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trickstarbrave · 5 months

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i am back with steren content in vivi's au again (from @mulberrycafe)

i didnt get to cover a lot about how vivienne feels bc this was pretty much just steren's perspective. and he is. he's not having a good time. i cant even imagine how helpless vivienne feels to know he's hurting but doesnt want to and wont listen to anything countering it bc hes. genuinely isolated and lost in a different world and thinks theres no place for him there.

there will be good things to come rn he's just suffering. he's a good boy, despite everything. but he'll get his love and comfort soon okay just wait

Steren learned he hated the cold.

He thought he disliked it before when a cold wind would blow from the sea in northern Vvardenfell, but it was nothing like the chill you got on Solstheim. It was frigid, even in Redoran style buildings which tried to keep the freezing cold air out.

A healer told him he likely had a naturally weak constitution to the cold; an unfortunately common thing for dunmer. Many could survive the cold so long as they had adequate shelter and warmth, whereas others would be shaking and develop hypothermia very quickly in any weather remotely cold, hence why so many remained on Morrowind’s mainland as overcrowded as it was.

Gods… Hearing the story of Red Mountain’s eruption only made this world stranger. Baar Dau supposedly fell and made the volcano erupt, where it still spewed ash and rock in the distance (when he could manage standing outside bundled up long enough). So much had changed… It had supposedly been 200 years or so since the Nerevarine prophecy was fulfilled. The Septim empire fell, there was an invasion from Oblivion--to be frank he still didn’t understand that, but made a mental note to pick up a few books on it--and probably more he’d hear about.

Vvardenfell was basically ruins. Refugees spilled out into Tamriel, and Solstheim was made an official territory of Morrowind. He had out of pure curiosity asked about House Hlaalu, and was told they were no longer a Great House and had basically been purged from Morrowind.

It was… A strange place. That he couldn’t deny. A very, very strange world.

Currently he was in the corner club--after being bundled in a few layers of thick wool and a heavy fur cloak by both healers and the hortator and his husband. The king of Morrowind tried to ask him to stay in bed and rest more, but Steren was getting stir crazy, and the healers assured him that walking around a bit would help Steren recover, so long as he stayed warm.

Steren didn’t talk to people much. He was always told he was quiet, but he was even more so here. He wore a bandana to cover the star on his forehead (several of the citizens of Raven Rock gave him dirty looks and asked if he was a Sixth House cultist when he didn’t), and mostly just listened to other people talk while only half listening but giving the impression he was paying attention. A strangle blue khajiit told him stories from time to time, often repeating himself without realizing it, but more often than not it was a specific mer bothering him.

This elf wasn’t Vivec. He’d been corrected enough to know that, sometimes with fearful glances from servants at the manor as they did so. They warned him heavily that if he said that around the hortator and his husband they could cut his tongue out for the insult and transgression, and since then he had been careful with his tongue. Though talking to him revealed Vivienne was very different from Vivec in more ways that just a few differences in appearance.

Vivec was… Distant. A bit cold. Sometimes indirect and obfuscating answers to the point of cruelty. It was impossible to tell where his lies ended and his art began--if Vivec truly believed what he said, or if he was saying what others wanted him to hear.

For a time, in his first life, Steren considered Vivec a mentor figure. As arrogant as it was, the god seemed to show a particular softness to Steren. When he first went for answers he even thought Vivec might actually tell him; sit him down and explain his history and place in the world. Instead Vivec told him to stop looking for answers and shut up. To deal with his life and live in ignorance. Maybe it was out of fear Steren would want revenge. Maybe it was because he was genuinely trying to protect the boy. Steren didn’t know, and now he supposed he never really would.

Vivienne though was… Different. Softer. Earnest. Nice, if he wanted to be charitable, though Steren tried to avoid people who he would describe as ‘nice’. ‘Nice’ in Morrowind was a red flag. Most people used seeming kindness and a pleasant attitude to manipulate outsiders and those who were unsuspecting, after all. Sweet words were so often followed by a knife in your back, a lesson he had learned so many times before. He’d been conned, stolen from, poisoned, and nearly killed by so many people he thought were nice.

At the very least he didn’t think Vivienne was dangerous. At least, not a danger to Steren currently. From the stories he half listened too Vivienne seemed very powerful and wasn’t someone he wanted to get on the bad side of, especially not when he had very powerful allies, including the hortator and his husband as his mentors.

“You’re… Oddly quiet.” Vivienne remarked. Steren--who was only allowed to drink tea after the hortator ordered no one in the corner club to serve him alcohol, though Steren couldn’t tell you why--sipped his drink. Maybe he’d pissed the king off, or perhaps he was worried Steren might drunkenly admit he was “Nerevar’s son” and the king wanted to avoid any rumors. Steren, if he was in Nerevar’s position, would also want to keep “illegitimate child from another world” a secret from the general public. Especially given he learned Nerevar and Voryn in his world couldn’t even have kids. That would be too weird to explain to the general public and would be best buried and never brought up again.

“I’m not sure what to say.” Steren replied, sipping his tea calmly.

“It’s just,” Vivienne looked away slightly, “Typically you’d expect someone to give a reaction when you say you are practicing the Mephalan arts with their parents.” Steren didn’t really know a whole lot about Mephala except that she was the anticipation of Vivec.

“I’m not very familiar with Mephala personally. Perhaps that’s why.” Wasn’t she the god of murder or something? It’s not like he cared if the hortator and his husband were teaching someone how to kill. It seemed pretty standard for dunmer culture.

“... She’s the god of sex, murder, and secrets.” Vivienne admitted. Ah, maybe he was hoping to get a reaction from Steren with that? If it was something that would weird out someone to hear with their ‘parents’, Vivienne must be referring to the sex part of that explanation.

“It’s hardly any of my business what you do with the Hortator and Hortator’s husband.” Steren wasn’t phased in the slightest. “And besides, they aren’t my parents, so it would be best if you avoided saying things like that about them publicly.” It was impossible to tell who might be listening in, after all. The corner club was mostly empty this time of day and they were tucked away in a secluded spot, but well… There could be eyes and ears everywhere. Last thing Steren needed was someone running through the streets tomorrow morning spreading half truths based on what they heard. He was busy trying to recover enough to get on a boat and leave this frozen island, after all.

An uncomfortable silence followed, Vivienne staring at him with at first confusion, and then something close to… Sadness? That didn’t make sense to Steren, but it was the closest emotion he could name.

“They are your parents.” Vivienne insisted, his voice softer, trying to take on a gentle tone like one would coax a child. But to Steren it was just nonsense; this wasn’t a little lie you could tell him and have him play pretend with.

“They aren’t.” Steren reiterated. “My parents are dead.” He sipped his tea again, not making a face despite how bitter and unpleasant it was. He made a mental note to just ask for water next time--it wasn’t poisoned, but it was nasty. The only reason he continued to drink it was because of how dry his throat was and how it kept his hands warm. “And it would be good to avoid saying things like that in case someone misunderstands.”

“They might be dead in your world but they’re alive here.” Vivienne insisted, though he did try to keep his voice level.

“They didn’t want me grow up.” Steren sighed. “They didn’t hold me as a baby. They didn’t name me. They don’t even know me, let alone love me.”

They might have the same names and faces, along with some mannerisms, but that didn’t make them the same. They were strangers, as simple as that. Steren didn’t hate them or resent them--in a way he pitied their position. If they threw him out, they might anger Azura, and also didn’t want to be so callous towards someone they were told was their flesh and blood. Steren could tell they were trying, in bits and pieces. They had healers attend to him, gave him a bed to sleep in… Much more hospitality than the people of Morrowind usually showed strangers. But at the same time he knew they didn’t know what to say or do around him, hovering around him awkwardly.

Perhaps, if given time, they could get to know each other. They could try and try to be close to one another and they could learn his mannerisms and history, to a degree. But Steren would rather avoid that; as sweet of an idea it might be, he knew he would begin to resent them. He’d resent that they didn’t know him well, couldn’t correct his memories, and didn’t have that shared history. He’d me more like an… Awkward younger brother than a son, at best. And trying in vain to replace his parents with imperfect copies would only break Steren more.

“They do love you...” Steren resisted the urge to snap at the other mer, his eyebrow twitching. Instead, he bit his tongue, taking a breath to steady himself.

“No,” He replied, keeping his voice level, “They don’t.” Vivienne opened his mouth to counter him, but Steren continued. “They think they’re supposed to love a child that they were told they supposedly had, but that doesn’t make it love. That makes it an obligation.” It was the truth; a truth just as bitter as the tea he was drinking. His adoptive family in his first lifetime thought they loved Steren because they were supposed to, because a god told them to love and care for him, but that didn’t make it love. Eventually they resented him. Eventually they questioned why he was important in the first place. Eventually, without even realizing it, they shoved him out of his place in that family and house.

“Azura dropped a new problem in their laps--a stranger they don’t know but were told they should care about.” It was, in a way, just a repeat of his first lifetime, except back then he was a young child who didn’t know any better and could barely remember his own father. Now he was an adult who could see just how unfair the circumstances were for everyone involved. Nerevar and Voryn never agreed to this, and Steren would have refused if he knew this would be Azura’s solution. “Do you think I wanted that? I wanted my parents. The ones who loved me.” The ones who chose to have him. The ones who struggled to keep him safe. “I wanted to be with my dad who spent thousands of years haunting my family line because he was afraid of leaving me alone. I wanted to be with my Ata who held me in his lap when he worked and named me so even if they couldn’t be open, my other father would always know I was his.”

Steren had so many things he wanted to ask them. So many memories he wanted them to share. His birth, his first birthday, the first time ata took him to meet his ancestors at the family hearth… He wanted to listen to his dad sing him the lullaby he always did when Steren was hurt and alone, trying in vain to stroke his hair and reassure him. They could finally be together again, after thousands of years apart, as a family. No more madness, no more heart, no barriers between ghosts and the living. He wanted to hug both of his parents, in earnest, and tell them both he loved them.

“... And instead I got... Strangers who lived different lives. Who could never have me even if they wanted to. Who never even thought about me until now, but are being asked to give me all the love and attention I wanted from my actual parents.” It was both cruel to Steren and cruel to them; how could this version of Nerevar and Voryn try to fill the gap his actual parents left behind? They couldn’t; it was asking too much of them to try. They had different stories and histories, different ways they lived their lives. You can’t just expect them to drop everything they’ve built for themselves and wedge a random fully grown dunmer in there as their ‘son’. Even if they did want a child, they should adopt one and love them from childhood instead, learn to bond with them and teach them in their own unique ways, rather than try in vain to live up to the standard of Steren’s without even knowing all they did.

“I wanted to make up for lost time with them. And now I'll probably never see them again--they'll be stuck in the afterlife wondering where I am. What I'm doing.” That was his biggest regret in all this; if Steren had just waited, had just asked for something like a relic or money, he could have waited it out. He could have spent a few years traveling, made peace with his death all over again, and then ended it all. And then he’d be in Moonshadow properly, or the land of his ancestors, being embraced by his dad just like Nerevar promised.

Instead, now Nerevar and Voryn would wonder for an eternity what happened to him and where he was. That welcoming embrace was never coming.

They will never be able to tell him they love him again.

“... I’m tired.” Steren quickly announced, getting up. Vivienne made a motion to stop him but he kept walking, partially limping. “I need to go lay down--sorry.” He apologized regardless, gingerly brushing off Vivienne’s hand.

It wasn’t Vivienne’s fault either. No doubt to him his mentors were loving and compassionate people, but they weren’t Steren’s parents. Azura can try to say she technically upheld her end of the bargain all she wants, but they can’t replace Steren’s Ata and Dad.

He took a deep breath in the cold air as he began his slow walk to the manor. He just had to hold out a little more. Just a bit more and he could get a boat and go somewhere else. Somewhere where he wouldn’t be reminded his parents were dead and he wouldn’t even meet them in the afterlife. Somewhere where no one knew the Nerevarine prophecy either, and he could disappear into a crowd. Somewhere he could start over and process his grief.

But for now he needed to hold it in. Lashing out did no good; none of these people were his allies, sure, but they also weren’t his enemies. Just people in the same shitty circumstances; people he didn’t want to be around and who also didn’t want to be around him. Lashing out would only make him enemies of very powerful people and cause him more problems anyways.

He just needed to keep his head down and wait.

#steren #steren nerevarine #vivi au #my writing #:(

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khonshuscondemned · 2 years

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helloooooo moonlight beloved i am sorry your immune system betrayed you and i humbly ask you to throw out whatever mk hc is burning in your beautiful heart rn, ily 💋💕💖

it is okay, betrayal happens to the best of us (ahem and the worst) but since we speak of burning and hearts why dont i go off on my jake lockley headcanons. also cos @tocktorninreverse asked.

posting under a read more cos. well. i spil t , . like. a lot.

First and foremost: hissyfit.

Jake Lockley finds the kitten quite by accident. almost misses her as he’s busy flinching at faint sounds off in the distance, heartbeat pounding louder in his ears than the thunder rumbling menacingly above. it’s not quite dawn, the sun still hidden behind the horizon, and the wind is bitter cold. he’s panting, still catching his breath, eyes darting around and over his shoulder and towards any sort of movements he might catch in his peripheral- constantly vigilant, consistently cautious.

her eyes reflect the dim orange glow of the street lamps in two round pinpricked pools of oilslick and it’s what brings her to his attention. she doesn’t mewl or meow like most cats he’s come across in littered back-alleys, she merely watches him (watching her) in tense silence, crouched in shadow.

he slumps against the opposite wall of the grimy alley and the movement must be too quick because she reacts then- spitting ferociously, hissing loudly enough that he freezes before he finishes settling and groans- muffles the sound behind gritted teeth as he redirects his focus. The little kitten’s fur is mangled and ratted and filthy and somehow standing straight up despite also being sopping wet. She’s unsettled and furious about it, tiny fangs still bared as she curls her tail around herself.. but doesn’t run away. As jake relaxes in increments , he realises she’s panting too, her little chest heaving, so thin her ribs can easily be seen and something buried deeply in his core softens at the sight.

he knows how it feels to hunger and to be left wanting.

Thunder booms again, shaking the dirty asphalt, and drowns out any other sounds the kitten makes as nearby a lightning strike flashes simultaneously. the bright flash blinds him for a moment too long- when his vision clears, the kitten has disappeared.

he suddenly feels the chill, and pulls his coat closer as he huddles there on the cold ground. He still has a few hours till he has to be somewhere, til the body is to be expected anywhere... the decision is made before he really thinks about it to stay in the hidden alleyway and wait out the rain. partly because the sky chooses that moment to crack open and let loose a torrential downpour- and partly because he’s curious to see where the kitten has gone, and maybe hopes she would come back.

[end]

TLDR - hissyfit is the name for the scraggly stray kitten that adopts jake Jake winds up adopting bc they meet on a rough night and jake deserves a cat, okay ?? jake x a cat thats a terrible rotten kreechure to everyone besides him crack au WHEN??

OTHER MISC JAKE LOCKLEY HEADCANONS O MYNE:

has worn many hats through the years, but only the flatcap feels like home. his first flatcap had been too big for his head and despite the chaos of his life he’s managed to keep the old thing , even if it’s too threadbare to wear anymore. he tucks it in an old newspaper, folded in a corner of a small, dark black wooden trunk/box hidden in his cab.

in winter, jake has versions of his coat, gloves, and hat (& boots wink wonk) that look mostly similar, but are lined with very soft fur. keeps the same silky scarf for work all year round.

speaking of scarves. jake lockley loves em. if he could wear soft blankets like scarves he would (however he doesn’t like feeling overheated- some balance is required). if someone handmade him a scarf he would probably cry for days. he wouldn’t take it off. if anything happened to the scarf (or whoever made/gave it) he would ruthlessly burn the entire world. even (especially) if the scarf looks really shitty or was super ugly he would wear it with sooo much pride.

is a bit nervous around creatures/animals, but loves to watch them simply existing. strikes as a guy who could find joy n comfort n peace at a butterfly garden.

after four rounds of tequila he can cha cha real smooth. he also stops speaking english halfway between round two and three. all the drag queens know him by name and everyone openly flirts or calls him their papi and enjoys seeing him go red when they do but the love behind it is fiercely protective- jake’s the type to settle right at home with the misfits and sometimes he likes to fool himself and say its cos he rescues them, but deep down he’s all too aware it’s cos they basically adopt him. literally who wouldn’t.

tio jake . ‘nuff said. (he always has weird old people candy in his pockets. he pretends to pull em magically outta kids’ ears.)

THIS IS TECHNICALLY @mrcspectr ‘s HC. BUT IT , LIKE JAKE LOCKLEY , HAS BEEN ADOPTED AND ACCEPTED AS CANON ON THIS BLOG: jake lockley calls steven hermanito. jake lockley calls marc el jefe.

jake lockley’s first instinct is to observe. usually, his role is fulfilled as he stands guard, ever watching. and he can take his time as he notes their surroundings slowly and methodically, careful to catch each detail, to make sure he misses nothing. to make sure its safe. he is aware when marc or steven pass up the reigns voluntarily, he knows when it happens when for some reason or another the two of em are down for the count. he must never step in too early. he must never step in too late.

JAKE LOCKLEY AND HIS GLOVES:

- HIS FIRST PAIR ONLY LAST HIM LESS THAN A WEEK. they’re thin and scratchy, cheap quality wool and cheaper quality fake leather, a pathetic attempt at bikers gloves- with holes over his knuckles, baring the light scares littered on his skin. they’re fingerless and he finds the texture ill-fitting. the poor needlework leads to one too many loose threads to pull at, too unravel. - HIS NEXT PAIR ARE HEAVY AND THICK AND COVER HIS ENTIRE HAND FROM THE TIPS OF HIS FINGERS DOWN TO HIS WRISTS. the leather is burned and coloured like amber embers and creaks whenever his fists clench. his hands are protected. he leaves no prints behind. no blood gathers and drips from his fingernails. - THEY FIT LIKE A SECOND SKIN.

...

> [ IT DOESN’T FEEL RIGHT, AT FIRST. TO COVER HIS HANDS, TO HIDE AWAY HIS BEST WEAPONS. AND HE WOULD FIND THE DISCOMFORT DISQUIETING, BUT INSTEAD HE FINDS IT IRONIC. EVERY PART OF HIM - HIS ENTIRE EXISTENCE - IS ALREADY HIDDEN IN SHADOW, CAST OUT OF SIGHT. WHAT IS ONE MORE THING TO HIDE WHEN THERE IS NO PIECE OF HIM THAT IS MEANT TO BE SEEN ? ]

> [ IT DOESNT FEEL RIGHT, AFTER, TO TAKE THE GLOVES OFF. STEVEN AND MARC WALTZ THROUGH THE WORLD WITH SO LITTLE CARE AS TO THEIR EXPOSED FINGERTIPS AND JAKE CANNOT COMPREHEND A LIFE SO FREE. ]

> > > [ HE IS ENVIOUS OF THAT FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION. ]

[ HE IS TERRIFIED OF IT. ] < < <

there are. so many more . seriously. this is just the tip of the iceberg. don’t.... don’t let me get started on jake lockley cos god apparently i literally cannot stop.

((send me mk hc asks!!))

#jake lockley #ihdrabbles #moon knight #moon knight headcanons #jake lockley headcanons #sorry for the . uh .#long post

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bollur · 2 years

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OK so I was writing my own stuff for like my ocs and what not and it was about them getting stuck in a blizzard.

So then I got the idea of a percy x reader where they get caught in a huge blizzard on one of their adventures and have to cuddle each other for warmth and I just ahshshhdhahhfbrrjnf!

I know you are clogged with requests rn so please take your time if you plan to take this request!

a/n: yaaaaa, i got really into this, like it came out sOOOO FUCKING LONG, i apologize. :')

i hope it meets you expectations, love. i fucking loved doing it.

tags list: @imaginesfire

The wind whistled as it whipped and thrashed around you, snow flurries peeling from banks in sheets, no rhyme to their direction. Turning your head, pulling your fur-lined hood further over your face, the tree-line that you came from wasn’t even visible anymore, causing an unnatural chill to run through you. You had swiveled in so many directions at this point, it would be damn near impossible to discern which way you needed to go. “Fuck!” you shouted, doubling over and clenching your jaw, mitten-covered hands scrubbing your face.

You needed to breathe - now was not the time to have a breakdown.

Think, think — Tracks! Why didn’t you do that first?

Opening your eyes, you glanced around, feeling adrenaline surge through you as you spotted deep trails, but when you began to follow them, you realized they were only leading to more and more but were quickly being covered up. You should have just stayed still earlier instead of panicking and sprinting around in hopes you would find something.

Vox Machina had been hired to investigate numerous suspicious murders in an allied city, one that happened to be on the other side of a string of very wild weathered mountains. The group had currently still been several miles from cresting the peak, and while you all tried your best to stick together and rush over the top, not wanting to be at the highest point when hell decided to rain down, it was clear that nothing would ever work out for you all. Everyone had ended up getting separated, and the last person you were walking closest to was Percy, trying to help you stay stable when the winds began picking up drastically. Somehow in all the mess, you managed to lose him and everyone else.

Feeling your breathing quicken, a sign you were about to hyperventilate, you did your best to follow what you could discern as some kind of track. You assumed they were yours that lead somewhere, but the snow filling them made it a bit hard to see where they were as you made your way forward, coupled with the impossibly short visibility, eventually you lost them.

All you could do at this point was to keep walking and hope you ended up somewhere safe. “Hello,” you called out, hands around your mouth, hoping to amplify the sound. “Percival!” it was a very slim chance he would hear you, but it was one you were willing to take.

This was just great.

A sigh escaped your lips, blowing into the palms of your mittens in a feeble attempt to warm your freezing hands, but the feeling passed as quickly as it came. You needed to do something, and quickly, or you would freeze to death out here; your toes had already begun to tingle despite the climate-appropriate footwear. It would just be a lot easier if you had a destination or knew where the hell you were headed to.

Grimacing as you moved forward with renowned vigor, you couldn’t help but think of that scenario as anything but laughable. A hero of Emon, aided in the saving of Whitestone, a survivor of the Chroma Conclave, so-on and so-forth, went and fucking perished in a measly blizzard. So you continued on, needing to stay moving, circulation flowing to help stave away hypothermia, at least until it was inevitable.

There was no telling how long you had been walking, though it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, but what did it matter when frozen gales turned the minutes to hours? However, the level of relief you felt when you distantly heard your name being called was unmeasurable. You couldn’t tell who it was with it being so muffled, but you didn’t care - it could be Grog finding you for all you gave a damn, all you knew was that you needed to stop and scream. So you did, jumping up and down while flailing your arms, the best you could in the thigh-deep snow, not wanting to stand still for too long, shouting, “I’m over here! Hello!” like a mantra.

Suddenly Percival came into view, cutting through the blizzard five feet in front of you and you wasted no time practically throwing yourself at him, to which he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you. “You’re alright, I’m here now.” his grip tightened, pulling you as close as possible, warmth seeping into you. But the tone of his voice suggested he was trying to console you just as much as himself, and you couldn’t help the few tears that built up on your lashes, burying your face into his neck. “This is why you need to listen to me when I tell you to do something.”

Begrudgingly pulling back from his warmth, your eyes narrowed even further at him, reaching up to wipe away the wetness from your eyes before it threatened to freeze over and make your experience even more painful. “If this is your way of saying ‘I told you so’, this is the worst time.”

“I have to disagree,” he grunted his reply, now trying to fight with a length of rope that had been slapping with the wind. Pulling it taut, Percival moved it over your head and down to your waist, tying the frayed end to some lead that led to himself, and giving it a harsh tug to make sure it didn’t come undone. “This is absolutely the time to do so.”

Having the audacity to roll your eyes wasn’t missed by him, and neither was the stern look on his face to you, but the worry in his eyes made your heart swell with guilt from the severity of the situation. “I’m sorry,” you offered to him, a feeble attempt to lighten the situation. If you both died today, you weren’t sure you could handle him being even slightly upset with you.

Whether he heard you or not, you weren’t sure. Gripping your hands, he pulled them away from his coat, and you felt panic run through you, suddenly thinking about the possibility of getting lost from him again if you weren’t holding on. Being perceptive as always, knowing you better than he knew himself, he answered the worry on your face, “Keep old of this and,” he directed your mits to the rope around his waist and you immediately latched. “Do not let go.” there was no room for arguments as the blizzard carried his tone around the two of you, and you nodded your head furiously. You weren’t planning on it anyway.

Giving you one final look, he turned back in the direction he came, his gloved hands gripping onto a tight rope that disappeared a few feet ahead of you into the snowfall. Finally, the two of you began moving forward, the rope connecting you to him gave just enough space that you would be able to move without getting caught on him and causing him to stumble, but you still stayed closer.

You helplessly watched from behind as he gathered up the rope in one hand, pulling you both along with the other in silence for what seemed far too long. A part of you wanted to say something, anything to him, but something rational reminded you that this of foreign territory, and you didn’t know what undesirables lingered out there on the other side of snowbanks. You had both spoken enough for comfort earlier. You agreed to keep quiet, even as a large pine tree came into view and you wanted to gleefully scream, it was contained to a whispered squee. Moving into the forest, the visibility broadened and the wind was not so sharp. “Cut the rope,” Percy instructed you, taking what he had rolled up and pulled it over his head to rest on his shoulder and across his chest.

“What?” you asked, looking at him in shock for his suggestion. “But- but everyone else is still out there,” you tried to reason with him as though he was suggesting something insane, like abandoning them.

Percival was tense, looking around everywhere his eyes could land except at you. “Yes, they are,” the agreement was so casual, if you weren’t currently shivering, you wouldn’t have guessed the situation was life-threatening. “But we are also not the only inhabitants of this area.” unintentionally reminding you of your earlier fear, you swallowed hard, sparing a few glances around yourself. “We need to leave hints, not a direct line.”

Nodding your head, you wasted no time lifting your leg, pulling the dagger from inside your boot, and cutting the rope. He was right - not that you wanted to admit the two of you were weak, but you were not exactly the strongest in anything other than damage-wise. Taking the end, he tucked it into one of his layers. “We need to find shelter.” the obvious came from your mouth, though it was more of an external thought.

No response came from the gunslinger for a moment and then he nodded. “Highly unlikely,” he muttered before taking your arm and lightly leading you on, further into the forest, not wanting to linger too long. You stayed close, following diligently. “Here,” Percy altered, finally coming to a stop by a tree. Looking back, you couldn’t even see the one that had the rope tied to it now, you had wandered so far. “Help me dig a trench.” he bent over and began using his hands to scoop snow away from it, and you followed suit. “The forest is not dense enough to stave off enough wind; this will aid in that.”

Gods, you were fucking glad he was so smart.

You simply nodded, having nothing to add to that, though the fear of talking too much still lingered in your head. Scooping out the last of the snow, there was a big enough space in the ditch for the two of you to sit in, which you wasted no time getting into and sitting down. He was a bit more hesitant, giving one last look around before nestling in beside you, the two of you molded together at the side.

You sat for a moment before letting out a soft, “Oh,” suddenly remembering you were useful in some way. Removing your mittens, you held your hands in front of you both and closed your eyes. “Maybe - “ your whisper cut off, eyes flashing open with a warm glow as a ball of fire began to form, floating an inch above your palms. “There we go.”

The smile that crossed your face was proud as you looked up at Percival, finding him already staring down at you in wonder. “Your versatility never ceases to amaze me,” and he didn’t mean that sarcastically either, it was genuine as he looked down into eyes that would scare anyone who did not know the soul that wore them, even as the light died down to simply glittering irises. Removing his gloves and laying them onto his lap, he held his own hands a safe distance from the flame and exhaled deeply as the warmth began to wash over his tingling fingers.

The compliment caused you to chuckle, leaning a little closer and playfully knocking him with your shoulder. “Neither does yours,” you offered in return, before asking, “I mean, where did you learn to do this?” and immediately the air between you two changed, the small smile on his face falling and he looked away from you into the forest, distantly.

There was a moment of silence and he spoke, “A person learns multiple survival tactics when fleeing their home during winter, I suppose,” strangely light, thoughtfully, but the heaviness of the memories it brought was inevitably there, lingering.

Rolling your bottom lip, you removed one hand from under your little flame and placed it comfortingly on his bicep. “I’m sorry,” came a timid apology, causing him to turn back towards you. “I shouldn’t have asked - I - it was stupid of me.”

Percival merely brought back the curl of his lips, though it didn't quite meet his eyes like before, and lifted up his arm, exposing his side. "You'll never get warm enough sitting that far away, you know," it was a statement, a silent offer, an acceptance of your unneeded apology. He was older now and tried to not let the traumas of his past interfere with things as much.

Immediately taking him up on that, you dove into his side, remembering to mind the fire you held and sighed happily. "I was beginning to think you'd never offer," you playfully sobbed, bringing the mood in the air back to a comfortable one, or as well as it could be despite the situation.

Shifting a bit, he wrapped both arms around you and rested his cheek on the crown of your head. With this and the fire, you were sure to stay warm. "We'll rest here for as long as we can and wait for the blizzard to calm."

Your face turned sour at the thought of how long that could possibly take and you didn't hide the displeased noise that escaped you. "Implying we're left alone."

"Yes, implying such." Percy agree, wearily scanning the area he could see without moving too much. Lifting up a hand to place under the one that held the flame, he felt himself begin to get too warm. "Put that away for now," he told you, knowing it would do no good for the two of you to begin sweating. "Try to rest - it will do no good if we're both exhausted." You let it diminish and now curled up against him, between his legs, clinging tightly with both arms, trusting him wholly.

Bringing a hand up to cup the back of your head, keeping you close as you began to relax in his arms, he couldn't deny that he was worried, even if it was more for you than himself. His nose buried into your hair, trying to relax, but his eyes never closed, keeping watch on the area. It was the moments where he could do nothing except sit and contemplate a million possibilities, unable to act, that bothered him the most.

Percival would get you out of here, no matter what. Surrounded by a blizzard, in the middle of the wilderness is not where you deserved to die.

#percival x reader #percival fredrickstein von musel de rolo iii #percy de rolo #percival de rolo #the legend of vox machina #vox machina x reader #critical role x reader #percival de rolo x reader #percy de rolo x reader #percy x reader #critical role #vox machina #the legend of vox machina x reader #tlovm x reader #tlovm

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exsqueeze-me · 2 years

Note

Aaa hi again, sorry for the second message spam, it's me, the oozaru snuggles anon! I just noticed the requests open to followers post and made a tumblr account, I'm so sorry!! Here is my account, you're the only blog I'm following rn homegirl ❤️❤️🤣

(My h e a r t! This really made my receptors collect the serotonin! Thank you for the ask, dear!!)

Goku: Easily the most out of control. As soon as his eyes land on the full moon, its game over. The only saving grace if if you're loud enough for him to hear you over the crumbling of the stone pillars and trees. If he recognizes you, he stops, mid attack and just.. kinda stares. It's up to you to take a few steps foward and make grabby hands at him. He'll pick you up and ever so slowly bring you to his face. Once you nuzzle into his fur, he just kinda vibes. Like, he really is like 'I wanna destroy stuff, but this small creature makes me wanna, like, not'.

Vegeta: It would take a lot to actually make him lose control in great ape form. And even then, hes still rather aware of his surroundings, he just usually could care less about them. For the most part, if you're caught up in the crossfire, or nearing it, he picks you up and brings you as far away as he can before going back to breaking shit. If, however, you cling onto him, he might try to gently shake you off. If that fails he makes little angry, grunty noises. Then he just kinda stares at you all angry (hes not actually angry, hes actually living in the tiny snuggles but hes a dramatic bitch).

Raditz: He probably chills out the fastest. Literally just call out to him or make some gestures like 'hey, I'm here' and he just grabs you and sets you on his head so that u can snuggle into his fur. Once you're perched safely, he proceeds to continue on his reign of terror, but, like, more gentle cause he doesn't wanna accidentally knock you off.

Bardock: Like father, like son. He just yoinks you, puts you on his head or his shoulders, and continues to be a menace. Usually, if he goes great ape, shits going down. He does occasionally stop and make sure you're still cuddled into his fur. He might even purr a tiny bit while destroying shit cause, like, he gets to wreak havoc and get cuddles? It's a win win.

Gine: Doesn't wreak havoc. Big monke cuddles are supreme. She purrs hella loud and her tail thumping will probably cause more damage than anything else. Very gentle with you, might try to stroke your hair (kinda like when one of those big fuzzy moths or a lizard is on your hand vibing and I gotta give them tiny pets so that ur just barely touching them, yeah)

Broly: You might wanna hide and wait out most of his temper tantrum. He has okay control over his great ape, but he just doesn't have good control of his emotions in general. Once hes calmed down a bit he kinda lays down and scooches you close to him. He 100% curls around you and you just get to snuggle up to the big monke. Vvv loud snores, I mean earth quaking snores. Recomend investing in some really good earplugs.

Turles: Ur fucked, mate. He could honestly care less about your well being in the throes of his temper tantrum. If, on the off chance your alive to see the end of his fit, he just kinda sits and crosses his arms and broods til to moon goes down. Feel free to cuddle up to him, but know that he wont cuddle back (he totally wraps you with his tail if your close enough but will say he didnt know you were there if you ask him about it. he did know you were there hes just a big baby).

#dbz #raditz #bardock #broly #gine #goku #turles #vegeta

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arminssseashell · 3 years

Text

Aot characters and their reactions to you with a new cat/dog

Desc: The Aot cast and what they do when you come home with a new cat/dog

Warnings: none

Pairings: Eren x gn!reader, Armin x gn!reader, Levi x gn!reader, Jean x gn!reader, Mikasa x gn!reader, Annie x gn!reader

Eren:

•He might freak out— but in a good way

•He won’t even let you sit down or anything, he would just snatch it away from you

•After they warm up to each other, that’s when he will ask you the questions

•“When did you get him/her? Did she cost a lot?”

•If it’s a cat then he might not be very attached to it because he’s more of a dog person imo

•But if it’s a dog— that ain’t your guys’ pet, that’s 𝘩𝘪𝘴

•He would let it warm up to him of course but despite the type of animal, it’s gonna be his new favorite thing

•If you two don’t sleep together, he’s obv gonna snatch that thing and keep it in his bed, along with it’s food because he loves it so much

•But it’s gonna be your job to take it outside, no matter how many times you both argue about it (if it’s a dog)

•The pet will end up hating him at some point tbh

•Like it would just be laying down and Eren would get all up in its face

•It probably bit him at some point, too

•But other than that, Eren would be overjoyed!

Armin:

•Like Eren, Armin would be very excited!

•Although instead of Eren, he would let you get everything situated before he meets the new pet

•I hc him as a cat person, so if you brought home a cat he would probably love it even more than a dog

•But either way he would still let you be it’s favorite because he would get too attached otherwise

•If you both sleep in different beds, he would let the pet sleep with you as well unless you aren’t home. Then he would most likely let it sleep on his floor or in the living room

•He offers to take the pet outside for you most of the time (if it’s a dog) because “his s/o shouldn’t have to do things like that”

•Armin also offers to wash the pet for you because he actually kind of enjoys it??

•Sometimes you would come home to him and see him asleep on the couch/in his bed and snuggling with the pet

•He then gets mad because you took pictures

•But he secretly likes it

Levi:

•Like Armin, he’s probably better being called a cat person. He’s more fond of cats because they’re elegant and that’s kind of his style

•So, if you happen to come home to him with a cat, he won’t seem very excited, but he’s actually quite happy about it

•At first he’d hesitate to show any affection, but when it’s just with you or by himself he’d smile at it and give it a few pats

•But if it’s a dog, he won’t really be fazed

•Dogs tend to be messy so he might “hate” you afterwards

•Not because he’s a total clean freak, which he kind of is, but because they require a lot of attention which he doesn’t really want to show

•If you get a pet cat, he might be a bit more delighted if it didn’t have much fur so it doesn’t shed. If it’s a dog, the same goes for it

•If you happen to get a dog, though, chances are that the only way he would give it the tiniest of love is if it was a chill dog

•Other than that, he may help you take care of it, like feeding it and bathing it, but other than that you’re on your own

•But he wouldn’t completely hate the pet despite the type, he isn’t that type of person

•What he 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 do, though, is scold you for bringing home a pet without him knowing

Jean:

•Okay, I wasn’t really ever attracted to him enough to write about him but whatever

•He would be more excited if it were a bigger dog rather than a small one

•Same goes for if it’s an adult dog rather than a puppy

•He wants someone to be rough with, so if you brought home a smaller pet then his hopes would go down the drain

•He would give you the same look as when he rubbed his hand on Connie’s back in that one scene

•But later on he would still try to give the pet the love it deserves because who doesn’t love a nice pet?

•He might help take it out on walks and stuff because he wants to see if it would play— if it doesn’t then he just wants it to get familiar with him

•He would also do almost all of the pet work until it finally likes him to the point where it follows him around

•But yeah, he wouldn’t be too disappointed if you brought home a new pet!

Mikasa:

•She would stay calm and collected about it

•She wouldn’t rush to meet the new pet— she would just let it go to her

•I hc that she used to have a pet when she was younger, so she already knows what to do and what not to do with one

•Since I see her more as a cat person, she would be a bit disappointed if you brought home a dog

•She would probably steer clear of it

•But then one day you’d just see her come home with sunglasses on, dog in her purse with it’s own pair of sunglasses, and just struttin down the hallway (bc she’s a queen obv)

•You may be a bit confused at first, but just let her do her thing. This is a rare you see her have fun

•She would suggest taking turns caring for the pet so it’s fair, and so it gets equally amount of attention from both of you

•She might post it on Instagram and be like “new child” or sum

•But yeah, she would be more calm about it

•But like Levi, she might confront you about it

Annie:

•Pretty much like Mikasa except she would take longer to warm up to the pet

•I hc that she also used to have a pet when she was younger— a cat— and so she would be a bit more familiar if you happened to bring home one

•She wouldn’t mind a dog, but she might not give it much attention

•It’s def sleeping with you, regardless of the animal

•I feel like she might actually try to avoid it because she’s just kinda shy and awkward like that

•It’s like handing a baby to someone— you don’t really know what to do with it

•So you just sit there with the baby in your arms, awkwardly looking around the room

•Yeah that’s how Annie is with a pet

•Basically she wouldn’t be happy or sad about it— she’s just… neutral

•I don’t really know what else to put about Annie but yeah, that’s about it lmao

A/n: thanks for reading!! Making my masterlist rn

Tags:

#eren x reader #armin x reader #mikasa x reader #annie x reader #levi x reader #jean x reader #aot x reader #attack on titan #anime x reader #idk what else to put but yes

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froog-water · 3 years

Text

howdy y'all, again!

just quickly before the chapter starts, i wanted to say a HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who reads this! i have received a lot of support for this thing (more than i had hoped) and i am beyond grateful for it!

again, if there are any mistakes in this chapter, just hmu and i will fix it. i am just tired rn :)

also, slight warning for the beginning of the chapter, there are vivid descriptions of blood and gore and death. but nothing really troubling past that ;P

be safe out there my friends and thank you again

Upwards Over the Mountain

(Bloodhound x Reader)

previous; Chapter 2

Winter is in full swing and the entire world is covered in a thick blanket of white snow and eternal cold. For the most part, you had forgotten all about Bloodhound and the stranger circumstance of your meeting. Because there was not much for a bunch of fishermen and farmers to do during the stagnant times of chill, your bar had become a most frequented hotspot for these idle workers meaning you had very little time to yourself. Busy hands kept your mind busy too and soon some, if not most, of that night had been pushed back to the recesses of your consciousness. It also did not help that they never took you up on your offer of returning to the bar. They retreated back into being merely a story to you, a faint memory of a person long moved on. You could hardly even remember if it had even really happened at all. Oh well, you supposed they had better things to do.

Early morning light was barely seeping in through your bedroom window when you managed to open your eyes. Groggily you yawn and stretch and slowly go to open the curtains. Greeting you was the pleasant sight of a land half-asleep, the sky a brilliant warm pink despite the rest being draped in an unimaginable freeze. Your breath collected as fog on the frozen glass and tentatively you reach out to touch it. It was a lovely morning indeed and it would have stayed that way had you not looked up into the sky.

In the distance, large birds circled. Tiredness shifts to dread as you adjust your eyes to try to get a better look. Those were no ordinary birds, you remark taking note of how large their bodies were and of the swooping patterns of their flight. Those were scavenging birds. And there is only one thing to bring scavengers out during Winter.

You dress quickly, putting on your best and thickest jacket and pants, before grabbing your hunter's knife and bow. Andante was a man of many talents, most of which he passed on to you. One of those talents was his hunting skills. The summer before his knees went, was spent mostly out in the heart of the wild woods. It was an interesting experience, to say the least, and though you were nowhere near what could be considered good, you understood the basics of the hunt and of the weapons you wielded and you knew how to read signs. Signs like scavenger birds circling in the sky. Signs like there was something dying.

Into the snow you run without much of a second thought, your head locked upwards as you follow the shapes of the birds eyeing their next meal. What confused you most about this strange encounter was not the presence of the birds themselves, but the proximity that they were to you and the rest of the town. This was wild country, home of beasts and lands untamed and untouched by man’s iron hand. That much you knew, encounters like this were commonplace if you dared to leave the safety of human comforts. But you were not out in the uncomfortable forest which meant that whatever had caught the bird's attention was either very far from home or of a more concerning matter.

You edge into the outskirts of the white forest, the trees around you nothing more than empty sticks bearing only wind and ice. Overhead, the birds caw and swoop and through the boney fingers of branches, you can see that they are getting lower. You had to move quickly before they did. As you go deeper in, approaching what you assumed to be the border of someone's field, you hear something. Faintly, carried on the morning breeze, was the mewling of an animal. Your pace quickens and quietens as you zone in on the source, painfully aware of how loud the snow was underfoot but pushing on regardless. The relief that you had felt at knowing it was not a person in danger eases some of your mounting anxieties and offers you momentary strength to continue on in pursuit. If given the choice, you would have gladly left whatever animal lay in wait to its own devices, you had no business intruding in on their affairs - your presence would only bring them distress no matter your intentions. But something about this situation told you otherwise and guided your feet to where you would most certainly be needed. On the outskirts of a clearing, you spot something and crouch behind a leafless brush.

There before you, not even 20 meters away, was a fallen elk. You swallow down your gasp and try to focus over the noise of your beating heart, which becomes only louder as you start to take in the entire situation. The animal has toppled over a wired fence of some farmer's land, its hind leg still entangled and bleeding from its restraints, held high above the rest of its body at an uncomfortable angle. From its bloody mouth, it screamed weakly, puffs of dying hot breath escaping with the haunting noise. Your first guess was that this misdirected elk had simply gotten itself stuck in the fence, a most unfortunate event but not entirely implausible, but upon closer inspection at the rest of its heaving body, your guess died on your tongue.

Horrible, long gashes run down the length of the animal's side, pooling blood into the snow around it turning white to red. Its powerful neck was sliced deep in odd places and one of its front legs looked twisted or broken. This creature had not done this kind of destruction to itself - it was attacked. By something. You slowly turn your head around to scan the morning shadows of the forest clearing for any glowing eyes of an animal on the hunt. But there was no predator to be found. There would be none of course, because if there was such a predator here, then why would it not have killed its prey by now? Animals do not find enjoyment in torture and no man, you hoped, would ever do such heinous crimes to such innocent life. For now, at least, it was only you and the elk and the circling, hungry birds.

The elk cries again and you notice how its kicks have become lethargic and stifled by freezing joints and waning energy. It was suffering. Without much debate you ready an arrow in your bow, pulling taut the string with trained proficiency. You whisper to yourself a prayer, hoping that it would only take one arrow to kill the poor thing. You line your aim up, try to cease the shaking in your hands and shoulders, breathing deeply. Your arrow flies prematurely and misses its target, rather than piercing its skull you instead strike it in its neck, right behind its ear. The thing wails, although much softer and with more subtle movements - you must have hit its spine. Seizing the opportunity, you rush forward, ignoring the lurching of your stomach and pulling out your knife. Without a moment's hesitation, you drive it deep into the elk’s heart, right to the hilt of the blade. A little excessive, you deride, but a necessity given your previous inability to finish it quickly.

The thing stops moving. The pained cries fade off into the cold wind. You are left alone with your thoughts and the smell of fresh blood. Beneath your hands the elk lay motionless, its beautiful, soft fur a gentle texture against your trembling form. Andante had made sure that you had killed a few animals before he had honored you with a knife of your own. Still, experience did not dull the sharp sting of shock nor quell the rising weight in your chest. It was suffering, you reminded yourself, lightly dragging your fingers down the side of the animal's large and strong back.

These elk were beautiful creatures, graceful and nimble; they pranced through the wilderness in powerful, delicate strides showcasing the ultimate wonder of the natural world. You had encountered a herd of them once, all the while mesmerized as they strode past your hiding spot without a care in the world. It was quite distressing to see one now crumpled and lifeless. Emptiness sits heavy in your chest and though you know you are not going to throw up, the pressure erupts and you fall to your knees. A red hand clasps the arrow lodged deep in the neck of the animal and sharply pulls it out. You blink hard but cannot stop the tears that threaten to burn your eyes.

It was an animal. It was suffering. You did the right thing.

From somewhere behind you, the softest snow crunches, and your pity party abruptly ends as you draw another arrow and spin around. For a few tense seconds, your fingers quiver around the bow’s string, ready to shoot down if you so dared it. You only hesitate when you finally recognize the figure.

Bloodhound quietly raises both their gloved hands, fingers spread apart in an unarmed, peaceful gesture. You remain poised a moment longer until your eyes start to prick with new tears and you are forced to look away. You drop your arrow and turn back around to the elk, furiously trying to wipe your face with the clean sleeve of your jacket. Now, this was a predicament. What god had you spite so hard to deserve this kind of cruelty? True embarrassment blends with your established disgust and you fear now you may really throw up. Here was a true hunter, a beast born in blood and forged to kill. And here also was you, wallowing in pity. If only you could sink into the floor.

You can hear Bloodhound approach and soon feel their impending presence standing right next to you, taking in the sight of the poor thing on the ground. No one spoke, only the wind dared whisper in the dead world around you. The silence was stretching on for far too long and you knew you had to break it before it became too uncomfortable.

“I’m…” You sniffle hard, trying to force strength into your voice knowing full well that you had very little left to offer. You cough and stand up straight. “I’m not going to do you the dishonor and assume this was your kill.” You say, your voice somehow managing to sustain itself despite your state. Bloodhound does not respond right away, instead, they remain motionless, eyes scanning every detail of the elk and committing it to memory. You shake loose the last of your unstable emotions and grab ahold of your knife again. You move to the elk’s tangled leg and set to work cut free the wires.

“You cry for the animal.” Bloodhound finally speaks, sounding more like an observation rather than a question. With your attention focused on your task, you manage to answer in a more steady and calm attitude.

“Yes.” This was your admission of guilt, not just to Bloodhound but to yourself as well. God, how pathetic you were. “Yes, I cried. I know it is natural. That this is how it is meant to be but,” You hesitate, your lapse in concentration misguiding your knife and almost slicing the tip of our index finger. “This is not a hunt nor a kill. This poor creature was driven away from its home and family and pushed to our borders by some deranged and cruel beast. This is not natural. It was not killed to feed mouths. It was tortured. And it died confused and alone.” The leg snaps free from the wired fence and you wipe your blade clean on the snowy floor, ugly red stains being the only reminder of your deed.

“There is no shame in veeping.” Bloodhound murmurs a brash reassurance and kneels down, tracing their fingers from the elk’s wounds. “Vhat did this?”

“My guess is,” You state taking a step back and allowing Bloodhound to proceed with whatever they were wanting to do with the body, “A few years back, an illegal trading ship hit a bit of trouble just beyond our planet's frontier and had to quickly dump its cargo on the East mountains. Some of that cargo was the creatures we call ‘Shrieks’. They are alien to this ecosystem but even though they are terribly small and their numbers were minimal, they dominated the local wildlife - killing not just for food but for fun. The town’s people tried to cull some of their numbers but,” You explanation stutters off and you hastily take in a sharp breath, the icy air burning your nose and lungs. “Well, they could not get them all. It appears now that they are growing in size again. And in courage.”

Bloodhound does not respond, their attention wholly directed at the study of the animal. You wait a moment longer, the adrenaline of the moment finally ebbing off and allowing the freezing cold to seep into your bones. You shiver and wrap your arms around your body. Bloodhound stands, all the while their attention remains downward.

“You can leave it there.” You say, passing one more glance over the body before averting your gaze elsewhere. “If you want nothing from it, leave it for the birds. They could use the meal.” As if aware of their mention, the still-waiting scavengers call loudly from the tree-top. A raven answers with a caw and you look around to find many black birds scattered around the clearing. The birds do seem to follow their raven stranger everywhere they went. The wind howled through the desolate forest and you grimace upon thinking of returning to your empty house with such a shallow heart. The smell of blood lingers cruelly to your clothes, reminding you of what you had just witnessed. You had to think of something to keep your mind off it, thinking of your act for people, play your part until you finally were normal again. But your bar would not be open until at least noon and there was no one else who would be willing to distract you.

“Did you track it all the way here?” Your voice breaks the silence, your mind subconsciously switching to your more charming persona. They do not answer immediately.

“I sensed distress and followed its blood.” They weren’t giving you much to work off of and you shuffle in place.

“Then I suppose you will need a ride back?” This garners their attention and they turn to face you, the nerve of being under their masked gaze still sending jolts up and down your spine.

“I cannot accept your generosity again.” Bloodhound tries to talk you down but you scoff and lift a hand to silence them.

“Please, I won't be needed until lunch and I really don't mind.” Your tone successfully managed to hide that you had a third reason to be so insistent - you just hoped that they could not see the desperation in your face. They could. They take a moment to consider your offer, whatever expression lay under their mask you would never know. The raven to their left caws and they turn to look at it. It takes off after a final noise and Bloodhound lowers their head back to you - some secret understanding passing between bird and hunter.

“Then,” Bloodhound motions for you to lead the way, “By all means.” Though strained and almost painful, your first smile of the day pulls at your lips and you turn around to walk back to your house.

Bloodhound, as bizarre and strange as they were, never afforded you the opportunity to truly draw a defined picture of their personality. Wrapped so totally in mystery and gear, your perception of them was created on a flimsy base of shadows - beyond what they portrayed on T.V, you knew nothing of. But in the frozen forest of that Winter’s morning, something changed and you felt your world flip upside down onto its head.

Bloodhound was a lot more talkative on the way to their cabin than they had been the first time. Or any time really that you had interacted with them. It had started with you asking them the simple question of how they managed to track the injured elk and although their initial answer remained vague, a tangent soon manifested and from there the spiral began. To your utter surprise, and mild enjoyment, they proved themselves to be a great storyteller and had many wonderful and whimsical tales about their Gods and hunts that had made the drive over to their place seem almost too short.

“Most people stop me at this point.” Bloodhound commented, drawing a snicker from you as your eyes were glued to the ice-capped road ahead.

“Well, most people are not here. And I am very much enjoying myself. I love stories.” You could not see it, but your response brought a cracked smile to Bloodhound's hidden face.

By the time you had reached their cabin, they had entranced you in a tale about wolves and the true essence of the hunt. Though you thought your morning could not get any more surprising, Bloodhound steps out of your truck and extends an offer to share warm drinks with them inside. In the heart of Winter, you could not resist the temptation.

The interior of their cabin was much as you expected - totally unpredictable. It was like a bear and a machine had a fight, a complete subversion of everything you had come to know as normal. On the floor was a multitude of animal rugs, the couches too were draped with the furs of Bloodhound’s past, presumed, victories. Yet despite the clear aesthetic for ruggedness, a definite sense of modern order was showing through. The fireplace was quaint in its design but unmistakable retro. The furniture too, the chairs and tables, shelves and windows, were all of a very contemporary era. A perfect combination of the comforts of the past and the conveniences of the present. But all and all, the only word that came to your head when you first stepped in through their front door was - cozy.

Bloodhound leads you through their small cabin, past the living room, and into the small kitchen. They motion for you to take a seat at the wooden table in the center of the room and you marvel at the smells and sights around you. Hanging from strings draped across the walls were various herbs and spices and on the counter in bowls were fresh fruit and vegetables. They must have visited the town if this was their food supply and you feel a twinge of apprehension pluck at your light mood. You brush it off as Bloodhound asks if you would prefer tea or coffee.

“I find myself the one in honor of sharing breakfast with you this morning. Fair varning must be made, however,” Bloodhound extends a steaming cup towards you, “I have been told I am not the most accomplished of hosts.” You smile gratefully and take the cup into your shivering hands. The drink was shockingly and terribly bitter and you barely manage to hold back your gag at the first sip. Bloodhound snickers at your reaction and produces a tub of honey for you to add to your drink. “And that my tastes are mostly unagreeable.”

“Oh please,” You wheeze weakly after drowning your taste buds in the soothing honey, “This is nothing. Besides, I assume that, with your choice of isolation, you don’t particularly want to be anyone's host.” Bloodhound hums at your comment, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with it. They pull up to the opposite chair and take a seat and you notice how their drink has a straw in it.

“I am not entirely opposed to indulging certain people. And even fewer dare to give my delights a try. Therefore I rather keep them to myself. I do, however, give special heed to those vho show interest in my stories.” This draws a smirk from your lips as you bring the hot liquid up to your mouth for another sip. Content silence passes through the room and you focus intently on the warmth now spreading through your hands and to the rest of your body. “I did not think that anyone vould be out on such a morning like this.” Bloodhound admits, causing you to slowly look at them and lower your cup.

“Most are too old or too busy to take time out of their day to notice these things, or to even care. And I do not do well in the cold. Today was a special exception.” At the mention of the temperature outside you quickly raise your cup to your mouth and down another gulp. When you open your eyes again, you finally notice the bird in the room who had before blended so seamlessly in with the other oddities of the kitchen. Sat on a perch made of carved wood to the left of Bloodhound was their signature raven. It tilts its head at your attention, letting out a meek calling before eyeing you up and down. Bloodhound must really like their raven friend if they were kind enough to invite them inside. The sight alone was enough to bring a bemused grin to your chapped lips and Bloodhound watched it all happen in mild fascination.

“Do you often listen to birds?” They ask, breaking you out of an almost trance and extending to their raven a piece of freshly sliced apple.

“It is not so strange.” You breathe a laugh, “It was what led me to finding you in the rain that first evening.” Bloodhound turns their disk-like lenses towards your face and wordlessly implores you to continue. Despite the warmth now residing in your bones, you still shiver under their daunting gaze. “Your friend I mean,” You motion to the raven who has also turned to look at you with its beady, brown eyes as if aware that it was the topic of conversation, “Its cries were all I could hear. Which is saying something, considering it was storming pretty hard.”

“I do not think it skrýtinn.” Bloodhound replies without missing a beat, their voice mellow and their words an alluring symphony of strange syllables, a true joy to listen to. “Just an uncommon trait in most people. And his name is Artur.” You pass the bird a look and slightly tip your head in acknowledgment of his name. He squawks and fluffs his chest feathers, clearly enjoying being the center of attention. Bloodhound smiles at the bird. “Ravens are the messengers of the Allfather. They guide and aid me on my hunts. I do not think it skrýtinn to listen to them. Only that someone else does also.”

“You give me too much credit.” You bashfully avert your gaze, dropping your eye level to the rim of your mug no longer steaming. “It has only been a few, very odd occasions. Mere coincidences if nothing else.” Bloodhound shrugs off your deflection, unpersuaded by your argument.

“Even so.” The room falls into a content stillness after their last comment and you are left wondering how you had even ended up here. On T.V, Bloodhound was a truly mysterious character, never talking or partaking in the more rowdy activities as the others did. Sure, you were not an avid watcher, but from what little time you had spent gazing at the screen, you had made Bloodhound out to be a vastly stoic, isolated person. And by all means, they had mostly proven themselves to be exactly that person, what with their initial reluctance to meet your extended friendliness and the way they had so precariously placed themselves on this mountain all alone. However, sitting now with them in their own house, you did not feel intruding or unwelcome. And the way they spoke to you, the ease of words and conversation, came as soft and comfortable as if from someone you had known before. From them, you could feel nothing but gentle amity.

“Do you hunt?” Bloodhound’s voice wafts through the air and to your ears, bringing your head up in a hum. You snicker, a twinge of embarrassment pulling at your chest.

“Not if I can help it. Though Andante did try, I simply cannot,” you inhale deeply through your nose, suddenly aware of the gaze trained attentively on you, “Find the strength to actually kill anything. Much to the dismay of my patrons.” This peaks Bloodhounds attention and they motion for you to explain yourself.

“Every year around the beginning of Summer, before the birth of the first lambs, the town gathers for a sort of Summer festival. With my bar being the sole provider of food and alcohol for such an event, it normally fell upon Andante to supply the people with a freshly killed elk. A make-shift banquet we would all share. Everyone has so much fun.” Your head drops and your shoulders give inwards.

“But with him gone, I doubt I would be able to give the people what they want. Last year I barely managed to scrape by, I had to do a lot of ass-kissing to get the more hardened townsfolk back on my side. But this year,” Your story fades and you sigh miserably, the relief of finally expressing this concern aloud only seeming to momentarily dull the growing sense of shame.

“It is stupid, I know.” You run a hand through your hair, the bubbling self-hatred in your stomach threatening to go overboard. You were oversharing again. A lot. But you could not find a way to stop. “But, what right do I have to take the life of an animal when I already have frozen meat stored in my fridge?” Strength wanes from your knees and you are glad to be sitting down - oh, you were definitely going to kick yourself over this one later. Perhaps staying at home all alone would have been the better option after all.

In the silence that followed your last words, you felt incredible judgment bare down upon your shoulders and you wanted nothing more than to shrink away from it. Under the menace that was your own self-scrutiny, you were unable to recognize that Bloodhound was not, in fact, judging you. From behind their goggles, they watched you closely, noticing the subtle shudder of your shoulders, the downward twinge of your head, and the way your eyes seem to have lost that burning. This was something that troubled you deeply and for a terribly long time as well. So instead of what might be predicted of them to feel or do, mainly berate you for your lack of spine in the face of their profession, Bloodhound only leaned back in their chair and their mind wondering on how best to help you.

“It is not about vhat is right or vhat is not.” Bloodhound finally speaks, their tone mellow and coaxing you to look up at them again. At your acknowledgment, they continue with their explanation. “The hunt is a matter of vill - the vill of the hunter and of their prey. If your vill as a hunter surpasses that of the prey's vill to live, then you have every right to take it.” They ball their hand into a fist in an expression of power, shaking it slightly for emphasis. “You as a hunter must have an unwavering ákveðni, and strong belief in your skills. Trust your veapons and abilities, know that you are verðugt of the hunt.” Their voice lowers and they watch you for any signs of apprehension or disagreement. You only manage to look at them, eyes an unreadable ocean of something at war. They bring their fist to their chest and hammer it hard on the fabric, an attempt to ignite passion from you.

“If the hunter is humble and honors the hunt, then they have every right to taka their prey. Reap their rewards. You must just believe yourself vorthy of it. I have already seen that you have the ability and skill. Your bow, through troubled, aimed sure. And your knife brought a swift death. Now…”

“Just need to practice it.” You finish their statement, your gaze drifting a thousand miles away. Sure their wisdom was easy to take, generous even given the circumstances, but your mind was too frazzled to digest even a single word. Worthy? Not someone who hides in the forest and plays pretend bar-keeper. Bloodhound could see how you hesitated at their words, not necessarily rejecting it but not truly considering them either. They felt the urge to lean in more, to keep talking and chipping away at your pseudo mask until finally, they struck home. What were you thinking right now? Why were you so disgruntled at the thought of being worth something?

“You listen but my vords are not heard. You disagree vith vhat I say?” Bloodhound asks, their arms folding over their torso as they sit themselves upright, alert to your every movement and utterance. At their question you stir, a tired laugh that sounds more like a sigh escaping your nose and your eyes dropping their gaze.

“No, not at all. I am just… surprised.” Your response is framed with quiet complacency, your expression shifting to one of meek placidness. Bloodhound could tell that you were retreating back inside yourself, falling behind curtains of a trained profession such as the first night they met you. No longer were you that desperate person standing in the woods over a kill they mourned, instead you were a fake silhouette of someone who once was. They frown, unsure why they felt so unhappy to watch you shrink away again. Without speaking, Bloodhound asks you to elaborate.

“Forgive my rudeness but,” Your eyes snap up again and Bloodhound sees nothing in them. “I don’t really know you. And what little I do know, well, is that you are a most proficient hunter of both man and beast.” A hand lifts to your chest and you laugh. “You have seen it all and must think I am most annoying. Yet,” You pause, Bloodhound hanging off every one of your words, “You are so kind to my troubles.”

“I do not hunt in the Apex Games to prove anything. I do it for my folk and for the Allfather. I am no better than any other hunter.” Bloodhound speaks plainly, their heart thumping in their chest and their stare never once leaving your face. You smile unknowingly under their attention and they stare at your weak imitation of the real thing. Your true smile was the one they saw whilst sitting on the grass with you or when they told you stories in the car. Right now, you were faking it. Pulling away from them. Returning once more to your charade of sensibility. Whatever genuineness they had somehow managed to draw out of you was waning and they could do nothing but look on as you slipped away from them.

“I didn't mean to offend.” You ease them, your words lacing themselves with accommodation. “Your people must be very proud of all your titles however. No denying that it is impressive regardless of your motive.” You chuckle lightly. Suddenly you frown and you tilt your head at them. “May I ask,” When they did not oppose, you continued, “Why are you here? On this planet I mean. Why are you not with your people?” Bloodhound looks on like a marble statue, hardly even breathing beneath all their armor. You worry you might have overstepped your boundary and you open your mouth to apologize but they quickly cut you off.

“My folk vould not understand my decisions. Nor vould they approve of most that I do.” You can tell that the conversation was over and the warmth your bitter, hot drink had offered you only minutes earlier faded with the atmosphere. You nod in resignation.

“Then,” You say, standing and bowing your head in anticipated gratitude, the raven stranger’s attentive gaze not once shifting off your form, “I look forward to the Winter when I do not hear your Artur's call.”

“Oh my sweet, gentle Bar-keep, I am in need of your assistance!” Your eyes snap upwards from their work of stacking away cleaned glasses and you cannot help but grin at the one calling you. Seated at a table in the middle of your bar was a very drunk Thomas waving you over in exaggerated and hurried movements. He rocked backward in his seat and nearly looked as if he would fall over. You sigh and think it better to listen to him, lest your bar never know quiet again for the remainder of the evening. You step out from behind your bar table and carefully stroll over to him, a playfully condescending expression plastered to your face. Thomas beams a lop-sided smile and extends his hand, which you ignore and instead pat him lightly on his shoulder. He hums and overlaps your hand with his own seemingly unperturbed by your refusal.

“Ah my dear,” Thomas hiccups, swaying slightly in place despite being perfectly still, “Do not worry. I have not called you here to cause trouble. I just could not bear to see you stand behind your bar so lonely. I simply had to call you here. So troubled and worried over something.” Thomas squeezes your hand lightly and you roll your eyes at his obnoxious and misplaced concern.

“Though his words are slurred, they come from a genuine place.” From across the table, the farmer Mallory spoke. She offers you a sympathetic smile and silently apologies for her friend’s unruly behavior. Her heavy arms fold defensively over her large chest and she scowls at Thomas who sheepishly chuckles under her glare, retracting his hand and shrinking away slightly. Mallory sighs and looks to you again, the same concern that claimed her companion now sprinkled into her brown eyes. “You look a thousand years away tonight. What has upset you so?”

The two patrons turn their attention onto you and you gently shrug off their worries with a mild hand wave and flash of your smile. “You are looking for smoke signals when there is none, Mallory. And Mr. Thomas, you are concerned over the wrong things. You should be more concerned about returning to your own home before it gets too dark and I have to phone Rohan to come fetch you again.” Though the woman remains unmoved by your deflection, Thomas scoffs and shakes his head.

“Rohan’s bed will stay warm regardless of where I am. And he would excuse whatever lateness I cause if he had also seen how,” he stutters, his fingers flexing as he tried feebly to grasp at words that would not come, “ sad you look tonight.” You let out a tired laugh at the drunk fisherman’s antics and punch lightly at his shoulder.

“I assure you, my ‘sad looks’ are merely just that. Looks.” You gesture to the various empty beer glasses scattered around the table and after a nod from Mallory, you begin to place them on a tray to take back to the kitchen to be washed. “How ever could I be sad when I have your fine company to make my evenings so noisy?” This draws a cackle from the bitter woman, who relishes in your pecking at the man. Thomas gasps and feigns hurt under your judgments, a teasing hand placing pitifully over his broken heart.

It was all a lie, of course. There was some deep sincerity to your sadness that evening and it was not over Thomas’ painful crooning. Try as you might, your mind could not rid itself from the events that had occurred only the day before. What had happened with Bloodhound plagued your every waking moment. During the more lively hours of the day, when your bar was packed with singing, intoxicated patrons, you thankfully had a very loud and engrossing distraction. But now, as the evening winded down and the last table still waited to be cleared, your mind was awash with bitter thoughts.

It was all going so well, they had been so welcoming and friendly and you sat in their home confident and assured. They had shared in you their many stories and experiences, pulling you deeper into a conversation than you had ever been with them. And yet the moment you opened your mouth, allowed it to run unchecked and unguarded, the walls came down and the party ended. You were a fool, you kicked yourself. A damn, stupid fool for allowing yourself to speak so freely. To express to them a most sensitive part of yourself that not even your bathroom mirror had known. It was because of your inability to keep yourself in line that caused the rift to tear and now separate you from the person of your interest. Bloodhound told you such wonderful stories and now you were sure they would never want to speak to you again.

But you put on your brave face and pretend as if nothing is wrong. And that is true, of course. Nothing is wrong. Your life was fine before their intrusion and it shall be fine thereafter. The show must and will go on. Eventually, forced routine will become natural again and you will slip back into ease and complicit quietness. You will learn to move on and most certainly, so will they. If ever, you doubted greatly, you even left that much of an impact on them and all their glory.

“It is because you are so lonely, that's why you are so sad.” Thomas chimes, drawing both yours and Mallory’s attention back on him. He hums with content and leans back in his chair, sure that if he had a beard he would be stroking it thoughtfully. “We must find you someone to work with. Someone you can boss around and pull on their ear.” He winks at you and you smirk back, playing into his needful childishness.

“This is not the dark ages, Mr. Thomas.” You tease, taking your loaded tray to the bar counter and speaking over your shoulder. “We do not arrange marriages anymore.” The fisherman jeers and Mallory kicks him under the table. You return to them quickly, bringing with you a wet cloth and a glass of water requested by the woman. She presses it to Thomas’ face and commands him to sober up.

“Then how else are we supposed to get you hitched?” Thomas continues, paying no heed to the violent death stares of the woman sat across from him. Mallory kicks him again and he nearly spills his drink from the movement. You grin at the two of them, stepping back from the freshly wiped table with your arms folded over your chest.

“People don't need to be with others to be happy. I am perfectly content with myself as company.” You announce with your nose pointed in the air. “And you, as occasional annoyances.” The man chokes on his drink and Mallory snorts at your comment. You decide to continue playing along, matching their extended friendliness with your own enthusiasm.

“Y’know, I always thought it a vile rumor that fishermen were mad people.” You joke, taking the cloth and wringing it out before throwing it over your shoulder. “Nothing to do all day but sit in boats and think. But with every word you speak, my dear Thomas, I begin to believe that the rumor has some truth behind it." This arouses a snicker from the woman farmer and she shakes her head in amusement over you and disappointment for her friend. Thomas whines a noise that does not sound like any language you would know and Mallory leans forward.

"Finish your drink, my friend. I will see you home tonight." She urges the glass of water to his attention. "I cannot bear to watch you be torn apart any longer." Thomas darts his eyes between Mallory and you, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly like a fish out of water. You smugly smile at him, charming with all the beauty and grace of a snake. After a moment he relents, slumping down into his seat with a defeated huff, the water glass in hand.

“I swear, that mouth of yours,” Thomas moans into his glass weakly as if greatly wounded on a battlefield, “It is more vicious than any beast I’ve come across. Godspeed to anyone who dares to try to face such a monster.” At his last comment, you exhale loudly through your nose and shake your head dismissively. With one final look from Mallory, you leave the two late-evening patrons to finish their drinks and return to your work behind the bar.

The mood in the bar is somewhat lighter now and your hands worked at an easier pace with your mind quietly wondering over Thomas’ words. This was not the first time you had been scolded over your sharp words and you were sure it would not be your last. Conversation was your master and you were always one quick with your words, whether that be for the better or worse. Over the sound of you wiping down plates and glasses with a cloth, you could hear Thomas and Mallory talking faintly, the wind whispering outside your walls, and the gentle nothing of the world beyond. It was a peaceful evening, much more so now that you had dealt with your rowdy patron and the thoughts that curled like rats in a drowning cage. Though his comments were unnecessary, you thank Thomas for his distraction and for his unwitting lifting of your spirits. At least now you would be able to sleep soundly and with less of a worried mind.

Suddenly, a knock at the front door. Curious, unsure if it had even happened, you cast your attention over to it. It was far too late for anyone wanting to pop in for a drink and even if it was you were sure to turn them away. But still; there was no denying that you had, in fact, heard something. Or someone. Wordlessly, you slip out from your bar and quickly stroll to the door, pulling it swiftly open to reveal a cold night and a strange visitor.

“Oh,” You mumble, blinking numbly like a star-struck owl. You shake your head and revive your best smile to be planted on your lips. “What a lovely surprise.”

Standing before you, Bloodhound tipped their helmet, specks of accumulated snow falling off in the process. “Good evening,” They respond formally.

“And to you.” You nod back, familiar shivers running up and down your spine as you stood under their gaze. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You swoon, curling your words with over-exaggerated sweetness so as to hopefully hide your utter shock at their being here. They always seem to have a knack for popping back into your life when you least expected it. But now of all time, why?! You could hardly even look at them straight after what had happened not even the day before! Fresh embarrassment boiled in our stomach and you wanted nothing more but to go back into your quiet existence. This had to be some cruel dream from a most hateful deity, cursing you out for some horrible act you had unwittingly done. Why could they not just go back to being a figure on the T.V, an unknown? Why did they have to be here, standing before you, talking to you?!

“I vish to speak with you.” Bloodhound says, voice terribly low and near-emotionless. It caught you off guard slightly at how plain and devoid of anything they sounded, nothing at all like the passionate hunter you sat and drank with yesterday.

“My bar will be closed soon.” You explain after a moment of debating on what to say. A strong part of you begged for an excuse to say no, the refusal even gracing the tip of your tongue in eager desperation. But your hospitality overrode your anxiety and you stepped to the side to allow entry into your bar. “If you do not mind waiting a few minutes then you will have my undivided attention.”

Bloodhound considers your words, eyes darting between your face and the warm interior of the business. They too notice how your own words seem guarded this evening, jaded behind bars of entertainment and false care. You smiled, yes, but it was not genuine. Again, you reeked of fakeness and it irked them for some unknown reason. They hum their agreement and stride quickly inside. Upon their entrance, two faces turn to look at them.

You shuffle between Bloodhound and the skeptical table, closing the door and guiding your new patron over to the bar. They follow closely behind you and seat themselves on a red cushion stool. You resume your position as host and perform your duties accordingly, offering them something to drink while they wait. Bloodhound silently refused, only lifting their hand and shaking their head.

“I don’t think I mentioned it before,” You say, works trickling out like a spring in a dessert, soothing all worries with a trained presentation. “A while ago we had a fellow pass through our humble town who had a similar accent to yours. He was a swindler and tried to persuade me to purchase from him strange pickled meats and other strange things.” While you spoke, you resumed your wiping of the glasses and plates, talking over your shoulder as you worked in a most casual manner.

“Though everyone tried to steady my hand, he just was so compelling and I caved. And now I have, stored in the back for the foreseeable future, a bottle of the most potent alcohol anyone has ever seen.” Your face softens into a smile as you recall the memories of that night when a brave soul tried to drink from that poison. “Someone once tried and no one has since. Perhaps it is a drink you know?” You cock your question at Bloodhound, leaning over the bar table and grinning.

“Your intuition values you, but perhaps another night I can provide you an answer.” You take Bloodhound dismissal with grace and nod your head in swift acknowledgment. They were cold tonight, the very definition of stoic. Whatever they wanted to discuss with you, you could only hope would somehow be more lighthearted than this. From behind the hunter, movement erupts as the two patrons stand up.

“We are off, my dear Bar-Keep.” Thomas sings, waving a hand at you in an irritating manner. Mallory follows close as they make their way to the front door, her eyes practically burning holes into the raven stranger’s dead-straight back. She passes you a flash of a concerned look and you calm her down with a cool smile.

“Have a good night and a safe journey home.” You call after them, mildly glad that now your ears would know rest from the fisherman’s chanting. However, as his hands grace the front door’s handle, Thomas quickly spins on his heels and points towards you and your new arrival.

“Don’t you dare try anything with my Bar-keep!” Thomas threatens, standing with his hackles raised like a chihuahua to a bear, “If I hear that you have touched even a single hair, so help me I’ll-”

“Thomas.” Mallory punches the man's shoulder causing him to drop his ill-backed threat and wince in pain. Without a moment more, the farmer shoves the man out the door and the two disappear into the night with the door closely swiftly behind. You stare after them, the atmosphere suddenly seeming to shrink and grow cold as you become painfully aware of your aloneness with the hunter.

“They seem nice.” Bloodhound remarks and you are so stunned by their nonchalant attitude you nearly snort.

“It is a small town. Everyone here is like family.” You explain, turning to face those unreadable, immovable lenses. “Besides, I serve him beer. I get special privileges.” At this Bloodhound seems to stir and you feel slightly more room to breathe. Relax, it was just conversation. Don’t get carried away again and you will be fine.

The conversation halted, however, neither you nor Bloodhound knowing what next to say to break the forming ice that had started growing between you two. Though you wanted to know what exactly had compelled them to travel all the way to visit you on such an odd evening, you could tell that they were not ready to answer so instead you plucked random topics from the top of your head.

“Winter is moving slowly this year,” You begin, regaling the exact dialogue you had shared that afternoon prior with a patron and reusing it word for word, “No big snow storms as of yet. But that just means that towards the end of the season, Mother Nature will rear her true head and drive us all inside our houses.” You sigh and rest your elbow on the tables’ surface, your busy work of drying cutlery all finished and packed away. “Many people tell me, warn me in fact, that the late-season storms are the worst kinds. Impossible snow and hail and everything else to make the shit pie complete. And I thought the cold now is hard to handle. I have no idea how I’ll-”

“Stop that.” Bloodhound interrupts you harshly, their voice an almost growl as they sit behind their undecipherable armor. You are slightly taken aback by their outright force at the command, flashbacks to the first time you met them in all their rage reappearing in your mind. Bloodhound remains still, fists clenched over the table, shaking beneath the heavy red fabric gloves.

Though you cannot see, they squeeze their eyes shut in an effort to understand why, so suddenly, they were getting so worked up. Why were you just talking to them? So nonchalant and practiced - it felt as if talking to them was a chore. Some kind of business transaction or task that was only being done as a means to an end. But that is not what muddled Bloodhound’s mind, not your lack of genuine interaction, your quiet was not what drove them out of their house and to your bar this evening. What made them toil in confused agony, was why they even cared so much for your genuine company?

“What?” You murmur after a minute of stale silence, the wind picking up the rising atmosphere inside the bar and clawing at the windows to join in. The raven stranger does not respond right away, instead they fight with what words would be best used in this kind of delicate situation.

“Stop that.” They repeat their vague statement sternly, staring at you through their goggles with great intent, noticing any slight change in your features or body language. “Stop trying to sell me your company. I do not vant it.” At this you frown and straighten your back, confused beyond anything at what they could mean. You open your mouth to speak but Bloodhound stops you with a raised hand.

“You talk but there is no life. You smile but there is no light behind it. Do you think I am not worthy of your trueness? I have seen your true self but always you hide it. Do you think you are not worthy of enjoying yourself?” Utterly and so completely shocked at what was being said, you stood wordless with your face a mix between anger and bewilderment. Bloodhound watched you, eyes scanning up and down your form for any signs of egregious discontent. Why weren’t you speaking? Why weren’t you reacting in any way? Had their visit and accusations not even struck a nerve with you? You only stood there, placid and unwavering, like ice waiting for the sun to melt it.

“I have talked vith this free person, sat in silence vith them and felt þægilegt , calm. And I came here this evening because…” Bloodhound falters at this, unsure at what best to say when describing the reason they themselves still had no answer to. Why had they come here to bother you? Why had you not left their thoughts since yesterday, or even, since that afternoon on the grass? Why is it that when the world goes quiet and they stand still to listen, it is you who looms in the corner of their vision, beckoning for them to find you? In such a short time of meeting, somehow you had trapped them in some unforeseen and unbreakable cage - an ever-present urge to lean in more, to seek you out. But why, exactly, it was you of all people who had proclaimed that spot of interest, was a mystery that the Allfather cruelly hid from them.

“Vhat is it you vant from me?” Bloodhound lowly asks, their tone hollow and their demeanor stone-cold. Perhaps that was the reason for their spontaneous visit - to search for an answer themselves. To find out if maybe you felt at all the same way they did.

“Nothing.” The words leak from your lips like a whisper yet hold the strength and bite of a scream. Devoid of all anger, hostility, confusion, and regret, you gaze back at the raven stranger, “What ever could I possibly want from you?” And there it was - their answer.

“Now if that is all you came to ask me, then I must now say good night.” You motion with your attention towards the door, still shell-shocked over what had just transpired. Why are they so angry towards you? So taken aback by, what you were sure to be, great and comforting hospitality? This was the reason you had so ardently avoided opening yourself up to people, allowing yourself to talk unchecked often leads to situations where people get angry. And now Bloodhound was angry and you were sure you could never fix it.

The raven stranger slowly rises from their seat, tipping their helmet in a stiff manner before silently making their way over to the front door. This is how it will be, forever. You made a mistake, let your mouth have free rein over your conversations, and brought ruin to a person that made your chest ache. And as you watched them slip away into the snowy night, the only thing you can say was, “Have a safe journey home.”

#man i am aso tired #but i must post #for the horn kneeee #if you are reading my tags friends #thank you #i love you uwu #and i cannot thank you enough for taking time out of your day to read this hot garbage i post #apex legends bloodhound #bloodhound x reader #apex legends fic #apex legends x reader #bloth hondr

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kingofthewilderwest · 3 years

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I can't get the thought of Hiccup is definitely wearing his mother's old clothes (it's too similar-) because they were the only ones that doesn't sweep the floor, and Stoick is like those types of parents that reuse stuff to not waste any money. Or maybe Hiccup really like women's fashion of his era just like the personal ring choice he has, unlike the rest of the boys in the gang

Please feel free to follow your headcanons and heart. As for myself, I suppose I don’t see Hiccup as wearing women’s fashion or borrowing from his mother’s old wardrobe.

Maybe I’m misreading you or missing something. That’s possible... I’m a little sleep-groggy rn. XD I admit I’m not sure where you’re saying Hiccup’s and Valka’s clothes are too similar, because if you’re referring to flashback!Valka in HTTYD 2, she was taken away in those clothes, and people don’t tend to wear multiple copies of one outfit that’s similar or all the same color and cut. The clothes she left behind aren’t necessarily going to be similar enough to account for Hiccup’s appearance. Many characters can wear green, most people on Berk have similar style, and while you could refit adult!Valka’s left-behind-clothes for Hiccup or find her old childhood clothes, I don’t get the sense that Hiccup’s wardrobe is that well-used. If anything, Hiccup’s clothing even in the first movie seems fit for him and less worn than other people’s around him.

Some people have pointed out that Hiccup’s stylistic choice is weird: this wonderful post by someone who knows her stuff more than me here talks about how in HTTYD 1 Hiccup’s fur is pricey, the green dye is cheap, and his clothing has few tears or restitching, indicating it’s new and made for him. That makes sense on account of him being the son of the chief, with the most resources and wealth available of anybody on Berk. Others have reached a similar conclusion about Hiccup’s clothing being better and newer than his friends’. I made my own post about clothing indicating wealth.

As far as the vambraces Hiccup wears, it’s true I analyzed how they compared to what women wore, but I realize now my thoughts could be misread: my intended conclusion is that what he wears is stylistically different and adopted for functional rather than fashion purposes. That part of the vambrace he wears is not like what either Hairy Hooligan men or women wear. It’s his own thing and not an adoption of women’s fashion. That said, I’d be chill with someone wanting to say he got some inspiration from women’s style, given as it is sort of a weird in-between visually. So you interpret it as you like it!

To bring up though: Since that post, I realize I hadn’t been complete in my descriptions anyway... there’s instances of women wearing various forearm wraps without threading it between their fingers, too:

And then, since that post was created, there’s newer things to look at from THW, where Ruffnut’s wearing something quite similar to before, but Astrid’s forearm clothing is a new variation. Still doing that finger thing though.

So yeah, I guess. XD My analysis should be taken as “trying to fill in the gaps for fun,” but that can lend itself to recreational overthinking or noticing patterns the creators didn’t intend. It’s fun to interpret while knowing it’s my ideas and not necessarily that deep. Still, I do think that the specific type of arm wraps with the fingers threaded are intended to be a feminine style as designed by the DreamWorks peeps, and that Hiccup’s vambraces are different than those and fall into their own separate thing.

If anything, I’d say the character whose fashion follows Berk gender expectations the least is Ruffnut, but even then, I would say that only very tentatively; she doesn’t shirk them completely by any means. I’d want to go through screencaps showing similar styles to other characters like ROB Heather, Gothi, and background characters to show Ruff’s still not divergent either... just sliiiiiiiiightly more gender-neutral than someone like Astrid with her spiked skirts. Pffft, all the more reason she and Tuff get confused, right? ;)

#analysis #my analysis #httyd #How to Train Your Dragon #DreamWorks Dragons #rtte #Race to the Edge #ask #ask me #awesome anonymous friend #anonymous #Hiccup #Haddock family #Valka #Anonymous

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spoopyredacted · 4 years

Text

unheavenly creatures

chapter one

clan leader mand’alor!din x shayr’la (ofc) 2.8k!

masterlist / moodboard / pinboard

chapter two

description: Mand’alor Vizsla is the current leader of his planet. Shayr’la’s home plant has been under attack for several years from pirates and such of the like. Her leaders, a group calling themselves Elders, have come up with a pact with the mandalorians to give Shayr’la in marriage, to the Mand’alor, in exchange for a life long protection. The mandalorian lineage is in need of heirs and her planet is in need of protection, what better kind of pact could there be? But the Mand’alor is not what she expected. The entire situation is not what she expected.

a/n: Vizsla is the overarching clan name, underneath there are the different family names but they are mainly kept a secret to outsiders. this was inspired by the art located here. i wanna thank tiffany for being amazing and reading over this for me. i love her and if you aren’t reading the light of stars you need to like rn.

The soft tap of Shayr’la’s shoes echo and bounce along the walls, getting lost on the way up to the vast ceiling above. Painted across them she catches snippets of a story, a story that she is very familiar with. That everyone is familiar with.

Of how Mand’alor Vizsla claimed his throne. How he stormed this very palace with his Mandalorian army, taking it back from the grips of the Empire. He slaughtered the troopers who fought against him, placing their helmets on spikes and scattered them throughout his land as a warning to others who dared attack. The strength and ruthlessness of that besiege told the rest of the galaxy that Vizsla was not someone to provoke into battle.

Panic begins to set in the closer they draw to the throne room doors. Slowing her pace, an icy chill goes through her veins and takes a strong grip on her lungs; her breath faltering. Shayr’la was here for a reason— a purpose— to help.

But to help whom?

That answer is slowly fading from her mind the closer she gets to the doors. She doesn’t want to do this. You have no choice. She doesn’t want to marry him. This isn’t your decision. She doesn’t want to be left alone with this man, with this warrior, for the rest of her life.

What if he is cruel?

It’s not your decision.

What if he is selfish?

Not your choice.

What if he hates her? What if he ignores her?

No. Choice.

Shayr’la doesn’t realize she’s stopped walking until there is a thud directly behind her. It’s the guard escort halting in place. She turns to look at them wide-eyed and scared, willing them to show her any empathy, any emotion, any help.

Anything.

They don’t.

They just stand at attention, helmet pointed straight ahead, clad in armor, spear held tight in gloved hands— cold— distant— unfeeling.

She doesn’t know how she’s going to make it here.

Further ahead the Elder still hasn’t taken notice that Shayr’la is no longer following behind them. They never notice, they never care. To them she is just a bargaining tool. Just another means to an end. Another way to get what they want. She watches as they make it to the throne room doors and turn to speak, finally realizing her absence.

“What are you doing?” The Elder gives a harsh whisper, “Get over here.”

Taking a deep breath she steadies herself.

This is happening.

This is happening no matter what.

Shayr’la straightens her posture and rights her mind, she knows the only way she will make it through this is by remembering what she was told. Do not speak unless spoken to, do not question the Mand’alor, and most importantly, do not look upon the Mandalorian warriors without their helmets.

Finally, she moves, the guard in step behind her, guiding her towards the inevitable, and the unstoppable, the harsh reality of her future.

Towards her ending.

Towards her beginning.

———

The first thing her eyes are drawn to is the many white trooper helmets that litter the ground around the throne chair itself. There are helmets lining the steps up, and around the back of the chair and there are some on spikes around the throne and some cascading down from the ceiling. A rush of fear sweeps through her body as she takes in her surroundings. Is everywhere here this intimidating? If this place is to be her home, she is going to have to get used to it quickly, if she wants to survive— let alone be happy.

Caught up in her own thoughts, Shayr’la doesn’t hear the Elder as they greet the man residing on the throne chair, nor how they continue praising him— on his generosity of protection and allowing this trade to happen, of his superiority in everything compared to her people, and of his blood-thirstiness in battle that leaves his enemies dead— or worse.

“Mand’alor Vizsla, I must say we are eternally grateful that you have accepted this offer; We know she will not disappoint. We can assure you that she will make you very happy and bring you many, many children.” As the Elder speaks they grab her arm tightly turning and bringing her attention towards the front, Shayr’la lets out a small squeak of surprise at the harsh and unexpected movement.

Finally looking up at the man she is being traded off to, she can feel her heartbeat stop in her chest. Her gaze travels all over him, taking him in, his arms and legs are splayed out on this throne and she can’t help but be captivated by his presence— his strong sense of power and confidence that practically rolls off of him— she’s drawn to it, in ways she’d rather not admit too.

He’s dressed for a fight— or maybe that’s how they always dress here, she isn’t sure. Coming out of the sides of his helmet are the tusks of a mythosaur and on his back is a great fur cape, making him look like some kind of ferocious beast ready to devour her whole. He’s holding a weapon—a spear, in his right hand, and at the noise she makes, his grip tightens ever so slightly around it.

“You see,” The Elder took a step forward placing Shayr’la in front of them. The feeling of being exposed and watched is ever more present, not only from the man sitting in front of her but from the warriors surrounding them in the hall as well. Even though she could not see his face, she could feel his hard gaze as it drifts up and down her body, taking in the way her dress clings to her, he leaves a fiery trail with his gaze one that he could follow later, if she allowed. “Her hips—”

“Uur.”

Stopping the Elder before they could say something truly embarrassing, the Mand’alor stands and makes his way towards her, his helmet never leaving her person. Shayr’la was mesmerized by him, by his movement, by his confidence. He wasn’t much taller than she was but the way he held himself and he walked with purpose and power, made him seem like a giant. And that power only came from leading— From leading and fighting and taking what he needed and what he wanted, and no one surviving the wrath he brought with him.

He approaches her, taking a slow turn around her, taking in the way her white dress clings to the curves of her body, only to be slightly covered by the shawl she’s wearing on top, it was as if a hunter was stalking his prey, slow and meticulous, he was studying her— judging her— exposing her. Whether he was pleased or not they could not tell.

As he came back around, stopping in front of her, Shayr’la could see several necklaces lay across his armored chest. One held a pendent of a Mythosaur, another looked to have several teeth hanging from it, and the last one was simply a few beads knotted in sections but at the base of it was a large green bead.

“Ba’slanar.” Despite the modulation from the helmet, his voice is rich and deep. He sounds nothing like she expected, but then again she didn’t know what to expect from him.

The Elder continues to stand behind her, unsure of what was said or what to do.

“Ba’slanar.” He growled out, hand tightening on the spear.

The guard, who escorted the two of them to the room, stepped forward, grabbed ahold of the Elder's arm, and led them back out to the hallway. She could make out the beginning of a question from the Elder as they left, “Is he satisfied? He will still uphold—” From there Shayr’la doesn’t know where they’ve gone too, she just hopes she never has to see the Elder again. Or at least not for a very long time.

The sound of the door closing startles her out of her study of the Mand’alor. Flustered at being caught staring, she closes her eyes and tries to steady herself for when, if, she is addressed.

With her eyes closed she doesn’t see how the Mand’alor takes a step closer, still not touching her but she could feel his body heat radiating off of him. She doesn’t see how his hand comes up to almost touch— almost trace up the slope of her throat leading into the curve of her jaw. And she especially doesn't see how he takes in as much detail as he can. He’s drinking her in— like a man dying of thirst in the sands and she is his only oasis.

The soft feel of his leather gloves traces over her cheek down to her chin, where he tilts her head up to face him. The gentleness of it causes Shayr’la to stutter in her breath, and yet she still can’t bring herself to open her eyes. She feels unable to face the man behind the helmet.

Unable to face her future.

“Haa’tavlir sha ni.” She doesn’t know what he’s asking. But even so it’s not that hard to infer what he is saying, and she knows. Taking a deep breath, she finally glances up at the man who is to be her future husband. Who is to be her leader and her savior, regardless if she wanted him to be or not.

“I… I don’t understand. I’m— I’m sorry.” Stumbling over her words she sees his head tilt to the side, studying her. His grip is still steadily holding her chin.

“This is your home now Ka’ra,” Ka’ra? What—what is that? Me? “Do not wander for you are safe here. But, do not get in the way.” With his statement, he lets go of her chin, gives her a small tilt of his helmet to which she assumes is a nod, and he walks out of the room.

———

Shayr’la has been with the clan for at least two months and she can count on one hand how many times she’s actually spoken with Mand’alor Vizsla. It wasn’t that the two of them hadn't seen each other, hadn’t been in the same room, hadn’t run into each other when she would wander around the place. It was more that he never spoke when they did. Ever. Or to hardly anyone. And when he did it was always in short sentences direct and to the point.

The first time he had spoken to her, only a week after the initial arrival, Shayr’la was in the story hall studying the paintings on the walls— papers, and books, and data packs covering the floor around her. She wanted to understand the conquering, and the history of the Mandalorian people, she wanted to write it all down and help pass it along to the next generation. She wanted to know about the people she would eventually help lead.

Maybe one day.

She was so deep into her translations and her work, that when the Mand’alor spoke up from behind her she let out a small yelp in surprise, “Ka’ra,” his voice raspy and harsh coming from behind the helmet, “I have sent a squadron to help protect your planet. They will arrive there shortly and speak with the Elders.”

Shayr’la looked up to him from her spot on the floor, he stood tall over her, hands clasped behind his back, “Thank you,” she replied softly to him. With a quick nod of his helmet, he turned and began to walk away, but as she watched him leave, he only managed to go a few steps before stopping and he quietly asked, “May I sit here with you?”

“Yes.”

———

He hadn’t come back to sit with her in the story hall since that first week and Shayr’la couldn’t tell if she was happy or upset by it. But the more she pondered it the more it kept creeping up into her mind throughout the days, and that alone was making her go mad.

Today she had planned on getting lost in one of the many battles depicted on the walls. The image of the Manda’lor wielding a giant gun, cocked at his hips, both hands gripping it tightly while taking out an entire group of empire troopers on the tops of buildings. She was looking forward to finally getting to record the story down on paper. It is an impressive painting and she's sure it’s an even more impressive story.

Does he not want to get to know me?

Stop thinking about it.

Do I even want to get to know him?

Stop it.

Shayr’la is so lost in her own thoughts of the Mand’alor that she doesn’t realize she’s completely walked past her destination and instead has ended up walking to the entrance to one of the outdoor training yards.

The sounds of clashing and shouts draw her attention to the several mandalorians that are locked in an intense fight in the middle of the yard.

As she moves into the courtyard, a small breeze sweeps through the area, ruffling her curls and the edges of her dress, causing her to clutch tighter to her data pack held close to her chest. She moves against one of the walls lined with various weapons, recognizing some and not others, but she quickly turns her attention back to the four mandalorians sparring.

There is a single mandalorian in the middle of the group, it looks as if they are losing ground and are being pinned down by the others. But with a movement too fast for Shayr’la to see, they swipe the feet out of one mandalorian, putting them flat on their back— dust billowing out from around them. Pushing out against the other two, you realize the mandalorian in the center is Manda’lor Vizsla.

He grips onto one of his still standing opponents, swiping his forearm across their masked face, knocking them back and down a few paces. He turns quickly towards the others still standing, with a punch to the gut they stumble over giving him the opportunity to kick them hard in their sternum, knocking them onto their back, the mandalorian lets out a groan when their helmet bounces against the ground.

Shayr’la has never seen someone move so effencently and with such precision that she finds herself mesmerized by him. Her eyes follow his smooth movements and transitions as he continues fighting.

It’s beautiful and utterly breathtaking to watch him. The Mand’alor looks as if he was born to do this with how he moves through the air.

Born to fight.

Born to conquer.

Born to lead.

Do I want to get to know him?

Y— No.

One of the mandalorians lands a heavy blow with a spear against the back of the Mand’alor and as he topples over face first into the ground Shayr’la lets out a noise of concern. He lets out a faint curse she barely hears, but when he lifts his helmet she can tell they’ve locked eyes from the way he freezes.

They both freeze— is she even allowed to be here?

“Brokar gar,” the mandalorian who had hit him with the spear spoke up, holding the spear at the back of his helmet. Panting from the excursion of the fight and beginning to relax at the thought of being finished and the victor. The other two stepping back afraid of what will happen.

If Shayr’la hadn’t already been staring at the Mand’alor then she would have missed what happened next. He grabs the spear, yanking hard, throwing the mandalorian off balance causing them to fall. With the momentum of the fall, they switch positions, the Mand’alor flips him over onto his back, placing his knee firmly onto his chest and with a spin of the spear he then points it at the fumbling mandalorian beneath him.

“Yield.” He doesn’t even sound out of breath when he speaks.

“Yield.”

The Mand’alor removes his knee and throws the spear to the ground, giving a hand he pulls the mandalorian up to his feet, “Jate,” he nods in dismissal. By the time he looks back over to the wall where she was standing he sees she’s gone. Looking around quickly, still not seeing her, he walks through the archway to see if he can see where she wandered off too.

There. She’s walking back towards the story hall, her shawl billowing out behind her, the colors and patterns mesmerizing as the sun catches it through the passing windows. As if she can feel his watchful stare she comes to a slow stop, half turning around, bright sun falling on her, and he finds himself thinking he likes the way her brown skin seems to glow and appear soft to the touch.

He would like to find out.

Shayr’la feels her face heat up under his intense observation, but before it becomes too unbearable, she sees him give a slight nod and take a few steps back into the courtyard.

But she hasn’t moved yet.

And he knows.

And he hasn’t either.

They don’t know what to make of each other.

Yet.

————

Uur - silence

Ba’slanar - leave

Haa’taylir sha ni - look at me

Ka’ra - stars

Brokar gar - beat you

Jate - good

tags: @wrestlingfae @helplessly-nonstop @spookyold-saintjm @amarvelousmandalorian @opheliaelysia @tiffdawg @tintinwrites @damndamer0n @softpedropascal @himbopoes @and-claudia @californiakoenig @thesefleshfailures @akanthonarose @le-roman-rose @buckstaposition @mandoplease @leo-moon @sarcasmisakindofmagic @grapemama @hdlynn (idk why i couldn’t tag two of yall! i’m sorry!)

#the mandalorian #star wars #the mandalorian x reader #fic #julia tries writing #cl!din #i did it #pls tell me if you like it or not

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