda #nero sparda #nerokiri #dmc nero #dmc dante #dmc vergil #dmc trish #fan fiction #time to go #my fic

9 notes · View notes