#i think slash hope it looks pretty close to canon

[whaliiwatching]

he also means it gay

[neonscandal]

Just see this in twitter by someone : "I'm starting to think maybe people should read actual BL manga. perhaps considering manga written with actual gay characters in it in addition to shipping m x m from whatever battle shounen you're into."

Like because of those subtext, there can be fanfics and fanarts, right? And then I decided to come here, your blog is really one of my comfort place....

Comfort place!? This makes me want to carve out time to post infinitely more. 🥹 Even though it feels a bit aimless, I’m glad I could cultivate that for you and hope I can continue to do so.

RE: twitter, without context, it's hard to tell whether this person is earnestly recommending people to expand their interests into BL or if they're dumping on people who tend to support and identify queer shipping across other genres.

On the one hand, heavy agree that if you appreciate queer pairings of any kind to absolutely find media and stories that shows healthy (and authentic, if possible!) representation of whatever you're into. I feel like sometimes in BL, specifically, there’s a lot of toxicity or violence passed off as romance which is why I recommend being discerning. Here are some green flag recommendations and I kind of touch on the importance of identity through engaging with queer content by way of BL's featuring fudanshi's there. Isn't always the case, but it's a storyline I appreciate.

If the poster was side eyeing queer ships in "mainstream" or shonen stories... they should grow up. I've been in and out of fandom for like.. 20 years. There have always been people who recognize and popularize queer ships. Back in the day? Characters didn't even have to share the same show, universe or genre to end up in a crossover slash fic on Fanfiction.Net.

Don't get me wrong, I've definitely needlessly explored several crack theories or made off-base assumptions about a story for the sake of trying to guess at where it’s going. But I sometimes question people's competency for reading/watching comprehension when a particularly shitty hottake is making its rounds on social media. Like are we not watching the same thing?

Subtext does exist. I don't know that all authors are as elegant or intentional in its execution but if you're not bothering to consider the possibility, you're potentially missing out on critical pieces of a story you're choosing to invest hours/years of your life into! This isn't simply as it pertains to shipping but also picking up on critical exposition (Attack. On. Titan.) or even questioning whether the information we're getting as the reader or viewer is conveyed with any sort of narrator bias. Yes, this is absolutely a My Hero Academia call out. ✨

Queer coding does exist. Tons of reasons why queer characters aren't always explicitly identified as such. More often than not, there's some form of censorship. Whether at the editing level during manga production or when it comes time for manga/shows to be approved for international distribution (re: information that's lost in translation vs outright decisions to alter the flow of the story). Most glaring example of this that comes to mind is Haruka Tenou or "Sailor Uranus"/Michiru Kaiou or "Sailor Neptune. In addition to gratuitous name changes when Sailor Moon was pushed abroad, several countries would rather portray the two as unusually close relatives despite the clear romantic undertones exhibited whenever they were on screen together. Also, IDK why, but pretty sure I'd seen somewhere that, initially the creator of Naruto did want to canonize Sasuke/Naruto but, truth be told, I've never watched the series and that could have been a fanon theory I'd seen.

Overarching messages exist. Similar to the first point, a story is seldom just a story. More often than not, you're looking at some sort of social critique or opinion that's being expressed or explored through the story. To not bother thinking critically about what you choose to spend time in enjoying is a pretty bland way to miss the point of it.

When all else fails, it's not our fault that the only relationships most shonen mangaka focus on developing is the one between "rivals". That's it. If there were more dynamic characters or literally any consideration toward the depth of intimacy between the main character and whatever tritagonist female lead the male lead inexplicably ends up with (aside from the simple rationale that "she is the girl 🎀"), then maybe fans won't have to hone in on how the only agency, equality and intimacy is between the only two characters of substance. That was a mouthful but so are the overly poetic soliloquies shonen rivals inevitably share about one another.. ✨

I'm guessing this question might be related to the last anon ask about fanfics? I agree regarding the fact that subtext allows for a richer selection of fan art and fics. I think, depending on content, the motivation for reading fics will subsequently differ. For instance, I'm less likely to read fanfics for a romance series even if I sometimes write for them because the source material generally satisfies what I wanted from them. But fix it fics, angst and romance fics for shonen/seinen series'?? I'll definitely pick them up because, 1) there are usually unexplored relationship dynamics in the source material, 2) there are alternative domestic/fluff storylines you'd never see because the genre doesn't allow for it, 3) the canon plot is usually so devastating *cough, JJK, cough* that I need a respite, and/or, 4) the developing plot tends to have a lot of holes that writers can explore to craft uniquely compelling AU's and alternative plotlines that I wouldn't imagine.

Man, it's been a while since I nerded out and really took the time to bang out a rant. I've had so many thoughts bouncing around but just zero time. Thank you for your ask and the reminder that there's someone else out there in the shipping trenches. Stay safe out there, anon!

[beehindblueeyes]

Mr.Yamada must be putting them up again- Bruce post/analysis

I did this before with Griffin. Going into his death/injuries. Talking generally about what I imagine him to have been like. Now I’m doing it was Bruce, as honestly I feel like any ghost but Robin falls behind in the majority of the fandom when it comes to being talked about- I’m here to ramble about my boys. Analysis time. Come get your food!

Up at bat

Bruce is the star of his team. It’s clear he’s one of their best, everyone’s cheering for him even before he makes the winning hit. You can hear cheers and chants from the dug out, even the coach is banking on him. It’s a lot- and I think it goes to his head a little bit, that childish overconfidence that comes with being told your the greatest a million times.

One of my favorite parts of the intro is his scowl. His face scrunches up the second he realizes Finney is actually close to striking him out. That little pout how dare he/how could he. But he makes it anyway. That cocky little smirk as he starts running the bases. Bruce is a golden child in a sense but he’s not immune to being petty. But he has the tact to say good game and compliment Finney’s aim.

There’s pressure that can come with that. Being the best- having to carry the end of the game for your team. Baseball is his life. (Made all the more clear by the dreams where it shows him growing up with the game etc).

Helpful …end-

Bruce is also popular there’s no doubt with that. Or at least he’s one of the cuter guys at his school with how the girls flirt and giggle on his bike ride. I think he’s pretty helpful to, seeing as he walks straight over to the vans doors- the grabber likely pulling a similar trick as he did with Finn or asking for help or to grab something from the back etc- where he’s promptly smacked with the door.

His injuries are the hardest out of any of the boys to analyse as they keep changing! Like a lot! In behind he scenes photos Tristan shares it changes sides of his face, chest etc. however the idea of the wound remains just about the same. (Also Tristan gives the most after Banks and then Brady after him.)

He gives a thumbs up in every photo and I hope he knows I’m now aquaiting this to Bruce. (You want a photo it’s this or bunny ears). Just like griffin though, one of the best closer looks is at a photo with Ethan.

Slight warning from this point on in reference to canonical character death, Csa and gore.

His face is slashed from the hairline to his chin, it looks like it stops and starts again around his eye (but this may just be to avoid doing Makeup with his eye).

The cut on his stomach looks a little deeper and hooked, almost carved. Like he stared but then stopped before taking anything out, like wants him intact but … oh god Bruce probably squirmed or fought and just wouldn’t stop… a few more knicks on his arm.

Final part of the game

Something I noticed is that all of the boys have knicks or slashes on their arms. (Vance exclusively has the fucking handprint bruise). Which makes me speculate on how the killing… starts. They may be entirely disarmed. Broken down enough to just think it’s another round of the other part of the game- something horrific but it’s happened before. It’s happened before- it can’t get worse- he said it can’t get worse! So-

Then there’s a knife, probably while distracted with other horrible thoughts he gets a cut on the arm and the fight of flight kicks in. Holy shit. Knife. Struggle but it never lasts long - this is visible in the grabbers approach with Finn. Different. As he outright announced and came down there to just kill him but with the way he swung- he probably expected to him his shoulder but the grabber expects him to run. A chase.

….A big disarming factor I believe is also bashing- a wall or knocked on the ground- something. All of them- if not a bleeding broken nose (Vance) have bloody teeth, or a bleeding head expecting some sort of head trauma or a hit….

Anyways I’m really sad now :( so uhhhh imagine the grabbers high pitched pathetic little yelp. Now imagine he fell down the stairs with those dry ass eggs

[lambourngb]

seven sentence sunday

I was tagged by the wonderful EJ @ravens-words  - I always appreciate you thinking of me.

I am writing again. I’m writing a LOT. I wrote 60,000 words last month, but I’m not writing RNM currently. I’m having a block there, I think it’s because the stories I was working on then, are tied to my dad being sick. Anyway I’m still working through it and I hope with more time, I can at least finish the Ringmaker epic and my sequel to LYW.

I am still into Top Gun. Currently, I have “survival is insufficient” which is a Last of Us/Top Gun fusion set just after Outbreak Day in 2003. It’s 55,000 words, IceMav. Currently pre-slash, lots of action, lots of pining, lots of “wow, the Iraq War was pretty fucked up, imagine if Zombies halted that 8 months in lol but then you see the US military carry out the same draconian behavior stateside as FEDRA”,

I just started “Working on Nathan Hale’s Eulogy” which is a pre-TGM, canon adjacent story, assuming established IceMav, how does Ice tell Mav he’s dying? It’s pretty heavy, drawing on alot of my own personal experience. It’s 9K now, hopefully finishes at 15K.

first off : survival is insufficient:

There was a disconcerting line of orange and pink undergrowth, trailing from the defunct ice cooler and leading toward the line of tractor-trailers. Tom nudged the vine with his toe, perplexed at why it was growing in the middle of the desert. He risked a glance toward the parked trucks, and jumped when a shadow moved behind the windshield of one of the trucks. He looked closer, and nearly every parked truck had … something, now scrabbling at the windows. 

“Organic tripwire,” Mav observed dryly next to him, while Tom struggled to take in what it meant for the fungal infection. It wasn’t just isolated to just taking over a body, it had spread out, sinking into concrete and other mediums while it waited for another host. “Looks like some of the truckers were sick when they stopped for the night.”

“Doesn’t look like enough intelligence in their brains survived infection for them to understand how to operate the door locks, they’re all trapped in there.” 

“No kidding, they’re not going anywhere. Truckers keep those cabs locked up like Fort Knox when they’re stopped. No one wants to get hijacked.”

“Lucky us,” Tom murmured before turning back to the closed market door. “There could be more of them in there.”

Mav shouldered his rifle with a sure grip, and nodded to him to pull the door open. “Well, we’ve come a long way since Lancaster. I’m ready this time.”

The door swung open, easily. 

They both waited for something to jump out from the store aisles, but nothing happened. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered briefly before staying on, bright and welcoming. It was the result of a long, sustained campaign by corporate interests to minimize maintenance on chain operations; the lights stayed on automatically, along with the drink coolers, only the human behind the counter had to be replaced after a shift. With a glance toward the doomed truckers in the lot, Tom stepped inside with Mav to investigate the store.

The shelves were empty of certain staples, beer, cigarettes, and easy to grab snacks. It had been clearly ransacked as the area descended into chaos, but not by any true survivalist looking to make a stand. The mini mart staples of motor oil, canned goods, and batteries were largely untouched. He exchanged a meaningful look with Mav, and he nodded in agreement with him; once they were fueled up, they would be back for the food and whatever else would fit in the Yukon. 

Mav moved toward the cashier register, and then inhaled sharply when he moved around the counter. “Got a body here, not infected… just looks like someone just shot him.”

“Infected don’t carry guns.”

“Well, the military would have been more efficient and dragged his body out. I think we’re looking at a run-of-the-mill human monster.” He whispered an apology under his breath, as he nudged the poor dead clerk out of the way, and then opened the panel that controlled the gas pumps. It was a matter of a few, chilling minutes of waiting, as Tom watched the door and the back hallways toward the bathroom for any signs of company, and then Mav flashed a thumbs up. “Okay, I told the pump we put a $100 in, the maximum, it should be enough to fill the Yukon and a few of our cans.”  

“Great, let’s get going before the welcome wagon from that crash site arrives.” Tom stayed on high alert as he filled the Yukon, the noises from the parked trucks kept growing louder as more and more trapped infected were alerted to their presence.

and now from: “Working on Nathan Hale’s Eulogy”:

“Now I need another shower,” Pete joked in response, a smile evident in his voice. 

Tom slowly collapsed down on top of him, taking care not to knee him, giving a grunt of acknowledgement as he worked to catch his breath again. His lungs were screaming for oxygen, complaining a little louder than what he thought was normal. Yet another small betrayal. He rolled over onto his back, and stretched his ribcage upward to take a deeper breath, with his eyes closed. 

The bed shifted next to him, Pete moved toward the nightstand for a wet wipe. Tom flinched at the cold touch, before sighing in pleasure as Pete began to clean them up thoroughly with slow, loving swipes. Pete made a considering sound in his throat as he tracked upward, cleaning off their chests. “You haven’t been skipping lunch, have you, Ice? And dinner? You look like you’ve lost a little weight.”

“Just getting ready for the beach season,” Tom joked, even though a small wave of alarm swept through him.

Pete slapped him with the end of the wet wipe, “Asshole. I’m serious, you better be taking care of yourself while I’m in the desert.”

“I promise, I’m not skipping any meals.” He left it unsaid that he wasn’t finishing his meals either. 

“I’ll make you a big omelet in the morning,” Pete promised, his voice warm and drowsy with love. “Will fix you right up.”

If only that were true.

*

[heytheredeann]

Whumptober, Day 8 - Head Trauma

Tags: Post-Canon, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Head Injury, Hurt Napoleon Solo, No Plot Just Concussed Napoleon Being Cute

(Ao3 version)

.

He thinks it’s the third, or maybe forth, or maybe tenth, if he’s going by how exhausted he feels, time that Illya has rudely woken him up.

He keeps walking around the room, doing nothing particularly useful as far as he can tell, so maybe it’s because he’s bored, that he keeps preventing Napoleon from getting some well-deserved sleep. He’s so tired. He should get to sleep.

Then he shifts slightly, barely even an inch, and a world of pain explodes all the way through his neck up to his head, and he remembers that yeah, right, head, concussion, can’t sleep. So Illya isn’t being an asshole. He’s just his nice partner trying to keep him from dying. That’s so sweet.

Now, if only he weren’t suffering so much, maybe he could appreciate that more.

“Peril,” he whines, one eye closed shut between his cheek and the pillow. Surely his nice partner will help. He’s getting a little nauseous here.

Illya’s focus immediately shifts to him, and he walks up to him in strides. “Yes?”

“Make the room stop spinning,” Napoleon says, closing his eyes in the hopes of lessening the nausea. “Also my head stop hurting.”

Illya snorts, patting his arm. “Best I can do is pity you, Cowboy.”

Uh. Right. He had forgotten that Illya is an asshole. Must be the concussion, he’s sure he would have remembered otherwise.

He makes a disgruntled sound. “I hate you,” he mutters then, and he wonders that if there’s a way to keep moving even while he sleeps, so Illya will think he’s still awake.

The next time he opens his eyes must have been after he did drift off for a few moments, because the room is empty. Illya left.

The quick rush of panic that goes through him somehow seems to worsen his headache, and he can only think that he doesn’t want to be alone, that he’s an idiot, didn’t he tell him that he hates him? He’s pretty sure he did, but he didn’t want him to leave—he starts rolling over, thinking that surely he can get himself up and go looking for Illya to apologize, but he doesn’t get far, at least not before, between one blink and the next, Illya slips back into the room.

He’s holding a blanket, which he starts spreading over Napoleon without asking. It’s nice. For the comfort, not for the heat, because at the moment he is still way too busy grappling with the very worrying thought that Illya might walk off on him any second to feel anything but waves of heat rushing through him.

When Illya moves to step back, he takes a hold of his shirt, tugging at him as best as he can.

“What is it?” Illya asks.

He probably should give an actual answer, but the words are jumbled in his head, so he just keeps tugging until he sits down next to him, his worried frown somehow reassuring, but not enough, he needs to make this right.

Ignoring the world going for a spin and his head exploding with a particularly vicious stab of pain, he pushes himself far enough to land against Illya’s stomach, burying his face in his shirt and eventually managing to utter: “Sorry, I don’t hate you, don’t go away.”

He thinks Illya heard. Or maybe he’s just stroking his hair because he’s nice. Nice and totally not an asshole. Napoleon needs to remember that.

“I just went to get blanket, Cowboy,” Illya explains, and he thinks he sounds a little amused. Napoleon doesn’t mind, because his fingers in his hair are so nice. “You were shivering.”

He hums. “All warm now,” he announces, though maybe Illya will take that as a request to step back, so he pulls at him as if to tug him closer, even though he doesn’t think he can smash himself much harder against him. He’s practically in his lap. He kinda doesn’t want to move.

“Good. Do you need anything else?”

“No,” Napoleon mutters without thinking. He is actually feeling pretty nice, for someone with such a horrible headache. “Stay,” he makes sure to remind him then, because that’s the important part.

“Yes, yes, I’m staying,” Illya assures, and it’s nice, the way his voice sounds, like he likes him.

Napoleon is pretty sure he likes him too.

[mlmxreader]

Carvers | Hugo Stiglitz x m!reader

Anonymous asked: Can I request a hugo x male where his favorite weapon is knives?

Idk I think they pretty cool

Thanks!

summary: you've always used a knife whilst working in the Basterds, so when you meet Hugo... well, it's practically a perfect match.

tws: knives, swearing, smoking, canon typical violence mentions

You were a little nervous at first, thinking that the Basterds wouldn't think you were as good as them because of your distaste for guns; you always used a knife, whether that meant you had to get close to Nazi scum to slit their throats, or you had to throw it with as much force as you could and hope that it hit them. You were damn good with it, though, and it wasn't long before your Lieutenant, Aldo Raine, was praising your skills; it was a massive shift, from being nervous to suddenly being applauded and hearing the echoing howls of cheers around you when you slashed, stabbed, sliced skin. You liked it.

It was only natural that when Hugo Stiglitz came into the ranks, you immediately clicked; you would sit in silence next to him when he silently demanded to have your knife so that he could sharpen it. He muttered something about it being peaceful for him, so you sat back and rolled cigarettes until he handed it back. He often took careful looks at the blade, a glint in his eyes before he would hand it back and, if he was in a particularly pleasant mood, admit to his admiration.

Aldo and Donny would occasionally make jokes about you and Hugo being a little too close, to which you would roll your eyes and scoff at such a thing; a man would never dream of getting too close to a superior officer in his life, and you were no exception... at least as far as anyone else was concerned. In truth, you dreamed of it often. A better and more peaceful time where you could actually be a boyfriend to him; a quieter future where romance could be possible.

"Pretty damn handy with that thing," Donny commented with a grin as he stood in front of you and Hugo. "Anythin' else you handy with?"

You tried not to laugh, shaking your head as you flicked cigarette ash at his feet. "You're vile, Donowitz."

"Y'love me, really," his eyes went to Hugo, and he didn't miss how suddenly tense the other sergeant became. "Don't you, Corporal (y/l/n)?"

"I love you like a hole in the head, baby," you teased. "Shouldn't you be bothering Wicki, anyway? I thought he had a job for you."

"Well, I figured first I'd come and see my favourite carvers," he shrugged.

You did love Donny, you had to admit; he made you laugh, and you wished he would shut up sometimes. But you did love him. He was the closest thing you had to a brother on the front line, and you were grateful to have him around.

"Fuck off," you grumbled playfully, but before he turned to leave, you cleared your throat and dared to grin. "Next time you wanna tease me about my skills with a knife, you might wanna make sure you use something that's actually funny."

"You love me really, though!"

"Do you?"

The quiet, low German voice made you flinch for a moment before you sighed, shaking your head as you handed Hugo your knife. "He's like a brother, really. He's a bit of a dick, mouth like a fucking box tunnel, but yeah, I love him... why? You jealous?"

Hugo shifted a little, suddenly avoiding your gaze as he took in a sharp breath.

You smiled. "Like I said, he's like a brother. It's a platonic kinda love."

He relaxed, nodding a little. "You feel the same about everyone else?"

"Not everyone," you admitted with a shake of your head, looking at him for a moment before you cleared your throat and looked down at the ground between your boots. "That ain't all that important, though, I mean... a man like me? On a fuckin' front line? The only person who'd want me would be another soldier but... y'know."

From the corner of his eye, Hugo looked at you, a frown tugging at his lips as he shook his head. It was wrong to think about a man beneath his own rank, even worse a man within the same group - that was more than frowned upon... but even then, as he looked at you, holding your blade so carefully, he couldn't help but to wonder.

"No?"

"C'mon, Hugo," you scoffed. "We both know that the army don't look kindly at soldiers being together, not if they're in the same division. Not if they're different ranks... Aldo could have... never mind."

"Tell me."

"Aldo could have me fucking sent home," you growled. "If I even... if I even thought of acting upon the shit I feel. I don't wanna be sent home. Not until the war's fucking won and we've killed every last fucking Nazi cunt... so I can't say shit."

"Do you think the others wouldn't stand up for u- you?"

"Donny and Wicki probably would," you ran a hand across the back of your neck. "Not sure about everyone else... you would, wouldn't you?"

Hugo could only nod, biting his tongue so harshly he thought he'd bitten clean through the muscle; how was he supposed to say anything? What was there he could say? He couldn't exactly tell you how he felt.

He passed you your knife, but made it a point to ghost his fingers against yours. "It's a fine blade."

"Thank you," you whispered. "Yours is pretty fine, too."

"Danke," he turned his attention to the rolled cigarette you had tucked behind his ear.

"Oh, fuck it," you hissed, laying your arm across his shoulders and keeping your voice low, "it's you. You're the only one in this group I don't... I have... there's feelings, alright? And I wasn't gonna fucking act on 'em because I'm a Corporal, and you're a Sergeant, but-"

Hugo made quick work of shutting you up, his free hand at the back of your neck as he pulled you in close enough that he could quickly kiss you; with the exception of idle chatter, there was silence.

And you were both grateful for that. Nobody needed to know, nobody had to know - formalities and army regulations would only ever get in the way.

[anthonyjlockwood]

Hehehe.... 📃👽😚🌈🔪🥚😊?(sorry for the spam, feel free to return the favor, lol!)

thanks for the questions!!! 💕

📃 Ever written something inspired by someone elses fic?

there's more than one way to lose your mind was inspired by three of kira's fics... that horrible one where she makes luke FORGET everything (ugh god i'm sorry for even linking it /lh /hj), and also those fluffy juke poems she wrote (we love the versatility lol) @fandomscraziness22

👽 Strangest fic you ever written?

are any of my fics strange? lol... i don't think so... but i'll pick "chance won't come every single day (so don't throw it away)", aka bakery fic, because that actually, sort of has plot?? and that's strange for me 😂

😚 A fic you liked writing more than other fics?

honestly, i loved writing "you took me by surprise and left me falling like rain" lol. i don't know why exactly, it was just such a smooth writing process compared to how things usually go and i got it done pretty fast and i love how it turned out!

🌈 Your favorite tropes to write about?

angst!! sadness!! i also prefer canon compliant fics over AU's, i think, because there's generally less to think about as far as background information and plot and stuff. and i've been really into like, torn apart relationships and regrets and forgiveness and exes-slash-enemies-to-lovers, but that's maybe because i've been working on bakery so much lol

🔪 The fic/chapter that hurt the most to write?

ummm... i think other people are usually more hurt by my fics than i am 😂 but there's this one i haven't published yet that wasn't a super great time tbh.

🥚 Any easter eggs you put in a fic that you hoped people would notice?

do i have a fic equivalent of @valiantlyweepingdreamer's cinnamon gum...? 😂 i just sat here for several minutes but i genuinely cannot think of one lol. i do put little easter eggs, or nods to personal things in my life, into my fics, but i don't expect or necessarily "hope" people will notice them, because obviously they wouldn't know what to look for. so i guess the answer is... half yes?

😊 The fic that you’re the most proud of?

the "and sooner or later, it's over" series! three fics that (i'm pretty sure) i had the original idea for on my own, then wrote them one after the other in only a few days. the universe gave me words, i liked the words, and other people liked the words! it has a clear beginning, middle, a significant meaning that's really close to my heart, AND A HAPPY ENDING! WE LOVE TO SEE IT ACTUALLY

[healersadjust]

8. shielding the other one with their body 💜

yeah ok so. this was gonna end a lot worse but! i'm not feeling too great, so i rewrote the ending. you all are saved this time! but there IS an alternate ending...

Anyway! Thank you so much for the ask <3 I hope you enjoy! Endwalker spoilers ahead. Unedited and it probably shows.

With the Scions disbanded, Aki and G’raha resolved to go on as many adventures when they could find the time. Things went smoothly, for the most part. Until then, the worst thing that had happened was when they ended up with morbol juice all over them. Neither had expected things to go so catastrophically. 

“Aki- your left!” G’raha shouted, warning Aki of the absolutely giant robotic monstrosity preparing to hit her. She dodged out of the way, climbing up the robot's arm to its head, busying herself with taking it out from the top. Their magics did nothing against them, putting both Aki and G’raha out of their element.

They could have managed one. They could have likely taken two, but they were alone against an army.

They had taken out most of them, their energy slowly draining after each one hit the ground. THey discovered pretty quickly how to shut them down- Aki kept a knife handy that she could stab and pry into the backs of their necks, which exposed some fancy wiring that she was all too happy to slash to bits. G’raha’s role was to distract them while she jumped from robot to robot.

It was long, it was grueling… But eventually, they all were on the ground, motionless.

“Well… Not what I expected out of a quick trip,” G’raha said with an exhausted chuckle. “Where do you think they came from?”

“Hell, probably,” she mumbled. “And I don’t wanna stick around to find out for certain. I don’t have enough energy to teleport us out… I’ll see if Orion is anywhere nearby.”

She pulled a whistle out from her back pocket. She dusted it off and blew into it, letting out a high pitched screeching sound. Thankfully, for whatever reason, Orion was always within earshot. She heard the sound of a speeding chocobo in the distance. She sighed, leaning against G’raha while they waited. He brought an arm around her, rubbing her side.

“Perhaps we'll settle for a date next time?” He asked, planting a kiss on her head.

“Yeah- I think I’m good with that. The Last Stand, perhaps? Close to home?”

“We can even take a look around the shops- You’re running low on paints, yes? And I could use…”

Aki’s attention was pulled behind them. It… It sounded like footsteps. But it certainly wasn’t Orion- her chocobo was in front of them, not behind. What else could it be..?

Then, she heard the charging of a mechanical canon.

She turned just in time, seeing one of the robots from before pointing its lazer arm at the two of them. It’s attention wasn’t on her- Twelve, there wouldn’t be enough time to warn G’raha-

She moved just in time to intercept the blast. G’raha didn’t have the chance to process it before his fiancee was on the ground.

“Is she- is she okay?”

“She will be, mostly thanks to your quick healing. From what it sounds like, she shouldn’t be breathing. But she is, and she's better than stable.”

“Oh, bless the twelve-” she heard a sigh of relief. “I was so worried- she-” a gasp. “Aki, can you hear me?”

She fought to open her eyes. The world was so much brighter than she last remembered- or maybe it was just that room. It was blurry at first, but slowly her vision sharpened enough to see a figure dressed in white beside a panicked G’raha.

G’raha wiped tears from his eyes, replacing his sour expression with a wide smile. The figure in white nodded at him before exiting the room. 

G’raha wasted no time to kneel next to her, taking her hand in his. “How do you feel?”

She closed her eyes. No pain anywhere, really- by some miracle, if she remembered things correctly. But, “Tired.” She opened her eyes once more, turning onto her side. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” He blinked once, twice. “You just took a laser to the chest and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

She nodded.

“I…” he smiled, shaking his head. “Yes, I’m well. You-” his gaze wandered. “You shouldn’t have done that. You can’t risk your life like that for me.”

She frowned. Was he really about to lecture her on that? No, not on her watch.

“You would have done the same. Don’t ‘do as I say, not as I do’ me.”

His eyes widened. “Well that- that isn’t the point!”

“We can talk about that later.” She rubbed his knuckles with her thumb as she looked at the bed… It was large enough to fit a roegadyn comfortably- More than enough for a couple of miqo'te. “I’ll scoot. Come lay with me.”

Who was he to deny her such a simple request?

[euthym1as]

Hi! I was just watching a video about Genshin lore (specifically its real world inspirations) and that got me thinking bout how the characters would react to this in SAGAU.

My main thought is how funny Childe's reaction would be to Tartaglia meaning the "Stutterer" or Scaramouche meaning "the little skirmisher".

This is just what I can think of, I'm interested in hearing your take on this

Okay so in attempting to sus out scara's lore in the past I HAVE looked at the Commedia Dell'arte and its implications/cultural impact. the characters weren't so much Peoples Names as they were stand ins for people in society you knew. Interestingly enough, Commedia Dell'arte is (if you couldn't tell from the latin root of Comedia) a comedy- usually slapstick, and I wouldn't put it past the devs when we Do see them interact to have bits of physical comedy like something falling on Scaramouche or Dottore tripping to his doom.

As for the relationships between 'archetypes' in CDA and the actual Harbingers, this varies and goes as such-

DOTTORE- his archetype is the Obstacle to the Young Lovers (more abt that later) and speaks of many subjects but has expertise in none (according to wikipedia). He is a comic foil to Pantalone (we might see this manifested as crazy doctor/stoic captain in the Harbingers) and is often- wait for it- cuckolded. Seriously! Man can't catch a break! What's interesting is that Wikipedia mentions the Dottore archetype as something still in popular media- in Big Bang Theory's Sheldon Cooper. That blows my mind. As for how he would react to the accusations of such archetypal behaviors? [Bear with me, I haven't read the webtoon.] I think he would find them quite funny, as one of the versions of Dottore in the plays is called Dr. Hack-and-Slash. I think we may see his character mirror his archetype pretty closely. HYV, Dottore when????

LA SIGNORA- Directly translated to The Lady, in the CDA, she is the wife of Pantalone and wears revealing clothing and heavy makeup (not too far off). She is known for being high class, and schemes as much as possible to get what she wants- money, clothes, other stuff. She also cheats on Pantalone. (Personally, I can't wait for Pantalone's debut as a Harbinger. He has a lot of importance in the actual play/s.)

Well. This is pretty self explanatory.

Interestingly enough, her past with Rostam and their backstory as lovers doesn't seem to have a connection with the CDA.

As for how she would react, let's ask this pile of ashes- kidding. She would probably smack you for calling her promiscuous and kick you just like Venti.

SCARAMOUCHE- will you do the fandango? No but seriously, the Queen song that references pulls from the actual clown character of the CDA, also (like mentioned above) called Little Skirmisher. Scaramouche has significantly more pop culture adaptations than the previous two (OUR GENSHIN VERSION MADE IT ON WIKIPEDIA) and usually tells a story of a servant or masked henchman with villainous traits. Yes him being short as hell is canonical with the CDA.

Furthermore, a fandango is a partner dance. Since every version of Scaramouche that I can see is pathetically single, I hope our boy gets a happy ending. There are a couple of media instances of someone of otherwise non Scaramouchian nature becoming the Scara in a traveling CDA show, which also lines up with Scara's own backstory of being a wanderer. (No event spoilers here, dw.) He seems to not be a character born, but made.

He would despise every bit of his perception. He would especially despise how Genshin fans see him. The man has Napoleon syndrome. He would not take this well.

TARTAGLIA- my boy. My baby. Let me first start off by saying his etymology for all three of his names makes him so, SO interesting. On the one hand, his Liyue codename Childe, directly translating to Young Lord or Young Master in the CN version of the game shows he is making a name for himself and is treated with respect amongst high political figures- or at least, was. The name Ajax is a Greek hero (much like the origin of some Enkanomiyan names, hmmm) who is the grandson of Zeus (seriously) and is incredibly battle intelligent. He has a half brother in the myth called Teucer who wielded a bow and shot from behind Ajax's shield. Ajax eventually goes bloodthirsty when Odysseus recieves armor of victory instead of him, because he believed he deserved it for the great valor he had fought with. He slaughters an entire flock of sheep before coming to his senses, seeing what he did, and committing Teppei. I feel like this may be story beats Hoyoverse includes in his story alongside Tartaglia's lore, because Tartaglia/Ajax/Childe cannot exist without the presence of the other two. THAT BEING SAID, here's a breakdown of Tartaglia.

Tartaglia is described as dainty and farsighted, which doesn't mesh much with what we know about our lovely Ajax. He does have one main quality in common- being lower-middle class. I've touched briefly on class on this blog before, and Ajax being working class puts a perspective on him being recruited to the Fatui at 14. Actual real life militaries employ similar tactics to low income, traumatized kids, often because they have no other way to pay for something like college. Ajax having a traumatic moment in the Abyss and then having himself recruited into a (maybe?) nationalist regime is something mirroring the beats of real life. He often appears as one of the lovers in the CDA, and I'm personally glad HYV changed Tartaglia from the CDA to the Ajax we know. He's such a balanced character with elements of both inside him, plus completely new storytelling elements like what the Abyss does to someone, what defines 'humanity', and how nationalism of the nature of the Tsaritsa's is harmful and hurts everyone involved. If I were to tell him of his etymology and origins, I would tell him he is both the hero and the tragedy, the fighter and the lover, the one who would give up everything for his home and the one who has nothing left.

I end his analysis on this note-

His real name is Ajax. His real self is Ajax. In his full storytelling truth, he is the tragic hero of Greek myth, a story far older than the Commedia Dell'arte. We aren't even close to done with him yet. And I think he knows that too.

This is a SAGAU blog, but I think at some level, Ajax is aware of where he sits in the universe. He knows his destiny is full of big battles and victory. I think he knows the myth, maybe not in words, but in the way he feels when he picks up a weapon. He is reaching for power so much higher than himself, breaking out of his role as the Young Lord or the Stutterer or the kid who fell. He's going to make himself an archetype. In a way, he already has.

[luimagines]

oooh i have an idea, how would dear reader reacts to the chain's secrets? they could be canon like wolfie being twi, or something you headcanon!

Masterlist

I procrastinated on this one admittedly because I had no idea where to take it but after writing out a list and appointing a secret to each boy. I have it done.

Some things are definitely headcanons.

Part one will include Hyrule, Sky, Warrior, Four and Wild.

Content under the cut!

Hyrule

The battle wasn’t necessarily hard to deal with- the monsters weren’t difficult to deal with and there weren’t a lot of them to begin with.

You slashed, dashed and kicked every enemy away from you and watched as they fell to your blade. Every new step revealed a new purple cloud as you danced around the battle field.

You saw Wild and Twilight fighting back to back with practiced ease and handling it as well as you were. Warrior and Sky was side by side closer to Time and Legend than the rest of the group was and Four and Wind were up in the trees striking the enemy down at a distance and no doubt scheming something while the going was easy.

The only one you had no idea where he was, was Hyrule.

And that didn’t take a lot to dive into your brain and wriggle uncomfortably until your own insecure thoughts pushed you to go look for him.

Between the monsters and the land mines of purple smoke, it was a little difficult to find him.

But when you do- he does something you don’t fully understand at first.

You manage to run into him in a clearing, but he doesn’t notice you at first. Instead, you see him take his sword and run it through his palm. His blood coats the length of his blade, and it drips down his hand onto the grass below.

He watches the monsters in front of him and dances for a minute around them before he takes a breath and kills them effortlessly.

You frown and step toward him. “Why did you do that?”

Hyrule jumps higher than should be physically possible and doesn’t catch himself on the way down. He falls flat on his butt and looks up at you with wide and startled eyes.

“Are you ok?” You kneels next to him and go to take his injured hand. “What on earth were you trying to do?

Hyrule jerks his hand back like you’ve burned him and you see the magic flow through the air around his wound- closing it like it never happened.

“Link?” You frown again and slowly place your hand in your lap. You’re confused and a little afraid for him. You know that blood magic is taboo for a reason and is typically avoided more often than not because of its’s dark nature- but you never thought Hyrule of all people would dabble in it.

“I’m fine.”

“Link.” You stress a little more. “What were you trying to do? I didn’t think you were capable of blood magic... At least you don’t usually use those kind of spells. Is that why you fight on your own for a while each time?”

“I’m not using blood magic.” Hyrule frowns and stands abruptly. 

“Then why-?”

“It’s not important.”

“Hyrule, you’re hurting yourself. I’d say that that’s pretty important.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t make me get Time.” You threaten. “I’ll get Legend too. I bet they’ll get some answers out of you.”

“You won’t just drop it, will you?” He sneers

“Nope.” You stand and cross your arms. “What were you trying to do?”

“I was just checking something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like if a curse would work or something?”

Hyrule tenses and he crosses his arms- instantly looking away from you.

“WERE YOU ACTUALLY TRYING TO CAST A CURSE?!” You screech.

“THE CURSE WAS CAST ON ME!” He yells back.

You both still for a moment and wait for the forest to show any signs that others might have heard you.

The sounds of distant fighting continues and after a minute of waiting some more, no one shows up to check on either of you, so you’re safe.

You turn back to your companion and furrows your eyebrows. You lower your voice just above a whisper just in case someone might be on the way but now you need answers. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He scowls- a face you’re not used to seeing on him and throws his arms down his sides in anger. “Back home, Ganon cast a curse on me. The monsters need my blood in order to resurrect him and I can’t risk letting any monsters from my time getting to me. I need to check if the other monsters will follow suit.”

You blink, not expecting that answer but your anger flares up regardless. “So you go out on your own to check this curse because your blood is needed to resurrect hatred incarnate? What if you’re overpowered? What if they do react to it? How are we supposed to help you if you’re alone?”

“It’s my problem to deal with. I don’t need-”

“Shut up.” You scowl and grab him by the shoulders. You shake him roughly for as long as you speak. “We are your friends! We care about you! We don’t want to see you hurt! We’re going to help you! Whether you want it or not- we’re not to let you deal with this alone. Not while we’re here.”

“Stop shaking me.”

You let him go.

“I won’t tell the others because I know you wouldn’t like that.” You say. “But this stops today. You hear me? None of us are just going to let these freaks near you and this is not necessary while you have a whole team of heroes just as pissed about the situation as you are. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“How clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.”

Sky 

Sky wakes up one day with a far away look in his eye which immediately puts you on edge.

Not only that but to make it worse, he doesn’t stop looking at you.

He looks scared.

Every five minutes you swear you catch him looking in your direction only to look away in haste when you look back at him.

No one is saying anything and it doesn’t help your paranoia.

With some people walking ahead you, you step back and take a spot next to Sky. You notice that he’s tense and walking robotically, and trying to match your pace. “Dude, what’s up? You’re freaking me out.”

Sky trips over himself and finally looks you in the eye. “What do you mean?”

“You woke up like you saw a ghost. You’ve been looking over to me every five minutes and even now you look like you want to sprint away from me. Did I do something?”

“I.. Ummm...” Sky stutters for a minute before swallowing whatever lump was in his throat. “I just had a dream... is all.... I’ll get over it.”

“I’m assuming it had something to do with me then.”

“No, not exactly.” Sky’s quick to speak even if you can see the beginning’s of sweat collect on his brow. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Want to talk about it?” You tilt your head. “It looks like it really shook you up.”

“Oh, um, I-”

“Maybe you died and Sky freaked out.” Legend pushes you forward and away from Sky. “He doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to.”

“Ok, my god, Legend slow down! Not everyone is as emotionally constipated as you! Talking about things is healthy and important!” You shout over your shoulder, trying to dig your heels into the dirt with little to no luck.

Legend seems a bit stronger right now that he usually is, you bet it’s his power bracelet.

If Sky actually looks a bit paler at Legend’s claim than neither of you notice.

The day passes a little calmer after that, Sky seeming to have calmed down enough to not be so weird and it something you’re quick to forget about.

By the time the afternoon hits, a bunch of dark and foreboding storm clouds roll in.

Somehow, Sky manages to find it in himself to walk next to you again and does his best to stay close.

You don’t mind it and even jokingly pull his sail cloth over your head when it begins to rain on your group. It’s not particularly strong and there’s not a lot of options to rest and take cover, so you bare with it. Sky lets you keep the sail cloth over your head surprisingly.

But then there’s thunder and you see lightning in the distance and bite your lip. “Maybe we should hunker down or something?”

The rain goes from gentle drops to a down pour within seconds and the group runs a bit to gain as much cover as you can in the nearby tree line.

Sky pushes himself in front of you and shoves you behind him with enough force that you’re fully knocked over. In one fluid motion he lifts the Master Sword skyward and charges the blade, tossing it away from the group in a glowing blue arc. It cuts through the grass and even splits the first tree it strikes in half before dissipated into the air. 

You would have been struck by lightning if he didn’t do that.

“Sky?” You get up and try to wipe as much mud off of your pants as you can. “Are you ok? How did you know that would happen?”

Sky gulps and takes a deep breath as he looks at you with wide eyes and understanding. “I saw it in a dream.”

“Oh...” You gasp and reach out to him shakily, putting your hand on his shoulder. “You have dreams then?”

“Yes.” Sky looks at his sword and hesitantly puts it away. “Sometimes.”

“Ok then...” You nod and look around the group. They’re all in varying stages of shock, surprise and concern.

Everyone is looking at Sky.

“We need to get out of the storm.” You say in lieu of changing the topic. ” Who knows if there’s more lightning on the way and there’s a lot of metal within the group.“

“Right.” Time nods and does a not so subtle double take in his attempt to leave it be. “Let’s go.”

You nod back and nod once more to Sky and wrap your arm around his shoulder. you lead him forward and lean into his space to whisper into his ear. “Thanks.”

“I’m just glad I made in time.”

“We’ll talk later ok?” You smile in hopes of alleviating some of the tension. “I have some questions if you’re willing to indulge me.”

“I suppose it’s only fair.”

Warrior

“He’s a cute kid.” Warrior mentions randomly one day. 

You startle and jump, nearly dropping the image. You scramble to catch it and successfully do so after playing hot potato with yourself.

“Warrior, a little warning please.” You sigh and attempt to clean your finger print smudges on the glass. “But yeah, my little brother is cute. I hope he stays that way.”

“I don’t think you have much to worry about.” Warrior shrugs. “He grows up to be a fine and upstanding young man. Good looks run in the family. ”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Thank you, I’m sure they do.”

Warrior comes to stand next to you and gently turns the glass over to see the image better.

“Warrior?”

“Hm?”

“Am I doing the right thing?” You sigh.

“What do you mean? I’d say you are. Sacrificing yourself for the good of a better tomorrow- for your family- for your loved ones- but that’s not what you’re talking about are you?” Warrior lets you take the image back.

“But he’s so young... and I’m supposed to take care of him.” You gulp. “I just want him to be safe and sound and healthy but I can’t really do that from- from... I’m here instead.“

“Well... no said it was going to be easy.” Warrior offers lamely.

“What if he grows up to hate me?” You clench the glass tighter at the thought. “I just abandoned him, didn’t I? Oh my god-”

“Hey. He loves you.” Warrior takes your shoulders in his hands and shakes you somewhat. “He admires you greatly. You’re his hero. He looks up to you even now. He’ll understand when the time comes.”

“Even now?” You sniff. “What does that mean?”

“Years have passed and he hasn’t stopped looking up to you and how you did everything you could for him, for Zelda and he’s trying to make you proud-”

“Warrior he’s five, how do you know this?”

His mouth shuts with a click of his teeth.

“Warrior.” 

“Um... I... He...”

“Link.” You pocket the glass and face him head on. “When did you meet my brother?”

He stares at you for a moment and deflates. “During... during the war of my era.”  

“...What?”

Warrior hisses and brings his hand to scratch the back of his neck. “He showed up around the same time that Wind did but he talked about you.... and I guess you talk to him about me because he wasn’t really surprised at what was happening.”

“How old was he?” You bite your lip, already dreading the news.

“Older than me actually.” He offers with a tight smile. “I never asked him but if I had to guess I would have put him in his mid twenties. The oldest Link to start his adventure compared to the rest of us...”

“But he still...” You deflate as well and hug your arms around yourself. “He still has to go doesn’t he? I can’t save him from it. Even now, I... I can’t- I fail him in the end then.” 

“He doesn’t see it that way at all.” Warrior catches you before you fall to your knees in despair. “He admires everything you’ve done for him, everything you’re currently doing. You kept him from danger for as long as you could- until he was old enough to take on his destiny. That’s more than any of us could say.”

“I don’t want him to go through any of it though.” You sob and lean into Warrior for support. “That’s my baby brother Warrior- how am I supposed to be ok with this?”

“I don’t think there is a way.” He admits. “Nor do I think you should be.”

“I can’t keep him from it.”

“But you can and have been postponing it.” Warrior rubs circles into your shoulder as you cry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you even more.”

“I miss him.”

“You’ll see him again.” Warrior grips you tightly. “He also did very well all things considered. He became an older brother to me and to Sprite and Wind... I don’t think Wind has figured it out yet that your brother and Lucky are the same Link though.”

You sniffle and calm down slightly. “Was he awesome?”

A laugh is startled out of him and he chokes on the snort and cough that tries to leave him at the same time. “I’d say he was better than me... And he claims to have never held a sword until then.”

“Good.” You nod. “He’s the best brother in the whole world.”

“Yeah, he was.”

Four

You’re walking on a random trail as the day dies down and you’re partner is Four for the hour.

The sun rests behind you comfortably and you talk about the different weapons from each others Hyrule. You’re no smith- but you do think it’s an interesting process and try to take notes where you can.

As you trade your notes and laugh at the more ridiculous stories from one another, you look down and notice something weird with Four’s shadow.

It almost looked like it was laughing along too... in the opposite direction that Four was looking in. But you blink and it’s as if it never there.

Maybe you’re tired.

You have been walking all day and perhaps it was a trick of the light.

You don’t think on it too much and go back to talking with your friend.

Hours later-you’d think that it would be the end of it but it isn’t.

In fact, you can’t sleep. And the way it moved was different than it should have been and the more you look into the memory there more obscurities than there should be. Not to mention that Four gets weird around shadows or whenever they are mentioned.

You stare up at the star filled sky as you think about the incident.

“I’m telling you I think they saw me.” A new voice says.

You’re thrust into the moment and attune your hearing to the direction it came from.

“I think you’re thinking too much into it. How could they have seen you?” It’s Four.

You close your eyes and roll over in the same direction, pretending to still be asleep.

The voices take a minute to pick up again when you do that.

They were watching you.

“They stared at me for a solid minute- how did you miss that?” New voices hisses.

“They were laughing-”

“You were laughing, you love sick fool. They looked at me. They saw me. I’m going to blow the secret and you’re not even listening to my warning.”

Your eyes snap open and you push yourself up as quickly as you can.

You instantly spot Four sitting by the fire, but you’re not surprised by that. What really takes your attention is the new person next to him- who looks uncannily like your friend.

But with purple hair...

And red eyes...

And darker skin...

“Four what the hell?” You blurt.

Four responds quickly and as intelligently as he can manage.  “Uhhhh...”

The person next to him curses and runs a hand through his hair. “I told you. I told you. I told you.”

You lock eyes with the new guy and introduce yourself.

He huffs and crosses his arms, his face darkening slightly- or again- maybe it was a trick of the light. “I’m Four’s shadow.”

“His... shadow...?”

“Yes. That’s what I said.”

You nod, wide eyed before turning to Four with a million questions in your eyes. He can see it and holds his hand up to his mouth, pressing his knuckles harshly against his teeth as he waits for them to start flowing out of your mouth.

“Love sick fool?”

“Shadow you snitch!” Four screeches and takes a swing at him.

His cry is loud enough rouse some of the others but only really wakes up two of them. You stare tensely as Time and Legend sit up fast enough to nearly throw themselves into the fire as they turn to Four.

“Sorry.” You whisper yell to save his honor.

Shadow is nowhere to be found.

Time and Legend turn to you as the only other one awake and each raise an eyebrow in tandem.

“Ni-nightmare. I yelled. I’m sorry.” You try to act like you just woke up as well and try to hunker down into your blankets.

Time sighs and wipes his eyes. “You ok?”

“I will be.” You try to smile but you’re too nervous and it comes out more forced than it should- but perhaps that helps you sell your little fib.

Legend for his part glares at you before he sits down with a solid thump and throws himself dramatically back into his bedroll. 

No words are exchanged between you two.

“Everything alright Four?” Time yawns as he also begins to lie down again.

“Yeah. All good here.” Four laugh nervously and waves him away.

Time nods, no longer paying attention and slowly... nearly half an hour later, you see that the two of them have fallen asleep again. Thankfully neither of them seem to realize that it didn’t sound like your voice at all.

Shadow appears again from somewhere and takes his spot next to Four. “Nice going.”

“Shut up.”

“Four, I have questions.” You sit up and make your way over to the two of them.

Shadow raises an eyebrow. “What’s there to explain?”

“Everything?”

“Ok. Ok. Both of you, don’t start. You caught us fair and square. Sit down.” Four sighs and gestures to the other spot next to him. “It’ll take a while.”

“Done.” You grin and nearly run over a sleeping Sky in the process. “Tell me everything.”

Wild

“Has anyone seen Mr. Champion?” You glance up after doing a supply check through your bag. You’re running a little low on rations and know the resident cook usually has some to spare.

But you haven’t seen him in a while.

“Didn’t he go to get fire wood?” Wind tilts his head.

“Wasn’t that at least an hour ago?” You respond, furrowing your eyebrows as you think about it more. Where did Wild go?

“He hasn’t come back yet?” Warrior sits up straighter. Now the rest of the group is a little more aware of their missing member and each start subconsciously checking the tree line as if he were about to come back that very second.

“I can go look for him.” You offer, standing up. “Maybe he got distracted. We are in a new area.”

“Oh great, he could be miles away and we’d never know.” Legend groans and throws his head back. “Just what we needed.”

“Have a little faith Vet.” You snort. With a quick jump and skip over the supplies, you begin to leave the camp behind. “Try calling him Wind, I’ll see if I can go find our missing chef before dinner.”

“Please do.” Time nods. “We’ll start a full search party if you’re not back within the next hour though. It’s getting too dark.”

“Noted.”

“I could find him faster.” You hear Twilight say but you’re already too far away to back down now.

Truthfully, you have no idea where to start- but you imagine that to find Wild- one must think like Wild.

You pick a direction and stick with it.

At some point maybe fifteen minutes in you reach a small creek and begin to follow to stream upwards.

It’s really more like you’re taking a hike than searching for your friend and you begin to feel a little stupid even if realistically there’s no other way for this to be done.

That is- until you see him anyway.

He’s seems to be frozen in place, staring off into the distance with his hands still held mid air, gripping the canteen he appears to have been filling up.

It confuses you and you stand there staring at him to move- to blink- to do something. But he doesn’t. “Wild?”

No response.

“Champion?” You call a little louder and begin to tip toe a little closer to him. You’re afraid that even the slightest snapping of a twig would break whatever spell he’s under and you don’t fancy a violent reaction out the man who can easily blow the whole area up with little to nothing.

But still no response.

“Link!” You hiss and eventually reach his side. He hasn’t once turned in your direction or even acknowledged your presence and you begin to doubt that he’s even conscious.

His eyes are open and he’s knelt beside the creek but maybe he got hit with some magic or something- you don’t know.

You gulp and place a hand on his shoulder. You shake him lightly but when that also proves to not do anything you begin to shake him more and more until you nearly throw him over-but he does not react at all.

“Oh boy... What on earth happened to you?” You bite you lip and begin to look around. He’s too heavy for you to carry on your own and also too far away to yell for help or assistance.

You should have dragged Twilight with you.

Suddenly he takes a deep breath and blinks rapidly, shaking himself back into the present. 

You freeze and tense up considerably as you watch him come back to himself.

Wild stretches and looks up at the sky before standing up. “Twilight’s not going to like this.”

“No. I don’t think so.” You reply.

He freezes as well and looks at you by only shifting his eyes. “How long were you here for?”

“A while...” You admit. “Maybe fifteen minutes. You were gone for over an hour. I got worried.”

“Oh. That’s not so bad then.”

“You ok?” You gulp and slowly drop your shoulders from your ears and unclench your fists.

“Yup. Peachy.”

You nod and continue to lower your guard- not trusting this one bit. “May I ask what that was?”

“Just a memory.” He shrugs and tries to walk past you.

“A memory?” You frown and turn on your heel to follow him. “A memory? I shook you head enough to nearly throw you into the water and you claim it was because of a flashback? I’ve heard of disassociation before but I think this is more like astral projection through dimensions. You were completely gone!”

“It happens from time to time. Nothing to worry about.”

“What if something came up behind you and killed you?” You argue. “I’d say that’s something to worry about. Does this happen often?”

“Everyone once in a while. Maybe once every other month. It depends really. It doesn’t happen as often as it did in the beginning though.” Wild admits and gestures for you to follow him.

You do- but you keep asking him questions.

“So this is normal?”

“For me? Yes.”

“For you?”

“I...” Wild hisses slightly as another thought comes to his mind. “I never told you did I?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about but I’m going to assume that no, you didn’t.”

“I get memories from my old life from time to time when something triggers them. I used to have amnesia but I’ve got most of the my memories back at this point... By now it’s just filling in little blanks.” Wild shrugs. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh...” Understanding calms you somewhat. At least it’s not a magic spell or anything. “How did you get amnesia? Do you remember that?”

Wild stops in his tracks and looks at the ground momentarily before looking up again and walking forward. “I died.”

“I’m sorry what?”

“I died.”

“Huh?”

“I. Died.”

“WILD!” You tense up again and follow him without hesitation. “What do you mean you died? Did you heart just stop or were you like blow up or something- Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I’m being super insensitive right now, aren’t I? But I don’t understand! I don’t- Wild- Link- you can’t just drop a bomb like that. Are you like a ghost or something? No. Wait. You can bleed and I’ve seen you crash into more walls and rocks than I care to admit.”

“This isn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting.” Wild frowns and cuts you off. 

“ArE YOu oK?!”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“But that’s not what I mean- How can that even make sense-”

“Where did you think I got my scars from?” Wild cuts you off once more with a barely restrained snort as he bites his lip.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m fine I promise.”

“Wild nooo....” You whine and Wild thinks for a minute that the information upset you so much that you’re going to cry. “Who did it? I’ll kill them with my bare hands. Who hurt you?”

Wild comes to a full stop again and sighs. Deep and tired but he tilts his head and offers you his hand. “Do you want the short story or the long?”

“Long story please.”

For the first time since this conversation started, Wild smiles even if it’s faint and subtle. “Alright, let’s take the scenic route back. This might take a while.”

Part 2

[sandbees]

Once everyone befriends Demon slayer Yuu like in canon (Despite the rocky start) they notice that they seem to experience a lot of aches in their body. One day they walk in on Yuu changing on accident and it's only then that they see first hand just how bad the scars are. Like gigantic claw marks on their front and back, burn wounds, sword slashes, littering their back to the point where there's almost no untouched skin left, stab wounds dangerously close to their heart and one that goes through their entire body like they were skewered. Permanent bruise scars on their neck and such.

I especially want to know your opinion on Crowley's reaction. Kid's been through so much, having them live in the Ramshackle dorm with it's current state is kind of cruel.

(Hope you don't mind me sending this even though you haven't seen Kny I just love this crossover alot)

No, it’s fine! This crossover is pretty interesting.

Hmm...I think Crowley would look at the scars in shock, and also mild horror. (Oh god, Bird Father instincts are kicking in-). Depending on if Yuu has attachment to Ramshackle, Crowley would definitely move them out of the dorm since it is pretty dangerous.

If Yuu doesn’t want to move out of Ramshackle, he’ll have the place renovated so that it’s much more nicer. (Well, nicer in the interior).

Did they get those cuts and bruises from there? Should he get Crewel to heal those wounds (or use magic to erase them?).

I bet Yuu has a lot of scars that are visible. (The uniforms (aside from the PE clothing) barely shows anything). Most can see the few cuts and scars on their legs and arms. (ALSO HEADCANNON THAT YUU HAS A LONG SCAR ON THEIR CHEEK. NO REASON, BUT I THINK IT’D LOOK COOL)

Anyways, if one of the cast saw a big scar...that opens a can of worms.

Generally, I’d leave what kinds of scars Yuu has to the reader’s creative interpretation, HOWEVER, there is this one scar that’s bigger than the others. It’s on their back, three claw scratches that are larger than a bear’s claw.

Something, or someone left those there, and Yuu keeps silent when anyone asks. (It wasn’t their fault - was it? They had their back turned and trusted their partner - their friend. Look what happened then)

Each scar holds a story of trauma, and when Yuu...when Yuu feels ready, they’ll share it.

[tvfangirladdict]

This scene for me, right here, this is what made me look at them and think, oh, I might get to see a slash ship become canon. Like, for real, this might not all be hopeful thinking and hallucinating.

Anything else on this show, I can see writers and producers kind of glossing over and slapping a "platonic" badge on, because yes, they've become close, and Eddie trusts Buck with his kid and all that, but it doesn't have to scream romantic if they don't want it to, you know? The words they've exchanged could just as easily have come from two brothers I think, if that'show they want to play it. I mean, it's pretty common to make friends and siblings the godparents of your children, it's what my parents did. That's just my opinion anyway, I've got like Destiel PTSD or something, I've seen queerbaiting at it's finest and so I've seen just how a show can pass this stuff off as platonic.

If this were IRL, I might feel different, where their feelings were real and not manufactured and chosen. But because the outcome of their relationship is being decided by the showrunners/execs/production company, whomever, I just think that no matter what they allude to or whatever subtext we read, they'll have the final say and it's usually not what we want from them.

Anyway, sorry, ADHD tangent aside. There's something about this scene that just always screamed sexual attraction to me in a way no other scene has. Like, the fluffy, romantic, emotional stuff we read in other scenes is one thing, but for me, this is purely a physical attraction. It's in the body language, Buck's slow swagger approach, his hand on his belt, the two of them making eye contact and looking away, Eddie angled back and away like he's afraid of what he's feeling. This scene just has a electric feel I never got from anybody their other scenes.

I feel like this physical aspect of it is what seals it as a slash relationship for me, more than anything else that's happened between them. You want to play the rest of it off as platonic? Sure, go ahead, we've seen that before. But how could you play this off as anything other than what it is? Two guys who want each other.

Does that make sense to anyone else? Or have I just deluded myself into seeing what's not really there again?

This ended up way longer than it was supposed to be, wow. If you've made it this far and are still reading, I'm sorry.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Are very, very old friends

My Masterlist 

Your heart and my heart (first part of this)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: A second part to Your heart and my heart, where Ivar and Reader were childhood friends (and pretended to get married when they were children) and got separated by circumstances of life, only to meet again on a battlefield in Wessex.

Word Count: 9.8k (I am so fucking sorry, holy shit)

Warnings: My unwavering state of denial over Aslaug’s death, mentions/descriptions of injury/battle, allusions to sex (nothing graphic), and my terrible writing lol

A/N: I hope you are no longer surprised by how I seem to be able to focus only on the stuff I need to focus on the least, bc here we are. Writing has been very difficult lately, so I am not so sure this is any good, but I still hope you enjoy.

As a reminder: In this universe the brothers (minus Björn) are in Wessex with the Great Heathen Army but Aslaug isn’t dead (Lagertha never took over). This is an almost 6a in age Ivar, but of course a different canon where he has stayed raiding in England. And Princess Blaeja (who was briefly mentioned in the previous part) is engaged to be married to Sigurd.

Your eyes cannot move fast enough to take in the field ahead of you, trying to check every trap and every barricade. Even if you were to find a fault, you remind yourself, you wouldn’t be able to change anything.

Hlíf comes to you, brisk pace that you can still see the exhaustion in, and stands at your side, shield with your colors and your symbol. It looks heavy.

“They are coming, Dane.”

“I know,” A deep breath, and you signal with your head to the center of the camp, “Go back, you’ll lead them to hold the second line. The Saxons will breach the first one.”

“You are not staying here.”

You don’t meet Hlíf’s gaze, instead meeting the eye of a few shieldmaidens that stand tall ahead, waiting for the Saxons to come. They nod their heads once, they know what they are agreeing to.

“We are.”

The forward scouts sound the horns, and before long the marching feet of warriors makes the unfamiliar ground tremble under your feet. Your hands tighten on the handle of your sword, and you take a breath.

Hlíf steps closer, but her gait ins anxious, “You better retreat to us when the time comes, Dane. You are not allowed to die here.”

“Says who?”

Hlíf grunts a curse, but retreats behind the second line of spike barriers.

You’ve been hounded by this group for weeks, ever since you and your warriors departed for York back from a successful raid. You aren’t sure if they are from that city or sent to intercept you from somewhere else, but they are bloodthirsty and determined.

Making camp was a necessity, especially with the wounded and weakened you have in your group, but the years have made you ingenuous, and the months you’ve spent with the Great Army have taught you to use the surroundings in your favor.

Your warriors dug ditches and laid spikes within them, much like you remember hearing Lagertha did when she assisted Aslaug in defending Kattegat, and while you didn’t have the defenses of walls, you made sure to draw passageways with the placement of the tents, to lure the Saxons to follow a path you know by heart when they came.

And now you stand, restless in your spot, waiting for them to get close enough for your archers to thin their numbers, for the frakka’s of those closer to you to take down the stronger ones.

It is not enough, but you never expected it to be.

Once they get close enough, you shout the command to march, and your forces and theirs clash.

The sound of battle deafens you, shouts in two different tongues and death in the same language echoing around you. Still, you seem to hear the faintest of rustles, and you lift your shield as you turn, stopping the downward strike of a Saxon.

Pushing back while you bend your knees, you unbalance him, slashing at his thighs before you plunge your sword in his chest. He meets your eyes, and spits blood in your face before his strength leaves him.

So, it is personal then.

You keep moving, blunt hits of your shield and quick strikes of your sword, taking down as many as you can, worrying more for injuring them and weakening them before they reach the more vulnerable in the camp more than for killing them.

Maybe that is your mistake.

The sword slashes at your leg, the pain sharp and weakening, and your stance buckles. You turn around with a raised shield to try and defend yourself, but you are too close to the ground and the warrior puts all his strength behind his kick and forces you to the ground.

Scrambling to turn on your back and grabbing a discarded axe, you stop the advance of his sword, but your arms burn under the strain, and his snarling face reminds you of a chained dog too close to breaking free.

It isn’t enough. You have no choice.

Releasing the strain of holding him back, you are able to swing your arm back and hit the side of his neck with the hand axe, but not before his sword pierces your shoulder, drawing a scream of pain from you.

Pushing him off you, you stand on uneven ground, trying to make sense of the battle around you and keeping your defenses against the Saxons that are still very much after your blood.

Your shield once again on your hand, you stop the attack of a younger warrior, slashing his chest with a move of your arm that feels weaker and trembling even as you manage to deliver a fatal blow.

Another manages to get close enough to bit the edge of his shield against your wounded leg, and his sword slashes at your side, drawing blood and blinding pain in its wake. He is taken down by a snarling shieldmaiden that comes to stand at your side, and your eyes scan the first line of the camp’s defenses already breached.

You are outnumbered, you are not going to win. Not like this.

“Through the east!” You call out in your own tongue, not waiting for any of the few that remain able to fight to acknowledge your command before you dart for the passageways you can make use of.

You are close enough to the second line of barricades to cross it if you wish to, but your mind is made. The Saxons trailing after you and the few others that still stand, they make quick work of your shieldmaidens soon enough, and you grit your teeth at the screams of pain you can do nothing to stop.

Most of them were foolish enough to think you were retreating, and they trailed after you and the remaining warriors.

Reaching the end of the alleyway, you turn around, standing on shaky legs and lifting one hand. Breathing past the pain is proving difficult, and there’s black at the edges of your vision, but you can still make out the shapes above you, and those that stand next to you.

You close your hand into a fist, meet the eyes of the Saxons that seem to hesitate to approach. They will always fear a heathen woman that smiles while surrounded by blood and death, the fearful -faithful- will call her a monster and insist she is not human.

They fear, they hesitate. And that is enough.

And you drop your hand, the weakest of smiles on your lips as you give one last command,

“Loose.”

____

The first thing you can sense when you awaken is the pain, and the weight keeping you down. Awful, but at least you aren’t dead.

You open your eyes slowly, half expecting to see the murky forests of the Isles towering above you after having been left behind by the Saxons to bleed out slowly and painfully; half expecting something with women on winged horses and a lot of golden shades.

But all that greets you is wood.

Inconsequential, unimpressive, mediocre wood. Yet, your body is filled with such a relief you almost give in to the temptation to doze off again.

Still, you force your body to answer and you sit up on the cot, breaths ragged as the wound on your shoulder sends pain like lightning through your very veins. And slowly, painfully, and with more curses than your mother would like out of a princess, you stand up.

Just when you are considering what the plan after standing up actually was, a woman barges into the room.

“Oh, you’re standing,” She says, and you lift your eyebrows but say nothing. She tsks her tongue, and approaches, her eyes focused on your upper chest, “You shouldn’t be.”

“I would think it was a good sign.”

“Which is why you do the fighting, not the thinking,” She quips, a quirk of her mouth as she glances at you. Quite mean, for an old woman, but still you offer a smile as well. Her palm presses lightly against your shoulder, before going to your side. “You’re not too hot.”

You pout, “Aw, shame.”

“And you seem to be in good spirits.” She chuckles.

You meet her eyes and lean closer, asking quietly,

“That will change soon, though, won’t it?”

“You are the reason a lot of people are angry, yes,” She confesses, before stepping back, “You also are the reason a lot of people are alive as well. Make sure they remember that, and you may keep your head.”

With a non-committal gesture you step past her, a hand on the doorway keeping you upright as you meet the gaze of the expecting shieldmaidens. They call your name and a few expletives in greeting, some in anger, some in welcome, but all in relief.

“While I love seeing you all alive and well, I…have a feeling at least one of you is here under specific instructions.” You state, a quirk of your eyebrow when one of the younger ones stands up, and slips out of the house quietly, with a murmur of being glad you are alright.

You sigh, and though one of them offers you a seat you highly doubt you’ll be able to stand if you sit down, so you wave away her offer, and lean on the doorway.

“Did the rest make it?”

“Most of them, yes. The injured are going to be escorted back, they couldn’t make it on their o-…”

The words die in a gasp as the door to the humble home is kicked open, and a tall shieldmaiden strides in, eyes blazing and set on you.

“You mad Dane bitch!”

“I have a name,” You quip as the shieldmaiden advances towards you. “It is a very pretty one, my mother chose i-…”

She shoves you forcefully, stopping whatever it is you were going to say.

You stumble back but catch yourself before falling, and you can’t help but let out a grunt of pain as your side is pulled tight by the sudden and forceful movement. The healer quips from the room at your back something about not injuring the already injured further, but you both ignore her it seems.

Hlíf still pushes on, “Of all the hare-brained, reckless, st-…”

“Hey!”

“You don’t scare me, Dane,” She huffs back, stepping forward until the shieldmaiden towers over you. “Half dead as you are because of your stupid decisions, you aren’t a threat to anyone, least of all me.”

In the back of your mind, a voice that sounds so alike your brother’s, always calm and collected; begs you not to do this.

You were never good at listening to him, though.

Headbutting one of your oldest friends wasn’t high in the list of things you wanted to do if you ever came back from the dead but…here we are.

Hlíf stumbles back, holding her nose and setting incredulous eyes on you.

Strangely enough, the tension seems to slowly ebb away with the unexpected action.

“I like proving people wrong.” You tell her around a shrug, slowly betraying a smile that she returns, even if there’s a resentful sort of relief in the way she approaches again and presses her brow against yours.

“You are so lucky you’re injured.”

“I wouldn’t call it-…”

“I would. I’d be knocking your pretty ass to the ground if you weren’t,” She promises, and scoffs a laugh that sounds like a reprimand, “You scared me, Dane.”

You meet her eyes, study the dark circles under them, the haggardness on her face, the stubborn tremble in her voice; and realize maybe you weren’t the only one to believe you’d die in that forest.

“How long has it been?”

“A little over a week since we made it to York.” She tells you, motioning for a seat, and motioning again when you refuse it. Stubborn.

You carefully sit down before the fire, narrowing your eyes at the girl that attempts to cover your legs with a fur. You are injured, but you’re far from an old woman.

Though you do accept the awful-smelling brew of herbs the healer presses into your hand before scurrying off back to the room where you were sleeping.

Watching the herbs swirl in the cup, you mumble, “You know, I did the right thing there.”

Hlíf’s kohl-lined eyes narrow, “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

You gesture with the arm of your good side, “I wasn’t the one leading them! For once I followed orders and we got stuck, it isn’t my fault!”

Hlíf’s eyes only grow bigger and bigger in affront and fury at your insistence, and you decide to shut your mouth.

“You defended when you could have retreated, even though you were wounded, and alone.”

“When you put it like that of cou-…”

She interrupts you, her tone cold and imposing as she repeats, “You defended when you could have retreated, even though you were wounded, and alone.”

“I heard you the first time.”

She offers a side smile, head tilted to the side, “Huh, you listen. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“That is uncalled for, come on.”

Hlíf looks at you, blinks slowly two times, and takes a breath.

“You defended when you could ha-…” She starts again, but you interrupt her with a shove of her good shoulder and a huffed laugh. She does have a point, however insistent she is at repeating it.

“I panicked, I…I needed to give you more time to leave safely, without Saxons trailing after you. I needed to stall them.” You confess quietly, fidgeting with your fingers, elbows resting on your knees, ignoring the soreness on your side as your position strains at the healing wound.

“You agreed to retreat if you were outnumbered, but you didn’t.”

“There were still some traps that hadn’t been used, I could lure them to the east side, and it worked, the archers made work of the thick of their numbers.”

“You were half-dead by the time that happened.” She insists, biting.

“All that matters is that most made it out. It was the right call.”

“If I hadn’t insisted we go back to find you, you would be dead,” She argues, though her voice quietens as well. “You’d be alone in that damn place, we wouldn’t even be able to bury you.”

That is not something you want to think much about, and with your gaze on the flickering flames you press quietly, “Do you want me to apologize, is that it?”

“No.”

“What do you want then?”

“I don’t know, Dane. What do you want?” At your confused frown the shieldmaiden shrugs, “Coming back from the dead and all, figured I could grant you at least one thing.”

“Those Saxons that hunted us down strung up on a tree?” You ask, only half-jesting. Hlíf doesn’t laugh though, she only presses her lips together.

“Can’t do that, Dane. They have been handled already.”

You really shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Still, you ask the question to which you already know the answer,

“Ivar?”

“Poured melted crosses onto their heads, left some alive after it too. Gruesome thing,” She explains, and you nod your head with a hum, wondering how long ago that was and trying to imagine how exactly they were captured so quickly. Hlíf watches you with growing worry, “I don’t know if I should be concerned about your reaction, or…lack of it rather.”

“You get used to it after a while.”

She scoffs, shaking her head, “You do.”

After a few breaths of silence, Hlíf calls your name quietly. She usually calls you ‘Dane’, a habit that never left her since the first days you were fighting together, when you first were able to call yourself a shieldmaiden.

When your attention turns to her, she says, “I’m sorry for shoving you.”

You look into her pale eyes, offer a smile and a nod.

“You should be.” You quip, and after an incredulous breath Hlíf heaves a sigh.

“You could say you’re sorry too, Dane.” The shieldmaiden chuckles, still oddly fond in her defeat.

“I’m not, though.” You reply around a shrug, sharing a smile with her.

The conversation ebbs away as you hear a voice distantly shouting commands, a voice you know well.

“Where is she!?”

“Oh, great.”

Furious stabs of a crutch on the hard ground, and the door opens just as many shieldmaidens scurry away, making way for Ivar the Boneless. His eyes meet yours with a fury you have never seen before, a snarl on his lips and tension coiled around his body like a vine.

When he speaks, though, his voice denotes none of that. His voice is carefully even, dangerously still, reminding you of a beast stalling its breath before it strikes.

For a man as explosive as him, calmness is never a good sign.

“What. Were. You. Thinking.”

Your nose furrows, and you offer with a grimace, “I…wasn’t?”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I know. I’m the one that almost died, remember?” You prompt, but he doesn’t answer. You nod your head, not really sure what to do, muttering to yourself, “Serious business, dying.”

Hlíf lets out a choked groan, before advising, voice low, “You should really just shut your mouth, Dane.”

Ivar turns to her, the sharp focus of his pale gaze making the shieldmaiden straighten in her seat.

“Get out.” He orders, voice low. You see it in her, the pride insisting on resisting and the instinct pleading to obey.

Instinct wins, and after sparing you a look Hlíf stands up, and motions with her head for the other shieldmaidens to follow, leaving you and Ivar alone in the small home.

It feels even smaller as his gaze returns to you, it even feels almost suffocating as Ivar takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders but says nothing.

You clear your throat, and start what you hope will be a conversation and not a screaming match.

“I am not apologizing for the choice I made.”

An angry breath leaves him through his nose, sharply. His eyes remain on you, quiet intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Of course you’re not,” Ivar bites out, before shaking his head at himself, “I can’t believe you’d be so-…”

“It was the right call, Ivar.”

He wrenches his gaze from you, looking straight ahead. For a moment you wonder if he refuses to look at you because he thinks he can hide anything from you. Because he should know better, because he should know by now you are aware of the way his jaw tightens, of the way his breaths are intentionally -forcefully- even, of the way anger and pride are the only thing keeping his control from slipping.

“You could have died.”

“And?”

His focus returns to you, and you snap your mouth shut.

Wrong thing to say, wrong thing to say, wrong thing to say.

Ivar’s eyes widen in anger, and when he takes a breath he seems to be twice as tall.

“And!?” He repeats, voice thundering, “You almost died! You…” His nose curls in anger, but there’s something more fragile in his wide eyes, something like fear, “You spent days in that damn bed, they told me it was in the hands of the Gods whether you survived or didn’t.”

A pit of worry forms in your stomach, and you quieten your voice, trying to offer reassurance, “I pulled through, I-I am alright.”

But it falls on deaf ears.

“You were there, dying, and there was nothing I could do,” A sharp breath, but it sounds choked, “You would have gone where I can’t follow, I-…there was nothing to do, nothing I could-…I c-couldn’t-…”

“Ivar…”

He turns to you, accusing, “I was unable to do anything while you died, while you left me.”

“I didn’t die, I am alright.”

“You almost did.”

“That’s-…”

His lip curls into a snarl and your eyes are drawn to the scar on the right side of his mouth, the scar you are responsible for. The process of healing from the deep cut you left that first day you were reunited was a slow one for him, especially because of how much you insisted on finding ways to make him smile and then grumble at the sting of a reopened cut. And now your eyes are drawn to that scar, watching it follow the movement of his mouth as it curls in anger.

“No, I don’t want to hear it,” He interrupts you, a gesture of his hand. “You made the wrong choice. You put yourself in danger when you didn’t need to.”

“If I hadn’t, most of my shieldmaidens would be dead now. We couldn’t fight them directly, Ivar, we had too many wounded.”

He walks past you, the stabs of the crutch on the ground still more forceful than they need to be, and pours himself some mead in one of the unused cups, his back to you.

A deep breath, and before he drinks he offers, “You should have left them behind.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

You move to walk forward, but putting too much weight on your injured leg makes pain shoot through you. You falter, and you try hiding it but you know Ivar notices, judging by the way his eyes narrow.

Still, you insist, slowly walking closer, “What is a few shieldmaidens against all the people we went there to aid? It is a sacrifice we all were willing t-…”

He gestures with his free arm, stopping you, “Well it isn’t a sacrifice I’m willing to make! Not if it costs me you!”

You are stunned into silence, whatever words that were to leave your mouth dying on your lips with a gasp.

Ivar glares at you as if you were somehow responsible for him saying something he hadn’t meant to, a twitch of anger that makes his furrow his nose and his lips press together in a line.

He moves to one of the chairs by the fire, taking a few breaths through his nose that you are sure are meant to be calming but sound equally as angry as before.

You still have nothing to say, no words to leave your lips.

There’s a part of you that never let go of him in all those years you spent -grew- apart, and in these months you have spent with the army, leading your own forces under Ivar and his brothers’ commands, learning from them -from him- many things and offering a few tricks of your own, conquering new lands and fighting new battles; your foolish heart has started to speak of hopes that could never be, has started to feel light like it never did before, as if it and his own heart recognize each other even after all the years and the scars.

Ivar takes a breath, discarding the crutch on the chair by his side.

“I…I never forgot you, you know. Not when you left Kattegat, not when father died and we came to England, not-…I never forgot you,” His eyes linger on yours for a moment, before Ivar turns his head and looks back ahead, clear tell of gritted teeth as he confesses, “I kept an eye on you, through the years. I had men near Ribe when you and your brother fought for it so that they could tell me the outcome of the battle.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, and you slowly take a seat by his side.

“I…I never knew.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” He retorts without missing a beat, hesitating before continuing, “I always hoped we’d meet again. With what I’ve done, with what I’ve accomplished, I hoped that maybe I’d find you again and I could give you enough reasons to stay this time.”

Quietly, you offer, “I never wanted to leave.”

“I know that now,” He assures you, the slightest of movements of his head that you think was supposed to be a nod. Ivar’s eyes lift to yours, and he says, so low you almost miss it, “I just found you again, I can’t…I can’t lose you.”

You don’t know what to say, you don’t know how to put into words what his words are doing to your foolish heart, to the heart that has always been his.

“Ivar…” You start, not certain of what you’re trying to say.

But it doesn’t matter.

Ivar leans forward surprisingly quickly, pressing his lips against yours. The touch of his lips on yours is urgent and hurried, shaky and inexperienced; leaving behind wide blue eyes that look into yours as if desperate for an answer to a question that isn’t a question at all.

You sigh shakily, but your mouth trembles into a smile, and with barely a moment of hesitation, you cross the distance between you again and kiss him, this time deeply, this time eagerly, this time ardently.

There’s the desperation of having lost too much time without this in the way his hold on you is tight and frantic, there’s the anguish of having thought lost you forever in the way your name leaves him in a choked gasp when you part for air, there’s the relief and the elation of finally having you within reach in the way he doesn’t let your lips part from his for any moment, a faint sound of protest from somewhere deep in his chest whenever you pull away.

You finally part but don’t move too far, it seems both of you unwilling to let much space come between you. Breaths labored, you whisper,

“I have wanted to do that for a long time.”

“You have?”

In any other man the question would be a blatant seeking of praise, and maybe it is in him too, but there’s something else too, something more fragile, something more vulnerable. Like some part of him never ceased to be the boy you kissed before you were to leave Kattegat, like some part of him will never truly believe how wanted he can be, how loved.

“I never forgot you either, Ivar,” You confess quietly, lifting the hand you can and tracing the side of his face, the scar on his cheekbone, the scar you claim of your own over his lip. “I could never forget you.”

His smile is awed, and softer than you ever thought it could be, and more boyish than it should be allowed to be for the sake of your foolish heart, that skips a beat in your chest.

With the crackling of fire and the feel of him under your hands, you forget the passing of time, you forget the soreness of your body, you forget everything except him.

You exchange secrets and promises in the shape of kisses that linger always in between adoration and hunger; and after a while, with your fingers trailing absently over the scar on his mouth, you offer your regret.

“I was reckless,” You tell him, resisting the urge to curl the hand on the side of his face into a fist when you notice how much it trembles. “I…I should have retreated. I am sorry.”

“I was…I was stuck here, unable to do anything. I couldn’t go fight with you, I couldn’t go search for you,” There’s the familiar resentment -at the world, at Fate-, and you say nothing, but your hand moves towards the back of his neck and tries to offer a soothing caress. Ivar continues, “I can’t will my stupid legs to work as they should, but I can…I can keep you safe. You have to let me keep you safe.”

“You cannot keep me from death, no one can,” You remind him, before acquiescing, “I promise I…I will be more careful, I will not make pointless sacrifices.”

Even if it wasn’t pointless to you at the time, it is the best way you can word it.

And, judging by the faint and almost shaky nod Ivar offers in acceptance of your words, it was the right thing to say.

____

Ivar had planned to make the journey back to York and raid from there one more time, while matters about his plans to settle in the Isles are solved, and originally you were planning on going with him.

However, he insists you need to rest and heal so he won’t let you fight, and you insist being bedridden will only make you go mad, so you reach a compromise. You and Ivar discuss the details of the agreement as the healer checks the wound on your shoulder, and when he is to leave you notice the way he hesitates before he does, eyes travelling to your lips before meeting yours.

You smile, but then his pale eyes travel to the woman that is cleaning her hands with her back turned to the both of you, and you understand the question.

Being Ivar the Boneless’ woman is not something you would ever feel shame for being, or wish to hide, and though you do have your reservations about what it would mean as a commander of your own share of forces within the Great Army to be so close to one of the sons of Ragnar, you know no fear of rumors is with making Ivar believe you are ashamed of being his.

Instead of voicing your answer to the question he doesn’t ask, you just tilt your chin up, eyes on his.

Ivar’s smile is a tad on the shy side, a tad overwhelmed, but he still dutifully leans down and captures your mouth in his, promising to meet with you again after you’ve spent time with your warriors.

He leaves, and before long, as the healer changes the bandages on your leg and shoulder, you hear the familiar sounds of your friends settling again in the small home. It makes a pang of what you refuse to call regret go through your heart, at the thought of how easily accustomed they are to spending time at this home, waiting to know if you would survive or not.

You take a breath, and walk out to meet them.

Vígdís, one of the elder shieldmaidens, doesn’t even look up from the piece of chicken she is carefully pulling apart with her fingers as she states dryly, “I was betting he would kill you.”

“I’m glad you gals are on my side, really.”

Hlíf swallows a mouthful of chicken and points the drumstick at you, “Hey, I bet you’d kill him.”

You look at her with a frown before conceding, “Actually, that’s flattering.”

She offers a toothy smile, and encourages you, “Yeah, you could take him!”

Vígdís scoffs, “Oh, she wants to,” At your glare the older woman only shrugs one shoulder, “Or the other way around. You don’t have a preference, do you, Dane?”

“Anyhow,” You drawl out, turning to the others, “I suggest you prepare your belongings and say your goodbyes. We won’t raid with Ivar and Hvitserk in these lands, our forces are needed elsewhere. We will be travelling to East Anglia in a fortnight.”

Hlíf scoffs, “One hell of a spat you two had, huh?”

“Wh-…? You know, I really don’t want to hear it. Just…do what you must.”

“I’m just saying, your love life is taking us all over England, Dane.”

“Shut your mouth already.” You grumble, but Hlíf’s brazen laughter resonates in the small home.

____

In the days that go by -way too quickly for your liking- before you are to depart to East Anglia, you find yourself drunk on the foolish happiness of having within reach what you never truly thought you’d have.

It is three nights before you leave that in the quiet of your shared room Ivar presses his lips to yours with a softness that is jarringly unlike him, and breathed over your lips the most hushed I love you.

It was that same night that you tangled your fingers in his hair and drew him back against you, not able or willing to resist the temptation to flick your tongue over the scarred side of his lip to make one of those choked little sounds leave his lips; and when he kissed you back hungrily pulled back to promise the same, just as softly even if you vowed it fiercely, I love you.

And now you are to depart. Standing in the stables and watching as your shieldmaidens and warriors finish loading their belongings and the supplies for the road.

Ivar is next to you, leaning against a wall with an arm secured around your waist and allowing you to rest slightly on his chest.

“Take some of my men with you.” He insists, for what must be the thousandth time since you made the agreement to part until the last month of the spring.

“I don’t need protection,” You remind him, leaning back a bit so you can see his face, “If I remember correctly, and I do, last time it was you who needed help from me.”

“I didn’t need help.”

“Of course not, love.”

Ivar takes a deep breath at your mocking tone, choosing instead to insist, “Just take those men with you.”

“No.” You tell him, one last pat of your hand on his chest before you turn to walk away.

Before you can pull away his free hand grasps yours, and you easily give in to the slight pull, turning back to met him and stepping closer again.

Ivar tilts his head down so he can look you in the eye, something dark and tempting shining through his expression as his mouth curves into a crooked smile.

“I thought wives are supposed to obey their husbands?”

Your heart does a foolish thing in your chest, beating out of rhythm as if trying to leave your chest and burrow into his. Still, you stare him down with your head tilted to the side, and all the answer you offer is a dry reminder,

“‘Countless sons and daughters’, Ivar. If we are holding each other accountable for those promises, we ought to start there.”

He wants to argue, you know he does. And you aren’t entirely convinced some of the warriors that join your forces because they want to aid Ubbe are there at all for him, but you have no evidence, so you shut your mouth and just make sure to keep an eye on them.

As you expected, they act as your bodyguards, no matter how much you try pushing them away.

And so time passes, and in your time on the road towards Soham you are able to heal well enough, slowly getting back to training with Hlíf and Vígdís. And by the time you reach Soham, where Ubbe awaits support to hold on to the city, you are able to fight once again.

And how you dearly missed it.

Time becomes a blur after that. Soham proves to be more difficult to hold than expected, and so your forces remain a while longer before moving to Dunwich where you manage to take over relatively easy, since the Saxon forces retreated from the coastal city.

The years made you capable, and the Gods made you arrogant.

Which is why, as the warriors from Dunwich start retreating, following their Lord’s commands, you, standing still close enough to the edges of the frontlines that Saxons scurry around you, take a knee and pretend to catch your breath.

The footsteps behind you are predictable, and you tighten your hold on the shield. When the warrior gets close enough and tries striking, you lift your shield, catching his arm on the edge of it as you stand up.

You twist your arm holding on to the shield, feeling the strain in his own and hearing his surprised scream of pain.

It snaps out of place under the strain, and satisfied, you let go of him with a push. He stumbles forward and tries grabbing onto a dropped sword with his uninjured arm, and you let him.

Readying your stance, you notice two others refuse to retreat as well now that their countryman is fighting, but make no notice of them as you stride forward, driving your sword through him, ignoring his pitiful attempt at deflecting it.

You approach the other two, shield tightly grasped, and push back against the strike of the first one against your shield, deflecting the sword of the second one with your own.

Making use of your smaller size, you quickly spin in your place and slash the neck of one of them, lifting your shield just in time to stop the attack of the second one.

But he lets out a grunt, falls down before you can kill him. The Saxon falls on his face, an axe protruding from his back.

You lift your eyes to meet those of an unfamiliar warrior, who stands proudly and offers you a nod.

“You’re welcome.”

Walking past him and not bothering to hide your distaste, you insist, “I didn’t need any help, and certainly not from you.”

He proves to be more insistent than you would have thought, and for too many nights you have to bear him sitting close by to you, trying to impress you with one tale or another. The man is unbearably persistent on either bedding you or courting you, and as the days go by after the fight for Dunwich, he proves to not be the only one.

Until, eventually, you can’t take it anymore.

____

“I’m going to need an explanation for that.” Hlíf asks, a broad smile on her lips and eyes shining with mirth.

You grit your teeth and start walking away, but of course she follows.

The winds of East Anglia are biting, and the ground under your feet is still softer and so different than that of your home, but in the time that has passed since you and your warriors joined the Great Army you have learned to be as familiar with this foreign land of England as you once were with your own.

Granted, the incessant waves at the coast and the ever-present sea salt in the air that characterize Dunwich are not something you are planning on getting used to any time soon. You really just want to get back to York.

“I shouldn’t have saved her ass at Soham.” You mutter to yourself, even if you know you don’t mean it.

“I heard that!”

“You proved you have ears, congratulations.”

She skips the few steps she was lagging behind, walking at your side and matching your stride with a wide grin that you choose to ignore.

“Thank you, but I’m married,” She quotes, the mirth coming through in her voice, and she laughs to herself, “Gods above, Dane, what kind of answer is that?”

“He was insistent, and I couldn’t exactly fist fight one of Ubbe’s trusted men,” You explain, your voice a grumble when you add, “Tis not my fault if the prick heard I was a princess and suddenly decided he needed to have me.”

“You sure it was your title? After seeing you fight when we took this city, I’m not surprised so many want you.”

“Hey, I appreciate the compliment, don’t get me wrong,” You quip, sparing a glance to her, “But if you’re trying to court me, I’m afraid it will go as well as it did for Olvir.”

On her lips grows once again the mischievous and devilish smile, and the shieldmaiden tilts her head to the side as she says, “Oh, I know that, because you’re married.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why lie?”

“It wasn’t a lie.”

“If you think you’re making sense, prepare for disappointment.”

You shrug your shoulders, “It’s…complicated.”

“Well, the whole camp will soon hear about you telling Olvir you’re married, so we might as well get the story right: are you taken, Dane?”

Blunt, and to the point, not that you expected anything different from Hlíf.

You consider your words before answer, slowly, “Yes.”

She chuckles, shoulder knocking against yours playfully, “Ah, so who is the fool that has your heart but isn’t staking a claim?”

“He has, you just haven’t noticed.”

She stops walking, and so you too stop, turning to look at her wide eyes and offering a shrug of your shoulders again.

“You mean…” You nod, and past the surprise she finds it in her to laugh, shaking her head in amazement, “Oh, you really are a mad woman, aren’t you?”

“Well, we are technically married. I can’t turn my back on a bond before the Gods, right?”

She shakes her head with a chuckle, “So that is why you have been so insufferable, you miss York. I just thought you really hated East Anglia.”

“I really hate East Anglia.”

“Of course, Dane.”

____

You return to York as dawn breaks, and you don’t have time to get off your horse before Hvitserk is standing there, arms crossed over his chest and leaning with one shoulder on the entrance to the stables.

He offers his older brother a nod of his head as greeting, but Ubbe passes him by and Hvitserk keeps his eyes on you.

He blurts out, “You are married?”

“Hello to you too. I am glad to see you alive and well, dear Hvitserk.”

“You are married.”

You look at him, at his smug little smile and his warm eyes shining with mirth, and take a deep breath.

“You should know, you were there at the wedding.”

His sniggering laughter follows you as you walk away, but you forget your irritation quite quickly as you find Ivar in the rustle of movement, determined and uneven steps carrying him towards you.

Your smile is wide and lovesick and foolish, but you do not care for hiding it. His is quieter, more secret, but it doesn’t fail to make your heart skip a beat in your chest.

Ivar’s free hand grasps at the back of your neck once you are close enough, bringing your mouth to his with urgency, quickly letting the kiss become passionate as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Your hands find purchase on his hips, and more than ever you hate the armor that doesn’t let you feel him his warmth, his strength- under your fingers.

“I missed you.” You whisper quietly when you part, your brow pressed against his.

He blinks his eyes open, more than a little dazed, and the look in his eyes -the need, the adoration, the everything- makes a pang of heat go through you, threaten to set you alight with only a look.

“And I you.” He finally tells you, quiet voice rough.

You barely have time to be alone with Ivar before obligations pull you apart, a feast to welcome back the forces Ubbe and the Princess of Ribe, a reunion to exchange tales of victory and be together with those that were missed in the months apart.

Granted, that means that they don’t let you be together with the one you missed the most in those months apart, but you don’t have it in you to complain. Except you do, but that is not the point.

The night dies down and you roll your eyes at a few pointed toasts in congratulations for your marriage, but remain sitting at your place beside Ivar, pretending not to notice his hand on your knee or his arm around the back of your chair.

You grab his hand when it starts trailing up your leg and making you feel the effects of his touch like lightning crawling over your skin, and you could swear the smug bastard chuckles at the way you have to stop him.

“Eh, sister!” Hvitserk calls out, and with gritted teeth you turn to look at him, sitting by Sigurd’s side with an arm over his brother’s shoulders, “I am glad you are back, truly.”

“Thank you, Hvitserk.” You tell him, immediately feeling like you are about to regret accepting he doesn’t mean to tease you any longer.

“If only because I cannot stand my brother’s moping any longer. Who would have thought a son of Ragnar would be so loyal to his wife?”

You dismiss him with a gesture, but you cannot help but chuckle alongside the others.

Ivar turns his head towards you, nose almost nuzzling at your hair as he moves closer to speak by your ear,

“Why did you tell people you’re married?”

You don’t lift your gaze from your joined hands, following the trace of your fingers as they trace over the back of Ivar’s hand, “So that they would leave me alone.”

“No one is leaving you alone now that they think you are my wife.”

You spare him a look, glancing up, “The men that insist on either bedding me or courting me will, and that is enough for me.”

Ivar, of course, clings only to part of the words you speak, and his voice lowers, expression hardened with what you would swear is jealousy -pointless, unfounded, stupid jealousy- as he asks,

“Who are these men?”

Your eyes narrow, you honestly cannot believe this man.

“Are you serious right now?”

“I just want to know who they are.”

“I-…” Running your free hand through over your face, you bite back a groan, “Everyone thinks we are married now, shouldn’t you be worrying about that?”

He shrugs, “You were the one that told them you are married.”

“You are the one that I told them I’m married to!” You tell him, exasperated. He says nothing, and in the two blinks that he offers you somehow find it in you to be even more offended, “You truly are not worried?”

“Why should I be?”

Slowly, you remind him, “We are not actually married, Ivar.”

He shrugs, “We could be.”

“But we aren’t.”

“But we could be.” He insists easily.

Deep breaths, you tell yourself, taking a moment to bite back irritation, you love him, even when he is being intentionally insufferable.

“Is this your way of asking me to marry you?”

“You seem to have done that for me already,” He replies instead, raised eyebrows and another shrug of his shoulders that only makes you angrier. “You seem to have done more than that.”

You sigh, and shake your head at his mocking, only to make him chuckle at your reaction. Gods, he is infuriating.

Ivar’s smile loses the mocking edge as he leans even close, pressing a soft kiss by the side of your mouth in an attempt to make you stop pretending to be angry.

“What’s the harm in that, hm?” He asks, eyes falling from yours to your lips when you finally turn your head to face him, “They know you’re mine now.”

You almost want to argue there’s no way they wouldn’t know judging by the way the two of you have been joined at the hip since you returned from Dunwick, but you won’t deny a part of you grows darkly proud at knowing everyone knows he is yours and yours alone.

“And you are mine.” You remind him lowly, the beginning of a smile on your lips. His eyes linger on the curve of your mouth, lids growing a little heavier at your words and tone, and you have never felt more powerful.

Ivar nods his head,

“I am, wife.”

____

As you come down from both of your highs you find out Ivar is as unwilling to relinquish the closeness as you are, and in between soft touches and breathed presses of lips on heated skin, you find a kind of peace you never realized how much you missed.

“I was thinking,” He starts, and you cannot stop yourself from teasing him, so you let out a soft, uh-oh, and he scoffs, biting down on the side of your neck in retaliation, “We will be settled in the Isles by next winter.”

Ivar pulls back to look at you, holding himself up on one of his arms. At the strange expression in his pale eyes, you reach up with one hand and caress the side of his face under the guise of moving his hair back.

“We will.”

“Let’s go back to Kattegat,” He tells you, a tad rushed, “For this winter. Let’s spend one last winter in Kattegat.”

“Are you homesick, love?” You drawl, a side smile that he rolls his eyes at.

“What do you say?”

You search his gaze, because something tells you there’s more to the question, more to the action of spending your winter in Kattegat.

You won’t lie and pretend you haven’t missed the town, you won’t lie and pretend the memories you made there aren’t still with you, kept safe by some nostalgic and soft part of your heart.

Fate has a funny way of working, you’ve learned, and time brought you back to the side of the boys you made so many of those memories alongside of. Time brought back to you the cadence of Sigurd’s voice as he hums in par with his oud, time brought back to you Ubbe’s easy companionship as you train together, time brought back to you the secret smiles you share with Hvitserk over a joke only the two of you know of. Time brought back to you the one you’ve loved since before you even knew what love was, brought back to you the heart that your own finds itself familiar with.

But there is a part of you that misses Kattegat and always will, the sinuous streets of your childhood, the foreign scents and sounds of the bubbling market.

Instead of giving your answer outright -you always did like making things harder than they have to be-, you muse aloud,

“Having married you when we were children should keep me safe from your mother’s wrath, shouldn’t it?”

“Wrath?”

You let your fingers trace over the scar over his lip, the one you are very much responsible for. In these last few months, you’ve grown quite fascinated with it, with how it stretches when he smiles one of those big and crooked smiles, and especially with how Ivar trembles when you run your tongue over it before kissing him.

But that is not the point.

The point is you are very much responsible for at least one of the new scars Aslaug’s youngest son bears, and she will know, and she will look at you in that way you remember from your younger years. It is enough to make a grown woman shiver.

Ivar chuckles as he understands your hesitation, “You don’t need to fear her.”

“Easy for you to say.” You scoff.

“And if I tell you she still remembers fondly that childish wedding? Will you agree to come then, hm?”

“No,” At his frustrated sigh you tighten your fingers on his hair in silent reprimand, “Now I know you’re just saying that to appease me.”

“I would never.” Ivar mocks, earning another tug of his hair that he breathes a laugh at. You don’t fail to notice the way the laugh stutters a bit past his lips, you are very much aware of your effect of your hands on him.

Said effect is very much evidenced in the way he doesn’t resist the temptation to lean down and steal your breath with the slowest of kisses, his nose nudging against yours softly before he speaks again, voice low,

“What if it wasn’t just that wedding?”

“W-What?”

His eyes open to look into yours, an edge of anxiety, of hesitation, that he -of course- pushes past anyways, clearing his throat and asking, “What if there were something more…permanent than that wedding from our childhood?”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“A second and last time.” He vows, a quirk of his mouth that speaks of jest but does nothing to hide the apprehension that shines in his eyes.

There was never anyone else, not for you and not for him.

Your answer leaves your lips in a breath that Ivar doesn’t hesitate to taste against your lips, with a gentleness that speaks of adoration and desperation, stealing your breath much in the same way he stole your heart.

____

Aslaug almost wants to laugh at the irony that it was the youngest of her boys that was the first one the be married, not once, but two times. And, surprising only those that don’t know him well enough, to the same woman both times.

Older but still holding that arrogant pride at the announcement -the same pride she saw in him when you walked Kattegat’s streets with your hand in Ivar’s- Ivar sat down in front of her and told her he had found a woman he wanted to marry.

And her heart felt a surge of a warmth she had long since missed with all her sons fighting their wars and their father’s across the sea; not willing or capable to hold back the wide smile that blossomed in her face.

Her hands cupped her son’s face, and the small, almost shy smile he offered her reminded her so much of the boy he once was. She promised her blessing and vowed how proud she was, and in silence, as she looked into her youngest son’s eyes, she thanked the Gods for being allowed to live to see this, to see him happy.

She knows there are so many twists of Fate that have let this happen. She knows -like she knows the streets of her kingdom- of the paths their son’s life could have taken, almost took. She knows of yours, and what could have been.

Even if she hadn’t heard of your close encounter with death in England, she would have the moment she was forced to see in her dreams what had happened across the sea, she would have the moment she saw the way it still haunted Ivar today.

For almost two weeks she dreamt of her son’s voice, the same repeated pleas to the Gods -to whatever would listen- said so many times his voice grew ragged and broke. Still, he did the one thing he could, and pleaded with the Gods for more time, for anything other than this.

He needn’t know she went to the Volür and they all made a sacrifice praying with the Gods to give a Dane shieldmaiden strength and health. He needn’t know, and he won’t.

Because it is past now, and you have healed and learned, and he has healed too. And there is no use in resurfacing pain in an occasion such as this.

Kattegat is lively even as winter approaches fast and cruel, the flurry of motion increased even more now that a Prince is to get married.

Your smile is the same mad little smile she remembers from your younger years in Kattegat, and Helga’s hands are more worn and her smile is a tad dimmer, but her fingers are still nimble and gentle as they braid the wedding crown of winter flowers.

Aslaug feels the pull of emotion when Ivar cups your face between trembling hands and kisses his wife for the first time, she feels the tears prickling at her eyes at the lovesick smiles on your faces as you remain in that moment after a kiss for a few breaths, eyes locked together and futures intertwined.

Ubbe stands tall as he watches his younger brother get married, and Aslaug’s heart grows warm at the easy smile that curves her son’s lips. She still cannot help herself, and finds herself hoping before winter is over and her sons are to depart from her side again, that she can see him with a woman by his side as well. For too long Ubbe carried a burden he shouldn’t have, shouldering the brunt of the world for the sake of his brothers, a boy trying to stand as tall as the man that left an absence in his place after Paris. Even if she once argued she cares not if they find love as long as they find a good woman to breed and form a family with, she holds the secret hope that she can see Ubbe happily settled with someone that he can love.

She hopes the same for Hvitserk, who watches the ceremony with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, but she knows better than to expect him to settle anytime soon. Before the celebratory feast is halfway over, he has teasingly held a young girl to his side and exclaimed, mother, I am getting married as well, three times, with three different women. She doesn’t hold much hope he will settle soon, and has to bite her tongue and tell herself she is happy for him even if he insists on sleeping his way through Kattegat.

Reluctantly, she admits it is Sigurd who might follow in Ivar’s footsteps and marry next. He and that Christian girl have been promised to one another for years now, and the excuse of war and distance has kept them safe from their obligations to marry. But Aslaug knows it is a matter of time. For all her demure and shy nature, Blaeja’s eyes shine with something like amazement as she takes in the wedding ceremony even if a faint blush covers her face at yours and Ivar’s displays of affection. And she won’t pretend she doesn’t notice the way Sigurd lingers close to the princess, irradiating that gentleness of him that Aslaug is still regretful for having made so fragile in her carelessness.

Winter lets her have all her sons with her, though she knows it is probably the last time. Ivar has plans to settle in the Isles, the title of king and the promise of advantageous positions for his war against Alfred enough of a lure to keep her son across the sea; Ubbe has intentions to settle and take families with him to England even if he has to wade through blood to do so, Sigurd won’t stay too long away from his princess anymore, and Hvitserk will nevr bear to stay apart from his brothers.

But she has this winter, and it is enough. She will sit with her sons and have dinner while they talk and argue and laugh, and she will hear Ivar and Sigurd go for each other’s throats as if they haven’t spent these years fighting side by side, and she will watch you and Ivar get drunk on nothing but each other, and she will thank the Gods for all of it.

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, I apologize if this isn’t very good, I tried my best. Love ya!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax @1950schick @ietss @peachyboneless @encounterthepast @maggiescarborough @chibisgotovalhalla @fae-sedai @zuxiezendler @crazybunnyladysworld   @stupiddarkkside @northumbria @aprilivar

[thirstyforcharacters]

Tequila (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: Every person has a soulmate. When your soulmate experiences pain, so do you, and any bruises, scars, or other markings that they get appear on your skin. Or, the story of how aliens attacking Las Vegas was the best thing to ever happen to you.

Notes: Hello! I already did a very similar soulmate AU for Sam Wilson (which you can read here), but I love soulmate AU’s so much that I decided to do one for Bucky, too! Hopefully, I made them different enough that they don’t seem too repetitive. Did I write this while I was supposed to be watching a documentary on Bach for music history? Maybe. But I think this was a much better use of my time. Hope you enjoy! (no y/n, no pronouns)

Warnings: canon typical violence, alien invasion, blood (not too much tho), car crash

WC: 1.9 k

For all of your life, you couldn’t feel your left arm.

When you started to crawl, your parents noticed you only used your right arm to pull yourself forward while your left would hang limply at your side. Your parents brought you to the doctor, deeply concerned, but when she examined your arm, she found nothing wrong. No x-rays showed broken or deformed bones, and no MRI’s showed any problems in the brain. By all medical standards, you should be able to move your left arm. You just couldn’t. Everyone hoped that it would go away, but to their chagrin, it remained unmoving throughout your childhood. You obviously knew your arm was there since you could clearly see it, but you couldn’t feel the nerve endings inside it. When you poked your arm with your other finger, you felt absolutely nothing. And weirdly enough, your family said it was always cold to the touch, no matter how warm the rest of your body was.

You had a feeling that it had something to do with your soulmate, and when you reached adulthood (specifically around 24), you were almost positive that was the reason. You often woke up with random injuries that you knew you didn’t give yourself. Gunshot wounds, deep slashes, broken bones, and large bruises were commonly branded on your skin. You were positive that if your soulmate was getting shot at every other night, then they almost definitely had some sort of damage done to their arm that affected your own. But if they had had this condition since you were born, how old were they? That was always a question that kind of weirded you out. You didn’t particularly want to be “meant to be” with some wrinkly, old person! Especially if they were somehow getting themselves into this much trouble. And now that you thought about it, none of these injuries were on your (or their) left arm. How could that be if they’ve literally been hurt everywhere else on their body?

When you weren’t in and out of the hospital with randomly serious injuries, you were quite busy cooking up a storm in Turkey, Tacos, and Tequila, your restaurant in Las Vegas. You and your best friend, Nicolás, had opened it three years ago; you were the head chef and he ran the business side of things. The two of you had talked about opening a restaurant together since you were teenagers, so both of you had moved to Vegas together after college/culinary school. Together, you found that you were an unstoppable team, and within a year of opening, you were one of the most popular restaurants throughout all of Vegas! Most times, because you were so busy, your soulmate problem stayed in the back of your mind. But every once in a while, a bruise would appear on your eye or a large cut down the length of your leg, and you would be reminded again.

Nic, as you called him, already found his soulmate. Oliver had moved in with you a year ago, and joined you side by side in the kitchen. You became almost as close with him as you had with Nic. They were adorable together, and never made you feel like the third wheel. There were some times, though, where you found yourself a little bit jealous that they had found each other so quickly, and that neither of them had ever suddenly started bleeding all over a nearly complete order of mango fish tacos.

Whenever you got a little down about it, Nic would always clap you on the shoulder and say, “You’ll find them someday. And when you do, break their nose. They deserve it for the hell they’re accidentally putting you through.”

It never failed to make you laugh. You had half a mind to do just that when you met the love of your life. You just didn’t know when that would be.

On yet another hot and dry Nevada night, you were closing up at the restaurant (or morning, you supposed, since it was nearly 1 am). Nic, Oliver, and your other employees had gone home already, so it was only you that remained. You turned off the lights and locked the door. You pushed your way through the drunken crowds and tourists on the street and made your way to your car. As you were opening the door, you could hear gasps of shock coming from the crowd of people roaming the streets. You looked up and saw an eerie flash of green across the sky, and a strange-looking, portal appeared in the sky! Shrieks of fear permeated the air as grotesque, reptilian creatures began spilling from the portal.

Frantically, you flung yourself into your car and turned over the engine, hoping to escape the clutches of these aliens. Though your apartment was in the opposite direction of the portal, as per usual, there was a decent amount of traffic, so you weren’t sure how good your chances were. But you figured you’d at least be safer in your car than exposed outside of it.

You were able to pull into traffic and weave through it fairly well, making good use of the side streets that only the locals knew about. But the creatures were overtaking the city faster than you could drive. You knew you didn’t have long before they caught up with you.

Just when that thought popped into your head, a blinding flash of light appeared in your rearview mirror. A loud bang, almost like a cannon, sounded, and through your mirror, you saw a truck hurtling toward you at breakneck speed! You attempted to swerve out of the way, but the truck crashed into your car, shoving it against a street light! The driver’s side of your car crumpled against the lamppost, and the glass in your window shattered at the contact. You attempted to cover your face with your hands, but a piece of glass still managed to make a pretty deep cut above your left eye, as well as a few pieces of shrapnel sinking into your legs. The whiplash from the contact damaged your neck as well; pain spread throughout your neck and back. All you could do was sob in agony. You had never felt this much pain in your life.

Your hand was trembling as you unbuckled your seatbelt, but you found yourself unable to leave your car! The driver’s side door was crushed, the truck was smushed against your passenger door, and there was no way you would be able to climb out of the backseat, nor lift yourself out of the broken window with the injuries you sustained. You were trapped. You waited for a little bit, until some of the chaos surrounding you died down; even in your damaged state, you knew that no one would be able to hear you even if you screamed for help as loudly as you could.

You strained your ears, and were able to hear gunfire, commands being shouted, and the hissing of these reptilian creatures. Eventually, instead of the noise of a battle, you could hear voices trying to dig people out of the rubble. Somehow, they sounded familiar, but you couldn’t place how. Well, if they were rescuing people, you figured they were your only chance.

“Help,” you screamed, “I’m trapped in my car! Please help me!”

You heard footsteps sprinting in your direction and a voice call, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of there!”

You watched in amazement as the truck on your passenger’s side was surrounded by a glowing, red presence, and moved out of the way! It had to be the Avengers! Who else would be able to do something that crazy? You were brought out of your thoughts by your car being dragged away from the pole, making you jump. A face popped up in your shattered window. He was gorgeous; bright, blue eyes, short, chestnut hair, and a warm smile. He took hold of the broken door and wrenched it from its fastenings.

“Hi. My name is Bucky Barnes. This is Wanda Maximoff,” the man said, gesturing back to a woman wearing scarlet, “we’re going to get you out of here, okay?”

“Okay,” you replied, relieved, “thank you so much!”

He smiled again, “Oh, it’s no problem. You should probably stay there until the EMT’s get here. Moving might make your injuries even worse.”

You nodded slightly in reply, but the pull in your neck made you groan in pain.

He winced, “Try not to move that, either. You may not be bleeding there, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Here, let me help you with that. I can at least stop the bleeding,” he offered, gesturing to your forehead and leg.

“Oh, thank you!” you answered.

He nodded and reached for some bandages he had in his jacket with his metal arm. His left arm. Suddenly, you noticed things you didn’t notice before. He also had a large cut above his left eye, in the same spot as your injury. It wasn’t bleeding, though, perhaps because of his enhancements. You noticed him moving his neck in a circular motion, seemingly to stretch it out. He had holes in his pants and small puncture wounds on his legs, in the same spots where glass was sticking out of you. Again, though, they were already healing. Could that be why you had never felt your arm before? Because your soulmate’s was metal? It would make complete sense.

“Are you okay?”

You didn’t even realize you had zoned out until Bucky addressed you. He was gently cleaning the wound on your forehead.

“Yes,” you whispered, fixated on the wound on his forehead.

His eyebrow raised, “Are you sure? You seem a little out of it.”

“I-I’m fine. I just noticed something kind of strange. I think the cut on your forehead matches mine.”

He touched his forehead, “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that with the adrenaline and everything. Only got it maybe 20 minutes ago.”

“That’s when my car crashed. And you’re having neck pain, like me,” you murmured, “and your arm is metal. I’ve never been able to feel my arm.”

His eyes widened, “Really? You think we’re meant to be?”

“Maybe,” you replied.

He nodded, “It seems likely. What’s your name?”

You gave him your name and he smiled again.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a century.”

You giggled softly, “I guess that explains why I’ve been experiencing this since I was born. I was afraid you’d be gross and wrinkly.”

He chuckled, “Well, hopefully you don’t think I’m either of those things.”

“Definitely not.”

The EMT’s arrived then. Bucky stepped aside and the medics removed you from your car.

As you were being loaded into the ambulance, Bucky approached you.

“How can I get in contact with you after this?”

“Just come by Turkey, Tacos, and Tequila. It’s my restaurant, I’m almost always there,” you told him.

“Okay. I’ll drop by sometime soon, when you’re better of course.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Me too.”

As he was walking away, you couldn’t stop the grin forming on your lips. Sure, what had happened to you today was terrible. But you knew you would heal, and now, you had also finally met your soulmate. No wonder why you were randomly injured all of the time! If today was any indicator of what the rest of your relationship would look like, though, you’d probably need all of that tequila you were selling for yourself.

[onbeinganangel]

warmup ficlet for @the-starryknight! she picked 'i know we’re not together but i might die today so i’m going to kiss you just in case there is no later' from this wee list of kisses and asked me to drarry it up and I rubbed my hands together in glee knowing fully well i was about to put together a hell of an angst sandwich

not beta'd, not edited, just angst with a happy ending directly from my heart to yours! (cw: some canon-style mentions of blood, violence, injury and also kind of patient/healer relationship)

damned if you do it and damned if you don’t

(draco/harry, 1.8k)

Draco had pictured it so often throughout his life he sometimes couldn’t honestly believe he had made it all the way to twenty-seven.

He remembers saying it after being thrown on his arse by the family Abraxan. He’d been very little, then. Five or six, maybe. He’d cried, big fat tears running down his face, and when his Mother finally managed to pull his tiny fists down and stop him from hiding his crying behind them, he’d announced, “Maman, I am dying.” She had assured him he very much wasn’t. They’d had scones with big heaped spoonfuls of clotted cream and raspberry jam in the garden and he’d soon forgotten about his fall.

A few years later, he fell off his broom and straight into the lake. Dobby had spelled him dry to avoid him getting in trouble and he was still heaving, coughing up water and panicking when he told the Elf, “Dobby, I am dying.”

Then there was the incident at Hogwarts. He still felt the sharp talons on his skin way after the hippogriff was far, far away, as he bled, holding onto the gashes on his arm and announced to the whole class, “I am dying, it’s killed me!”

Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, it was more constant. It was the heavy burn of the Mark settling on his arm, it was the feeling of all his organs lighting up in pain and his bones breaking under Crucio after Crucio, it was the sounds of Nagini slithering outside his bedroom door at night, the sickening thud of death, the unsettling screaming, his aunt’s shrill nails-on-chalkboard voice, Greyback’s growls. A neverending chant of “I am dying, I am dying, I am dying, I am dying” inside his head.

It was confiding in a ghost, it was crying because the fear of failure was so intense he reckons he would have preferred to be dead then, it was the only person he believed was actually kind and pure and incapable of willingly inflicting pain on anyone slashing him open and leaving him for dead on a bathroom floor. Draco had looked at Snape, murmuring spell after spell over him, and he’d whispered, “I am dying.”

It was learning how to be numb, how to not feel, how to keep everyone out of his mind and away from his thoughts, it was the paralysing terror of crawling around in the shadows, the bone-deep dread of dropping leftover bread rolls on the floor by the bars on the dungeon and kicking them swiftly into the other side, where they kept his classmates. It was sneaking a blanket or two down and saying to himself, “If they find out…”

It was the persistent horror of knowing you don’t believe in what you’re doing and knowing you’re damned if you do it and damned if you don’t. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, Draco would lie in his bed at night — his own at home, his own in the dorms, Pansy’s in the girls’ dorms when it got bad, and he would say it to himself, hoping it would become true, “I am dying.”

But he hadn’t. Despite all odds, Draco is happy. Twenty-seven. He’s got friends, a flat, a job he loves and he’s good at. He’s no longer spat at on the streets. He survived, he made amends, he managed it all. Most of all, he had managed not to die.

Until now, that is. This time he’s pretty certain he won’t be afforded such luck. He feels the curse hit him square on the chest. It’s his own fault, really, for not realising there was someone already in the room he entered. He’d been too busy throwing a rather flourished Incarcerous across the room at the two potions dealers he’d been running after for the past five minutes to notice the third man.

Draco is falling backwards before he has time to even think about anything, his wand clanking noisily seconds before he joins it on the floor.

Then: “Incarcerous.” He hears it — muffled but there. And after, “Fuck, Draco.”

He’s way too familiar with the way his Auror partner works not to know it’s him when the strong arms wrap around him and pull him up. “Oh, Merlin,” he hears. His eyes flutter back open for a couple of seconds and he can tell he was right, even if it’s all blurry: red robes, orange hair, worried blue eyes.

Fear. “I am dying,” he thinks. “Harry,” he says.

“You’re gonna see Harry alright,” Ron says. “He’s gonna have words about having to heal you again,” it’s almost like a joke. Like a Ronald-typical joke. But there’s an edge of worry there. There’s panic. Ronald doesn’t panic.

And it dawns on him. Draco tries to look down but it’s all red. The burgundy of his robes, the sticky dark red of drying blood on his hands and the fresh and vivid blood still pouring out of his chest. He’s not gonna make it to St. Mungo’s, he’s never going to make it to Harry.

“I am dying,” he says, and Ron makes a noise that can only be described as half agony, half agreement.

It smells like St. Mungo’s when he wakes up thinking “I am dying.” Very faintly, he hears the same voice he always hears in his dreams. Maybe he is dead. The voice never sounds like this in his dreams, though: disembodied, frantic, quick. Draco catches half words, half sentences, half conversations that don’t make sense. A different voice is saying “just do it” and “you’re powerful enough” and “sod protocol” and “I am his partner, I brought him here.” The voice from his dreams responds with things like “unstable” and “I don’t know” and “can you please try” and a “I can’t get in touch with her” and “not without consent forms” and a louder, angry “he’s not going to d—“

Draco tries to move towards the voice.

“Draco!” Says the first voice and three pairs of feet come towards him.

“Don’t try to open your eyes, don’t try to talk, don’t try to move, okay? We have stopped the bleeding for now, but we’re still trying to reverse the curse.”

“Harry.” His Harry.

“Yes, hello. We have got to stop meeting like this.”

“I am dying,” Draco croaks out.

“I won’t let you.”

Draco wants to speak. He wants to say “I am dying, I don’t want to die without telling you,” but he has no strength. His thoughts are going faster than the newest Firebolt as he hears Harry tell whoever else is in the room (Ron?) to leave. He wonders if this is it. This what they show you in the films: your life flashing before your eyes right before you die. He thinks of Harry shaking his hand after his Auror graduation ceremony. “Well done, Malfoy,” he’d said. He thinks of that first time he’d been invited over to Ron and Hermione’s, a few weeks after he became Ron’s partner, and Harry had laughed at his stories, lips wine-red and plump, eyes kind like he’d never expected. He thinks of every moment of almost in between them, every moment where Draco considered blurting it out, saying what was on his mind. The Christmas Gala as he towered over Harry and fixed the little chain on his robes for him, and that night at that dingy club for Hermione’s birthday where they’d stared at each other for forty minutes and when Draco had decided he couldn’t take it anymore, he found out that Harry had left. Or just last month when they’d gone out to buy a housewarming present for Luna and ended up eating leftovers on Harry’s sofa, exhausted from people and walking. There are too many. Too many instances of hesitation, too many “nearly-but-not-quites.”

And he’ll die and won’t ever get the chance to tell him, to kiss his handsome, stupid, precious face, and it aches — it hurts almost as much as that spot just to the left of his breastbone where the Curse had hit, where he was profusely bleeding not long ago.

“Closer,” he manages, very quietly.

Harry approaches, but not close enough, not even close enough for Draco to grab at him.

“Cl— clos—uh—closer,” he tries again.

And Harry’s right there, by his bed and he looks beautiful in his Healer robes (unheard of, really) and Draco is blinking his view into a sharper focus and listing all the things he knows he loves, the things he doesn’t want to forget: the white-ish storm of a scar that slashes through Harry’s eyebrow, the shiny (shinier than usual?) green eyes, the touch of stubble, the slightly crooked nose, the lips — oh, the lips, plump and sweet looking and Draco will never get to find out just how sweet. And then, he has to do it. Because if he’s going to die anyway, he may as well use his last breath on this.

He pushes himself off the pillow slightly and his hand pulls Harry’s green robes closer until their lips meet, clumsily and hard — Harry not expecting it, Draco waning from the efforts of pulling Harry closer, but Draco will die knowing he’s kissed Harry. And if there’s no later, at least he’s done it. At least Harry knows.

“Stop. You’ll hurt yourself,” Harry says, and pushes him back down. Gently, like everything he does.

“But—“

“I know, darling. Me too.”

Darling? Harry… too?

“I’m going to heal you, okay? I’m going to heal you and we’ll do that again. I’ll take you to dinner, or brunch, I know you like brunch. Or just coffee. We’ll go to the pictures. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll go flying. We’ll go clubbing and I’ll dance with you, I promise I will, and I’ll let you tell me how bad I am. I’ll find you a copy of that book you were talking about with Hermione, no matter how much it costs. I’ll throw my name around if I have to, okay? And we’re going to do that again, properly. When I’m not your healer and you’re not hurting. I’m going to heal you now, you just—“ he stops, then, breathing wild and panicked.

Then, a small sob. A kiss to his forehead. Draco doesn’t remember closing his eyes.

“You just hold on, yeah? Don’t go anywhere.”

And Draco would cry if he had the strength, he would say yes to all those plans and more, but he focuses on the feeling of Harry’s magic sinking into his body like and he holds on, just like he was told to. He holds on, even if he doesn’t know exactly to what. And he thinks maybe he’ll get lucky again, and he’ll stop picturing himself dead like he’s been doing his whole life. Harry’s magic feels like love, like poetry, like cascading words of affection whispered into the space between his ribs, it feels like hope. And Draco holds on and thinks to himself, as loud as a thought can go, “I am not dying.”

[sparxwrites]

GoodTimesWithScar?

wow yall are thirsty for mr. goodtimes content, huh? let's do uhhh hermitcraft scar for this one, shall we?

Headcanon A:  realistic

This man hyperfocuses like nobody's business. When he's in the middle of a particularly engaging build, it's not uncommon for him to go a couple of days building near-constantly before crashing when it's finally done. It's not uncommon, for larger builds, to find him just kind of passed out taking a nap in the half-finished crook of some roof somewhere, coat pulled tight around him and hat set over his face to block out the light as he snores softly. There's a bit of a running game-slash-joke, a lá Tegg, where if Scar is building and hasn't been seen actually doing the build for a few hours, that the first hermit to find the little nook where he's holed up for a power nap gets a prize.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

He's a terrible klutz. This one I think is... possibly realistic, given: see literally everything in S8, but it's also really funny, so. Just- Scar tripping into the Boatem Hole constantly. Scar walking into doorframes if they're not suitably wide enough. Scar doing his salesman's pitch and he stumbles over his own feet. Scar experiencing kinetic energy twenty times a day because oh god it's bad enough trying to be steady and coordinated on two feet, let alone with a pair of strap-on wings-

(His friends are nice about it, and build extra-wide doorways and suitable landing platforms for him. But still.)

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

He doesn't really feel like he fits in. Even though he's part of Boatem, and even though he in part deliberately holds himself apart because, haha, shady businessman, way better at this scamming stuff than the rest of you... It still niggles at him. He builds his base nestled in amidst the rest of theirs; he sets up a hat shop, and makes them all hats, as a gift; he offers to build a part of Grian's base, and gives Mumbo design advice, and asks for a tour of Impulse's factory, and openly and loudly admires Pearl's palace; and hopes that might close the invisible gulf he feels between himself and the rest of them.

It doesn't. He still feels... apart. Distant. Different. Not because they treat him poorly, or are excluding him, or anything like that, no- deep in his heart of hearts, he knows where the problem is. He knows where the invisible walls are coming from. And it's him. He just... has had them up for so long, he's not sure what will happen if he lets them down. If he trusts, if he's open and genuine and vulnerable and himself... god. What might happen then? The thought thrills and terrifies him in equal measure - and so the walls, and the distance, stay.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

......Look, idk if I actually have this as a headcanon, but- the first thing that sprang to mind was. Little kitty ears. Grian's got his wings, which are pretty obvious, and Mumbo's half-potato now, which is even more obvious - but Scar wears his hat so often, and has such a healthy and volume-ified head of hair, that pretty much no one knows. His hat gets knocked off at some point, and someone notices the soft lil cat ears on top of is head, and is like how long have THOSE been there?! and Scar jams his hat back on and absolutely refuses to tell them.

(Word gets around. Some hermits become a little preoccupied with the scientific/magical mystery of how Scar acquired cat ears between one world and the next. And Some Hermits, not naming names, instead become preoccupied with how soft those ears probably are, and how velvety they might be to the touch, and whether this also means Scar purrs... Some Hermits get lovingly teased for being weird little horny bastards lmao.)