#more about the merciful one and astrid

[raayllum]

Trans and nonbinary characters in The Dragon Prince / The Mystery of Aaravos!

Terry (he/him), an Earthblood elf and main character from S4 onwards who is transgender. He has a coming out scene and is dating another main character, Claudia (she/her). He has a sunny and easygoing disposition but can sometimes be a bit too supportive/accepting of people's darker sides than he should be.

Kazi (they/them), a Sunfire sign language interpreter with a passion for research and linguistics. They work for the royal family and sub in as an interpreter for Amaya when her personal attendant isn't there.

The Merciful One (they/them), a mysterious figure with an unknown but seemingly sympathetic connection to Aaravos, at least on their end. They are the only other Startouch elf we know of at this point, as their kind are incredibly rare and not much is known about them.

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₄

This is Chapter 4 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence Word count: 8.3k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time. ♡

CHAPTER 4

After the Deadly Nadder left its mark—Your arm throbbed with a fierce sting, the flesh puffed up and tender, mottled with splotches of purple and green bruising that spread like spilled ink under your skin. The skin would knit itself back together, slow and sure, each tender stitch holding fast by the stubborn grip of Gothi's hand and her fresh poultice, its earthy bite clinging to the wound.

It was definitely going to leave behind a clean, pale scar—a sharp little mark to carry from the Nadder's bite. 'Your first Viking mark'—Gobber let out a gravelly laugh, hook-hand slapping his knee as he crowed about it being 'a proper badge from the beast's claw.' He'd went on as your thoughts of its barb would be one memory to carry.

Berk's unyielding pulse stumbled into something odd after that, or so it seemed to you. It had a quiet that felt almost gentle, and not just because half the village was gone no—It was more because Gobber went a little soft, but no one would dare breathe that word within earshot of the tough blacksmith.

The island seemed to pause a little—no practice dawn raids, no bellowed commands splitting the frost-rimed morning. It was as if the island itself had exhaled, granting a rare sliver of respite, and at the heart of it stood Gobber, his usual storm of gruff demands tempered into something you couldn't quite name.

He'd never cop to it though—his pride was as unbendable as the iron he shaped—but the evidence was there. Easy in his terms meant he etched in the extra hour to let you all sleep. A reprieve from the usual early chorus of his tuneless whistling and water buckets splashing all your dreams to Hel.

Laps around Berk's muddy sprawl were shorter, unless someone dared straggle in twenty minutes late—and after the last rain-soaked punishment, not a soul tested that line again—not even Hiccup—no more boots pounding the dirt paths with grim precision.

Meals stretched longer too while in the Great Hall or a crackling firepit outside groaning under extra helpings of stew and bread. The air was always thick with the tang of roasted mutton and the soft warmth of your own personally made sweet treats—much to Astrids pleasure—That he had asked you to make everyone if you were up to it.

Gobber would sprawl there, roast in hand, spinning dragon tales that danced between grisly truth and wild exaggeration—tales of Nadders skewering raiders, Gronckles flattening longhouses—his voice a low growl that rumbled through the smoke.

And if the mood struck him gracious, he’d even haul everyone’s weapons onto a workbench, squinting at dulled edges and muttering about shoddy upkeep, his hook scraping steel with a screech that set your teeth on edge—and the hairs on your necks standing. The old smith had gone suspiciously easy on the lot of you, and you couldn’t shake the hunch it was because of that barb slicing your arm, the blood-soaked sleeve you’d waved off with a grin despite the poison’s slow creep.

Gobber’s pride was forged in the same stubborn iron as his hook-hand—but his version of mercy crept through the cracks anyway. It was a rare lull, a breath before the next beast loomed of course but you savored it, even with the dull throb of your bandaged arm reminding you why. This was a rare Gobber only you and Stoicks family got to see. It made you smile.

Nursing that wound kept you tethered to your squat little home near the forge, the furs on your bed a tangled nest where you’d sprawl, arm propped on a pillow as Gothi’s poultice worked its minty magic beneath the cloth wrap. The pain had dulled to a nagging ache, the poison’s queasy grip fading thanks to that bitter vial she’d shoved into your hands and down your throat. Rest chafed at you—too still, too quiet after days of chaos.

Hiccup, though, was a constant flicker in that stillness, his lanky frame ducking through your door more times than you could count, always with something in hand—dry figs plucked from some hidden stash—Stoicks. Their sweet tang a peace offering from feeling bad about the accident in the Nadders cage. His voice, earnest and tripping over itself as he promised to stick to ‘their plan’ next time. You’d just let him ramble about Gobber’s latest briefings while propped against the wall.

But while under the flickering light of your hearth, he’d dropped something heavier—his voice dipping low, almost a whisper, as he finally spilled it—but careful not to mention anything else: he’d found that Night Fury again. Not far from the ravine where you’d both stumbled on it all those days ago, bound and snarling, it was still there—hungry, he said, its sleek black form pacing the woods, refusing to fly off.

You’d tilted your head, the fire’s warmth licking your cheeks, and tossed out a guess, “Maybe it’s got a nest nearby. Don’t get too close, it may be hunting.”

Hiccup’s brow had furrowed, a quick shake of his head brushing it off, but you saw the glint in his eyes—interest piqued, though he knew better. You didn’t push, not yet, though the air between you thickened with what he wasn’t saying, the secrets piling up like the weapons on a raid night.

Because behind your back, Hiccup had been slipping away to that same dragon—Toothless, though you didn’t know the name yet—since the day after the Nadder fight, when the graze on your arm was still fresh and raw, and you rested. He’d trekked back to that shadowed hollow deep in the forest, a fish tucked under his arm, a battered shield held tight before him, and his hand knife glinting at his belt—a Viking’s kit turned upside down by what he found.

That day, he’d braced for a fight, heart thudding as he edged toward the Night Fury’s restless bulk, its green eyes slitting narrow in the dim light. But instead of fangs, the dragon had been intrigued with him just as he was with it.

The dragon had sniffed the fish, snapped it up, then—gods help him—retched half of it back up into his lap as a slimy offering to Hiccup—the boy had stared at, dumbstruck before the events that happened next would haunt his appetite for the week or two.

The next day after that, he’d returned, and the beast mirrored him—scratching crude lines in the earth with a branch twice as tall as Hiccup after he’d seen the boy doodle the earth with a stick, its head tilting like a pup puzzling out a game.

It let him close—close enough to feel the heat radiating off its scales, to stretch a trembling hand and brush its snout, smooth and warm under his palm. It was unreal, a spark of something new and fascinating that no Viking saga had ever whispered of, and it hooked him deep—kept him sneaking back through Berk’s fog-choked woods, boots crunching on pine needles as the village went about its day.

He’d meant to tell you all of this that night, wanted to badly, the words itching on his tongue every time he ducked into your home, but something held them back��something personal, fragile, a thread of concern he couldn’t yet share. He worried, what you’d think—his best friend, his anchor, who’d stuck by him through every scornful glare, rude talks of people and botched scheme.

This wasn’t normal, not for a Viking, and sure as Hel not for Stoick’s son. If the village found out, if his father did. . .the thought knotted his gut tighter than a Zippleback’s coils, and so he kept it locked away, even from you. It wasn’t that he really thought you’d spill his secrets to anyone; he just wanted to hold off until the time felt right.

But you weren’t blind, and Hiccup wasn’t half as sly as he thought. You’d known he was visiting that dragon since the Nadder fight. He even admitted it. And was caught times over with the mud on his boots, the faint whiff of his signature smell of pine and smoke clinging to his tunic, the way his excuses stretched thinner each time he slipped away.

Right now, your arm was propped on your knee as you sharpened a kitchen knife out of boredom in front of the forge, the scrape of steel a steady rhythm while your mind churned. You’d seen him in the late evening, ducking into the forge with a wave at you—Gobber elsewhere—most likely off plotting the Zippleback trial, the other trainees hunched over dragon manuals, sleeping, pranking, or swinging axes in the arena’s muddy ring.

You’d paused outside, peering through the cracked frame, and found him hunched over a workbench, his hands a blur of motion as he hammered something together—metal and leather, glinting in the forge’s dim glow. You’d slipped in, silent as a mouse, and settled on a stool at your own workbench, not asking a thing—just you and him, the air humming with the comfort of your shared silence as he smiled at you, the kind that’d carried you through years of shenanigans. 

He’d glanced back once, making sure you were distracted by working on your own little things, content as his auburn hair flop over his brow as he worked. Then after hours he’d stopped, abrupt, muttering, “Gotta go, see you in the morning,” and waved—a quick, airy thing—before bolting out into the night, leaving you with the echo of his steps and a half-formed question on your tongue.

He hadn’t shown you what he’d made—a tail fin, you’d learn later, for a dragon he couldn’t yet name to you—but you’d caught the spark in his eyes, the secret he cradled like a stolen ember. You didn’t push, not then, though the itch to know gnawed at you, leaving you pondering how long he’d keep you in the dark.

Another day of the break you had settled gray and heavy, the clouds sagging low over Berk’s jagged rooftops once again, promising rain that hadn’t yet fallen. You’d shaken off the restlessness by midmorning, your arm stiff but healing quickly, and trudged to the Great Hall, where Gobber’s “mercy” meant an extra meal crackling over a firepit outside. 

Trainees sprawled on logs, gnawing on mutton and bread as his voice boomed through another tale, this one about a Zippleback torching a fleet of raider ships, the gas igniting in a burst that lit the night like Thor’s hammer lighting the sky.

You’d half-listened, perched on a stump, tearing into a crusty loaf, its edges still crisp despite the damp air. Hiccup hadn’t shown—off again—and the others noticed too, their grumbles growing. Snotlout, sprawled across a log with grease smeared on his chin and mouth, snorted loud enough to cut through Gobber’s yarn. 

“Where’s your boyfriend now? He better not pull what he did last time,” he furrowed his brows taking in a huge bite.

The twins cackled—Ruffnut miming a sloppy embrace making kiss faces at you, Tuffnut flopping dramatically into the dirt over it—and even Astrid’s sharp blue eyes flicked your way, a brow arching as she chewed her mutton, silent but probing. 

You’d shrugged sighing really not in the mood, voice dry as bone, “He’s just at home getting ready? Preparing like the rest of us—give him a break.” It was a weak dodge, and Astrid’s stare lingered, unconvinced.

Gobber yawned waved it off, grunting. "That lad's fine it's not a meeting—though, some good information—hm," before diving back into his story and his whole chicken breast.

You had left them, not waiting for Hiccup this time. The lie tasted sour in your mouth, though—loyalty to Hiccup clashing with the heat of their scrutiny—and you'd excused yourself early, boots squelching through the mud back to the forge, your gut twisting with the weight of what you weren't saying. He was out there, building something to your guess—over that Night Fury, and you were stuck here, covering his tracks—again.

By noon, the forge glowed orange as usual, its heat a balm against the day's chill as you slipped inside, craving the familiar clang of steel to drown out your thoughts. Gobber was gone—likely nursing a tankard in the mead hall—and the space was all yours, the furnace's roar a steady pulse as you hefted weapons waiting to be brought back to their owners, testing their edges closely. 

That's when Hiccup stumbled in, disheveled, his tunic clinging to his skinny frame like he'd been caught in a squall. His hair was a wild tangle, auburn strands hanging loosely across his eyes, which darted your way, bright with something reckless as he clutched that worn leather book to his side.

"Hey," Hiccup said, his voice a soft huff as he flashed that familiar, sheepish grin. You paused, the sword you were admiring stilled mid-twirl in hand, and arched a brow as he edged closer, boots scuffing the forge's dirt floor. 

"Missed you at the fire—Gobber tell you about the Zippleback?" You nodded, easing the blade onto the workbench with a faint clink, its edge catching the forge's amber glow. 

He launched into it then, words tumbling out—something about their twin heads, the gas-and-spark trick, his tone bright with that eager lilt you'd always found endearing. 

". . .The fact that one head breathes gas, the other lights it—wild, right?" he went on, hands gesturing in quick, choppy arcs.

But the story felt thin, a threadbare veil over something heavier. You saw it in the details he couldn't hide: the caked mud clinging to his boots, the faint scorch mark streaking his sleeve, the way his green eyes slid away when you asked, voice steady but pointed, "Where've you been?" You tried.

He froze mid-gesture, a deer caught in torchlight, then waved a hand dismissively. 

"Just. . .wandering, you know, clearing my head," he said, but the words cracked like brittle ice underfoot, too fragile to bear scrutiny. You stepped closer, the forge's heat licking at your back, and fixed him with a look—teasing at the edges, but sharp enough to cut.

"Wandering, huh? Or digging into that Night Fury again?"

His laugh burst out, high and jagged, and he clutched his sketchbook tighter to his chest, its leather creaking under his grip. "What? No, I—just—uh, hey! More figs! I'll grab you some tomorrow!" he stammered, voice pitching up as he spun on his heel and bolted—a blur of gangly limbs and half-formed excuses—leaving you alone with the furnace's low, guttural hum.

The warmth still pressed against your skin as you stood there, Hiccup's retreating footsteps fading into the gray hush of late afternoon, the world beyond the walls sinking into a muted twilight. You'd let him slip away—again—his "figs tomorrow" promise fluttering out like a tattered banner, too flimsy to hold against the suspicion coiling tight in your chest. The air grew stale, heavy with the scent of charred wood and iron, as the sun dipped lower, its light bleeding into a dull bruise along the horizon.

You lingered by the anvil, the new sword glinting faintly in the waning firelight, its honed edges a quiet testament to your own resolve. But the silence bit deeper than the dull ache in your healing arm, a restless itch you couldn't shake. 

Drifting to a cluttered workbench in the corner, you plucked a bent nail from a heap of Gobber's discarded scraps and slumped onto a stool, resting your head on your good arm. Your fingers worked the metal, rolling it back and forth, its cool, unyielding surface resisting your grip as your mind churned—searching for something to fill the hollow where Hiccup's absence sat heavy.

The forge creaked around you, its timber beams groaning under the wind's insistent push, while the distant bleat of sheep drifted in from the village—a faint pulse of noise that only sharpened your frustration. You'd lied to Gobber for him, spun tales to shield his secrets, and you'd do it again without hesitation. 

But that loyalty, tangled with the exasperation you felt for the little turd, gnawed at you most of all. It wasn't just loyalty of a friend—it was something deeper, a pull you couldn't control—that was your feelings toward him, and it left you twisting the nail harder, the metal's faint squeak echoing your restless resolve to stand by him—it made you groan.

A faint, ragged sigh escaped your lips as you eased into the stool, the rough-hewn edge digging into your thighs. You rested your cheek against the workbench, its surface warm from the forge's glow, and twisted the nail between your fingers until it stilled—a mindless fidget against the ache in your chest. 

"When are you going to tell me the truth?" you murmured to no one but the empty air—a quiet, desperate thread cast toward the friend who'd always tell you everything. Your shoulders sagged under a weight like damp wool, cold and clinging, oblivious to the faint scuff of boots beyond the wall, the sharp hitch of breath muffled by weathered planks.

Hiccup hadn't strayed far. He'd slipped out of the forge's wide entrance moments ago, his sketchbook pressed tight against his chest, pages rustling faintly as he leaned against the outer wall, just beyond your reach.

The wind, sharp with the briny tang of wetness from the cove where he'd tumbled earlier with Toothless—his accidental first flight—whipped at his damp tunic, tugging at the fabric still heavy with water. The cool, earthy gust carried your whispered words to him, slicing through the quiet. Their raw sadness struck him like a blow, his broad green eyes narrowing to pained slits, freckled face twisting into a grimace that mirrored the knot twisting in his gut.

He'd weathered your teasing before—caught the knowing edge in your quips about his "doodling," sensed your patient wait for him to spill it all—but this was different. This was a fracture in the steady warmth you'd always offered, dimmed now by his silence, and it gnawed at him. 

He slid down the wall an inch, the rough wood scraping his back through his tunic, and pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling a shaky exhale that threatened to betray his presence. Regret burned hot—anger at himself for letting it drag on, for not confessing over figs at your hearth or mid-ramble about the Zippleback. 

Hiccup meant to tell you then—why hadn't he? You weren't just anyone; you were his confidante, his anchor, and now he'd left you adrift, your voice breaking in a way that echoed in his skull like a reprimand.

So, he couldn't dodge it any longer. With a resolve that straightened his spine, he pushed off the wall, boots scuffing the dirt as he stepped back into the forge's amber light, his shadow stretching long across the packed earth floor. 

You didn't notice at first, lost in the nail's dull gleam as it caught the fire's flicker, bending it into a pointless curve between your fingers. The air shifted—a cool draft snaking through the wide-open areas, a floorboard creaking under his weight—and your head tilted, sensing him before your eyes lifted.

Hiccup stood framed in the forge's entrance, his lean frame slouched as if bearing Berk's weight, auburn hair a wild tangle plastered across his forehead from the day's damp chaos. His hands twitched restlessly, the sketchbook dangling at his side, and his green eyes met yours—wide, guarded, yet burning with a truth he couldn't suppress. 

"Hey," he said, voice low and rough, scraping the silence like flint on steel.

You straightened, the nail dropping to the workbench with a soft clink, and held his gaze, your own sharpening as the sadness crystallized into weary expectation. "Back so soon?" you asked, tone quiet but edged with a fraying patience, the forge's heat pulsing around both of you.

He stepped forward, mud-caked boots leaving faint prints on the dirt floor, and settled onto the stool across from you, the workbench a thin divide between you. 

"I heard you," he confessed, voice hushed, fingers tightening around the sketchbook's worn edges. "Outside, just now. And you're right—I've been keeping something from you. Everything, really, since the Gronckle fight. I can't hide it anymore."

Your breath caught, the air growing dense with the gravity of his admission, and you leaned forward, elbows pressing into the wood, every nerve taut as you braced for the revelation you'd sensed simmering beneath his evasions. He exhaled—a long, unsteady breath—and set the sketchbook down, its pages fanning open to reveal Toothless: wings swept back, eyes piercing, the tail fin he'd crafted in secret sketched in meticulous charcoal lines.

"It started after the Gronckle," he began, voice steadying as he traced the drawing with a trembling finger. "Well, after I hit him—the Night Fury—and we found him in the ravine. I went back to that spot that day, after we ate lunch. When the Gronckle came at me, I kept wondering—why didn't the Night Fury? I couldn't shake it. Found him again this you already knew—but he was trapped in some cove like place, one tail fin torn off from my trap. He couldn't fly." He paused, staring at the table, lost in the memory. 

"When I came back a second time he was still there—hungry, grounded—that time I brought with me a fish." A faint, nervous laugh slipped out, and he glanced at you, testing your reaction. 

Your expression remained steady, unflinching, the forge's rhythmic hum your only reply as he pressed on. 

"He didn't attack. He ate it, then—gods, it's strange—he regurgitated half, like an offering. I'll spare you the rest; my stomach's still turning from it." He grimaced, a fist brushing his mouth, skin paling briefly, as he sort of gagged—you arch a brow.

"But I couldn't stop." He admitted. "There's nothing in the sagas about Night Furies—I had to know more. So, I kept going back." His voice softened, wonder threading through the fear, and he rubbed his neck, smudging charcoal across his skin. 

"He's sharp—smarter than anything we've imagined." He slid the sketchbook toward you, revealing diagrams of the tail fin he'd built, "Made this for him. He can't fly without it—not since my trap wrecked him. That's what I was working on last night. I've been flying with him, learning from him—"

Your eyes widened at that as you leaned closer to him, eyes tracing the sketches—gears, leather straps, the fin's sleek arc—his words sinking in like hammer strikes shaping steel.

"You've been flying a dragon?" you said, voice low and stunned, cutting through the forge's drone. "Since the Gronckle—and you didn't tell me? Me, Hiccup?" Your fingers dug into the workbench, splinters pricking your palms, the hurt sharpening your tone. "I've covered for you, taken lectures for you—did you really think I'd run to your father, to the village?"

His face fell, guilt clouding his eyes, and he spread his hands over the sketchbook as if to steady himself. "I trust you," he said, voice quiet but resolute. "More than anyone. That's why I'm here now—I couldn't keep it from you, not after hearing you out there." He nodded toward the wall, his frown deepening, and you recalled your whispered plea, the crack that had pierced his silence.

A cool gust slipped through the forge's entrance, brushing your skin with a shiver, and you eased back, the sting of hurt softening into relief, the unshakable bond pulling you back to him. He watched you, breath held, awaiting your judgment, the truth a heavy anchor between you—he'd rewritten everything, and you'd stand by him through it.

"I'm not upset about the dragon, Hiccup," you said, voice gentler now, steadying. "Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried for you."

He met your gaze, a small, hesitant smile breaking through, his shoulders loosening. "I'm glad I finally told you. Took me long enough," he said, a faint laugh escaping as you gave his arm a light, playful nudge, drawing a chuckle from him in return.

"You don't think it's odd? Un-Viking-like?" he asked, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

You shook your head, a wry smile tugging your lips. "No—it's exactly like you, Hiccup. Always has been."

Hiccup's eyes glistened, a rare sheen he wouldn't deny, and with a sudden burst of energy, he darted around the workbench, boots scuffing the dirt floor. He wrapped you in a hug—fiercer than any he'd given before, the kind that lifted you off the ground. His arms pulling you close, the damp wool of his tunic pressing against your chest. 

He held on, a solid minute ticking by in the forge's warm hum, his breath unsteady against your shoulder. Your cheeks warmed, a deep flush creeping up neck to head as his grip lingered, and when he finally pulled back, his face lit up with a joy you hadn't seen in months—bright, unguarded, pure Hiccup.

"Gods, I'm—so relieved," he said, voice catching with a laugh, hands gesturing wildly as he paced a tight circle. "You have no idea how much I've wanted to tell you. I know—I should've done it sooner, I know! But now that you're in on it—gods, I've got to take you to him. You have to see him for yourself." 

His words tumbled out, fast and eager, his lanky frame practically bouncing with that giddy, restless energy only he could muster, green eyes wide and sparkling under the forge's amber glow.

You couldn't help it—his joy sparked a laugh from you, warm and genuine, rippling through the air like the clang of a hammer on steel. It melted the last threads of doubt that had knotted in your chest, washing away the wait's quiet sting. His happiness was infectious, a fire catching dry tinder, and as he grinned—freckles dancing across his flushed face.

You felt the weight of his secret lift, replaced by a thrill that hummed in your bones. The forge's heat pulsed at your back mixed with the cold breeze that send shivers down your spine, and you knew: whatever came next, you'd follow him to that cove, to Toothless, because this—this moment—was worth it.

It was the last day of the break Gobber had so sweetly carved out for you all, a fleeting pause that went by too fast for you all and that still draped Berk in an uneasy quiet, and the forge's smoky haze from Hiccup's confession last night lingered in your mind like a half-remembered dream—his voice spilling secrets about Toothless over the workbench long after he had told you, your hurt hardening into resolve. 

The Hideous Zippleback trial loomed on the horizon now, set for tomorrow, its twin heads and sparking jaws lingering in the back of your thoughts, though neither you nor Hiccup had pieced a plan together yet, too tangled in the moment to count the days.

The morning had dawned sluggish but sunny for once, its light seeping through the warped planks of your small home, casting faint stripes across the furs where you’d sat on the floor, poking at the hearth’s embers with a stick, your bandaged arm propped awkwardly on your knee. 

His knock rattled the door then, soft but persistent, a rhythm etched into the back of your mind from years of him dragging you into mischief, and when you swung it open, there he was—his auburn hair a windswept mess, his green eyes alight with a reckless determination that made your stomach lurch. 

“I’m taking you to see him,” he said in as whisper looking behind to see that no one was lurking, voice firm but threaded with an eagerness, his hand reaching for yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

You froze, heels digging into the hard oak floor, the wood groaning under your boots as he tugged, a gentle pull that snagged when he turned and caught the unease flickering in your eyes—wide, shadowed, searching his face for a reason to trust this leap. 

The air grew heavy, laced with the sharp scent of pine from the woods drifting in and the faint char of the fire behind you, and for a heartbeat, you stood locked there, your hand trembling in his, the weight of his dragon sinking claws into the quiet life you’d known.

He didn’t pull harder—didn’t force you past that threshold—but his grip stayed steady, his thumb brushing your knuckles as he met your gaze, reading the worry etched into the lines of your face like a map he’d memorized long ago. 

“I know you’re scared,” he said, voice dipping low, soft as the rustle of leaves beyond the walls, but carrying that quiet conviction that’d always bent you to his will, from the days you’d schemed with Gobber over forge flames or raced across Berk’s cliffs, laughing into the wind. 

“You’re thinking about what he could do—what this means for us. But he’s not what they say, not what Berk believes. He’s. . .he’s like me, in a way—different, but good. I’ve been with him every day since I cut him free, and he trusts me. He’ll trust you too—I’m sure of it.” 

His lopsided grin flickered, tentative but warm, a lifeline thrown across the gap, and he tilted his head, eyes crinkling with a tease he couldn’t resist. “C’mon, you’ve stared down Marta’s wrath—Gobbers, my dad's! And a Nadder’s tail—you think a dragon’s going to scare off the heart of Berk?” 

The nickname hit soft, a tender jab that stirred the ache you’d nursed for years that only he and Gobber called you, the hope in his eyes that he’d see you follow him—because he knew calling you that would work. 

You exhaled, a sharp, shaky breath that broke the dam of your resistance, and your shoulders slumped, the fight draining out as you muttered, “Fine, but if he eats me, I’m cursing you from Valhalla.” 

His laugh burst free, bright and relieved, cutting through the morning’s chill, and he tugged you out the door with a grin, the cold slapping your cheeks as you snatched two burlap sacks from a peg—stuffed with fish, their slimy tang already seeping through—before trailing him into the fog-shrouded wilds beyond the village’s edge.

The journey to the cove stretched an hour and a half, shorter than that first desperate hunt after the Night Fury’s crash, when you’d stumbled through the woods beside him, hearts hammering and voices hushed, chasing a shadow that’d upended everything. Now, the path felt alive—every crunch of twigs under your boots, every sigh of wind through the pine's overhead, sharpened by the pulse of what waited ahead. 

The sacks thudded against your backs, the fishy stink mingling with the damp, loamy scent of the woods now turned forest floor, and Hiccup forged on, his steps sure despite the uneven terrain, his skinny frame threading through the trees like he’d worn this trail into his soul. 

He talked as you went—nervous chatter, you figured, spilling scraps of his little time with Toothless stories to fill the quiet: how he’d puzzled out the tail fin’s curve, how the dragon’s eyes caught the sun like shards of sea glass. You nodded, half-listening, your gaze flicking to the shadows, braced for a roar or a rustle that never came. 

The forests thickened, branches clawing at your cloak, then parted abruptly, revealing the cove—a rugged hollow of stone and moss cradled by cliffs, its depths cloaked in mist that drifted like a living veil. You halted, boots skidding on the rocky rim, and stared down, your heart slamming so fierce it felt like it might burst free and tumble into the abyss below. 

Toothless was down there, somewhere—hidden in the murk, a black wraith against the green—and the reality crashed over you: not a tale, not a sketch, but a living dragon, scales and teeth and all, waiting in the gloom. Hiccup stopped beside you, his breath puffing white in the crisp air, and you felt his gaze settle on you, steady and searching, as your pulse roared louder than the sea beyond Berk’s cliffs.

“Hiccup,” you said, voice quaking despite the steel you tried to forge into it, “it likes you. What if it doesn’t see me the same? You were the one who let him go—I wasn’t there for that part.” 

You stepped back, retreating into the shadow of a twisted pine, its gnarled branches draping you in darkness as if they could swallow the fear clawing up your spine. The cove’s edge glowed ahead, mist swirling in the weak light, but Toothless stayed unseen, tucked into the rocky folds below—a phantom you couldn’t face, not yet. 

Your hands clenched the sack, the burlap rough against your palms, and you shook your head, a quick, sharp jerk that sent a shiver racing through you. “What if he—” you began, but Hiccup’s hand darted out, gentle yet firm, catching your arm before you could shrink fully behind him. 

His touch grounded you, warm against the morning’s bite, and he stepped in close, his lanky frame a barrier to your retreat, his presence as familiar as the forge’s hum.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softening, a laugh bubbling up—light, not cruel, the kind that’d always ease you since you were smaller kids. “He’s not eating you. I’d never let that happen—personal hero, right?” He squeezed your arm, his grin tilting wider, and you scowled, heat flushing your neck at the tease, though it steadied your racing heart. 

“He’s smart, not some mindless beast. He’ll see you’re with me—and trust me, his bark’s worse than his bite. Well, no bark, really—just a lot of staring and flapping.” His eyes sparkled, green and bright, and he nodded toward the cove, the mist thinning just enough to tease a flicker of movement—a tail’s twitch, a wing’s shadow. 

“C’mon,” he urged, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours, a quiet vow in the grip. “You’ve got me—and a sack of fish. He’ll love you for that alone.” 

The fear lingered, a stubborn knot, but his certainty—his trust—tugged you forward, and you followed, heart still thudding, into the cove where Toothless waited, the Zippleback trial a distant worry you’d only unravel later, back in Berk’s glow.

The mist clung to the cove’s edge like a shroud, its tendrils curling around your boots as Hiccup’s fingers tightened around yours, his grip a steady anchor pulling you past the brink of your fear. 

“Ready?” he murmured, his voice low but buzzing with that reckless spark, and before you could muster a reply, he stepped forward, leading you down the steep, rocky incline into the hollow below. 

His hand stayed laced with yours, warm and sure, guiding you as he took the lead, his lanky frame moving with a grace you hadn’t noticed before—sure-footed despite the uneven stone, like he’d climbed this path a hundred times in the dark. The air grew cooler as you descended, damp with the scent of moss and earth, the faint tang of freshwater drifting up from some hidden spring deep in the cove’s heart. 

Your boots slipped on a slick patch, kicking loose a scatter of pebbles that clattered down ahead, and Hiccup glanced back, his green eyes catching yours with a quick, reassuring grin—half-tease, half-promise—before tugging you onward. The sacks swayed against you both, the fishy reek sharper now, mingling with the musty stillness as the cliffs rose higher around you, their jagged faces swallowing the weak morning light. 

Your heart thudded, a wild rhythm against your ribs, and you clung to his hand tighter, the warmth of it a lifeline as the world narrowed to the shadowed basin around—where Toothless waited, a mystery you’d only glimpsed once and in sketches and Hiccup’s breathless tales. 

The ground leveled out, gravel crunching underfoot, and he stopped, turning to face the emptiness with a soft call: “Toothless! Hey, bud, it’s me—come on out!” His voice echoed off the stone, bright and coaxing, and you held your breath, the mist swirling thicker as something stirred in the gloom ahead.

A shape emerged—slow at first, a ripple in the shadows—then all at once, Toothless stepped into view, his sleek black form cutting through the mist like a blade through cloth. The Night Fury was stunning, more than any sketch could capture: scales glinting like polished obsidian in the dim light, wings folded loosely against his sides, and those eyes—huge, green, luminous as tide pools—locking onto Hiccup with a spark of recognition. 

His beauty struck you dumb, a raw, wild elegance that stole the air from your lungs, the kind of grace you’d never seen in Berk’s chaos or the forge’s iron glow. But fear followed fast, a cold fist squeezing your chest, and you froze, boots rooted to the gravel as the sheer size of him sank in—claws curling into the earth, a tail that flicked like a whip, a presence that filled the cove with quiet menace. 

Hiccup dropped his sack without a second thought, the burlap thudding to the ground as fish spilled out in a slimy heap, and he darted forward, his hand slipping from yours as he closed the gap. 

“Hey, bud!” he laughed, voice bright with a joy you rarely heard, and he reached out, petting Toothless’s snout with a casual ease that made your jaw drop. The dragon rumbled, a deep, throaty sound—not quite a growl, more a purr—his ears twitching up as he pressed into Hiccup’s touch, his massive head dipping low in a gesture so puppy-like it clashed with the terror still spiking through you. 

Your sack slipped from your grip, landing with a soft thump, and you stood there, hands empty, caught between awe and the instinct to bolt, the cove’s walls pressing in as Toothless’s gaze flicked past Hiccup—and landed on you.

Those luminous eyes narrowed to slits in an instant, the green sharpening to something feral, and Toothless’s body shifted—hunching low, shoulders tensing like a cats before a pounce, his tail stiffening behind him. A growl rolled out, low and guttural, vibrating through the gravel under your feet, and your breath snagged, fear surging hot and fast as you locked eyes with the dragon. 

He didn't know you—not like he knew Hiccup, the one who'd cut him free, fed him, flown him—and the weight of that hit harder than the Nadder's barb ever had. Hiccup froze mid-pet, his hand still on Toothless's snout, and whipped his head around, catching the shift in the dragon's stance. 

"Whoa, whoa, easy, bud," he said, voice dropping to a soothing hum, though a flicker of panic edged his words as he stepped sideways, half-shielding you with his frame. "She's with me—she's good, I promise. You smell the fish, right? She brought you some!" 

He gestured toward your sack, his grin wobbling as he tried to coax Toothless down, but the dragon's growl didn't falter, his slit eyes boring into you with a wariness that prickled your skin. You couldn't move—couldn't breathe—the beauty that'd stunned you now twisting into something primal, something that saw you as a stranger, maybe a threat.

Your hand twitched toward the dagger in your boot, an old habit from training, but you stopped, fingers curling into a fist instead; this wasn't a fight, not yet, though the cove felt smaller, the air thicker, as Toothless hunched lower, his growl a quiet storm brewing between you. 

Hiccup shot you a look—wide-eyed, pleading—and you saw it then: his trust in Toothless warring with his fear of losing you to this moment, the bond he'd built with the dragon teetering on the edge of your presence, and you wondered, heart hammering, if you'd ever find a place in it.

Toothless's growl rumbled through the cove, a low, thrumming threat that pinned you in place, your boots rooted to the gravel as his slit eyes bore into you, sharp and unyielding. The mist seemed to almost choke you, and the air crackled with the standoff—his hunched form, Hiccup's half-shielding stance, your own breath caught tight in your chest.

Then Hiccup's head snapped toward you, his green eyes widening as they darted down to your boots, catching the faint glint of steel where your black stone daggers peeked out, tucked snug against the leather.

"Wait—" he said, voice pitching up, a mix of realization and urgency as he stepped fully between you and Toothless, his hands flailing in that awkward, earnest way of his. 

"Toss your daggers to the pool—over there, by the water. He knows you have them—that's why he's like this!" 

You stared at him, jaw dropping, your gaze flicking from his flushed face to the dragon's coiled menace, and for a heartbeat, you wondered if he'd sprouted two heads bigger than the Zippleback itself—asking you to ditch your weapons, your lifeline, in a cove with a growling Night Fury. 

The absurdity of it burned, but his eyes held yours, steady and pleading, and he pressed on, voice softening but firm. "No, really—it's okay. He's smart, he senses them, and he doesn't trust you with 'em. I promise, just toss them—he'll calm down." 

The dragon's growl spiked, a warning ripple, and Hiccup's hand hovered near your arm, not grabbing, just waiting, his trust in Toothless a quiet wall against your doubt. Your fingers twitched, instinct screaming to keep the blades, but his certainty—his faith in this beast or your faith in him—gnawed at you, and with a scowl, you relented, the weight of his words tipping the scale.

You crouched slow, eyes never leaving Toothless, and yanked the daggers free—one, then the other—their black stone edges catching the dim light as you gripped them tight, hesitating one last time. Hiccup nodded, a quick, encouraging jerk of his head, and you sighed, sharp and exasperated, before hurling the first dagger toward the small pond at the cove's edge. 

It arced through the mist, splashing into the water with a soft plunk, ripples spreading wide, and Toothless's head whipped toward it, ears flicking up, his growl faltering as he tracked the motion. The second followed, landing with a louder splash, and you watched, breath held, as the dragon's slit eyes followed it too, his hunched frame easing—shoulders dropping, tail uncurling—like a switch had flipped in his mind. 

He sank onto his haunches, sitting upright like a man, his massive head tilting with wide, curious eyes now fixed on you, the menace draining away into something almost. . .playful. The growl died completely, leaving only the cove's quiet hum—the drip of water, the rustle of wind through the cliffs—and you exhaled, relief flooding hot and fast as your shoulders slumped, the tension unraveling like a cut rope. 

Hiccup let out a shaky laugh beside you, scrubbing a hand through his hair, smudging dirt across his freckled cheek. 

"See? Told you—smart, not savage," he said, his grin wide and lopsided, and you shot him a look—half-glare, half-relief—your heart still thudding but lighter now, the dragon's shift a strange balm to the fear that'd gripped you moments before. 

Toothless blinked, his pupils dilating round and bright, and you couldn't help but marvel, the cove's gloom framing him like some wild, living myth, beautiful and bewildering all at once.

Hiccup didn't waste the moment—he ducked down, snagging a fish from the spilled sack at his feet, its silvery scales glinting as he straightened and turned to you, holding it out with that same reckless spark in his eyes. 

"Here," he said, thrusting it toward you, and you stared at him, protest flaring fresh as your brows shot up, the absurdity hitting you again—he wanted you to feed this thing, this Night Fury that'd just growled you into a statue? 

"You're mad," you muttered, voice dry as ash, but he laughed—bright, unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the stone walls—and gave you a gentle push, his hand warm on your shoulder as he nudged you closer to Toothless. 

"C'mon, he's fine now—look at him, he's curious! He won't bite—well, not you, anyway," he teased, and you glared, heat creeping up your neck, though his grin softened it, tugging at that old tether between you. 

Toothless tilted his head, those wide eyes locking onto you with a glint of interest, no trace of the earlier threat, and you swallowed, the fish slick and cold in your hands as you stepped forward, boots crunching gravel, the cove's damp air clinging to your skin. You held it out—arm stiff, heart pounding—and Toothless leaned in, slow and deliberate, his snout brushing the air near your fingers. 

He took it gently, no teeth flashing, just a smooth snap as he swallowed it whole, the motion so quick you barely blinked. Then he sniffed your hand, warm breath puffing over your knuckles, and a smile broke through your nerves, small but real, the dragon's curiosity melting the last of your fear into something softer—something like wonder.

Hiccup watched from a step back, his own smile widening, a fondness softening his green eyes as he leaned against a boulder, arms crossed, taking in every tentative move you made with Toothless, like he was seeing you anew in the cove's shadowed light.

You wouldn't realize until you trudged home that evening—legs aching from the cove's steep climb, boots caked with mud that squelched with every step, the damp of the misty hollow still clinging to your cloak like a second skin—that the break Gobber had grudgingly granted was nearly spent, that tomorrow's dawn would crack open the Hideous Zippleback trial he'd growled about days ago, its twin heads a specter neither you nor Hiccup had fully faced in the rush of Toothless's world. 

The trek back had been quieter—yet happier than the journey before, the forest swallowing your footsteps as the adrenaline of the cove ebbed into a bone-deep weariness, though a spark of something brighter—something alive—still buzzed beneath it, warming your chest despite the chill seeping through your damp clothes. 

The sacks hung lighter now, emptied of fish and bread, but their burlap reeked of secrets—of scales and trust—and swung against your thighs as you and Hiccup stumbled into Berk's outskirts, the village's familiar sprawl emerging from the fog like a dream half-remembered. 

The sky had bruised purple overhead, streaked with the last gasps of daylight, and the air carried the sharp bite of smoke from chimneys, the faint bleat of sheep rolling down from the hills. You paused by your door, the rough-hewn wood solid under your hand as you leaned against it, catching your breath, and turned to Hiccup—his auburn hair a wild mess, his green eyes glinting with the same thrill that tugged your lips into a wide, unstoppable grin. 

His own smile mirrored yours, broad and unguarded, a rare thing that lit his freckled face and crinkled the corners of his eyes, and for a moment, you both stood there, panting and grinning like kids who'd outrun a storm, the cove's magic still humming between you.

"Hiccup," you said, voice rough from the day but steady as you sank onto the stoop beside your door, the cold stone biting through your trousers, "you know this changes things, right?" 

The words slipped out, half-question, half-marvel, as you propped your elbows on your knees, your cloak pooling around you like a shadow. The unbelievable thrill of it all—the Night Fury's curious eyes, his gentle nudge against your hand, the way he'd shifted from growl to calm—still pulsed through you, a happiness so sharp it almost ached, pulling you both from the day's wild events into this quiet, shared space. 

Hiccup plopped down beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, warm and solid, and he nodded, slow and deliberate, his grin softening into something thoughtful as he stared out at the village's flickering torches. 

"Yeah, it does," he said, voice low but thick with the weight of it, like he was turning the truth over in his mind, testing its edges. The wind tugged at his hair, rustling it across his brow, and he tilted his head back onto the door, exhaling a puff of white into the dusk as if letting go of the last shred of doubt he'd carried down there. 

"It's not just me and him anymore—it's us now. You and me and Toothless." His eyes flicked to yours, green and bright, holding a fondness that made your chest tighten, and you saw it then: the shift wasn't just the dragon, but you—your place in his world stretching wider, deeper, than it'd ever been before. The thought sent a shiver through you, not from the cold, but from the sheer size of it—him, Toothless, Berk, all colliding in a way you hadn't braced for.

This is Chapter 4 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

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

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Been thinking a lot as of late about the fandom take that Hiccup actually should hold a grudge against his village for the way he was treated. This is the "hold a grudge" website, so I'm not surprised and neither is this post about telling you that you're wrong to feel this way. If I was raised the way Hiccup was, outcasted to the point that I start to make friends with the enemy, I would be angry, too!

But holding a grudge just isn't in Hiccup's nature. And I think there is no bigger proof than his incredibly deep bond with Toothless.

Because even ignoring Httyd 2 for a moment, the first movie also hints at Valka dying to dragons.

The dragon raids are the only mentioned outside threat before they learn about the Red Death. And with Stoick gifting Hiccup a helmet made of his mother's breast plate (which are not supposed to be boob-shaped, believe it or not) when he thinks his son does surprisingly well in dragon training, that could be another one of those hints.

Hiccup will be facing dragons after training instead of being hidden in the forge for his own safety (while helping to contribute like the other teens) so it makes sense to me that Valka's death was always meant to be at the claws of dragons and Stoick is trying to prevent that now that it's become a reality that Hiccup might actually face dragons in the very near future.

There is no other threat spoken about in the first movie. Hiccup's mother was always killed by dragons. She's missing from his life because Toothless' kind took him away from her. If Hiccup were to be angry at his village for the way he was treated, he should also be angry at dragons for taking away the one person who could've been unconditionally on his side. Like mothers are supposed to be.

But Hiccup isn't angry at dragons. As a matter of fact, when he gets up close to one, has one completely at his mercy, he doesn't hate Toothless. And this is before he even realizes that there's more to them than fire breathing, home-destroying, food-stealing, man-eating creatures from Hell.

Instead of being angry, he sees Toothless for who he is. A living being just as complex as he is. Capable of fear, of curiosity, of forgiveness, of remorse, of love. And Hiccup wasn't kept from seeing this because anger for having his mother taken from him didn't blind him.

The same can be said about Mildew, who gets the dragons in trouble again and again. But at the end of RoB, Hiccup still decides to put his trust in him to get them both (and Toothless) home.

And Dagur, who started a whole war over being betrayed by Hiccup, which gives him a grudge for three whole years that leaves him filled with revenge until Viggo gives him a sudden change of perspective that leads to months of introspection. It takes a little while, but Hiccup doesn't just accept him as a friend, but accepts Dagur's offer to be found brothers.

He should hold a grudge against Heather. Who played on his kindness to get Alvin the Book of Dragons and then seemingly played him again in RttE, when he lets her stay on Dragon's Edge and the very next time they see her, she's working for the Hunters. Who come into their lives by leaving Astrid to die stranded in the middle of the ocean and abducting Stormfly. With only Astrid learning that Heather is actually spying on them with Hiccup not learning about this fact until much later. (Something very clearly hurts him, but even being left out of the loop he forgives Astrid and Heather for.)

Alvin canonically held Hiccup and Toothless captive for days, barely giving Toothless any food or water. Hiccup literally states that in the first episode of DoB.

And while they don't show it in the show itself, in the very first episode afterwards, Hiccup is trying to prepare his 14 and 15 year old friends for interrogation. Clearly something in that two-parter spooked him enough to do something as drastic as this.

But at the end of DoB, Hiccup still chooses trust Alvin to help rescue Stoick and get Outcast Island back from Dagur. An alliance was forged. One strong enough that when Stoick gets gravely injured in RttE, Alvin can be trusted to come in and help out around Berk.

The closest Hiccup comes to holding a grudge is with Viggo. The first person to ever make Hiccup feel like an idiot, make him feel frustrated that he can't get immediately out on top like he did with all his previous villains. He spends literal months trying to find Viggo just to get back at him, dragging all his friends and his dragons down with him. But even that doesn't last.

Not with both Dagur as well as Stoick advising him against harboring feelings of vengeance. Dagur warns Hiccup against how the need for vengeance can change a person. Stoick warns Hiccup that revenge can lead to an endless cycle of violence, explicitly telling his son that he's telling him this out of experience. They don't want Hiccup to be lead astray and hurt by holding and acting on grudges.

There is the potential for Drago, which the comics did try to get into until a certain comic got cancelled and left us with that story unresolved. For newer fans who don't yet know this; Hiccup was actually meant to experience a downward spiral in the comics that take place after Httyd 2. Except the comic that would've concluded this storyline got canceled around the time of THW's release. Probably because THW confirms that Drago is dead while the canceled comic actually had Hiccup face Drago again, the man in hiding after his defeat. Release The Fire Tides!

This entire post just to say... A grudge would've been justified, but Hiccup just doesn't have it in him to hold onto one. Certainly not forever.

[readychilledwine]

Predator Prey

✨️Kink Education with Elizabeth✨️

If you are into scratching, biting, grunting, and growling, you may have a Primal Play kink.

Primal play, also known as Predator/prey, is a dynamic between a sub and dom that typically involves the dom hunting down the sub before intercourse. A lot of people mix this with pet/animal play, but they are different. Pet/animal play involves at least one party dehumanizing themselves and taking the role of an animal. Primal play does not involve that.

Primal play finds its roots before we began civilized, and before sex began being seen as a sin as pushed by religion and church. Primal play is a way to revert back to that animalistic instinct of survival by letting us play with our basic needs, aka: breeding, food, and self-protection.

Predator prey is known for being a rougher form of play as well, the sex is a little more demanding, its rough, and it typically can cause the dom to leave a little more satisfied than the sub, especially when following traditional instinct and roles (sorry ladies.) It is an important for this play type to really focus on prediscussed consent and safe word communication.

Primal play also typically involves a struggle between the parties for dominance, something this fic does skip over because while I see Eris enjoying the hunt, I can't see him enjoying his mate struggling below him, even if it is consensual, due to his family history. I apologize. I skipped that aspect, but you all may have noticed the absolute Crackship I have another predator prey set up for. That couples going to go down swinging no matter how I write that dynamic.

💕Peep the Valentines Day List here💕

As always, NSFW below the cut

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Warnings - chasing, rough smut no traditional foreplay, p in v, slight hints of dirty talk, biting.

You shouldn't have been in the woods this late. You knew it was dangerous and that the trees themselves were awake and alerting any waiting predators that an unarmed female was walking alone through them.

After hours of dealing with your father in law, you had just wanted a few moments alone and made the choice to walk to the cabin you shared with Eris instead of winnowing.

That had been a mistake. Despite being in a seasonal court, day and night still shifted with the rest of the world, and golden rays of light gave in to star patterned darkness much too fast for comfort. You huddled your hood tighter, ignoring the bite of the autumn chill, and kept walking.

“Well, well, well,” the snap of a branch made you jump, heart beating faster as you froze. “What do we have here? A pretty mouse all by herself?”

You spun quickly, eyes wide as your husband approached with 3 hounds flanking him and growling. “Eris-” he shot you a look, silencing you.

“What you're going to do, little mouse, is run. You are going to turn and run and hope I don't catch you.” He took a step toward you, one you mirrored by stepping back. “Because if I catch you, I fuck you, and that would be mercy compared to what lurks in these woods just begging to get their teeth into you.”

He took another step, a bigger one causing you to stare straight at his chest until you looked up. He kissed you gently, the only gentle thing you knew you would get tonight before sliding one of his hounds training toys into the pocket of your cloak. “Run.”

You knew from the moment you accepted the bond, Eris was a bit of a sadist. But you also knew the first time that curtain dropped and your husband chained you to a wall, spanking you until your legs gave out, that you were a masochist. His mistake was calling you a mouse, though. You knew Eris had no understanding of how intelligent mice were. Mice were natural students, learning and adapting to their environment and tricks.

And you? You had learned.

You ran finding a large tree to abandon the cloak on before winnowing about 15 feet away, taking the training toy with you. You watched as Orion, Astrid, and Nova sat at the tree, looking up at Eris, then back to the cloak. Orion whined loudly, nudging the fabric as Eris growled.

Those hounds would never hurt you. Those hounds were chasing you for fun. And you had spoiled it. You cracked a branch on purpose, smiling and laughing as Nova perked back up, then began running towards where you had taken off from.

“Cheap tricks won't help you, mouse!” The dark laughter in his voice has your core tightening. You ran faster, heading near the direction of the cabin enough that he wouldn't think anything of it.

You were actually aiming for the lake nearby, though. Wanting him to fuck you under the full moon and all of her stars. Wanting to feel him pressing you into the dirt.

Eris caught your right as you reached it, a soft laugh as he did, and he took you rolling into the dirt and grass. Settling on top of you, Eris smirked. “This isn't home, mouse.”

You tossed the toy, listening as the hound Cheerfully began playing. Submission was setting in, creeping through your bones like an old ache. “No, sir.”

His warm hand came, holding your throat. “If you wanted to be fucked like an animal, y/n, you just had to ask.” You moaned at the words, at him seeing through you. He got up, forcing you on to your stomach, and began ripping the dress you were wearing. He placed a hand back on your neck, holding you down and leaning into you, whispering in your ear. “Do animals get prepared, mouse? Remind me.”

“No, sir,” it came out as more of a whimper than a sentence, a moan leaving your throat soon after. Eris wad grinding himself against you, cock straining heavily in his pants.

Eris was inside of you mere moments later, heavy cock stretching you open with a delicious burn. He was growling above you, rutting into you over and over while you wiggled and whimpered below him.

Nights like this, nights where sex was a mesh of teeth, of bruises, of thrusts so deep you could feel every inch of him lighting you on fire, normally meant Eris had a long day, a day where he felt no control, no joy. A day where he felt belittled.

Sex like this wasn't about you, and if you came, it was a reward. Sex like this was about Eris. You knew when he calmed down after this, when he would eventually carry you to the cabin, he'd take his time making love to you there until you were no more than a soaked mess below him, body pliant and spent from countless orgasms.

You whimpered as the thrusts grew harder, pushing you into the grass as your nails dug into the soft earth. Eris's growls were becoming louder, an occasional groan thrown in as he took you wildly with no regard for your body.

You were dripping for him, panting his name between wails of pleasure and soft cries of need. You loved sex like this, loved when he held you down, when he allowed you to make him work for it. To make him hunt you down.

You felt the first twitch of his cock, clenching around him in response and smiled into the ground. “All mine,” he grunted above you. “You are all mine, do you hear me?” His mouth came to your neck, licking and sucking your pulse point.

“Gonna fuck you until you don't even know your own name.” It was a promise, a zap engraving itself on your skin as he held your hand. He chuckled darkly again, your mind melting into those soft kisses contrasting against each sharp movement inside of you.

His breathing was becoming as labored as your own, his groans becoming more and more frenzied and desperate. “Cum inside me, Eris. Mark me as yours,” his grip on your hip became impossibly tight.

One more thrust had your walls tightening around him.

Another had you screaming his name as teeth sunk into your pulse point, bruising and marking that tender flesh.

The last had you babbling, moaning, and whining as you were violently thrown from the edge, squeezing and clenching around him over, over, and over again until he was spilling into you, filling you as he groaned and lapped away the blood he drew.

You both calmed, you still wiggling below him as a few last sloppy rolls of his hips worked to drive you into over stimulation.

Eris peppered soft kisses along your jawline, up to your temple, into your hair. “You okay?”

“Again.” He smiled into you, leaning to kiss you deeply.

“When we get home, after you eat and bathe, I will make all your sick dreams come true, mouse. I promise."

General Taglist -

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho

@mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium

Valentines Day Taglist -

@sfhsgrad-blog @amara-moonlight @eternallyelvish @novaksangel @teenageeggscissorslawyer @thisblogisaboutabook @amygdtjhddzvb

@justasillylittlegoofyguy @avajustreads

@littlestw01f @azriels-shadowsinger @acourtofladydeath

[awsydawnarts]

I’m very anti-live action remakes but for How to Train Your Dragon my beloved I will make an exception, seeing as I couldn’t watch the og in theaters as I was busy being five. I watched it and overall I came out of the theater having had fun, but I definitely had some thoughts. Spoilers, also it’s 2 am and this is very train of thought and not very organized!

I really enjoyed the visuals, and the flying scenes, which is why I wanted to see it in theaters, really hit. Had to go zoom around on the freeway a bit blasting Test Drive afterwards. The dragons’ individual designs are a mixed bag, but they did a good job making them all look like they’re actually in the world. From the brief research I did, they used puppets for scenes where the humans are touching them, which was a good choice.

I thought the actors did well. Most of the issues I have with the characters have more to do with directing, I think. I’m sure Mason Thames could have been more sarcastic if he was asked to be, but this Hiccup is a bit…softer? I described him to a friend as more of a wet puppy than a wet cat in vibes and I think that makes sense? I’m not sure how I feel about this choice, but it’s possible that making him more like the og would have felt cheesy in LA (oh wow suspending your disbelief is harder when everything is realistic wow who knew). There were some really heart wrenching moments that are glossed over in the og that Mason played so so well. Hiccup discovering his lost leg REALLY got me. He feels very young and vulnerable in that scene. He’s really good at that deeply hurt but also deeply suppressed vibe that Hiccup shows a bit more in the LA. 

Hiccup’s emotional highs and lows were great. He cries in this movie, which I loved, and he also has several scenes where he’s obviously trying not to cry, and again, it really helps hammer home that he’s (in the og at least) fifteen. Baby boy 🥺 Valka is mentioned, and definitely adds to the tension between Hiccup and Stoick and even Hiccup and Astrid. Post-romantic flight, Astrid is like the dragons have done so much to us and Hiccup is like yeah no shit my mom and I still think we can get along (I think? Someone can correct me if I hallucinated that part) and I like that we talk about it a bit more. It adds to Hiccup’s decision to be merciful and not kill Toothless.

Hiccup and Stoick’s relationship is more strained, and I don’t know if I like it or not tbh. In the og, Stoick is still genuinely trying right up until Toothless shows up in the arena, and in the LA he’s very unkind not just to Hiccup but about Hiccup. The chat with Gobber has talking shit vibes rather than oh man bro idk what to do vibes and I don’t think I like this change in that particular instance. There’s a lot less care on Stoick’s end and lot more hurt on Hiccup’s end. The way Mason delivers “This conversation is feeling very one sided,” with such resignation, was heartbreaking. I don’t think they did a great job resolving their issues, unfortunately. Stoick’s “I was only trying to protect you” is very different from “I’m sorry. For-for everything.” Hiccup’s response to “I’m proud to call you my son” in that scene also did not hit. The line is something like “That’s all I need” which is very much Written In A Writer’s Room rather than a genuine, simple, “Thanks, Dad.”

Toothless was fun. Not much else to add there, he was the tiniest bit more pet than friend but barely enough to mention. I don’t love how Toothless has evolved from a black cat to a black lab, but that’s a problem in the franchise as a whole, so I won’t hold it against this movie. 

I liked some of the choices they made with Astrid but not others. I don’t think that her original version was perfect; she definitely had some odd damsel moments when they wanted Hiccup to look heroic, so I’m okay with her getting to be a bit more of a Girlboss™️ (most of the time). A standout moment to me was the Red Death fight where in the og, it tries to suck her and Stormfly in, but H and T save them. I liked the LA’s take way more, because the RD mostly succeeds and catches Stormfly’s tail, and then Astrid jumps off and knocks its tooth out? And then it’s like roaring and chewing and she’s dodging the teeth until it shoots fire and then she jumps and H and T catch her? Might read a little weird, might be weird to other people but I thought it was sick lol. Definitely an improvement. But then on the flip side, they definitely Girlbossed™️ her a bit too hard in some places, for example…

I did NOT like that she was giving battlefield instructions when fighting the RD. She gets Hiccup’s line about “make some noise keep it confused Ruff Tuff find out if it has a shot limit MAKE IT MAD” and I didn’t like that. Hiccup is the main character of the movie. Him stepping up in this moment and proving that he’s a capable leader is a crucial part of his arc in the og. I love Astrid, I love empowered women, AND ALSO httyd is Hiccup’s story. His development should take precedence. Seems like a small change, but it really took the movie down for me. Generally, though, I really enjoyed Astrid and Nico was fantastic. I was also pretty happy with how they handled Hiccstrid, especially Astrid’s introduction. It’s more wow she’s so cool and less…sleazy is the wrong word, but it’s adjacent. More innocent and genuine-he likes her bcs she’s a badass and he admires her, not just because she’s pretty and he wants to date her.

Was the idea of Berk consisting of different tribes coming together to fight dragons kind of dumb? Yeah. Did it ruin the movie for me? No. Was the idea of a chosen chief kind of dumb? Yeah. Did it ruin the movie for me? No. Was Stoick and Gobber’s conversation before staying behind to fight the RD way less impactful? Yeah. Did it ruin the movie for me? No.

What else?

The dragons were, naturally, a highlight. The Nadders look like SHIT but they did give them this fun new thing where they basically peck things and break through roofs and walls? Makes a lot of sense with their design actually. Out of all the dragons Hookfang and The Red Death look the best, I think. They kept bringing up skrills and it was driving me INSANE because it was the only dragon species that wasn’t in the og that they mentioned by name even though they had other species. Skrills are supposed to be rare. Even if you’re going off of “the movies shouldn’t have to work around the shows” logic, in the og Book of Dragons scene, it’s called “THE Skrill”

The “everything we know about you guys is wrong” scene is completely cut and that was The Wrong Choice. That scene exists to help Hiccup realize that all dragons are like Toothless, and he’s not just an anomaly-there is hope for peace. It’s also foreshadowing for how they beat the RD/where Hiccup gets the idea. I knew not everything was going to make it, but I’m disappointed that they cut that scene for sure.

The score for this movie was the worst part, which probably sounds insane, but I will elaborate. Since most of the music already existed, I don’t consider its inclusion to be a point in favor of the LA. What I’m considering when I talk about the score in the LA is how it’s used, and It Is Not Used. The visuals and the music do not match. Test Drive is a really great example of this. In the original, there is the Chill Flying section, the brief Uh Oh There Goes Hiccup section, the Plummeting section, the Hiccup Is Back On Board But Oh No Too Fast section, and then the Okay Fuck It section. In the LA, the Okay Fuck It visuals start during the Hiccup Is Back On Board But Oh No Too Fast section in the music. 

It does not work. 

AND ALSO while we’re talking about Test Drive they cut several bars out of Test Drive during the Fuck It section????? Why they made that choice is beyond me, and I’m not even joking when I say the tears in my eyes evaporated immediately when that happened. I did like how they mostly cut the sound when Hiccup fell off that was fun. Everything after that was already perfect and they should have done it shot for shot. As a dancer, I can’t put into words how much it bothers me when music and action don’t have a relationship. The visuals need to happen when the music says they do, and IT WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN HARD TO DO IT RIGHT because THEY ALREADY HAD THAT SCENE READY TO GO. JUST DO THAT AGAIN.

They also do not use the music to build suspense of any kind. During the scene where Hiccup first finds Toothless, in the og, the music builds and creates a tense atmosphere as we realize the dragon is close and Hiccup might run into it. The vibe is very Oh Shit Oh Shit Here We Go FUCK! and in the LA they? Do not do that even though he finds the tree? the vibe is very Oh Tree La Dee Da Oop, There’s A Draong Here! Did not hit. The Book of Dragons scene is the other scene that’s standing out to me as one that really suffered musically. Same issue as above-not enough suspense built using the music. 

Speaking of that scene, the movie as a whole has a problem that a lot of LAs have which is they kind of…fast forward through what we already know so they can get to the new stuff? In the original, the Book of Dragons scene is really cool bcs of the candle warping the illustrations and contributing to Hiccup feeling more and more uneasy in the dark empty hall. In this one they did not do that, they didn’t utilize the score, and so the whole thing feels very much in there out of necessity. The scene where Hiccup and Toothless first meet is similarly lackluster for similar reasons.

The movie as a whole feels very unintentional when it comes to the parts that were already in the og. In the og, the last dragon we see is Toothless. In the LA, the last dragon we see is Meatlug as all of them fly up past the camera into the sun, and I don’t think that Toothless was first? I think Stormfly was? So rather than ending on our main characters, they’re just…in there somewhere, don’t worry! There’s more things like that, but those are the kinds of details that are hard to dredge up several hours later lmao. 

Overall I DID have an amazing time and I might actually watch it again someday, but like all live actions, it didn’t preserve a lot of what made the original good to begin with, unfortunately. I’m looking forward to seeing how people feel about this one!!!

[crepesuzette2023]

In honor of @ilovedig's Birthday: some Beatles fanfics with rare (read: beyond 'straight' mclennon) pairings and unusual POV's!

McHarrison

The @beatleskinkmeme Summer of Love Fanworks Collection has some great new McHarrison fics.

Grateful for Him (@johangeorghohman). Five times George regrets John is in Paul's life, and one time he's grateful. An absolute heartbreaker of a story—so beautiful.

Invisible String (@scurator). Paul and George meet again at the Venus and Mars release party. They moved on; they will always belong together.

Knocking at Your Door (@eveepe). Paul and George kissing through the years, from childhood to Anthology. Special appearance by Paul's eager little prick (and you know I'm sold).

-----

Polycule Beatles

The same collection also has fantastic stories about the Beatles as a four-sided love story:

Deeper than oceans you run (@wonderwall1968). The four of them are reeling in the aftershock of a health scare. A dark, dream-like, intense story. John POV.

Everybody Loves Somebody (@bewareofdarkness). Soulmark AU: The four Beatles are meant to be together. But it doesn't happen without a hitch.

-----

Paul McCartney/Mal Evans

You Won't See Me (@swinginglondon42). Mal is in love with Paul, and can't see he moved on.

-----

John Lennon/Keith Richards

Emotional Rescue (@ohjohnnysblog). Near wordless comfort in the aftermath of a party—and Brian's death.

-----

George Harrison/ Yoko Ono

Miss Oh No (@aquarianshift). Yoko and her obsession with "real men" meets George and his resentment of the band he's nevertheless willing to protect from her. Brief, tense and hot encounter.

-----

John/Paul/George

I'd Love to Turn You On (sleeprettydarling). George knows Paul and John are lovers. He's curious. They show him.

-----

Brian Epstein/ Alistair Taylor

Another Kind of Love (Naraht). Lovely story about deep friendship and loyalty.

-----

George Harrison/ Bob Dylan

On the Avenue (@aquarianshift). Two weird men desire each other. George's soul splits from the Beatles. Dream-like and strange, but absolutely grounded in sensuality.

-----

George Harrison/John Lennon & George Harrison/Paul McCartney

Sour Milk Sea (You & You & Me) (cloudy_blue). John and Paul and George through the years. Relationship study.

-----

George Harrison/John Lennon

At Mercy (@eveepe). George and John are girls and in the same band. John was never more John than in this story. "How was I?"

-----

Paul McCartney/ Peter Asher

still mates (@pauls1967moustache). Perennial favorite, because it makes so much sense for Paul and Peter to have a misguided one-night-stand while Lennon/McCartney are falling into Mount Doom. If you didn't think you could fall in love with Peter Asher, think again. He's brave and wonderful in this story.

-----

Paul McCartney/ Donovan

Bound to be the very next phase (downtothelastdrop). Paul satisfies his curiosity in Rishikesh.

-----

Paul McCartney/ George Martin

Fixing A Hole (@m1ssunderstanding). Very much a George vs. Jim story.

-----

Linda McCartney/Paul McCartney/Denny Laine

Red Light, Green Light, Strawberry Wine (@savageandwise). Another all time favorite. Linda POV. A hot and angry threesome while Paul is waiting for John to call him back again.

-----

Unusual POV's

The Macs (@revollver). 1969 'we eloped to Scotland' John and Paul through the eyes of Mike McCartney.

Playing the Mind Guerilla (Anonymous). John and Paul through the eyes of George, Stu, and (wait for it) Nigel Walley.

I've Seen You, Beauty (bakerstreetafternoon). Paris '61 John and Paul through the eyes of Jürgen Vollmer.

Another Girl (@boshemians). AHDN Beatles through the eyes of Astrid Kirchherr.

Why Buy the Cow (RedheadAmongWolves). Early Days John and Paul through the eyes of the milkman.

I only have eyes for you (ififellinlovewithyou). John's collage and body horror.

Butts and Beatles: What the Ciggie Carton Saw (@waveofahand). The Beatles through the eyes of their cigarettes.

-----

Paul McCartney/Yoko Ono; Paul McCartney & Yoko Ono

Raglan Road (@savageandwise): Paul and Yoko make love after John's death. "He was their shared language. He was their lexicon. Their language was John."

White Swan, Black Swan (@savageandwise). Companion piece to the above. Yoko writes a poem to Paul. Incredible. This is the stuff I live for.

mesmerized by mythology (peculiar_mademoiselle). Paul and Yoko through the years.

Opposites (Selena). 1975. A visit from Paul and Linda to the Dakota. From Yoko's point of view.

Regeneration (@scurator). Yoko and Paul as widows. Paul is flirting. Yoko is not disinclined.

a great threat (@pauls1967moustache). Paul and Yoko are both women, and artists, and John's partners, and it makes everything so much worse.

modern love (caesdoublesteps). To break the angsty mood: Paul and Yoko meet to discuss her handing over the movie Self Portrait. Yoko POV; very amusing!

-----

Paul McCartney/Stuart Sutcliffe; Paul McCartney & Stuart Sutcliffe

The Bass Lesson (@aquarianshift). I sill stop reccing this hot, awkward, throbbing-with-resentment Paul/Stu sex when I'm dead.

Baselines (cloudy_blue). Stu hands over his bass guitar to Paul.

-----

And finally: Some @ilovedig Originals!

I Lost My Little Boy (Paul/Ian James, Paul/John). The Woolton Fete, but it starts as a date for Paul and Ian James.

Jane Did an Interview (Paul/everyone). Open-ended series with self-contained chapters. Old Paul and a possible life partner respond to Jane Asher's ominous refusal to mention Paul in an interview. Mini relationship portraits, from John to Klaus Voormann.

Happy Birthday! I hope the universe will send that epic and romantic Paul McCartney/Werner 'Icke' Braun-fic your way...sooner rather than later!

[thedragon-and-hisboy]

hiccup and stabbed <3 @mr-business-whump

ohh im gonna stab the hell outta smolcup...

"Look, I don't want to fight!" Hiccup cried. That was entirely true. Not least because he was unarmed, but also because the man advancing on him with sword drawn was at least twice his height and three times his weight.

"Don't care," the man growled. He tossed a dull sword at Hiccup. "Fight or die."

Probably more of an AND than an OR, Hiccup thought. He picked up the sword. It was spotted with rust and the leather wrapping the hilt was coming loose. It wouldn't have made much of a difference if it was razor-sharp and gleaming.

For once in his life, Hiccup was sorely disappointed that Dagur had left him alone to see to some task or other. He'd assigned this guard to get Hiccup to a cell after capturing him, but the man had other plans. And a grudge, evidently.

"What did I even do to you?" Hiccup asked. He reached out behind him to feel for the wall; it was closer than he'd expected.

"That Night Fury killed my brother," the man snarled. "And you tell it what to do."

Hiccup's heart plummeted. He knew, logically, that most people would not survive a direct hit from Toothless. That was easier to ignore in the heat of battle, but the fact still tormented him occasionally. Astrid, ever the warrior, tried to reason with him and remind him that these men had no qualms in trying to murder him, so he shouldn't afford them mercy.

It was much harder to confront the reality of it when the man in front of him was poised to extract revenge as immediately as possible.

"Why even give me a sword?" Hiccup asked. "It's not like I could beat you, right?" He backed up right into the wall as the man advanced, fast.

"I'm giving you the chance you didn't give my brother," the man said. He raised the sword and swung.

By some miracle, Hiccup got his own sword up in time to deflect, but the force of the impact sent pain radiating up his arm. He threw the sword (now notched significantly) aside and dove away from the swordsman, who was swinging back for another strike.

"Dagur doesn't want me hurt!" he cried. For whatever reason, Dagur was adamant about it. Hiccup had seen him attack his own men who'd tried to take down Toothless.

"Too bad!" his attacker shouted. The next swing whipped past Hiccup's face so closely he could've sworn it trimmed his bangs. "You're paying for my brother's murder!"

Hiccup ducked the backswing and rolled across the hall, but came up against the stone of the wall. He scrambled upright but the man was too fast.

With one hand, the swordsman caught hold of Hiccup's shoulder, and with the other he drove the sword into Hiccup's stomach.

He'd expected to scream in pain, but all that left his lips was a choked gasp. The impact of the blade drove the wind from him. Then, a split second that lasted a year later, the pain began.

Fire spread from his core. It was worse than getting struck by lightning, worse than the Red Death. The agony gripped him so tightly that he couldn't draw breath to scream.

The man dropped him to the floor and gripped the hilt of the sword. The slight jolt from his hand added enough pain that Hiccup managed a whine. The man above laughed.

"No monster to save you here," he said smugly. "I hope you meet my brother in Hel."

"Go see him yourself."

An arrow bloomed from the man's eye, point-first. He looked shocked, one hand going up to touch the arrow before he crumpled. Dagur stood where he had, one hand still holding the crossbow he'd just shot.

Hiccup decided that the blood loss and shock was making him see things. There was no other reason Dagur would fall to his knees and gather Hiccup into his arms. There was no other reason that would explain tears that weren't his falling on his face.

There was no other reason to explain why Dagur was sobbing.

It had to be shock.

[wilderness-of-thoughts]

Before:

You should be asleep. You should be rolling over right now, drooling on your pillow, dreaming of a romantic evening with some hot alpha male from a webtoon, and quietly farting (with glitter and rainbows, of course). But no. Of course not. Not when Satoru Gojo has a drama moment and demands an explanation from you.

"Gojo, I beg you, have mercy. We get up in the morning." You grumble, Gojo was just standing astride your sternum dressed in a pink nightgown. You both pretend not to see the little fashion show that Satoru is putting on for you. He has to try on all the doll clothes that will fit him. Women's, men's, unisex, classic, normal, festive or fancy - he has to try them all.

“You have a boyfriend?” His tone was like a parent who had caught his child smoking.

"Nooooo? I guess? It's complicated. Although I think he's already my fiancé." You frowned, thinking that this answer would calm him down, you simply closed your eyes.

Gojo felt his legs give way under his weight. In order not to show it, he simply sat cross-legged on your breastbone. Somewhere in the background, far, far away, he heard his tiny little heart breaking. He didn't know why. He didn't understand. When others said they were seeing someone, he didn't give a damn; when his sex friends said they were ending things because they were getting into a relationship, he responded with a shrug.

"Do you love him...?" He asked quietly, not looking at your face. He was afraid of the answer, but his ego effectively suppressed that fear.

"Hmm.... No." You replied firmly almost immediately. The vague constriction in his throat disappeared as soon as he removed his hand, and his heart began to beat more calmly. Why? Feeling his unspoken question, you sighed. You felt the light weight of his body against your chest. "Before you ask, I've known him for years. We met on some now-defunct manga-fucker forum. We share common interests and general clumsiness in life." You smiled to yourself. "we slept together a few times and stuff."

"Is he good?"

"He is nice, helpful..."

"in bed."

"Oh... Um... I don't know?" You blushed slightly.

".... What do you mean you don't know?"

"eh heh... You know.... I get more aroused reading fanfiction and watching hentai than... I mean, it's not bad... Is it normal? Ordinary? Without fireworks?" Gojo looked at you as if you were speaking to him in a forgotten dialect of ancient Aramaic. You watched him as he sat between your breasts on the print of the T-shirt you were sleeping in, with a serious expression on his face. "Sex in a relationship is not everything and that's something you should know best. For you guys it's more like a biological need."

"And fun."

"Okay, and fun" You smiled slightly. This was the first time you had this kind of conversation with Gojo, or with anyone really. You didn't have many real-world friends that weren't somehow related to jujutsu.

"Why don't you know if you're his fiancée?" Satoru asked further, being unsure whether one is in a relationship or not is something he has encountered in his life. More times than he would admit. Women often conflated sex with a relationship and he was introduced as a "partner" without even knowing it. So yeah. Gojo understands that you might not be sure.

"About half a year ago he proposed to me with a KFC set. I will never say no to food. I treated the proposal as a joke and ate the chicken. But ever since then, um... His mother asks about grandchildren, his grandmother tells how much money she has set aside for him, and he says something about a prenuptial agreement." You were now looking at Gojo as if he could explain your maybe-boyfriend's behavior.

Gojo didn't know what to say. He wanted to laugh, but at the same time he was so shocked that he could only look at you in equal consternation. If this guy took your "yes" seriously, it was the laziest proposal in the history of mankind. You deserved more. A perfect sunset, a violinist, roses, candles, a week-long spa. Gojo may have been a little romantic, but only a little. At least that was in the movies he watched because what does he know about true love? He would sooner sink into the ground than propose to you with a KFC nugget.

"Have you talked to him about this?"

"Yes?" Seeing his look you continued, "He said he was serious."

...Oh.

"Did you correct him?"

"um..." So no.

"Why?"

"do I have to answer?" You have to. You sighed heavily and hid your eyes behind your hand feeling the sleepiness demanding that you go to sleep. But you knew that Gojo wouldn't let you. "I assume that we are all alone. You are born alone, you die alone, no one will live your life for you. You are alone in the bag of bones that is your body. Precisely because, at a fundamental level, we are all alone, people seek others. Some people pair up, others join groups, associations, sects. They look for answers in religion, science. And the truth is that.. we are alone. All together we are alone."

Gojo could write a doctorate with distinction on loneliness. From his perspective, at the top you are alone, while the others were together. But when you told him that everyone is alone at the bottom... Paradoxically, he felt less lonely.

"But I wouldn't mind being alone with you." You mumbled, placing your hand on his. Gojo practically clung to it, craving your touch, your warmth, your body. He was now lying on your sternum. He felt your heartbeat beneath, your warm breath moving the strands of his hair. His cat tail curled around your ring finger.

In addition to the determination to return to his normal size, another feeling appeared in his little heart. Treat this lame guy with Purple. Then buy you a kids' set at McDonald's.

He dreamed he was kneeling before you at an anime convention, you were wearing a sexy version of Agumon's outfit. You agree.

It was one of the few beautiful dreams he had recently.

Next:

[xadian-daydreams]

What's been mentioned for the Dragon Prince Season 6: Book Stars so far...

Having listened and read a bunch of interviews, here's my collected notes (Updated for October 2023);

No current release date, but confirmed 9 episodes, same as previous seasons.

Seasons Four though Seven are all the Mystery of Aaravos arc.

While there's not going to be any real time skip between S5 and S6, there will be a small one within S6. Update - there's a few days time skip between S5 and S6.

Season 6 will be more mature to the point the age rating is increasing. It will also go into deeper emotional stuff - "fans should enjoy the breather before being emotionally wrecked by the next book."

(Most of) Episode 1 of season 6 was shown at NYCC 2023 panel. Notes on summaries people have posted here.

New characters to be introduced;

Astrid - voiced by Boone Williams - Female Celestial Skywing elf. She's mysterious and there's 'something cool' about her design.

Character based off Moonberry Surprise.

A new Startouch elf. Possibly the Merciful One (they/them) from the Sea of the Castout statues.

Upcoming for main characters;

Callum - every time you do dark magic, it becomes harder to come back from it. Info on Callum birth-father. (Callum and learning Moon Arcanum - Giehl's opinion is doesn't want Callum treading on Rayla's thematic territory and stealing her thunder). Rayllum note - how would Callum using dark magic affect the trust and friendship they've been building up?

Rayla - On the curse coins - too spoilery, so they won't answer questions related to that. On Rayllum note. Would Rayla do anything for Callum? And what would Callum call upon her to do if that was the case? Questions getting asked next season, just to make you suffer.

Callum, Rayla and Stella confirmed visiting the Starscraper.

Ezran - sticking to his ideals and pacifism will be tested. Rough and tough decision(s).

At some point Ezran and Callum will visit some 'weird' ruins.

Soren - has had lighter seasons so far, but is about to face darker questions. There is trauma that the writers haven't told anyone about that will come to light at some point. Soren is getting an opportunity to confront Viren about what happened at the Storm Spire (they did meet up in S4E7, which is covered in the short story Strangers, but writers felt it lacked the satisfaction needed, as neither really was in the headspace to talk), but uncertain if this is just a therapy thing or if Viren lives.

There's going to be a funny Soren and Corvus story later on.

Claudia - S5 she was under a lot of pressure, and it's not easing up. How will Claudia be impacted by Viren's decision - further into darkness or pulled back into the light? Claudia being willing to risk life and limb for her goal(s) - and then actually paying the cost of a limb - what does that mean for her and Terry?

Karim - is about to get in over his head. He doesn't realise the kind of alliances he's making.

Amaya and Janai don't get enough love in these interviews. 😢

Zym - Goes with Soren to find Zubeia. Spoiler indicates Zym has a heart to heart with her

Characters we'll be seeing more of;

Aaravos - there's a lot more of him coming in S6.

Kim'dael - 'big plans' that even go beyond the show, though specifically refused to answer if she'll met Rayla again (they met first time in Bloodmoon Huntress graphic novel).

More with the pirates and Scumport (however, Finnegrin while not confirmed dead, won't make a reappearance in S6/7). Scumport set up a bunch of stuff for going into season 6.

Kpp'Ar - confirmed there'll be more stuff about him in both S6 and S7.

Mukho - the mushroom mage, Earthblood elf who's a world expert mycologist.

More shadowpaw content.

Possibly Ellis and Ava briefly, but could be S7.

Lore -

The lore about Stars primal and Startouch elves and other mythology will be explored. How you kill a Startouch elf will be answered - including more info on Laurelion (mentioned in the Death of an Immortal poem).

(Going by how the graphic novels releases are generally introducing things that are mentioned in the next season, Puzzle House's emphasize on unicorns, and how there is a big bit of unicorn lore mentioned in the novels, is a good hint that this unicorn lore is getting explained in show too. But, just to clarify, it's not confirmed this is happening - however, it is a impactful bit of backstory and there's only 2 seasons left).

Most likely information about how Primal Stones are made - specifically how a storm was trapped from the top of Mount Kalik to create the Primal Stone Callum smashed. Ehasz mentioned that something brought up in the second episode will be expanded on in S6, and the info about the Sky Primal Stone is the only info that hasn't been addressed elsewhere from E2 that I could pick out.

More lore about golems (as in the rock guardians and Elmer)

Other notes;

Season 6 will have an explosive start.

Questions raised by Ehasz;

Was the dragang moving Aaravos's prison smart or would it have been safer to have left it? It's something they'll grapple with right away.

Is Aaravos being honest with Viren about what's going to happen? (I'm wording it as being honest rather than saying is he lying, as Aaravos's thing is manipulative truths and misdirections etc, rather than outright lies).

No context: 🔥 (Can't help looking at the use of explosive start by the NYCC notification)

There's stuff in Season 2 that will get explained in Season 6 - while they're not exactly clues, there will be referencing from S2.

Keep an eye on changes in the openers - they're continuing the hints - like when they swapped out Viren with Callum to let you know Callum and dark magic/Aaravos is going to be in the episode.

Season 7 will be Book 7: Dark.

The next graphic novel will be about "family and building trust." Update: Title Dreamer's Nightmare

Can young Ezran and Callum quell the brewing storm in the quiet town of Noct, or have bad dreams come to haunt for good?

Giehl says this story has Ezran as the lead character and the artist said they enjoyed doing the many animals.

There were hints dropped at NYCC 2023 that there may be other projects based on the Dragon Prince world, but they'll come under a different name. TDP will only be the 7 seasons. (Most hints I've seen suggest they may be working towards an Orphan Queen film/series, but it could also be a continuation).

Sources; Hot Brown Morning Potion Podcast E27 Reel James Season 5 interview with Aaron Ehasz AIPT Comics 'The Dragon Prince creators dish on season 5 post-mortem AnimationWorld: The Dragon Prince Season 5, a swashbuckling blend of design tricks and emotional turmoil Screenrant SDCC 2023: The Dragon Prince creators on taking the Mystery of Aaravos past Season 5 CBR: The Dragon Prince creators reveal the secrets of Season 5 and the road to Season 6 ComicBook: The Dragon Prince creators talk season 5 and entering the show's Empire Strikes Back era Game of Nerds: SDCC 2023 The Dragon Prince All Aboard for Season 5 Official Discord Season 4 Q&A NYCC 2023 panel Secrets in the Stars Random tweets and Discord stuff from the creators and official social media.

[apocalypsis2999]

APOCALYPSE OF THE NEPHILIM: INTERPRETATION

BY SECTATOR DAVID P. RUINERWULDD

Hello, brothers and sisters in God. I appreciate that you have found the time to both discover and read through this new translation of the Apocalypsis Salvatio. I appreciate that you have decided to find time to study the most accurate text of our Holy Book. Before I begin the interpretation, I would like to properly introduce myself for any of the unacquainted among us. I am Sct. David Palmar Ruinerwuldd, an expert in the study of the Apocalypsis Salvatio. I have been studying the Holy Text for my entire life, and I am glad that I will be able to share what I have learned and deciphered with the entire world. In a way, it is continuing my duty as a Sectator, though I have given up on actively preaching to my congregation, as I have gotten much too old to prepare a new speech every week. As I have been a Sectator for nigh forty years, I see it in the interest of both my faith, and a celebration of such a symbolic landmark, to begin my interpretation with the Apocalypse of the Nephilim, the first book of the Apocalypsis Salvatio, the most correct book in the world. 

Beginning with the first chapter, we get multiple messages from the LORD about his view on the world. “The kings of the world, claiming to be the ‘Nephilim’ amongst themselves, believed themselves to be above humanity.” (Nephilim 1:4). This is absolutely vital– For all those among you who have had the privilege of reading, or being told of, the Genesis, we can see there that before the Flood of Noah, the Nephilim emerged. I would like to think that they took the same role as they did in our world. They were corruptors, they were made to deceive men and turn them away from God into the Pagan Evils of the world, or into worshipping them as gods. However, God saw fit to purge them from the world with flood, and then with flame. For no mercy is to be shown to the evil. “[The flaming arrows] hit the cities where Nephilim resided, the concrete foundations, coalescing into the shape of a mushroom.” (Nephilim 1:20). Now, this passage is of vital importance– Some in recent times, especially the “scientists”, have claimed it to be evidence of some kind of ancient nuclear disaster. This is utter foolishness. If it was that, then it would be documented as thus. But it is not. Instead, it should be taken to mean what it says. That the LORD God rained flame upon the Nephilim to cleanse the world.

And as our God is intensely merciful as we can see in the next chapter of our Holy Book, because despite his decision to annihilate the Nephilim, he still calls to each and every one in the form of Gabriel;  “If you repent, as God has commanded you, you will be spared of destruction. For if you do not repent, the LORD will strike all of you, in every nation of the world, with his wrath.” (Nephilim 2:3-4). Despite everything, despite everything extended to them, not a single Nephilim ended up repenting, coming to belief in Him.

However, there were still people willing to live. The LORD would not have to rebuild from the beginning once more, but he would take the Seven deemed worthy, and he would let them rebuild society. That is the purpose of Chapter 3 of the Apocalypse of the Nephilim– It is to show the worthiness of the Survivors, the ones who have founded our church, including the Holy Prophet Astrid of Agnost. Speaking of the Prophet, we can go around the 4th chapter, giving us the perspective of the Metatron, and go straight into the Revelatory Vision of the Holy Prophet Astrid. There, God tells the Holy Prophet Astrid they will be the beginning of a long line of Prophets, and they will reshape the world after the destruction of the Nephilim. Then in the sixth chapter, Ether tries to upstage the Holy Prophet Astrid by pretending to have a vision. Here the LORD shows the dangers of pretending to be one of his Prophets when you are not one, for the true Prophets shall know you are false.

The next chapter focuses on the heresy of the Traitor Sama. He was deprived of the holiness of his name for the transgressions against God, consorting with Iblis Morningstar without explicit permission and harming his chosen people. Many people today see Sama as some sort of figure to be praised for this act– He is not. Sama is the lowest of low. He is evil, for he has betrayed the LORD in every way that matters. In the next chapter, God tells Michael why people need free will, as is his divine will. 

In the ninth chapter, the twenty-eighth year of their life inside of God’s Sacred Cavern, we can see the establishment of The Apocalypsis and the Day of Survival, the most sacred days for all the adherents of the Apocalypsis Salvatio, and the religious context that surrounds it; That God himself came down and spoke to us, telling us to keep a day somber and sacred, then celebrate our life on the next. Is it not a thing of wonder?

Finally, the thirty-fifth year of their life is the most wonderful, the most interesting chapter of this book of our Text. It is a wonderful thing, to look upon the Kingdom of Heaven as clearly as the Holy Prophet Astrid had all those years ago. Do not brush off this chapter as a “hallucination”, as so many before I have, as so many of the current ERA do! No, see it as it is– Entirely true, and entirely valid. And on that subject, do not take the Holy Prophet Astrid as an adulterer! Though many try to push that theory upon the beloved prophet, that was not them. They were not in relations with Ether of Mormon and Eliza of Pentecost! Shame and excommunication upon any who believe that falsehood, and shame upon their families for letting them believe such.

[raayllum]

So, thinking about Kosmo's Timeblind awakening and how he saw Callum's heart filled with darkness, but we know (and Rayla points out the next episode) that's not true. It keeps me scratching my head because Kosmo just says things as they are (at least at first) and he has no want or need to deceive Callum, especially after fulfilling the 'Chosen Two Prophecy'. Why do you think he sees such darkness in Callum? Beause I'm convinced this reason is coming back in S7.

I have a few thoughts about the Celestial elf prophecy / Kosmo being Timeblind.

According to Kosmo and Astrid, being timeblind means seeing the past, present, and future all as one. However, Kosmo very much thinks Callum is a good person and is aware he doesn't want this darkness there (hence why Kosmo and Astrid present him a way to fix it and are confident to take it, Astrid's concern over how downtrodden Callum is, and how Kosmo takes her advice and re-evaluates, using his timeblind ability to see how he should proceed with the pearl truth/lie to preserve Callum's spirit).

Now, the language used is pretty interchangeable (everyone refers to people's stars, hearts, and spirits all as synonymous aspects in the actual scenes) which doesn't help, I think, in terms of pinning down the specifics.

The way I saw it was similar to how the show explains it:

Callum. The darkness I saw when I looked at you, it was a darkness inside you. They're connected. Doing dark magic creates a hole in your spirit, a corrupted emptiness. That's how the Fallen Star controls you.

So Kosmo sees the past taint of dark magic the same way he sees the past impact of Rayla's act of mercy (sparing Marcos); I don't think he's deceiving Callum at all, just perceiving the hole in his spirit that was left from dark magic usage. In that way, the 'darkness' Kosmo is seeing has nothing to do with whether he's a good person (although Callum is concerned with it, and Rayla knows and reassures him on that basis) or not, but merely that his soul has been damaged by dark magic.

With Kosmo's assessment of Rayla's heart/spirit/etc. he doesn't predict the future outright, but Kosmo does seem to think that the ripples of her actions are still ongoing... so is the darkness he sees in Callum that too?

That's a little trickier to say. We know that being Timeblind means things like past, present, and future tend to get blurred together. Personally I think in the scene itself, Kosmo is only seeing the past and then presenting it verbally from the present. From a scene analysis standpoint, I do think it's more indicative of future events (Rayla will show Callum mercy again, allowing him to survive and change the world with primal magic and for the ripples to keep growing; the light in Kosmo's eyes being consumed by darkness = "the darkness will overwhelm and corrupt you" upon another dark magic use / Lissa seeing Viren as a monster framing parallel) but again one, as you noted, that is not true. Even if Callum uses dark magic again, that doesn't automatically make him a bad person or that his heart is full of darkness; he has light inside too, and will come back to himself. Rayla knows this, and he will too.

[middleearthpixie]

Something in the Night ~ Chapter Thirteen

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a seriously wounded Thorin Oakenshield returns to Erebor to recuperate and eventually ascend the throne as king. With the deaths of Azog the Defiler and his son, Bolg, Thorin no longer has to worry about the bounty the Defiler placed on his head and can instead concentrate on restoring Erebor to its former glory. 

Nina Carren of Esgaroth has one goal—to make Thorin Oakenshield pay for unleashing Smaug the dragon unto her home—where he destroyed the town and killed her family. The Defiler might be gone, but his bounty remains very much in place, and she fully intends to collect on it. 

Finally, the opportunity shows itself for her to do just that, only to have it go horribly awry. Wounded and now at his mercy, neither Nina nor Thorin stopped to think what might happen, should things not go quite according to plan…

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Nina Carren

Warnings: Description of battle and wounds

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.1k

Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @lathalea @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @knittastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @quiall321 @dianakc @msjava1972 @glassgulls @evenstaredits @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @sazzlep

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here. 

They departed Mirkwood less than an hour later, and followed along the Forest River. In the distance, the Lonely Mountain rose pink and purple in the late morning sunlight and she gazed upon it, Nina couldn't help but feel a hint of urgency. They would be arriving within a day or so, and that meant she had to do what she set out to do soon.

But, as she sat astride her pony, watching Thorin astride his ahead of her, the sunlight dancing along his long black curls, glinting off the silver clip at the back of his head, she realized she no longer hated him. Perhaps she’d never hated him, but only hated what had happened. Although he had unleashed Smaug, it was never with the intent of setting him upon Esgaroth. 

Instead, as she watched him, she found she wanted to know more about him. Last evening, in the low light, she’d seen the thin white scar running diagonally from his right temple toward the inside of his eyebrow and found herself wondering where he’d gotten it. The same with the various other scars she’d seen on his body—what looked like bite marks across his back and chest, and two curious wounds lower on his abdomen amongst others. She wanted to ask him about Esgaroth and the restoration of her hometown, about his childhood and what led him to his quest for Erebor.

More than anything, she wanted another night with him. She no longer cared about revenge, no longer cared about the bounty. Neither one mattered. Not only would they not give her back what had been stolen from her, but she found for the first time in a long time, she looked to the future. 

Looked to the possibility of a future with Thorin. 

Dwarves do not take this lightly, Nina. It’s not in our makeup to leap from bed to bed, you know.

Did that mean he thought there was the possibility of a future with her as well? 

The trouble was, she had to be honest with him. Absolutely honest.

And that terrified her. She had no idea how to tell him, no idea how he would take learning such a thing. It might be an unforgivable matter as far as he was concerned and she wouldn’t be able to fault him if it was. 

They were just beyond the easternmost border of Mirkwood, with the River Running in their sights when the first arrow split the air with a sharp whistle. Without thinking, Nina leapt from her mount and as the pony bolted, she yanked her bow and an arrow from her quiver and readied to return fire.

Both Thorin and Dwalin had their weapons at the ready when the first orcs appeared from the trees and all three turned to face them as more arrows sliced their way. 

As if to remind her about the damage an arrow could do, Nina’s shoulder throbbed for the first time since the wound had been inflicted upon it, and she fought to ignore it as orcs seemingly poured from the trees, swords drawn, arrows resting and ready to be fired.

“There’s too many of them!” Dwalin’s roar was only barely audible above the sounds as he swung his axe to cleave an orc in half. 

“Retreat back into Mirkwood!” Thorin shouted back before being accosted by two orcs.

Nina raced to close the space between her and Thorin and as she neared, he hollered, “Get down!”

Without thinking, she did as he ordered, and a moment later, sticky black orc blood splattered across her face and upper body, while the head Thorin had just removed from its shoulders hit her squarely in hers. 

As he moved, another orc came up behind him and Nina fit an arrow between his eyes for his trouble. Thorin grabbed her arm. “Mirkwood, now!”

Before last night, she could have just let her bow fall, grabbed her sword, and dispatched him right then and there. No one would have been any wiser. Dwalin was fifty yards ahead of them, clearing a path back to Mirkwood. Orcs wouldn’t care. They would still try to cut her down regardless as they might even be seeking the bounty on Thorin’s head amongst themselves.

But everything was different now. And so, her sword remained in its sheath and she jerked free from him, spinning around to fire another arrow as she yelled, “Go! I’ll catch up with you!”

Two more orcs descended upon them and Nina couldn’t hold back her yelp as the tip of a blade sliced cleanly across the front of her right leg. Her leg buckled. She went to one knee, grabbing the cut with one hand. Her stomach clenched as blood oozed from the wound, soaking into her trousers. 

A shadow fell over her and without thinking, she let the bow hit the ground and held the arrow she’d been readying to fire straight up. Thanks to the power of his own momentum, the orc impaled himself on it and with a low oath, slid down it to slump against her.

Between the fiery hot pain in her leg and the stomach-churning rancid stink of the orc, Nina gagged. Thankfully, Thorin tugged her from beneath the putrid body and as she let go of the arrow, the orc sank into the earth where she had been.

“Thank y—oh!” The breath rushed from her body as Thorin swept her up and basically threw her across his shoulders, then took off at a run. With each pounding footfall, fire tore through her. Hot tears stung her eyes. Her belly churned like mad, even worse than it had when the orc collapsed on her. This pain was just as hot as the one that followed being struck by an arrow. Just hot, and almost as strong, and it was only through sheer will that she kept her head clear and her eyes open.

A horn sounded and when she lifted her head to look, Nina saw the Mirkwood elves, led by Tauriel, come thundering out of the woods. As they crossed back into the woodland realm, Thorin slowed down and Nina managed to grit, “I think I can walk.”

Somewhat out of breath, Thorin set her gingerly on her feet and the moment her right foot touched earth, the muscle in her upper thigh shrieked in protest and a hot sting scalded its way from her hip to her knee, which buckled once more.

Fortunately, Thorin caught her before she hit the ground, easing his arm about her waist. “Lean against me.”

“Thorin!” Dwalin hurried toward them. “Are ye injured?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. Nina was not so lucky.”

Although she expected it, Dwalin’s look of concern faded. “She looks fine to me.”

“Looks fine?” Thorin replied dryly. “She’s leaving a blood trail.”

She thought he was being sarcastic but when she looked down, she saw she was doing just that. In her wake, she’d left a trail of blood droplets as if she thought she’d need them to find her way out. That made her dizzy and she sagged against Thorin, muttered, “I don’t feel so good…”

“We’re almost there,” he told her. “Can you make it?”

Bells clanged about inside her head, her thoughts sluggish and thick and slow. Words refused to form, so she shook her head and gave into the need to close her eyes. 

Her belly whooshed as he easily swung her into his arms once more. “Hold on to me.”

She managed to drape her arms about his neck, rested her head against his shoulder, and once more let her eyes close. “Where are we going?”

“Grainne is the Mirkwood healer. That’s where we’re going.”

“Another elven healer?”

“Before much longer, you’ll be an expert on them.”

“Wonderful.”

A low rumble shook her and she forced her heavy-lidded eyes open as she said, “Are you laughing at me?”

“No. Not at you. At your tone.”

“I’m glad I amuse you.”

The throb in her leg ebbed and flowed with her heartbeat and she fought to ignore it as he brought her down past the throne room, into the depths of Mirkwood, and an unfamiliar voice said, “What have we here?”

“I found myself the path of a sword,” Nina said, sucking in a sharp breath as Thorin set her down on the high, narrow bed in the infirmary.

Like every other elf Nina had ever seen, Grainne was tall and slim and stunning, with high cheekbones, almond-shaped blue eyes, and long, sleek hair the color of honey, pulled away from her face. She did not smile as she looked from her to Thorin. “You’ll have to leave now.”

Nina bit down on her bottom lip, both from the wave of pain that swept through her and the blush once more more deepening against Thorin’s skin. He cleared his throat. “Of course. I need to speak with Thranduíl as it is anyway.”

“I’ll be fine,” Nina told him, managing to hold back her grin. “Just don’t leave without me.”

“Of course not.”

The healer waited for Thorin to leave, then helped Nina carefully strip off her trousers. Her stomach clenched sharply at the ugly wound. Most blade cuts were clean, but the blade that hit her was not finely honed, but almost serrated, judging by the jagged edges it left behind. She gritted her teeth, holding back her cry as Grainne carefully cleaned every last bit of debris from the wound, flushed it to be certain, and then just as carefully stitched the edges together.

A cold sweat prickled down along her spine, between her breasts, and her fingernails left half-moon imprints in her palms when Nina finally relaxed and unclenched her fists. Grainne offered up a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry to have hurt you, Miss Nina, but I must tell you, you are far more stoic than any elf I’ve ever had to sew before. They howl like demons.”

Swallowing hard against the hint of nausea rising in her throat, Nina managed a slight smile back. “Thank you. I think.”

“Keep the wound dry if at all possible and keep an eye out for any sign of infection. Redness, swelling, weeping, red streaks, that sort of thing. If you see any of those, some and see me at once.”

“I will.” Nina gingerly slid into her trousers and winced as she put weight on her injured leg. “How long will it be sore for?”

“A few days at least. It should resolve a bit more each day. Just baby it as much as possible.”

“I will.”

“I’m sure my lord Thranduíl will allow you to remain here a few days longer.”

“We shall see. If not, I’ll be limping my way to Erebor with the others.” Nina offered this over her shoulder as she moved to the door. “But I do thank you for your efforts.”

“Of course.”

Nina limped her way out of the infirmary to find Thorin pacing in the walkway just beyond. “Why are you still here?”

He jumped, whipping about to face her. “Are you supposed to be up and walking on that leg?”

“I’m supposed to favor it, but otherwise, it’s fine.” She limped over to him, surprised to see the relief spread across his face. “Were you worried about me?”

“Not so much worried, no.” He shook his head. “Just a bit concerned, is all.”

She offered up a long look, resisting the urge to chuckle. “That’s worry, Thorin.”

For a moment, she thought he was about to argue it, but then, he smiled. “Very well. You have me there, Nina. Yes, I was worried. Orc blades can inflict far worse injuries than ordinary blades if one is not careful.”

“Grainne cleaned it out, trust me. I can still feel it and it isn’t a pleasant thing at all.” 

“Here, allow me to help you, then.”

Before she could protest, he eased an arm about her waist, and walked her toward the woven vine staircase. “Can you manage the stairs?”

“I think so.” She looked up, swallowing hard at how steep that staircase appeared. How had he carried her down them with seemingly no effort? She knew dwarves were strong, but those steps would have tried the strongest of legs.

“I can carry you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

He stopped and turned to her. “I don’t mind, you know.”

“I’m sure you don’t. But, you carried me down, you needn’t carry me up as well.”

He smiled. “You weigh practically nothing, Nina. It was not difficult.”

“Even so.”

“You said you’re to favor it.”

“I know, but I’ll be fine.” She carefully stepped back and caught the banister with one hand. 

But as she tried to take the step, a hot burst of pain exploded within her thigh and she stumbled back as she sucked in a hard breath. 

He caught her before she could fall, and easily swung her up into his arms once more. “Let me help you.”

She didn't argue, but nodded and reached down to gingerly rub over the bandage on her thigh. “Thank you.”

As easily as he’d carried her down, he carried her back up and on the main level, when he set her carefully on her feet, he said, “See? Hardly an issue.”

“I know, but—“ She looked up. “I’m supposed to be helping you, not the other way around.”

“You were injured once more in my defense.”

“I need to learn to move more quickly.” 

“You do not.”

She glanced down at his huge hands still resting on her hips, then looked back up at him. “You can let go of me now, Thorin.”

“I can, of course. But I’d really rather not,” he murmured. “Unless, of course, you wish me to.”

Nina gazed up at him, and although her heart was heavy with what she knew she had to confess, she wasn't quite ready to ruin things just yet. Warmth sank into her from his hands, and his eyes grew soft as they held her. Her heart sped up at the way his blue eyes darkened to almost sapphire.

Without looking away, she shook her head. “You don’t have to just yet.”

“Good.”

He bent to her, their lips meeting in a kiss so gentle, she forgot about her pain for a moment. Although she wasn’t an expert at kissing by any means, Thorin knew what he was doing. He might have claimed to have as little experience as she did, but she wasn't at all certain she believed him. His lips moved so softly against hers, that his kiss was truly a caress, and when those lips parted… 

She shivered.

He drew back, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, and he pressed his forehead to hers, whispering, “We should get you back to your chambers.”

“I think that would be wise.” 

“Thorin?”

He drew back and turned. “What is it, Dwalin?”

“I beg yer pardon, of course. But Thranduíl would like a word with ye.”

He nodded. “I’ll be there in a moment. I said I would help Nina back to her chambers.”

Over Thorin’s shoulder, Nina saw Dwalin glare at his king’s back, and so she carefully pulled out of Thorin’s arms. “You should go. I’ll manage on my own.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am. Do not keep our host waiting. It’s rude.”

“He had me thrown into a dungeon cell,” Thorin replied even as he stepped away from her. “Making him wait a few minutes more is hardly comparable.”

“Even so, you should go.”

“Very well. And you go rest. I promise,” he offered up a smile, “we will not leave without you.”

“I know.” She limped away from him. “Go and see what His Highness wants. I’m going to lie down.”

“I will see you in a bit.”

“Of course.”

With that, he turned and strode off with Dwalin, while she sank against the railing. Her leg throbbed now, and all she wanted was to go and lie down, so she slowly limped back down to her chambers. 

“What are ye about, Thorin?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” Thorin growled as he and Dwalin made their way toward the throne room.

“Dinna be a fool where she is concerned. A pretty face is not worth losing yer life for.”

“Losing my life?” Thorin couldn't hold back his laugh. “That’s a bit dramatic, don't you think?”

“Ye know nothing about her. Nothing at all. And didn't ye just tell me this morning that ye complicated matters that needed no complicating?”

“I did, but…” Thorin looked over at him, shaking his head. “I cannot possibly put it into words and explain it. There is… she is… I…”

“Well, that certainly clears matters up.”

“I know, I sound like I’ve gone mad again, but I haven’t. It’s simply… I have never felt this before. And I don’t even know what it is, but I like it. I don't want it to fade, but there’s something…”

“Something?”

He nodded. “Something. And don’t ask me what, because I cannot possibly answer it. But know this, you needn’t worry. She poses no threat, Dwalin.”

Dwalin looked decidedly ill. “I do not need to hear why ye are so certain of this, ye know. I know what ye were doing, remember. Details are neither necessary nor welcome. But, she is a liability now.”

Thorin peered at Nina’s retreating figure over his shoulder. Her limp was far more pronounced now. “She is good at masking how serious it is. But we really should allow her some time to rest. It isn’t as if we’re on schedule, as we were the last time.”

“Some of us would just like to go home.”

Thorin offered him a long look. “So, go home then.”

“Ye know I’m not about to do that, so it’s fool’s talk.”

Thorin tried to ignore the irritation bubbling in his gut. No, Dwalin was not about to leave him in Mirkwood, no matter how safe it might be now. “It’s only a few days.”

“So ye hope.”

“Yes, so I hope.” He stepped around Dwalin. 

“Thorin, let’s let her rest and go on to Erebor without her. We’re almost there and we—” 

Thorin threw up a hand. “Stop. Enough. I know you’d don’t care for her, but I am not about to simply dump her off.”

“I don’t care one way or the other for her, yes. But more importantly, I dinna trust her. There’s something about her and don’t ask me what, for I can’t put my finger on it. But something tells me we should get away from her.”

“Something. But you cannot tell me what. You don’t trust her, yet she’s given no reason for us to not trust her.”

“She’s also given no reason for us to trust her.”

“If she meant to do harm to either of us, she’s had ample opportunity and yet, look,” Thorin made a grand sweeping gesture with both hands, “here we are, alive and well and in one whole piece.”

“Thorin—”

“We are finished here, so spare me any further lectures, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Thorin.”

“I mean it,” Thorin growled, resuming his stride away from Dwalin. “So enough already.”

“It will be enough when ye think with the right head and ye know ye aren’t right now.”

“I said, enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He didn't wait for Dwalin to reply, but continued on, his gut churning with irritation that was only slightly misplaced. He knew this was not what they needed at the moment, that a romantic entanglement of any kind was only going to cause trouble. And he also knew that Nina was in no condition to continue on with them. Especially with an orc pack between Mirkwood and the Long Lake, as he was certain still some remained. 

Although he couldn’t exactly fault Dwalin for his misgivings, he also had no desire to hear about them. Yes, they had only known Nina a short while and yes, it was possible she could cause either of them harm. But, if she could and she planned to, why hadn’t she? She’d had plenty of opportunity to do so. He’d lain asleep beside her for hours, giving her ample opportunity right there.

Yet, she did nothing.

But at the same time, Dwalin was not one to leap to conclusions, either. He thought everything through and did so with the utmost of care. If there something about Nina that troubled him, Thorin knew he would do well to at least entertain the notions. 

So why didn't he?

This was one of the very reasons why he tried to avoid romantic entanglements altogether. He had enough to worry about, without also having to contend with the worry that came with opening oneself up entirely to someone else. And he had not lied to her about the importance most dwarves placed upon physical relations. It absolutely was far more meaningful than just the pleasure one felt, as it created a bond between the couple, one that more often than not led to marriage.

Well, he wasn't there yet. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever be there, if a wife and children were part of Mahal’s plan for him. He didn't know.

But what he did know was that there was something between him and Nina. At least, there were the beginnings of something, or so he thought. 

At the entrance to the throne room, Thorin was stopped by an elf page. “My Lord Thranduíl asked that I bring you to the dungeon.”

A hint of apprehension fluttered through him. The last time he saw the eleven dungeon, it was because he’d been shoved into a cell. “Why?”

“An orc was taken prisoner,” the page explained as he gestured for Thorin to follow him and as they made their way along the walkway, he added, “and he told my lord something he thought you might be interested in knowing.”

“Something I might be interested in knowing?”

“Yes, Your Highness. It seems he knows something about the woman with whom you travel.”

Thorin’s gut kinked. “He knows Miss Carren?”

“Not exactly.” The page paused at a closed door, reaching for the handle. He tugged it open and stepped into the room. “My lord, King Thorin.”

“Thank you, Brannion.”

The elf bobbed his head, then took himself off, while Thorin, a sudden apprehension twisting his insides, stepped into the chamber.

Each orc was uglier and more foul than the last and the stench of one announced their presence long before any visual evidence did so. Still, Thorin paid little heed to the smell or the abomination of putrid evil that stared at him now, his movements checked by the gleaming blade Legolas held at the creature’s throat.

“What’s going on?” Thorin asked, looking from the orc to Legolas and then to Thranduíl.

“Tell her, filth,” Legolas said to the orc.

The orc just stared with dead black eyes that looked like river rocks set in their sockets. His grayish, decayed flesh gave his round head a misshapen appearance, like a gourd that had begun to rot and caved in on itself in places. 

Thranduíl sighed. “He claims to know your traveling companion. Miss Carren.”

A sour taste flooded Thorin’s mouth and breathing became harder to do. “How is that even possible?”

“Tell him,” Legolas growled through gritted teeth.

The orc flinched as the blade bit into his neck. “The price on your head remained in place,” he finally rasped, those beady eyes locking with Thorin’s. “And she sought to claim it.”

“How do you know?”

“She led us here. My master sent us after her. She would lead us to you, and we would kill the both of you.”

“That means nothing other than you—”

“She came to see him. Wanted half of the price up front, the fool, and my master laughed in her face. Told her to bring him your head and only then would the bounty be paid. She wasn't happy, but she agreed to the terms.”

Thorin felt sick. His stomach churned. His vision swam. But, all he said was, “You lie.”

“Ask her yourself, runt.” The orc let out a low, gurgling laugh. “You let yourself be fooled by her face and now, you will pay—”

A flash of silver and the orc’s body slumped to the floor, leaving Legolas holding a now-lifeless head, which he dropped with no little contempt.

Thorin looked up at Thranduíl. “He’s wrong. She fought alongside us against them. I know not where his information comes from, but he is wrong.”

“You should speak with Miss Carren. And let me know if you wish me to banish her.” 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Thorin growled. “Excuse me.”

He waited for no response, but spun about and stormed from the dungeon. The orc had to be lying. Because if not…

He didn't want to think about it.

[you-remind-me-of-the-babe]

Friends. Friends. I’ve done it. Achieved the thing I’ve been working at for a year and a half. I’ve finished writing the end to Depth of Reason.

It still needs to go through a beta read and final edits but it should be published soon. I’m adding 16k between the last chapter and a surprise epilogue. I still can’t believe I’ve reached the end. It’ll be 70k when all is said and done. So, to celebrate my last WIP posting for this fic, you’re getting two snippets (much more than six sentences 😆)

“You’re the one trying to one up me, Snow.”

I run my hands through his hair. “You have to call me Simon when you’re talking about loving me.”

He kisses my neck and leaves his face there when he says, “It isn’t easy being vulnerable.”

“I know,” I say softly. “But I’m still going to ask.”

He sighs before pulling back to look at me properly. “I love you, Simon.”

I kiss him sweetly.

“Love you, too, Pitch!” I say, before pinching his sides relentlessly.

He squeals and squirms up the bed. “Treachery! Betrayal!” I laugh so hard my sides ache.

He hooks a leg around me and flips us, pining me to the bed so fast I’m almost dizzy with the change of position. He’s sitting astride me now, and he’s got my arms locked firmly in his fingers, my fists pressed against the headboard. It’s kind of hot, the way he has me at his mercy. He smirks down at me.

“Say it,” he purrs.

I swallow and I don’t miss the fact that his eyes flick to my throat when I do.

“I love you, Baz,” I say in a husky voice that seems to have come from nowhere. “I love you so—”

He captures my mouth before I can finish.

And one more:

When we get to the courtroom, all eyes turn to us when we enter. I’m heartened to see Baz’s parents and aunt sitting in the seats behind the defence, along with a few other familiar faces. Gran is sitting next to Daphne, she smiles at us as we walk up the middle aisle. Nico is next to Fiona, his tongue running along his teeth. I wonder if it bothers him, being in this room that I imagine is full of bad memories for him.

Trixie is there, too. She places a fist over her heart and nods to Baz, a twinkle in her eye. Baz’s cousin, Dev is there too, next to their friend Niall. Even Mr Minos, Miss Possibelf and Coach Mac, which is impressive considering it's a Monday in November. Headmistress Bunce couldn’t make it, but she sent Penny a very lovely email to pass on to Baz, wishing him the best of luck. I hope he feels bolstered, having all of these people here supporting him. I hope he knows that he’s not alone in this.

Y’all. I made it. Thank you to @fatalfangirl who will be marathoning through a beta read and who has been there with me since day 1. What a champ. Thank you to @toonysart who chose to do art for this fic way back when it was a mere concept for COBB. Your art still brings me so much joy. Thank you to everyone who has followed this fic. You made writing and sharing a wonderful experience.

Tags and love ands happy Sunday 💛 @fatalfangirl @toonysart @whatevertheweather @cutestkilla @artsyunderstudy @thewholelemon @raenestee @moodandmist @facewithoutheart @martsonmars @onepintobean @bookish-bogwitch @rimeswithpurple @prettygoododds @orange-peony @forabeatofadrum @nausikaaa @aristocratic-otter @ivelovedhimthroughworse @ileadacharmedlife @whogaveyoupermission @iamamythologicalcreature @run-for-chamo-miles @nightimedreamersworld @youarenevertooold @valeffelees @hushed-chorus

[merlyn-bane]

Hello dear I'm here to ask about Dinosaur Brokeback Mountain 🦖💞🦕👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨💗🏞️🌳👨‍❤️‍👨💫💋

Hello darling 😁😁 I have also answered for this AU here, and more information can be found here (at the mercy of tumblr's tag function at any rate). I will note again that I am co-writing this one with my beloved @meebles 💖🦕

I know what you're here for lol, so I'll give you a Codywan specific fun fact:

The first time Cody lays eyes on Obi-Wan in this universe, Obi-Wan is astride Boga. Boga is, in this AU, a utahraptor--the largest member of the dromaeosaurid (raptor) family, approximately the size of a grizzly bear (or even a polar bear, for some individuals), stocky and sturdy and with a sickle claw on each foot that potentially could've been up to ten inches long. And they've just finished helping herd some of the herbivores around, so Obi-Wan is sweaty and dusty with his cowboy hat turned down low. On top of a giant bear bird.

I'm taking as many questions on each WIP as y'all wanna send me, so don't feel like you can't ask about one just because someone else did <3 The WIP game post can be found here.

[blorbologist]

Trick or Treat, Empire Siblings, Chains

Trick or treat! I'm personally unsure which this one qualifies as, but chains can be tricky to work with!

--

“Do you ever think about the manacles?” Beau says, just above the tower’s purring thrum. 

Caleb glances up, places his novel (Feather Leather, finally tracked down what that barkeep had been reading) on the sidetable. Jinx and Ruth will see to it’s return to the bookshelf. 

She says it casually, not looking at him, playing with the chain of a bracelet around her wrist. A recent gift from Yasha, with peculiar flowers preserved in its charms. But the words ran from her lips, an old habit never beaten from her by tutor or adventure, and Caleb would not be her friend to be flippant about it.

He does, nonetheless, have to wrack his mind for it. “The manacles? Like -”

“The manticore,” Beau says. “The - uh, fuck - something with the marrow? Could have sworn we came across them a few other times too.”

Caleb nods. “The Angel of Irons.” Now her eyes meet his, the blue of new shadows. “The Chained Oblivion.”

She hums, throwing her legs over the arms of her chair, perfecting the clumsy embrace. Keep her from kicking, nervous habit. Almost, almost touches the scar on her chest, where she was run through in that god’s name in a church. Gestures instead, to put the energy to use. “Yeah, that.

“I just… most of those were broken. Like, the things escaped, or were busted out. And now Trent…”

Beauregard, he realizes, is looking at his wrists. The thin shards of scar tissue peering from beneath his sleeves. 

At where Trent had thick iron bands splayed over weak flesh, not for the security of them but the symbolism. For him to be in shackles before trial, hands glued to forever supplicate for mercy he had never provided. 

“I dunno,” she says. “Maybe we shouldn’t have expected chains to work. Hasn’t in all the times we’ve run into them.”

Caleb hums. 

Maybe they should have burned Trent alive, so he could feel as a boy’s parents and cat had. Or fed him sweet cyanide, as Astrid’s mothers enjoyed. Or strangle him, of air and hope and life, and see Eadwulf’s face to the last. Or keep him to a chair and implant terrible things to him, or send him from his home to die against those he thought monsters when none - no dragon, no city, no god - could rival.

But he is not, and never was, the man to do that. To be as his teacher was. Besides, to many a wizard death can be but an escape. The ailing body was more a prison than any chains. 

(In the back of his mind, in the knowledge of the moon hanging low and bloodhungry, he hopes this of the Chained Oblivion.)

He lets the thought lie, plucks another from the shelf: “Well. One of your wife’s epithets is Chainbreaker, so I suppose it’s something we are to stick to, hm?”

Beau leans fack back. “I forgot about that.” 

And then her eyebrow cocks, readying for a blow: “Speaking of… hey, remember when we rocked up to the Bright Queen in full BDSM gear? And Essek was there? Remember, Caleb?”

He sighs. No, he did not forget about that.

🎃Trick or Treat! Send me an ask and you'll get a trick (angst) or treat (fluff) ficlet in return! 🎃

[lambicpentametre]

some kind of secret

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58500775

E | 1/1 | 3.6k

Guinevere had longed to know what it felt like to be desired. Mordred was more than willing to show her. or: what if Guinevere and Mordred had not been interrupted after the tournament?

A/N: This fic is tagged Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. Title from Saint Motel's cover of "Something About Us," originally performed by Daft Punk.

He grabbed her arm, sliding his hand along it to move her hand from his hair to somewhere else… 

Their fingers entwined as he guided her. In this, as in all things, it seemed that Mordred was more than capable. Guinevere’s head was dizzy with want. The spark that Mordred always carried with him was fanning something deeper within her. She gasped, and he pulled her closer, one hand on the back of her neck, the other tugging her near. 

“I—Mordred—” Guinevere started, but she could not parse what she wanted to tell him.

“It’s alright,” he whispered against her lips, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m right here.”

“But—Oh!” She let out a quiet moan as Mordred’s lips began to trace down her jaw. His breath tickled her skin, and she had to fight the urge to melt into his hands. He could have her completely at his mercy if he so wanted, if he would just keep—

“Let yourself feel it,” he said, his lips pressed against the shell of her ear.

“But I can’t—I haven’t—”

“Just feel it, Guinevere,” he repeated, kissing the sensitive spot behind her ear and down the line of her neck. “It’s alright.”

He pulled back until he could look in her eyes. He looked like he wanted to consume her, and she wanted to let him. 

“Let me,” he said, squeezing the hand he still held. 

“Alright,” she said shakily. “Alright.” She nodded, her voice stronger.

Mordred cupped her face and kissed her softly. His hand slipped back to her hip, leading her ever closer until she was astride him.

“Like riding a horse,” he whispered, helping her shift position until she was fully seated in his lap, their chests a hair’s breadth away. She panted, like she’d just run all the way from her rooms in the castle to the tent they shared on the edge of the tournament. 

“A horse,” she repeated. She adjusted her weight until she could squeeze the frame of Mordred’s hips with her thighs. He groaned, and his hands came back up to her hair, his fingers tangling in the braids that were quickly coming undone.

“Just like that, right there,” he said. 

“I don’t—” She tried to pull away, to reset herself like she would on a galloping horse, but Mordred laced his fingers at the base of her skull and held her in place. The heat in her belly was becoming unbearable; she wondered if he felt the same want that she did, if it burned as it coursed through his body just as it did hers.

Mordred silenced her with another kiss, pulling her back to the seat of his lap until they were flush again, two bodies pressed together with hardly a seam between them. 

“Mordred, I can’t—I mean,” she stopped, tears forming in her eyes. She didn’t know how to tell him the terrible secret of her marriage: that it was a marriage only in name, that in the eyes of the law, in the eyes of Arthur’s new Christian god, it was not a marriage at all. 

“It’s alright,” he said again, his hands on her ribs. His thumbs stroked up and down, and though the fabric of her dress kept their skin from touching, she still shivered in his hold. 

Guinevere let her head fall to Mordred’s shoulder, dizzy from the spark Mordred lit whenever he touched her and her own desire that made the flame hungrier for him. 

“I haven’t—we haven’t—” she started again. “We, that is, Arthur and I—”

Mordred swiped at her cheeks gently with a handkerchief. “Guinevere,” he said, his tone just as delicate as he touched her. 

“Arthur hasn’t…” he trailed off, finally realizing what she could not speak aloud. She let out a sigh, relieved that Mordred, brave and true Mordred, who knew Arthur better than anyone else, even Guinevere herself, understood what she meant. 

“Guinevere,” he said kindly. “Have you lain with your husband?” 

She shook her head, pressing her forehead into the supple leather of Mordred’s armor. She took a deep breath, letting the scent of worn leather tanned by hours of sunshine and battle fill her head. It helped to soothe her, something familiar in the untread expanse that she and Mordred stood on the edge of.

She felt Mordred tense at her answer. Perhaps he would not want her anymore, knowing that she knew nothing of a woman’s life. Perhaps his desire would die like coals in a smothered fire, now that the truth of her inexperience had been discovered.

Once again, he cupped her face, gently holding her chin between his thumb and forefinger as he tilted her head up to meet his gaze. 

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Of course.” The words fell easily from her lips. There was no other in Camelot she trusted like Mordred.

“You’re so beautiful, Guinevere,” he said. “And my uncle is a fool to not see that.” 

She wanted to cry. She had never felt like this ever before. There was so much feeling; even when she’d lived in the forest, when she was nothing more than Merlin’s daughter, she could not recall a sensation like this, overwhelming and all-encompassing until she drowned in it. 

Mordred kissed her tears away, then kissed her eyelids, her brow, her nose. He kissed her softly until the fire of her desire roared within her again. She gripped his shoulders and tugged at him. She wanted him closer; she wanted to curl around him, like a dragon around its horde, until there was no space between them. 

“Guinevere, Guinevere,” Mordred moaned in between desperate kisses. She whined, pushing her lips onto his until he stopped talking. Now that she’d opened the well of passion for him inside of her that she’d fought to keep closed, it was as if she could not stop the flow. 

“Guinevere,” he groaned again. He nipped at her bottom lip. She stopped, a moan dying in her throat in surprise. When she looked down at him, there was a dark, burning light in his eyes that sent a chill down her spine, strong like iron and steady like a river. Here was the man that could best all of Arthur’s knights, the greatest of them all, the man who stood between Arthur and any who sought to cut him down. Mordred could do anything to her, she realized; he’d been letting her play as she wanted, because he wanted to let her. 

“Would you like me to show you, my lady?” he asked. He nipped at her again, on the underside of her jaw. She whimpered and settled in his lap. 

She nodded; she did not trust her words right now. Surely she would sound childish if she tried to respond. There was a growing ache inside of her, one that she’d never experienced before, and she knew that it was because of Mordred. 

Suddenly, Guinevere was on her back, cushioned by the pillows and rug Brangien had set out when Guinevere’s intent had been to speak with her husband. Everything was moving too fast. Arthur was far away, off being the King of Camelot where she could not reach him, and here was Mordred, lying atop her in a scandalous way, bracing his weight on arms on either side of her face.

He smiled and dove back in for another kiss. So many kisses he’d given her today; some chaste, some daring, all inappropriate for a wife to share with her husband’s nephew.

But as Mordred kissed her and the spark between them flared again, Guinevere found she could not find the shame in it. Mordred wanted her; he looked to her before he looked to anything else, and she wanted Mordred in return. 

She’d given so much to Camelot, to Merlin, to Arthur. Was this to be what she finally took for herself as Guinevere, Queen of Camelot? A tryst with her husband’s nephew? The two people in the world who Arthur trusted the most, betraying him together. 

Arthur had lied to her. Merlin had lied to her. The ruse for her presence in Camelot was a deception twice over. 

“Are you comfortable, Guinevere?” Mordred asked, bringing her out of her wandering thoughts. He curled a lock of her hair around his finger as he spoke, seemingly as desperate to keep touching her as she was him. 

“More,” she said, her voice reedy. “I want more.”

She gasped as Mordred kissed her neck, his teeth grazing over her rapid pulse. 

“I can’t do up my stays again,” she said through her teeth, forcing the words out before they melted away from her mind. “I don’t know how to do them by myself, and Brangien—”

Mordred smirked up at her, a mischievous grin as he traced the neckline of her dress with his finger. “My lady, for what I am about to do, there is no need to bother with your stays.” 

“But I thought—” Hadn’t Brangien commented that Arthur could not have ravished her, all those weeks ago when they had ridden to treatise with the neighboring kings? If Mordred did not plan to undo her stays, what did he plan to do? 

“Do not worry, Guinevere,” he said, smoothing out the confusion in her brow with his thumb. “I know what I am doing.”

Mordred resumed his path, kissing a line from her collarbone downwards. His hands seemed to be everywhere. One was on the side of her neck, grounding her in her body. Another cupped and squeezed her breast, making her gasp. She felt him smile against her ribs as he pulled little sounds and moans from her, so reactive to him as he tested what he could make her do. 

By the time he’d reached her hip, Guinevere’s head was spinning again. Mordred had pulled the hems of her dress and chemise upwards until the fabric pooled around her knees. It was scandalous. It was delicious. He pressed a kiss right below her navel, then sat up on his knees. 

“You are exquisite, Guinevere,” he said. She blushed. Even as queen, Guinevere was unused to hearing praise. She could tell Mordred had tucked that away in his mind, to torment her with once they’d returned to the castle. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, unsure. Brangien had told her of men’s seed, how it would take root in her womb and give her a child. Guinevere knew from her time in the forest that animals mated, but each did it differently enough that she knew men must be different too. And Arthur… Arthur had not shown her either, and now it fell to his nephew.

“I’ll guide you,” he said, just as quiet. His eyes were dark in the lamplight; she could not see the forest in them anymore, eaten completely by the totality of his desire. 

“Spread your legs,” he told her. His tone was strong, ever the steady knight, but his voice was soft, as if the words were a secret he was sharing with her. 

“Just like riding a horse,” she repeated.

He laughed. “Yes, like riding a horse.” 

Mordred pushed her dress up, until her drawers were exposed to him, then pushed her knees outwards and settled between them until he was pressed against her core. He hitched her legs above his, her calves snug against his hips. He kissed her again, then once more.

It was too much. There were tears in her eyes, but Mordred caught them before they could fall. 

“Have you ever seen a man?” he asked her.

Guinevere shook her head. Mordred caught her chin with his hand, forcing her to look at him. 

“Tell me, Guinevere. Say the words.”

“No, I haven’t,” she said. 

Mordred took her hand and guided it to his lap. When he pressed her palm against his breeches, she felt a bulge. Her fingers started to close around it, and he groaned low in his throat. 

“That’s it, Guinevere, just like that,” he panted in her ear as she felt around him. He pulled her hand away, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, then ground his bulge into the heat between her legs. She cried, the fabric of her drawers sliding against her skin with the most delicious friction. 

It continued like that for a while, Mordred holding her in place as she writhed and whimpered against him. Guinevere felt like she was losing her mind, but Mordred was steady as always, kissing every bit of skin he could find, leaving sparks behind as he went. 

“Mordred,” she gasped. “Mordred, Mordred!”

“Guinevere,” he sighed against her breast, her stolen name hot and wet against her chest. 

“I need—” She shifted as best as she could, trying to lift her hips higher against his, chasing the sensation again. “I want—”

He kissed her deeply, and before she knew it, his fingers were exploring the dampening space between her legs. 

“You’ve been neglected for far too long,” he said, gently petting at the spot that seemed to throb more and more as he continued. “Look how easily your desire is brought on. So wet, just for me.” 

“I don’t—What is—Oh!” Guinevere whimpered as Mordred ducked his head down and kissed her, right where the throbbing was greatest. It did not seem to matter to him that her underclothes were in the way; he kissed and sucked and moaned into that space, that spot where she burned the most for him, just as he would her mouth. 

“Guinevere,” he said, his lips pressed against her thighs. “My Guinevere.”

At last he retreated, though his touch left her shaking. His hand went to his belt, and she shifted her knees closer in response. “It’s me, Guinevere,” he said, leaning over her body to tuck her wayward hair behind her ear. “It’s only me, as I have always been.”

Guinevere threaded her fingers in his hair. He braced himself over her with one hand and undid his belt and breeches with the other, until finally he pulled his manhood out. 

Guinevere had never seen a man bare before Mordred. She reached out a hand to touch, then drew back.

“It’s alright,” he assured her, holding her wrist and guiding her back. “I want you to.” 

Guinevere looked at him, biting her lip, but she could find no hesitance in his face. With his fingers curled around her wrist, she reached out and grasped him in her hand.

It was warm to the touch. The skin felt more like velvet, absent of the callouses he had on his hands from years of fighting at Arthur’s side. Even as she explored, her touch light as she traced the veins running up and down the length, Mordred held himself steady above her. He groaned when she squeezed and sighed when she stroked. 

It was heady, this power he had given to her. If this was how she made him feel when he had elicited such responses out of her, she could not imagine how he ever stopped himself. She loved it. She felt different; she felt older, mature. She felt like a woman. 

Mordred caught her hand as she stroked back down, stopping her. “As lovely as this is, my lady, I would hate to leave you wanting,” he said. 

Guinevere frowned, opening her mouth to say something, but before she could, Mordred had pressed himself back towards her, until his length was flush against the hot core of her. He hitched one of her legs over his hip again, pulling her closer until it felt like there was nothing left between them, but for the barrier of her underclothes.

“Like this, Guinevere,” he said, his forehead pressed to hers.

“But I thought—”

“There can be no children like this,” he said. “Your children must be Arthur’s, but that does not mean I cannot have you at all.” He slid his hips up, and his length dragged up against her through the damp underclothes.

She moaned as he repeated the motion. She closed her eyes; it was too much. He kept talking, but none of the words made any sense to her. Like riding a horse, he’d said. She tried to rock with him, to follow his movements, but she was too clumsy, too inexperienced, to be able to match him perfectly. 

He did not seem to mind. He pushed his hips closer to hers, the friction hotter every time. She was certain there were tears streaming from her eyes, but she wasn’t sad or upset or happy. Guinevere was simply overwhelmed; Mordred had given her so much, and now she was overflowing. 

“My darling Guinevere,” he said, “just like that. You’re doing so well. So beautiful like this. So—”

The words caught in his throat, interrupted by a low moan as he thrust against her. She felt so wet where they met, but Mordred had called it her desire, and she desired him. 

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. There were beads of sweat at his temples, and his hair was tousled. He did look like someone had ravished him. Guinevere had done that to him. She had made him look like this. 

She liked it.

Guinevere tightened her abdomen and hitched her legs over his hips, pulling him down with her. Mordred moaned as he collapsed against her, finally losing his balance where he braced himself over her. She delighted in the way his body pressed against hers, in the way it felt like she could curl underneath him, in a secret spot between the two of them where no one else could find her. 

Mordred continued to grind his length against her, and Guinevere tugged at his hair until her lips met his. He bit at her bottom lip. She moaned. He thrust his tongue into her mouth. She held him closer so he could not get away. It was a dance, trading back and forth between them until Mordred reached down between her legs and under her drawers. The spark she felt from his skin felt like a thousand fires when he touched her there, sensitive as she was. He traced around the wetness of her core.

“Now, now, darling,” he chided playfully. “I’m a gentleman, and honorable men always make sure their ladies are well treated.”

“I am,” she panted, confused. “You are, this is so good, Mordred—oh!” 

Mordred had found a nub, and he pinched at it and rolled it between his fingers. Guinevere melted, and Mordred followed her, pinching and thrusting and kissing all the while. 

“My beautiful Guinevere,” he sighed. “How lovely you look.” 

Guinevere could not find the words to respond. She let out breathy whines, shaking in his lap, and then—

She cried out, uncaring who heard her, as a wave rolled through her body. Her nerves tingled, her muscles tensed, her vision blackened. Mordred held her close, stilling his movement to keep her nestled against his chest, and then it was gone. She fell limp in his arms. The world was fuzzy. Her ears were ringing. But she smiled up at Mordred. 

“Good?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. “What was that?” 

“Pleasure, my darling,” he said, punctuating it with a dirty kiss. She went lax against him, letting him do as he pleased. Once again, he thrust against her, his chin tucked over her shoulder, his mouth brushing against the shell of her ear.

“You looked so pretty like that, Guinevere,” he groaned. “Chasing your pleasure like that in my lap. Have you ever touched yourself like that?”

She shook her head. She wrapped one of her arms under his shoulder, clinging to his back as he thrust faster. 

“Oh, what I would do to have you in a bed. I felt you clenching around nothing, my darling. You deserve so much more than this, I’d give you everything if I could. It would feel exquisite.” 

Guinevere did not think Mordred knew what he was saying. He was rambling, a far cry from the knight whose wit was as sharp as his sword. 

Mordred took her hand again, threading their fingers together. “Look at me, Guinevere,” he asked. She stared up into his eyes. There was desire there, yes, but something else too. He looked at her like she was something to treasure, like she was precious to him.

She stroked his cheek with her free hand, her thumb on his cheek, and that was it. His hips stuttered, and he groaned. There was a splash between her legs, and Mordred took himself into his hand as a creamy liquid spilled over his fingers, dripping down onto her underclothes.

Mordred dropped next to her, his arm across her body. She slid closer to him, and he tucked her under his chin, holding her in a loose embrace. His fingers stroked up her arm as they caught their breath.

“Mordred,” she said softly. “We shouldn’t have.”

He sighed, kissing the crown of her head. “I know. I would never hurt Arthur, but Guinevere…” He gathered her close, until her nose was pressed against the hollow of his neck, until she could feel his heart thumping against her cheek. 

“He does not love you, Guinevere. I will. I do.” 

Guinevere settled into Mordred’s arms. She should tell him that it could never happen again, that she was Arthur’s wife, the Queen of Camelot. 

“Arthur can never know.”

“He never will,” Mordred replied. 

She made no promise to never lay with him again. She did not want to trap herself in another lie.