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#just wild horses running through your hollow bones
aandjeo · 1 month
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crack baby is the saddest mitski song
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w3ath3r-0f-sw34t3rz · 2 months
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lyric of the day ˚♫⋆。˚ ⋆
"down empty streets sniffing glue me and you blank open eyes watch the moonflower bloom it's been a long hard twenty-year summer vacation"
crack baby mitski
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archivedispatched · 1 year
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TIMELINE TAG DROP.
I PREFER TO BLAME OTHERS; IT'S EASIER. KING ME. / daredevil season 2 / early punisher era.
IF THE HORROR IS INSIDE YOU HOW DO YOU GET IT OUT? / punisher s1 era.
I CLAWED MY WAY INTO THE LIGHT BUT THE LIGHT IS JUST AS SCARY. / the brief era where frank lives as pete castiglione.
main continuity stuff will remain untagged.
AU TAG DROP.
WITH WILD HORSES RUNNING THROUGH YOUR HOLLOW BONES. / red dead redemption au.
THE WOUND WILL TAKE YOU THERE. / tlou/post-apocalyptic au.
THE DARKNESS IS LEAKING FROM THE CRACKS. / earth-65 inspired au.
I WILL BE YOUR SLAUGHTERHOUSE. / anvil au.
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keeganbrainmush · 1 year
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" Wild horses running through your hollow bones. " ; John Price x Male reader
: ̗̀➛ Price is my little shnukums.
: ̗̀➛" I'm sorry I can't be a better husband. "
: ̗̀➛Fluff, Stressed out Price, They have a cat named Hops. Married Price and Reader, Comfort, Price drabble. Affectionate Price supremacy. (HOW DO I END FICS??)
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John was finishing up a paper when he heard a knock on the door. " John? Can I come in? " He heard, a muffled voice from the other side of the door. " Yeah, Go ahead, baby. " He answered. Putting down his pen and rubbed his eyes, trying to rub away any tiredness for the sake of his husband. You walked in with a cup of tea in your hand with a fluffy black cat following behind you.
" Hi, Gorgeous. " You said softly. His blue eyes looked up at you, his eyebags scrunched up as he smiled. You put a hand on the back of his head comfortingly. " You almost done? " You asked, looked down at the mountain of paperwork he had gotten done already whike placing his tea down. John leaned into your touch and nodded slightly. " Almost. I promise. " He mumbled, looking at the tea you'd placed down. " That for me? " John asked. " Your favorite. " You replied, moving your hand down to his shoulder as he moved to grab the cup.
You sat on the edge of his desk, careful not to mess anything up. You skimmed your eyes through the letters of paperwork, something about stolen military tech being found. Blah blah blah. John took a sip of the tea, his posture instantly seeming more relaxed. He put the tea down and wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head on your lap.
" 'm so tired.. " He mumbled into your thigh, rubbing at your lower back, his eyelids heavy. " I know. but you're almost done. Right after you finish we can go to bed. " You promised, causing him to let out a muffled groan. Despite his complaints, he sat up, looked down at the papers. " I'll be waiting for you in the living room. " You told him, rubbing the back of his head as you picked up the small black cat named ' Hops '. John smiled as you exited the room.
Just afew more papers, then he could go to sleep with you. He shook his head and took another sip of tea. He picked up his pen and got to work. After a solid 45 minutes he put the final piece of paper into the finished pile and stretched.
He picked up the empty cup and walked out the room, waiting for Hops to exit with him. John closed the door behind him and walked down the hall to the kitchen and placed the small cup inside of the skin and walked over to the couch where you were sitting. He laid down next to you to place his head in your lap facing the TV which was playing one of your favorite movies.
You put your hand on his head, combing through his hair. Looking down at your husband affectionately then looking back to the TV. John moved one of his hand above his head to rub at your thigh. " I wish we could have more time like this, Love. 'm sorry. " He spoke suddenly, closing his eyes in your warmth. You looked at him abruptly, your eyes a confused gaze. " What do you mean, John? Sorry for what? " You asked, rubbing a thumb across his temple.
He sat up, looking away. " I'm sorry I can't be a better husband. "
You looked straight at him, trying to process what he had just said, grabbing his chin to make him look straight into your eyes. " Better husband? John you're the most amazing man there is. I wouldn't have married anyone else. " You told him, a more worried look in your eyes now. " You're more than enough for me, I'm the happiest man in the world when I am with you. When I wake up at your side, when I cook us dinner, when I see you playing with Hops. I couldn't have asked for anything better. " You promised.
John looked more reassured now. " I love you so much. " He breathed out, his blue eyes tracing over your facial features. " Wanna go to bed now? " You asked, rubbing at his jawline with his thumbs, feeling the prickles of his beard. " Yeah. " He answered.
You grabbed the TV remote and pushed the power button, making the screen go dark. John got off the couch, walking off to your shared room. You turned off the kitchen and living room lights, picking up Hops and walking into your rooms. John was already changed into his pajamas and laying on his side of the bed. You quickly changed into your own sleeping clothes and laid on the bed.
John leaned over to rest his head on your chest while he caressed your abdomen. You threw your arm over his shoulders and within minutes he was snoring. You were reading a book in the meantime you got sleepy. You put a bookmark on the page you had ended on and put it on your bedside table. Turning off the light was the last thing you remembered before closing your eyes and falling asleep.
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twistedoverbloat · 2 years
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Not but imagine if singer!yuu sang crack baby by mistki kind of talking about her family in their world
Crack baby.
Yuu was in a white dress as she slowly made the way to the stage in the big stadium. Everyone saw how she looked pure almost like an angle. But this song would change that really quick. As she walked she sang.
"Down empty streets sniffing glue, me and you. Blank open eyes watch the moon flower bloom. It's been a long hard twenty year summer vacation. Both these twenty years trying to fill the void."
The singer watched as the crowd began to feel sadden by the song, is this something personal to them? But Yuu singed louder, wanting to be heard by everyone around her.
"Crack baby you don't know what you want. But you know that you had it once. And you know that you want it back. Crack baby you don't know what you want. But you know that you're needing it. And you know that you need it bad. With wild horses running through your hollow bones. Wild horses running through your hollow bones."
They listened to the repeating lyrics, is she saying this to herself because she couldn't find out what she truly wanted? Her fans began to live chirp everything.
"Went to your room thinking maybe you'll feel something. But all I saw was your burning body waiting. All these twenty years on a vacation."
A fan chirped out on the chirping app how it could be a depressive slump they went through when they started out because they didn't know what songs her fans would like? Some added on as the others streamed her singing.
"Crack baby you don't know what you want. But you know that you had it once. And you know that you want it back. Crack baby you don't know what you want. But you know that you're needing it. And you know that you need it bad."
A few fans connected with this song because so many of them were getting older and truly didn't know what they wanted for their lives to be like.
"Crack baby you don't know what you want. But you know that you want it. Yeah you know that you want it. You know that you. Crack baby you don't know what you want. But you know that you need it. And you know that you need it bad."
They watched as the curtain began to shield Yuu away from the world as she cradles her arms as if trying to hide herself.
"With wild horses running through your hollow bones. Wild horses running through your hollow bones. Wild horses running through your hollow bones. Wild horses running through your hollow bones."
A Fan Chirped out "I think this song is about being a dumb teenager and using drugs and other things to feel something and since I believe she doesn't do them anymore. She doesn't really feel anything. With her need for it is coming back to want to ruin herself again just to feel the high once more." There was so many asks and chirps about this that Yuu came forward and said it was a song for a close friend of hers to get everyone off her back. Her fans understood and don't bring it up since it's a touchy subject with her.
Yuu dodge a bullet with that one-
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starredfishing · 7 months
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Three Houses Quest: You must now assign every Major Character of Three Houses (meaning Byleth, the students, and anyone they can recruit/s-support), a song from the Oh Hellos discography. Some characters are allowed to share songs if it fits more than one. But every character must have a song.
Reward: You get to listen to good music and think about these characters again.
And a cookie.
hi anon! why would you do this to me . /lh LSDKJFSDJFFJ
ok so i have to put this under a read more bc good lord the oh hellos have a lot of songs. ok. ahem. i present to you:
THE FUCKING ENTIRETY OF THE OH HELLOS DISCOGRAPHY ATTACHED TO THE CAST OF FIRE EMBLEM: THREE HOUSES (2019)
BLACK EAGLES
Edelgard - Caesar
“Rise up to meet it, o sleeper, awake. Gather the soldiers, the heir to enfold. Crown him and give him a scepter to hold.”
Hubert - The Valley
“We were born in the shadow of the crimes of our fathers. Blood was our inheritance. No, we did not ask for this. Will you lead me?”
Ferdinand - Grow
“You’ve got a lot to learn, if you’d settle down. Let be what is, let be what isn’t. It’s a natural world in which we’re living, and if you let it alone, it will surely grow. Just leave it alone, child, and let it go.”
Caspar - Soap
“I’ve heard if I were tougher, then maybe I’d make it alive. I got a tender side, I’ll need a harder shell to survive.”
Linhardt - Rounds
“If my chest don’t cave in, when did I last breathe in? Am I empty again? Oh, that wind that I’ve been spending is a long one, my friend.”
Dorothea - Rose
“Wars are raising for her, crusades to adore her [...] Your rose is without a thorn, but no, my mouth don’t taste of metal from the pot here to the kettle. I think we got a lot we gotta learn [...] Call her briar long enough, and you’ll tangle up the true and the fable.”
Petra - Constellations
“All that’s left for me to climb to the heavens is the chasm of the night and a matter of time, but I hear the rumble as the tectonic plates start to shake and I feel my blood pounding like the beat of a drum.”
Bernadetta - Trees
“Safe inside the walls we built, we found ourselves a home. Higher branches, harder fall. Hesitation stops us all.”
BLUE LIONS
Dimitri - I Have Made Mistakes
“The sun, it does not cause us to grow, it is the rain that will strengthen your soul. It will make you whole. [...] I am afraid of all that I’ve built fading away.”
Dedue - Thus Always To Tyrants
“Let me die, let me drown, lay my bones in the ground, I will still come around when the time for sleep is through. [...] Where I go, will you still follow? Will you leave your shaded hollow? Will you greet the daylight looming, learn to love without consuming?” 
Felix - Notos
“And every word you shouldn’t say will come bubbling out of your throat. And you will drown in the wake of the things you lost to the winds of Notos. You gotta let go.”
Sylvain - Second Child, Restless Child
“I was born a second child with a spirit running wild, running free. And they saw trouble in my eyes, they were quick to recognize the devil in me.”
Ingrid - Passerine
“You were the song that I'd always sing, you were the light that the fire would bring but I can't shake this feeling that I was only pushing the spear into your side again.”
Ashe - New River
“And your stomach goes hollow at the thought that it could swallow you whole [...] But the river takes her shape from every tempest she abides, and like her, you’ll be made new again.”
Mercedes - Pale White Horse
“Down they fell like the children of Eden, down they fell like the tower as the land relinquished her ghost. [...] Neither plague nor famine tempered my courage, nor did raids make me cower.”
Annette - The Truth is a Cave
“I was bound and determined to be the child that you wanted. And I was blind to every sign that you left for me to find, and the truth became a tool that I held in my hand. And I wielded it but did not understand”
GOLDEN DEER
Claude -  Lapis Lazuli
“What can I say? ‘Cause the more I recite it, the more you wanna fight it, the more my language is sounding fabricated. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s either the growing is slow, or it cuts to the bone moving too quickly.”
Hilda - HILDA DOES NOT GET ONE BECAUSE SHE ISN'T SAD ENOUGH TO WARRANT A THE OH HELLOS SONG.
Lorenz - I Was Wrong
“I was torn between my god and my Father. [...] I was born at the dawn of our folly, and I was young and stubborn to the bone. [...] I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong.”
Marianne - Dear Wormwood
“I know who I am now, I know who I want to be. I want to be more than this devil inside of me.”
Ignatz  - Zephyrus
“You and I, we are matter, and it matters. I want to spin something out of nothing. Lead to gold, spring from winter.”
Raphael - Theseus
“Oh, that peace like a river, always going, but never getting. Seems like maybe it's not all that much a place as it is a way. And ways don't ever seem to want to stay too still for too long. Isn't that what it's all about?”
Leonie - Eurus 
“You can’t take any gold or rings further than the grave. Nothing we make can we bring, but the bait hanging from the string is calling my name, and like the wind it slips again out of my fingers.”
Lysithea - Glowing
“'Cause when Atlas shrugs, whose back is breaking? And I know how it feels to thе hands heavy as the heavens, a weight that could fold you to keep holding.”
CHURCH OF SEIROS
Rhea - Lay Me Down
“Take me home, I want to go down the road that will take me to the living oak. Lord, I know that I’m weathered stone, but I owe it to my brothers to carry them home.”
Seteth - O Sleeper
“I see the trail of shoulders I’ve climbed over, but by god, I’ll bloody up my hands with everything I am to cut away the mountains I’ve made and fill the dales below.”
Flayn - There Beneath
“There beneath the willow tree, I learned a lot about the way of things. [...] I know, I know this, there is beauty in the way of things.”
Alois - Soldier, Poet, King
“There will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword, he will tear your city down, O Lei, O Lai, O Lord.”
Catherine - Soldier, Poet, King 
Shamir - Cold
“When the feeling leaves you, it moves so slow like the loose change from your front pocket; you don’t even feel it go. When the bitter creeps in to bite you whole, a specter unreflected, oh it keeps you cold.”
Cyril - Boreas
“Yeah, I swing from believing that maybe my working will all pay off to considering drinking with Molotov. I'm halfway out the door. Maybe then my breath could embody a wildfire starting.”
Jeritza - Torches
“I got a venom like a snake running out of my mouth, it’s got you burning at the stake. Innocent or not, you’re not a bet I care to take.”
ASHEN WOLVES
Yuri - Eat You Alive
“But there’s nothing but pain on the edge of a knife, there is no courage in flirting with fear to prove you’re alive.”
Balthus - The Lament of Eustace Scrubb
“Brother, forgive me, we both know I’m the one to blame [...] Father, have mercy, ,I know that I have gone astray [...] But I’ll come around someday. When I touch the water, they tell me I could be set free.”
Hapi - Cold Is the Night
“Take this burden away from me, and bury it before it buries me.”
Constance - Hieroglyphs
“'Cause you've been too busy thinking ahead of where we're all going after we're dead to maybe consider our bodies are worth more than the dust that we can return to the ground again”
OTHER/EXTRA
Byleth - Hello My Old Heart 
“Hello, my old heart, how have you been? Are you still there inside my chest? I’ve been so worried, you’ve been so still– barely beating at all.”
Sothis - Where Is Your Rider?
“See, your face wasn’t quite as I remember, but I know that wicked shape to your smile. Bury me as it pleases you, lover. At sea or deep within the catacomb, but these bones never rested while living.”
Jeralt - This Will End
“No, I am not afraid to die. It’s every breath that comes before. [...] I will wait for this to end: the back and forth, the battery. For you, at last, to comprehend the kind of love of which I speak.”
Gilbert - Wishing Well 
“All the love you gave to me, it wasn’t enough to keep me. [...] Bent my knee to many kings, idols of prosperity. Heard that dollar calling me, so I sought it in the city.”
Rodrigue - Like the Dawn
“You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen. Your skin was gilded with the gold of the richest kings. And like the dawn you woke the world inside of me [...] And you will surely be the death of me, but how could I have known?”
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angeloconnor · 1 year
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Angel + some of her favorite songs
1. Novacane by Frank Ocean 
But girl I can't feel my face What are we smokin' anyway? She said don't let the high go to waste But can you taste a little taste Novacane, baby, baby
2. Doctor, My Eyes by Khamari 
Most of the time I feel too much So I try not to feel at all Staring at the ceiling, I Staring at the writing on the wall Is there some type of Is there some type of pill I could take That would make it all go away?
Doctor, would you give me something? Would you, would you? Doc, I'm only 20 something Would you, would you? I'm way too young to feel this numb
3. Static by Steve Lacy
Baby, you got somethin' in your nose Sniffin' that K, did you feel the hole? Hope you find peace for yourself New boyfriend ain't gon' fill the void Do you even really like this track? Take away the drugs, would you feel the noise? More and more you try to run away
4. Me and the Birds by Duster
All the pill connoisseurs and the secret saboteurs Got the fever for surveillance and the night life
5. Thursday Girl by Mitski 
It shows me what I am I'm not happy or sad, just up or down And always badTell me no Tell me no Tell me no Tell me no Somebody please tell me no
6. Crack Baby by Mitski 
Crack baby you don't know what you want But you know that you had it once And you know that you want it back Crack baby you don't know what you want But you know that you're needing it And you know that you need it bad With wild horses running through your hollow bones Wild horses running through your hollow bones
7. If It Makes You Happy by Michael Cera Palin 
Well okay, I still get stoned I'm not the kind of girl you'd bring home If it makes you happy It can't be that bad If it makes you happy Then why the hell are you so sad?
8. That Funny Feeling by Phoebe Bridgers
Total disassociation, fully out of your mind Googling "derealization," hating what you find That unapparent summer air in early fall The quiet comprehending of the ending of it all There it is again That funny feeling That funny feeling
9. I Wanna C U by Blood Orange
I see you runnin' out the window Brain is runnin' like it's hidin' from the night Think of somethin', I'm feelin' real (I think it) Brain is runnin' like it's runnin' from the night
10. I’m a Tangerine by Tommy James & The Shondrells 
Hello banana, I am a tangerine Is it a dream? Oh, no! I don't think so, but My head is spinning, I am a carousel Don't-cha hear the bells ringin' in my ear? And I haven't any troubles Cause the friendly, friendly bubbles wash them away
11. Analog 2 by Odd Future, Tyler, The Creator, Frank Ocean, Syd
Bitches think I'm crazy, but I'm normal I just come off as a psycho maniac when I'm performin' That's an act so I won't bore you to death, 'cause I adore you
12. Candy Says by The Velvet Underground
Candy says (Candy says) I've come to hate my body And all that it requires in this world
13. Humpty by Mitski
I broke what you gave me But you kept giving more And I'm sorry for taking But I keep wanting more, more, more, oh All the eggshells are on the ground And I try, I'm trying to pick them up But they crack and crumble, it's all too much Too frail for me to touch
14. Bad Habits by FIDLAR 
Well they say I gotta habit That I'm just a drug addict And I'll never be nothing more Well they can just have it I don't care if I'm damaged Honestly, I just think I'm bored
15. A Burning Hill by Mitski 
And I've been a forest fire I am a forest fire And I am the fire and I am the forest And I am a witness watching it I stand in a valley watching it
16. Good News by Mac Miller
A lot of things I regret but I just say I forget Why can't it just be easy? Why does everybody need me to stay? Oh, I hate the feeling When you're high but you're underneath the ceiling
17. It’s So Nice to Get Stoned by Ted Lucas
It is so nice to get stoned And take a load off of my weary mind It is so nice to get stoned And never ever come down It is so nice to lay down And watch the clouds drifting so lazily It is so nice to lay down And never ever come down
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itzpackingtape · 2 years
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HI TUMBLR IM HERE TO RANT ABOUT THE SONG ‘CRACK BABY’ BY MITSKI!!!!
i love this song so much it makes me cry every time i listen to it bc GOD DAMNNNN she sings the chorus in a way where it feels like a parent is singing it to me. a way that someone who knows what’s going on is singing it to me but isn’t telling me. like those parents who direct their children into explaining how they feel. like those parents who tease their kids about their emotions. i don’t even know how to explain how this song makes me feel but oh my god it makes me FEEL.
“wild horses running through your hollow bones” BANGER LYRICS!!! it just sends shivers up my spine when i hear it bc that’s how it FEELS YK. like when i realize something is missing i feel like i’ve been split in half and both halves are just crashing into eachother.
“crack baby you don’t know what you want” i haven’t been addicted to any substances (i mean i tried alcohol once and lowkey missed the feeling and had a really bad aftermath of drinking) but DAMN. i don’t know what i want man. it makes me sink to my stomach knowing that i actually have no idea what’s wrong or missing for me. hearing that just IDK.
SO MANY OTHER LYRICS BUT LIKE THESE TWO LIKE STUCK WITH ME
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bucknastysbabe · 1 year
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Bro why this Aegon so much
“Crack baby you don’t know what you want, but you know that you had it once and you know that you want it back.”
“Wild horses running through your hollow bones.”
I must zoom to the drafting board for this mood. BTTOH chapter 3 is getting done though do not fret😀somehow the chapters just keep getting wordier I get too invested
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nightingaelic · 3 years
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Companions react to a Courier with the Eye for Eye perk just walking around with half their limbs broken because the pain is literally making them stronger.
TW: Blood, gore
The courier was nowhere to be found when their companion awoke beneath the soft firelight of the Dead Horses' torches and the bright eyes of the man who led them.
"I believe they've left us for the evening," the Burned Man said in his usual aloof tone, even as he reclined behind his workbench in Angel Cave. "I've never walked the path of a courier, but I imagine it transfers a certain restlessness to an individual. Staying in one place loses some of its charm. Your particular courier, however, lets that instinct drive them to the point of being foolhardy."
As if to prove Joshua Graham's speculation correct, the courier staggered into the cave, their clothes torn and bloodied. Despite sporting an obvious limp, an arm curled protectively against their chest and deep claw marks all over their face, they were shouldering a yao guai's severed head alongside their full traveling pack and wearing a wild smile.
Arcade Gannon: "God dammit." Arcade disentangled himself from his bed roll and rushed to the courier's side, ignoring Graham's obvious disapproval at his taking the Lord's name in vain. "I told you not to run off into the canyon without packing extra stimpaks. Here, let me-"
The courier stopped his fumbling hands with both of theirs. Arcade looked down in shock at the broken arm that was firmly grasping his fingers, then up into their frenzied eyes. "Six, you need-"
"I don't." The courier spat some blood out onto the dirt floor of the cave. "I don't. The Sorrows... White Bird..."
Arcade mentally cursed the tribe up the river, then just as quickly withdrew the malevolent thoughts. It wasn't their fault the courier went looking for injuries. "Datura root? Okay, sit down, over there. Take a load off."
The courier limped over to the chair Joshua Graham was offering. They sank into it with a sigh and let the yao guai head fall to the floor, where it began to bleed onto their boots. "Thanks," they said. "I should-"
Arcade stuck them in the arm with the stimpak he kept concealed for these occasions, and they screeched, loud enough to cause even the Malpais Legate to jump. "Fucking hell, Arcade! Not again!"
Craig Boone: Boone jumped to his feet. "I can't be your spotter if you keep leaving me behind, Six. Tell me you haven't been using that junk again."
In answer, the courier pulled an empty Sunset Sarsaparilla bottle rigged with a hose and tin foil from inside their pack and tossed it aside. "Last dose, I swear. Not that it helped much in close quarters."
They lifted the yao guai head high over their own, striking a victorious pose. "Shouldn't bother the Dead Horses or the Sorrows again, unless there really is a ghost out there."
Boone and Graham stared at the courier, particularly at their bent arm. "You require medical attention," Graham pointed out. "Shall I fetch the shaman?"
"No thank you." The courier made a face and heaved the animal's head across the room. It flew through the air in a nice arc, bounced twice, then rolled to a stop at the Burned Man's feet.
"Six..." Boone said testily.
The courier groaned, familiar with the serious tone. "Fine. But I've had worse scrapes, and you know it."
Lily Bowen: "Pumpkin!" Lily shrieked and rushed to the courier's side. Her hands flew up and around them, but every time she attempted to touch them she recoiled out of fear of causing pain. "Pumpkin, you need to see a doctor."
"We've been over this, Lily," the courier replied, attempting to skirt around the nightkin that blocked their way. "It hurts, but I work through it, and I always come out on top of whatever caused it."
"Sweetness, you're bleeding." Lily finally located a portion of the courier that wasn't in danger of extra bruising and took hold of them, sweeping them up into a gentle fireman's carry. "We'll go visit that nice Waking Cloud lady and get you fixed up."
"Lily, put me down!" The courier squirmed atop the super mutant. To the surprise of everyone involved, they managed to unbalance her enough to send both of them tumbling to the cave floor.
Joshua Graham looked down at the courier, who was wrestling for control of their leg in order to escape Lily's grasp. "God protect you," he said, but it wasn't clear who he was speaking to.
Raul Alfonso Tejada: "Mij@." Raul approached the courier carefully, trying to locate all of their new bumps and scrapes. He was more than familiar with their latest attempts to prove their own strength, but it pained him to see them like this. Still, he knew better than to try to force medicine into them, now. "Estoy aquí para ti. Can I help?"
They tensed for a moment, as he'd expected, but a few more soothing words sent their shoulders back down. "Sí. I'm... I'm tired."
Ignoring the Burned Man's protests, Raul claimed the room's chair and carried it over to them. They eased into it, wincing slightly but still clinging to their belongings. Raul convinced them to hand their weapons, pack and bear head over one by one, all the while assuring them that he meant no harm, no offense, no judgment.
"You can't keep doing this, Six," he said, when they finally let him inspect their broken arm. He could see the bone under the skin, out of place in an obvious way that would've had him laid up in bed for weeks.
"I can handle-"
"I know you can." Raul fixed them in his gaze. "I can't."
They smiled sadly. "Lo siento. I'll try to be more careful."
Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Cass rolled her eyes. "Figures. Waited until I was asleep, then you ran off to have all the fun on your lonesome. Let's get you cleaned up, Six."
She lunged for the courier, but despite their precarious state they managed to dodge her. "Uh-uh. I'm invincible. You're gonna ruin it."
"Invincible?" Cass dashed to block their escape. "Sure, you can probably still kick my ass, but you sure as hell can't outrun me."
"Might the pair of you take this little game outside," Graham grumbled from his seat.
"Shut it, Burnt Man," Cass shot back.
The courier couldn't help but giggle at that. "Burned. Burned Man."
"Oh, you're gonna give me grammar lessons?" Cass lunged again and managed to seize a handful of the courier's tattered coat. "Give them to me up close. I dare you."
In response, the courier grabbed Cass' arm with their broken one and easily flung her around them in a circle, until she went somersaulting away onto the ground. "There's lesson one."
Cass sat up and jammed her hat back on her head. "Fine. Damn."
Veronica Santangelo: "How are you walking?!?" Veronica stared, open-mouthed, at the bloody figure in the cave entrance.
The courier shrugged, then winced at their own movement. "Does it matter? I'm alive."
"Yeah, but life won't be much of a comfort if you don't get some of those fractures set right." Veronica rose from her bed roll and approached them carefully. Her eyes flickered from wound to wound, and she tutted as she drew back the loose pieces of fabric that the yao guai had ripped to shreds. "Get over here and make yourself useful, Graham. Six, you probably shouldn't be awake when I start putting you back together."
They withdrew their limp arm from her grasp firmly. "Leave it be. It gave me the energy I needed to finish the thing off."
"Adrenaline will do that," Veronica agreed. "But its shelf life is short. Pretty soon you're going to be wishing that bear took your head off. Graham, I meant what I said, go find me some boiled water and bandages or I'll personally deliver your location to Caesar myself."
"Caesar is well aware of my current whereabouts," Graham replied evenly. "You would do well to listen to the Scribe, courier."
"Both of you?" The courier deflated. "Fine. Just get me a drink before you start moving bones around."
ED-E: The eyebot beeped in an alarmed manner as the courier swayed on their feet. It swiveled its dome between the injured friend and the bandaged man, who caught the movement and shook his head. "While you were updating your programming, your master was testing the limits of their own abilities, robot. It is not my place to interfere."
ED-E made a flat blaaaaat sound at him that sounded scornful, and floated over to the courier's side. The courier laughed. "Don't worry about me, little guy. It takes more than one yao guai to ruin my day."
Rex: The scent of the yao guai's and the courier's blood filled Rex's nostrils, and he rose from his sleeping hollow with a whine, unsure. When the courier beckoned him, he trotted over and began licking their visible wounds, sparing a growl here and there for the yao guai head that hung on their back.
Graham regarded the cyberdog with something akin to affection. "He senses your pain, courier. You would do well to set him at ease."
"He's seen me closer to death than this," they replied, scratching the dog behind the ears with their good arm. "And if the White Legs hear about the courier who walks through broken bones, maybe they'll think twice about attacking the people I'm friends with."
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onecanonlife · 3 years
Text
Tommy is alive. Sam just about has a heart attack.
(word count: 774)
------------------
He hears Tommy’s voice.
It’s impossible, of course. But he hears it, lined with anger and desperation, and suddenly it’s two days ago, and Sam is rushing through the prison, following the sounds of his screams, and he doesn’t make it in time.
Never again.
Protocol flies out the window, Ranboo’s choked, grieving words ringing in his ears. He lowers the lava, terrified of what he’s about to find. The most likely explanation is a hallucination, of course, which makes this an incredibly stupid move, but he still hears it, still hears him, and he’s nowhere near capable of rational thought, because his mind keeps flickering back to that voice calling for him, shouting in pain, and then that sudden, dreadful silence.
Never again.
The lava drops, and—
He’s there.
By every god he knows and by Prime themself, he’s there. Staring at him, something wild in his eyes. Covered in dried blood, but apparently whole, unharmed.
“Tommy,” he gasps out, and then he’s on the platform, crossing the divide, and Tommy is right there. And Dream is too, observing from the far wall, a terrible smile playing about his lips, but Sam doesn’t have time for that. Not when Tommy is here. Not when Tommy is alive, and he doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand at all, not when that message went out for the whole server to see, not when he yelled at Dream for hours and Dream just laughed and laughed and laughed.
“Hi, Sam,” Tommy says, and he sounds so broken down, so exhausted in a way that Sam has never heard from him before, not even after that week of confinement, not even when begging to be let out.
“Prime, Tommy,” he says. He feels a little bit like getting down on his knees and begging for forgiveness. In lieu of that, he moves forward to grip him by the shoulders, to hug him, or anything, really, except Tommy flinches. Violently. And Sam stops in his tracks.
“It’s been kind of rough,” Tommy says. “Can I be let out now?”
“Yes,” Sam says. “Yes, of course. Tommy, I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve—”
Tommy smiles at him, but it’s a thin, wavering thing. There is something dark in his eyes, something haunted, something scared. “It wasn’t your fault, big man,” he says, and his voice is so hollow. Sam’s heart aches. “I’d just like to go now, thanks.”
“Of course,” he repeats, feeling numb, feeling useless, feeling like there’s nothing at all he can do to make this right. So he just holds out his hand for Tommy to take, if he wants, rather than initiating contact himself, and after a second, Tommy takes it, and his grip is crushing, bruising, but Sam doesn’t complain.
“Everyone’s going to be so glad to see you,” he says, leading him to the platform, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. But Tommy smiles again, and it seems just a little more genuine.
“I’m going to be glad to see everyone,” Tommy says. “It’s been—um. Too long.”
Any amount of time locked in the prison was too long. A week was far more than too long. Sam regrets everything so keenly, and perhaps that makes him the worst sort of hypocrite, but he can’t care right now. Tommy is here. Tommy is alive, and he doesn’t know how or why, but he can’t afford to look the gift horse in the mouth, because otherwise he’ll be reminded that this whole thing, was his fault in the first place, and he can’t go down that path right now when Tommy so clearly needs someone to lean on.
The platform starts moving. And Sam makes the mistake of looking back at Dream.
“I would’ve told you that everything was gonna work out,” Dream says softly, “if you’d asked.”
Sam turns his back on him, a chill running down his spine, and just catches the end of an expression of terror, pure and brutal, on Tommy’s face before he schools it again. Genuine terror, followed by a shaky breath. Sam watches, dread pooling in his heart and mingling with the horror of the past few days.
What did he do to you? he wonders, and finds he is scared of knowing the answer.
For now, though, Tommy is alive. That has to be enough. He hopes that’s enough, even though Tommy is trembling and dead-eyed and still holding his hand almost tight enough to break bones, like he’s scared that something awful will happen if he lets go.
Prime, Sam hopes that this will be enough.
He doesn’t know what to do if it’s not.
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yandere-daydreams · 4 years
Text
Title: Cold As Ice. 
Word Count: 3.3k
Pairing: Fae!Yandere!Todoroki/Reader
Synopsis: Todoroki, the King of the Fae, seems to have lost his vulnerable, helpless, idiotic little mortal. He's as displeased as you'd expect, and he does plan to make his anger known.
TW: Graphic Violence, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Animal Death, and Imprisonment. 
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One of Shoto’s greatest pleasures was recalling the spring you’d first met.
Parts of it were true. Fae couldn’t lie, but they could omit, and he never failed to find a new detail to leave out whenever he recalled the months he’d spent in the mortal world. He told his court of the weeks you’d spent attending to his wounds and soothing his pain, or the charming cottage you shared and how quaint human civilization had become, since his last visit. With a small smile, he would speak of the livestock you’d tasked him to feed and the herbs you’d mixed into your tea, creating a concoction his fleet of servants could never seem to replicate. His favorite memory was the kiss you’d shared when he was finally healed, before he departed to return to his mysterious ‘homeland’. He loved you, and you loved him in return. It was something out of a fairytale, for him.
He didn’t tell them of the translucent blood that stained your hands for days after you freed him from the thawing ice, or the strange symbols he drew in the snow until it dissolved under the warmth of the spring sun. He never saw fit to mention the mare he beheaded, whose organs he carved out and jarred and kept in your pantry, if only to remind you of your companion’s slaughter. He wanted to make you seem like a willing partner. A sweet mortal who didn’t know better than to love a fae, a soulmate born into the wrong world. But, soulmates didn’t have to be held down to be kissed. They didn’t have to be threatened into returning their admirer’s affections. They didn’t have to be dragged into a land they did not know and thrown at the feet of a man they did not love. They should not hate their lover, not as you hate Shoto.
They should not run as soon as they’re given the chance to.
Shoto thought you preferred him to death. That was his mistake, his underestimation. He thought, if you were given the option of throwing yourself from the window of your tall, lonely tower, you’d be more scared of the inevitable injury that would entail than spending another day in your captor’s company. Now, with a hand clasped to the numb, throbbing shoulder that’d broken your fall and the bare soles of your feet beating harshly against the frozen ground, you thanked whichever gods were listening for his assumption. The forest, with all its winding roots and outstretched branches, was your safe-haven, the brisk air filling you with a sense of freedom, of strength. You weren’t sure how to get back to the human plane, not without magic, but a damp, dark cave would be a sanctuary compared to Shoto and all his fineries. You would be content with misery, as long as you were the one to choose it.
But, it was a hopeful dream. Already, you could hear the crack of hooves against soil, the soft footfalls of those agile enough to chase after you without a mount. This was just another hunt, to them, and you were an animal to be tracked and captured, to be skinned for your fur and declawed and thrown back into the wild because they thought that was better than putting you out of your suffering. Your revenge came in the form of boredom, in how easy you were to catch, in the refusal to indulge their desire for clever prey. Rather, you ran blindly, searching for a hole to hide inside of, a frozen lake their horses wouldn’t be able to follow you across. Simple methods, but fool-proof ones. Strategies even you wouldn’t be able to blunder.
A woman called out, a bird of prey screeched, and you spotted a knock in a barren cliffside, a deep hollow in an overlap of rock. It would be a tight fit, but if you held your breath and worked quickly, you might be able to find your way inside. You’d almost overlooked it in your panic. Surely, if you were quiet enough--
You never got a chance to finish that thought. Without warning, a gust of ice-cold wind washed over you, and something sharp and burning embedded itself in the back of your calf, your knees buckling as soon as the arrow found its mark. You collapsed, catching yourself with your injured arm out of instinct and screaming as a bright, primal burst of pain etched itself into your bones, your flesh, your being. But, that didn’t stop the hilt of your aggressor’s sword from colliding with the nape of your neck, cutting the sound short and sending you back to the ground. You didn’t try to catch yourself, this time.
With some effort, you roll yourself onto your side, gritting your teeth and tilting your head back to state up at the two faeries who surround you. Your found the woman first, a knight with a sword at her hip and a small, tight-lipped scowl. Yaoyorozu, the leader of the hunt, her hair darker than the night sky and her skin pale enough to put the falling snow to shame. A beauty, like all her kin, almost human if you looked beyond her swirling eyes and the pointed tips of her ears and nails. You had to remind yourself that she was one of the reasons for your current vulnerability.
Beside her was Shoto, a bow slung over his shoulder and an arrow missing from his impeccable quiver. His expression did little to betray him, all regal neutrality and flawless perfection, but his anger was present in his wings, outstretched and taunt behind him, in his white-knuckled grip on his chosen weapon. You met his eyes, and in a moment, his hand was around the shaft of another arrow, ready to send it through your chest with little more than a flick of his wrist. When he realized what he was doing, he dropped it, a fleeting look of self-scrutiny and pity passing across his expression. You could try to convince yourself that it’d been a reflex, that he didn’t truly want to be more destructive than he had to be, but you’d be lying if you tried to say there wasn’t the slightest hint of hesitation. Just another sign that his generosity wasn’t the reason for his delicacy.
He simply didn’t want to break his newest toy so quickly.
Yaoyorozu spoke first, addressing her ruler rather than her prisoner. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been treated as more than an extension of your captor. “I can call the others,” She said, her gaze flickering vaguely over the blood pooling underneath you. “We’ll need a healer if you want your pet to walk without a limp. I didn’t think to bring one, but the castle isn’t far.”
“I’ll handle it,” He replied, kneeling beside you. So close, you could make out the thin lines running through his translucent wings, flowers of ice and glass that deserved a better place to bloom. The corner of his left-most wing was scarred over, burnt to a leathery crisp, not unlike the matching scar over his nearest eye. In the back of your mind, you fantasized about what it would be like to rip them from his back, to crush thin skin and impossible formations in the palm of your hand and render him as flightless as yourself. Shoto chose to pretend he didn’t know what you were thinking about. “This is my responsibility. Gather your pack and have a medic waiting for when I return.” He paused, letting his temper flare with a narrow-eyed glance in your direction. “You shouldn’t have to rush, I intend to take my time.”
Yaoyorozu bit the inside of her cheek, but she didn’t protest. Rather, she nodded, bowing her head as she turned, following her footprints back into the tangled woods. As soon as she’d disappeared into the darkness, Shoto took the time to sigh, to glare properly the next time he bothered to face you. His bow fell to the ground, abandoned and forgotten. You weren’t particularly concerned.  He had a dozen more waiting to be used on something helpless and disobedient.
“You humiliated me,” He started, his hand drifting to your injury, freeing his arrow before a gloved thumb drove itself into the open wound, his touch as agonizing as a hot iron rod against unprotected skin. You had to fight not to lash out, to condemn yourself to a fate worse than momentary discomfort. There was still a knife sheathed at his belt, and you could only be thankful he hadn’t thought to use it. “I trusted you to go without restraints, to go without guards, and the first thing you think to do is prove to my subjects that my lover would rather risk death than be with me. Tell me, does that sound like behavior I should reward?”
You didn’t answer. Your arm was going numb, equal parts due to the fracture and the chill, and you couldn’t tell him anything he wanted to hear. That’s what it came down to, in the end. How you could make Shoto happy, even if he claimed to be willing to return the favor.
He shook his head, pulling away from your wound and taking up your chin. His hold wasn’t tight, nor did he make an effort to force you into a submission more demeaning than your current surrender, but those small shows of grace were nullified by the feeling of your own warm blood beginning to stain your skin. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
You didn’t have to think. You barely had to open your mouth. As soon as your lips parted, the words were already falling from your tongue, a blunt, shallow river of things you knew you’d regret. Things Shoto would make you regret. “Eat shit and die. You can impale yourself on your own crown, for all I care.”
His frown barely wavered. There was a beat of silence, an idle evaluation of your current state, but his disdain was never vocalized. He didn’t bother to. He didn’t have to.
You didn’t see his hand move, not before the grip of his knife was making contact with the back of your head, your vision going black before pain had a chance to follow.
~
Your contempt for the Winter Court was the only thing that rivaled your loathing for Shoto.
It was a place of joyless, merciless conduct, of cruel smiles and stone painted with gore, although the colorless blood of fae rendered the violence a sightless affair. Two guards were flanked at your sides, but neither dared to look at you, staring straight ahead as they opened the massive oak doors of Shoto’s throne room. The quiet was heavy, tense, but you didn’t attempt to make conversation, not as the panels of wood slid away and a narrow carpet came into view, a rich navy to guide all newcomers to the elevated stage on the otherwise of the room. He could’ve easily come to you, sent a servant to alert him when you awoke or been waiting there himself, but he wanted a show. He wanted you to grovel at his feet, and he wanted his subjects to see you do it.
Oftentimes, you wished you’d been taken by a member of the Summer Court. You wished you’d never been taken at all, of course, but you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what it would like to exist in a land without ice and sleet and stares that are only barely concealed. You’d visited their valley once or twice with Shoto, and although they weren’t any less wicked than their cold-blooded counterparts, they hid their malicious intent under charms and spells and tricks, traps that kept their victims rooted out of delusion rather than fear. It’d be a deceptive fate, but compared to the reality of the Winter Court, it couldn’t be unpleasant. If Shoto could simply invoke your name when he craved control, you wouldn’t be favoring your right leg over your left as you dragged yourself down the well-tread pathway.
There were sneers from the stands as you passed by, harsh whispers of rumors and tales that were just untrue enough to burn at their tongues as they spoke. You tried not to pay them any mind, but it was difficult. Your latest ‘betrayal’, as Shoto had put it, would only fuel their distaste for their ruler’s mortal partner. Perhaps if you were something else, they’d be entranced. If you were an abnormality or a beast or something dangerous, you’d be able to do more than run and make noise and disobey rules they hadn’t thought not to follow. But, you were human, so you were boring. A feral mutt whose tricks had long-since grown old.  
You came to a stop in front of Shoto’s throne, a massive structure of silver and velvet and ornate carvings of every woodland animal you could imagine. You didn’t attempt to meet his eyes, only dropping to one knee, assuming the position he’d force you into, if you didn’t fall into on your own. You didn’t speak, though, letting Shoto greet you with a tone so stoic, you had to wonder whether this was a punishment or an execution. “How are your injuries?”
“I’ll live, unfortunately,” You replied, under your breath, rolling your shoulder back, making an effort not to wince. You didn’t want to show weakness, not when he was already so far above you. “The healers say I’ll need a few days to recover fully. That won’t interfere with…” You trailed off, your eyes flickering around the courtroom. Searching for any sign of a looming threat. “That won’t interfere with what you have planned, will it?”
He huffed, a small pout pulling at the corners of his mouth, but he accepted the announcement without further argument, leaning back and letting his chin come to rest on a closed fist. With his free hand, he gestured for you to come closer, an indolent wave barely worth the energy it took to execute. Slowly, you pushed yourself to your feet, only pausing when Shoto tapped his thigh. Disappointment washed over you, but any shock was minimal. If he couldn’t have his revenge, then your shame would serve as a consolation prize.
You clung to your last scraps of dignity, keeping your expression stern and your posture rigid, but Shoto freed you of that with an arm around your waist, dragging you into his lap, your side soon flush against his chest and your back pressed against his armrest, your legs left to tangle with his. He was quick to deflate, to melt into you and bury his face in the crook of your neck, the affection intimate and sickeningly underserved. The tips of sharpened teeth brushed against your skin, but thankfully, abstained from taking root. The last thing you wanted was another wound to fret over. “Can’t you bring me the smallest relief?” He asked, chilled breath washing over your skin, earning a shudder. “An apology, words of remorse, a purpose, anything. I don’t want to be bitter with you, beloved. Any sign that you care for me is a sign I’ll take to heart.”
He sounded exhausted, exasperated. You attempted not to let his disposition faze you, keeping your gaze fixed on the furthest stone wall. “My words would bring you no comfort,” You muttered, more to reassure yourself than to convince him. “There’s nothing I can say to quell your anger. You saw what I did, and you know why I did it. An excuse would only frustrate you.”
You felt him grit his teeth, his hold around you tightening. His wings flickered before resuming their trained motionlessness. “You have no reason to despise me--”
“I have every reason.” You didn’t wait for him to finish, nor did you have any interest in letting him. This was a dance you’d practiced many times, a song you could identify from a single note. You would sing along, but you wouldn’t let Shoto act as if you’d never done so before. He didn’t deserve your patience. “I’m a prisoner here, Todoroki, I’m your prisoner. You provide for me, and I understand that you think you’re being kind, but no amount of luxury can make this place my home. I don’t belong here, I’m…” You were different. You were alien. You were lesser. “I’m not meant to be here. I’m not meant to be with you.”
Early on in your captivity, you’d convinced one of Shoto’s servants to smuggle an iron knife into your chambers, the weapon forged in the human world and stolen from a fae noble with questionable intentions. When Shoto next visited you, letting his guard down in favor of rambling on about his day and the ongoings of his court, you’d driven the dagger blindly into his chest over and over and over again, only stopping when one of his knights dragged you off of his limp body. You didn’t have to say it’d been useless. Cold Iron was effective on most creatures, but you’d need something much stronger to kill a fae as powerful as Shoto, whose veins took the shape of snowflakes and whose wrath bunt with the heat of glowing embers. The servant was killed by sunset and your knife was melted down into two nails, both of which were then driven into your heels as retribution. You hadn’t been able to walk for a month, but Shoto told you time and time again that he was being lenient, that was being merciful. You’d believed him. The fire in his eyes had nearly been enough to melt his frozen heart.
Compared to his current rage, his fury back then seemed like child’s play.
“A prisoner, you see yourself as a prisoner,” He spat, pointed talons biting into your hip, cutting through fabric and skin and drawing blood before he thought to stop. “I’ve never asked anything of you. I gave you a castle, beautiful clothes, a life befitting divinity, and you say you feel like a prisoner just because I urge you to tolerate me in return.”  He paused, scoffing, letting out a breathy, humorless laugh before he went on. “If you’re a prisoner, you’re a rather coddled one. That’s my fault, isn’t it? How can I expect you to learn your place when I treat you like a lapdog?”
“That’s not what I meant,” You responded, hastily, avoiding his question. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m only trying to--”
“You’re trying to earn your discipline, apparently,” He warned, nearly snarling against your shoulder. His fingers found their way to your hair, taking you by the scalp and jerking you backward, just far enough to allow him to glare, to bare his teeth and growl. “I’ve kept you safe. I’ve let you live in leisure because I wanted to believe your pathetic human mind would let you be motivated by gratitude, rather than fear. I can see that allowing you to love me on your own terms isn’t an option, anymore.” He wretched you upward, forcing you to straighten your back, a pitiful whimper escaping from your lips before you could suppress it. “If you think you’re a prisoner, then I’d be more than happy to treat you like a prisoner. It’d be a shame not to give you what you’ve been begging for, wouldn’t it?”
You moved to argue, to apologize, to do whatever would sway Shoto’s resolve, but by the time you opened your mouth, he was already calling over his guards, metal gauntlets soon clamped around your forearm and your shoulder, ready to dispose of you at the slightest omen of their King’s will. Shoto only leaned back, watching as you lost your composure, as you panicked. He didn’t yell, nor did he lecture you further, but as always, his rage found a way to make itself known, if only in the grin that ghosted across his lips. Satisfied and decided. The smile of a man pushed to the edge and far too prepared to push back.
The smile a monster, finally ready to devour its prey.
“This might be a change for the better.” His tone was one of sterile contentment, a serenity that ran deeper than his voice could ever portray. You had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to shake him, again, not so easily. 
You had a feeling he wouldn’t give you the chance to, again.
“You might finally come to see how loving I’ve been, when you’re stripped of my favor.”  
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freshneverfrozen · 3 years
Text
Tincture - Chapter One
Or, the one where your author lets us do what Ubisoft wouldn’t. Also, the tropey one.
When her home is burned by a mad Dane, a healer must decide if her fate lies with forgiveness or revenge. 
I’m back from the dead to inflict on you all an AC Vahalla Reader fic literally no one is asking for. Is it Reader/Ivarr? Reader/Basim? Reader/Hytham? Who knows? No, like seriously, I don’t know.
Multi-chapter Fic
Pairing: Reader +...uh, Ivarr? You expect me to choose?
Rating: M for mmm, slow burn erotica.
On AO3:
Part One, Two
........................
CHAPTER ONE:
Snow burns. No one had ever told you. It is a scalding cold that stiffens your bones and cracks your teeth, and you are glad the moment the last flurries are behind you.
The people whose company you learn to keep are never as bothered by the snow as you. Their eyes shine like ice and their faces are shadowed and grim. They had not taken to you easily, a foreigner like them, but unlike them, you did not earn your place through rended flesh and broken bones.
You mend their flesh. You set their bones.
Eventually, they began to call you something other than ‘troll’ and ‘witch’. Eventually, your hut is traded for a slant-framed house at the edge of a village that survives both Saxons and Danes. 
‘Healer’ they call you, and it’s just as well. You left your name behind in a faraway place. 
You count a spring with them and then a summer. But just as the north-country snow melts, time changes all things.
One gray morning, when the mists are heavy over the moors, something besides the creeping cold wakes you. Wood creaks under a layer of furs as you sit up in your bed, rubbing sleep from your eyes and straining to hear again what drew you from sleep.
There is only yawning silence. It stretches past the walls of your house and over the hills. Beyond your walls, the wind is still, the farm animals not yet restless, and the corner fire is long dead past the comfort of crackling embers. 
No, you realize. It has not been noise that has awoken you.
A feeling swirls in your gut. That’s it. A pack-and-run instinct that you have trusted before. And just that simply, it occurs to you that life here is over. You can rebuild. But you must first survive.
‘Witch,’ they once called you. ‘Uncanny’ would be closer to the truth.
The floor is chilly beneath your bare feet as you slip from your bed. You grab nothing, not food, nor tincture. With a hand to the cord that holds the small draw-string pouch around your neck, you know you will have only a few pieces of silver. That, and your life, will be enough.
You have felt this feeling before. This knowing.
You take only your dark woolen cloak from the back of a chair and, wrapping it around your shoulders, you peek past the hung sail-cloth that serves as a door and out into the foggy blue of early morn. 
Quiet. Still. A calm before a storm.
Yes. You know this feeling. 
You melt from the shadows of your home, around the side and between the stables and granary. You know the families. Saxons on one side, Danes on the other. One has children. The other an elderly mother. She had been the first in this place to call you ‘healer’ when you eased the ache in her old bones. 
Silently, you move on swift steps until cold mud from the cart path gives way to tall grass that stings your feet. There, you crouch. You move a little further and listen for nothing. The further you go, the more guilt turns your stomach. So many are still asleep in their beds. You are their healer.
But you cannot save them. 
Near the edge of the field stands an ancient oak, out of place and far from its brethren in the forests to the east. It stands among the high grass, a field’s width from the village. You lower yourself against the gnarled base, settling down until all can see of the village are the plumes of smoke from the hearth fires drifting into the sky. Your feet are chilled to numbness, caked in mud and grit, but your hands shake too badly to massage the feeling back into them. 
Instead, you wait, and you exhale your breath between your knees so that it does not rise above the grass. 
And you do not flinch when the first of the battle cries pierce the air. You had known they were coming. Danes. Different from the peaceful breed settled here. 
Screams follow smoke, and then follows the wafting scent of blood and shit on the wind.
You had known.
You sink lower against the tree and in an awful moment, wish that you might freeze. When the wishing is unanswered, you try not to listen as the screams grow fewer and farther between. The terror of the butchered turns to gleeful cries from the invaders. How long has it taken? The sun has yet to clear the sky. Another sacking done in England. Danes killing Danes, killing Saxons, killing all. But not you. Not yet.
And then you hear it.
A sound separates itself from the victory din. It begins as a rustling through the grass, not soft as your steps had been, but moving quickly and toward you. A wayward Dane? A survivor?
Lie still, you demand of yourself as your muscles seize on instinct. You press yourself deeper into the dirt. A fool would run. A dead fool. Whatever comes, it cannot know you have hidden yourself here, tucked yourself away amid the roots and reeds.
A set of shoulders and a dark head above them glade over the tall grass. He is a Dane. You can smell the blood on him, see the gleam of it against the shaved side of his scalp. At his nearness, your heart pounds until it rattles your teeth, but you do not take your eyes from him. If he spots you, and only then, you will run. It will be the death of you.
But he cannot see you. Not here. But even as you think them, those thoughts sound like lies.
The Dane curses, and it is then that you hear the slosh of liquid against clay walls. His steps are burdened. Carrying something. He shakes the bulk in his arms and you hear the splatter of something wet over grass and smell the cloying scent of oil and pitch.
They mean to burn the fields.
And you with them.
Why harvest, when you can ransack? Why spare lives, when it is easier to take gold from a corpse? 
You are a healer, but you would kill them all if you could. 
The Dane moves off, his back to you now. His shoulders are slim, his body lightly armored. If you run, there is every likelihood this one will overtake you. But you cannot wait, not as you hear him call out in his rough language for fire. A torch. You will have to slip away or face certain death in this snare.
You shift, quiet as a hare in the underbrush, and begin to move eastward. Wet ground seeps into the thin fabric of the under-dress you had escaped in, but you ignore the spreading damp against your chest as you crawl. The sound of a horse’s braying and the noise of hooves through grass drives you forward. You know without looking that someone has brought the Dane his torch.
The crack of a mad laugh sets your teeth to grinding. The Dane shouts, “Let the ravens pick their fill through the smoke!” 
“Careful that you do not burn with the fields, Ivarr,” says another voice, too full of reason to earn anything other than ridicule.
The Dane laughs again and soon, the rush of fire catching fuel overtakes the sound of him. It spreads and crackles at your back, wind carrying the heat, carrying the flame. Toward you. 
You’ve no choice but to run now. 
You’re going to die after all. By fire or the swing of an axe, it doesn’t matter. Dead is dead. Perhaps, this is punishment for leaving the others unwarned. If that is so, you are cut by the bitter thought that the divine has been swift in retribution.
Heat licks at your calves sooner than you expect and you push to your feet. The forest is a league away, over crag and hill and the sludge of the moors. You will never outrun them. But perhaps the flame and smoke will hide you  -- 
“Aha! Look there! One last sheep left to gut!” The bark of the Dane drives the breath from you. “Give me your horse!”
“But Ivarr -- “
A snarl from the Dane is all you hear before the noise of your bare feet beating over grass drowns out the rest. The moors. You need only make it to the moors and then the muck and hollows will slow him. 
With a gasp of relief, you clear the field, legs burning and catching beneath a skirt heavy with mud. Another small hill lies ahead, this one rocky with moss-covered stones. You dart up the first slope, casting yourself over one rock just as you hear the thundering of hooves nearing. 
The Dane laughs, a hollow, delirious sound that you have heard before from madmen you could not cure. You glance back, your eyes drawn to the sheen of teeth. His is a gruesome smile, crooked and jagged like a jack o’ lantern on Samhain. Fear boils away the cold as you register just how near he is, and you spot a hand sweeping at you from the back of a dappled horse.
“Where will you go, foxling?” he jeers. “Run! Run faster! This is no chase!”
A protesting snort from the horse ruffles your hair as you near the top of the hill. The beast proves a blessing, and you throw yourself from its path just as the Dane reaches for you again. With curse, he flails at the air, and before he can turn his mount, you are struck with an idea. 
Instinct has always served you well and as it beckons, you listen. Leaping with a snarled cry, you catch hold of the Dane’s outstretched arm. Your weight and the momentum of the horse unseats him and for a moment, a very brief one, your eyes lock with his. They widen, surprise sparking behind the wild blue of them, and in the instant before he falls, you think you see a grin turn his lips. 
He strikes the ground with a thud, crying out as the horse’s hooves catch his legs. You leap over his body as it rolls, your fingers twisting into the mane of the horse. One bound and then another, and you find your purchase, swinging yourself up into the saddle. You look back over your shoulder, eyes narrowing in focus on the Dane as the horse rocks beneath you. He staggers to his feet, yards away now, and he laughs.
“Well done, little fox! Run, while I catch my breath!”
His laughs grow louder, wilder, and when you turn from him, you dare not look back again.
.
………………………………………
.
There might as well be snow. 
English nights are cold when spent in nothing but a damp shift and cloak. The horse, at least, makes good company. The village is three nights behind you now, three nights that you feel in your empty belly. On the first, you had not slept, fearing the mad Dane would appear from the shadows. The second had passed in the cradle of old ruins. The third, you had found an abandoned home.
Now, with morning blooming outside, you saddle the horse, a mare whose name you do not know. You had spent the night considering names for her, to replace whatever the Danes called her, if it had been anything at all, but in the end, you decided on nothing. You’ve little fondness for all the names given to you, so you will not do the same to her.
She is simply the mare, as anonymous as her rider.
A starving rider, you think grimly as you swing into the saddle, with your stomach growling to remind you that wild raspberries do not take the place of bread and mutton. 
“Will you share your grass?” you ask the mare as you lean forward to scratch between her ears. “You do not seem as starved as I.”
She snorts as though to say too late, and with a glance at the earth below, you see that she has eaten the greenery to nothing.
Muttering through a smile, you say, “Ah, payment for saving my hide. I understand.”
A half-day’s ride brings rain. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself and take solace in knowing bad weather means fewer travelers, and fewer travelers mean less likelihood of bandits. It is by that reasoning alone that you are surprised to see two figures crest the hilltop ahead. Both ride horses of their own and as they near, you cannot make out their faces for the sodden white hoods they wear.
Better unfriendly than dead, you adjust your own hood, and hunker lower over the saddle. You guide the mare off the path to make way for the riders. Monks? They look like men of the Cloth, perhaps on their way to one of the Saxon holdings. If so, they are riding into Dane territory. 
But that is their problem, not yours.
Your teeth grit as one slows his horse as they pass. 
“Traveler,” he says, his accent strange, as foreign as yours. “Is it this way to Fremdeleigh?”
Fremdeleigh is ash and ember now.
In your hesitation to speak, you cut your eyes upward beneath the edge of your hood. Looking at the man, a length of curling dark hair falls about a dark, trimmed beard. More than that, you cannot see. The other rider, slightly smaller, hunched as though the ride has pained him, turns his face away. Of him, you can see nothing.
The man is waiting, and should you hesitate longer, you risk more questions. “Fremdeleigh was that way, yes.”
The man is quiet for a stretch. 
“Was?” His voice...such a simple questions gives you chills. It is a dangerous voice, one that has you wishing for highwaymen rather than priests. If they are priests. The knives and daggers strapped about the men are not lost on you.
“Perhaps it is, if it still stands. Danes took it three days past.”
The men share a look, though you doubt they can see one another’s eyes. You make to move the mare forward.
“A moment,” says the man. “Do you come from Fremdeleigh?”
“Why do you ask this? What is left of it lies down this road. Brave the Danes, if you must go there.”
“Perhaps I make a habit of braving Danes?” Charm settles in the man’s voice too late. It does little soothe your wariness. “And I ask to know what sort of Danes they were.”
Needling man. You should not let his prying bother you, but Fremdeleigh is not so far behind you that the question’s answer is easy to face. 
“The wicked sort,” you reply, and at this, you think you catch a snort of agreement from the second man. “Now, safe travels to you both, strangers.” A rolling growl from your stomach accompanies your words, and you quickly turn your face away.
You have just set your heels into the mare’s sides when the first man calls out, “You’ve a hungry look about you. Perhaps you would trade answers for a meal?” 
Another dinnerless night feels more than you can stand. But a part of you would sooner starve than risk a camp alone with these men, who are perhaps not as godly as their robes would claim. 
The man seems to read your thoughts. Surely, he has figured you to be a woman by now. An easy target, if he wishes it. “We will not harm you, this we swear. We want only your time and to ask a few questions.”
“Men have done worse to women with smaller promises than that one,” you reply. 
The rain is coming harder now. The mare throws her head. If you do not get her beneath the shelter of trees, she may take herself. Your stomach growls again. The pain of emptiness is setting in. You consider your choices for a moment -- a hungry, endless ride through this weather or hooded men, armed to the teeth. Before the man can refute this -- indeed, it seems he’s rather reluctant to argue this at all -- you make up your mind. 
“Remove your hood,” you say, “I would know your eyes.”
The twitch of a smile appears beneath the beard. “As you wish.”
He raises his hand and pulls down the hood, revealing a head of thick, black hair to the elements. He is a foreigner, and farther from home than the Danes had been. His skin has the dark cast of men from the east, his eyes darker still. 
They are a killer’s eyes. You know it the moment they meet yours and a prickling begins at your neck. But this one is not rabid like the men from whom you had fled. He is a killer, but something tells you he hunts more dangerous prey than you.
“Very well,” you say when you can stand to hold his gaze no longer. “Answers for a meal.”
“You are no longer worried we will kill you?” he asks. You do not think he is as surprised as he feigns. 
“No,” you reply simply. 
The other man, smaller and quieter, shakes his head beneath his hood. This one thinks you stupid or mad, but he winces before he decides to protest, and just as silently, he settles over his saddle and looks away.
.
……………………..
.
The thick trees are shelter enough for the three of you. Several times, as you watch the men set about tying off their horses and building a small fire beneath an outcropping of rocks and a fallen log, you reconsider your foolishness. But when one of the men, the quiet one, retrieves bread from his satchel and places it before the fire, you are finally coaxed down from the mare.
“Here,” he says, handing you the bread and a helping of...dried fish, you realize as you unwrap the parcel. “It is fish.”
You know fish when you smell it. This one does think you stupid, after all. Perhaps he is right. But obvious though the words are, you are surprised to hear that his voice is softer than that of his compatriot. It is better suited to a poet than a man strapped to the teeth in blades. As he pulls away, you get a glimpse of his face, still hidden beneath the hood, and find it younger than the other man’s.
“A Dane’s meal,” you reply, glad your eyes are shielded by your own hood.
“A Dane’s meal is still a meal.” He turns away and sulks over to the far side of the fire. His movements are hitched, a hand going to his side as he lowers himself down. You see no blood on the white of his robes, so perhaps his is an old wound. The healer in you nearly as what ails him, but you hold your tongue and take a bite of bread.
The other man moves more quietly than you would like, crouching beside the fire, his eyes and expression hardly warmed by its flames. He tries to smile at you, but seems to know that will not earn him any faith, and after a moment, his expression slips back into something cold and unreadable. 
“I am Basim,” he says, “This is my...friend. You may call him Hytham, if you wish, though I cannot promise he will hear you over his groaning.”
“I am fine,” says the other man, but you know a lie when you hear it.
You swallow your mouthful. “Strange names to hear in England.”
“Strange times,” mutters Hytham. 
Basim’s eyes run from your feet -- still bare -- to your face, and you fight the urge to draw in on yourself. The urge passes as you realize there is nothing lecherous in the look; it is...appraising. It sees more than you care to reveal, and you make up your mind to eat quickly.
“You have the look of someone who is running. Can I assume it is from Danes?”
“You knew that when you offered this meal. What is it you really wish to know, Basim?”
His lips twitch again. Is it an uncontrolled tick, you wonder? A man like this strikes you as one who has very little outside his control, so perhaps the smiles, if that is what they can be called, are intended to put you at ease. 
“We are looking for our friend. We have news for her.”
Looking for a Dane.
You frown at the dried fish and cast a wary-eyed look at Hytham. “A Dane’s meal, after all. You should have just said so.”
“Would you have taken the first bite?” asks Hytham.
You make a face and it is then that you learn that Hytham does not hide his smiles so easily as Basim. You look back to the other man. “I saw little, I’m afraid. One Dane chased me. That is his horse.”
“You stole his horse?” Basim raises a brow. 
“He deserved worse. He was scarred. A bigger man than he looked. Another called him Ivarr. That is the only name I heard.”
“That is name enough,” says Basim. He sits back on his heels and gestures to you. “Please, eat.”
As you take another bite, you’ve half a mind to ask if they are friends of this Ivarr, but doing so will open the door to more questions and both these men seem the sort to prefer asking them. You have made it this far; you’ll not have your throat cut for nosiness. As you eat, the skies darken, until midday could be mistaken for night, and thunder rolls overhead.
Hytham’s voice draws your glance. You had thought the man dozing as the conversation waned, but he is awake, though his mouth is set in a bitter line. “That’ll be Thor, or so I’m told.”
“You should have stayed in Ravensthorpe,” Basim says, but his scolding is gentle. 
“I tire of four walls. I am fine.”
Liar.
He stretches out his legs, but the motion seems to pain him. He catches you looking. “It has been a long ride.”
“A long ride on an injury, even an old one, can do a man more harm than the change of scenery will do him good.” You shove the last bite of bread into your mouth and swallow. Hytham -- and Basim, too, you notice -- eyes you cautiously as you stand. Or you think he does. He tilts his head, hood slipping until you can see a little more of his cheek. You kneel beside him and ask, “What is bothering you?”
“Not an old injury,” says Basim, “but not a new one, either.”
“Let me look. It will be my thanks to you both for sharing your food, and it will pass time in this rain.”
“Are you a healer?” 
“I was. Before Fremdeleigh burned. I will be one again once I am settled.”
“I am fine.” Hytham’s jaw takes on the proud jutt of someone determined to let their pride outweigh their sense. At last, he has enough of the hood, and sweeps it back so that he can glare at you properly. You had been right. He is younger than Basim, perhaps younger than you, though the handsomeness of his features is weighed down by a pain you had only glimpsed beneath the hood. 
Despite Hytham’s potent scowl, you shake your head. “That’s the third time you have said so and each time, your whining gets louder.”
A rich crack of laughter from Basim startles you both. “Perhaps I should leave you to her and I shall ride to Fremdeleigh?”
“I should think he has learned this whining from someone,” you reply, and this quiets Basim. “Best you stay and hold him down. In case any bones need re-setting.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Hytham tells you quickly. 
“How would I know? You will not let me look.”
“I am -- “
“Fine! You are ‘fine!’” you snap. “Pass the time in pain, then. Have your raider friends look after you. Three days ride from now.”
This pales him. His eyes -- you could not name their color if you tried -- flick to Basim. “Three days? You said it was two.”
“I thought it was.” Basim holds out his hands, but somewhere in the dark of his eyes, you think he knows better. “A simple mistake.”
“You do not make mistakes,” grouses the younger man. He looks back to you. “Have a look if you wish. Or spare me the slow death and kill me now.”
You smile. “I can do either.”
“A healer and a horse-thief. Strange company to find on the road.” Basim stands, drawing his hood over his head. “Swear to me you will not kill Hytham...” He pauses, his eyes flicking to you, and you realize that he has neither asked your name, nor have you given it.
“You are leaving?” asks Hytham, voice rising above the patter of rain. “Leaving me with this stranger?”
“I am riding ahead. Something tells me I leave you in capable hands.”
“No,” protests Hytham. “I can ride.” He gets to his feet. You watch as he grits his teeth through whatever pain plagues him. He holds his ground, even as you stand to reach for him should that change. 
“Follow when you can. And you,” Basim looks to you, “If our paths do not cross again, go well. I would be careful returning to Fremdeleigh, were I you. If what I know of Ivarr is true, he will care less for his horse, and more about the woman who dared take it from him.”
Return to Fremdeleigh? The possibility had not occurred to you. Fremdeleigh is gone. 
Hytham’s protests cease as Basim reaches his horse, lifting himself into the saddle with a grace you’ve only seen in woodland creatures. He waves once and is soon vanished beneath the forest boughs. Hytham spins on his heel, brushing past you, and drops back down by the fire with less swiftness than which he had stood. You know the sight of a man wounded in more ways than one, and some wounds, even you cannot heal.
Instead, you set to business. “Off with this,” you say, tugging at his tunic. He scowls, but the fight has gone out of him. When the tunic is removed, bared skin is revealed to you. The man is, without doubt, not a priest. His chest and arms are wiry with muscle, a few faint scars marring the skin here and there. It is only a happenstance glance that you notice one of his fingers is missing, cut cleanly at the knuckle. 
“You move like a man with broken ribs,” you say, “How long ago did this happen?”
“Months.”
“And it still pains you so?”
“It is the cold.”
At this, you smile. “Foul stuff, the cold. Breeds barbarians.”
Hytham tries not to smile, but that, too, strains him. His friend’s departure -- if that is what Basim truly is to him -- has left him sullen, but he withstands your prodding well enough. Only when your hands run down his sides does he shy. 
“I am --”
“Do not say ‘fine.’” 
Instead, he says nothing.
His skin is warm to the touch, a good sign for the circulation, and you notice that your roving fingers leave gooseflesh in their wake. 
“The bones have set.” You sit back, drawing your feet under you. “Unless you would like me to break them again, this pain will revisit you. If I had my stores, I could make something to ease the burden, but those burned with Fremdeleigh. For now…” You cast your eyes about, at last coming to rest on the sash that had been removed with Hytham’s tunic. “Give me a moment.”
A moment turns into a few minutes. Hytham eyes you warily when you ask for his sash, but agrees, only to panic when you near the fire with the fabric in hand. He is quieted when he sees what you are doing. You wrap a few cooling coals in the material, testing their heat against your wrist, and returning to his side when you are finished. 
“Press this here,” you tell him, “It will soothe the ache.”
“For a time?”
“For a time.”
Bitterness clouds his expression, but it is short lived, disappearing with a nod. “Thank you, healer.”
Your fingers flex at the word. You had not thought to hear it again so soon. Last time, it had taken a year, maybe two, after you had lost everything to find yourself again. As Hytham’s eyes meet yours, you wonder if, perhaps, the Danes were not as thorough in their destruction as they had hoped.
Hytham’s eyes study your face; they are keener than you had given him credit for, and you feel them pulling at the edges of what you wish to hide. 
“What will you do?” he asks. “Could there be anything left of your home?”
“In Fremdeleigh? I doubt it. If I returned, I would likely only find Danes.”
“The Danes are not all so bad.” His smile is wry one, a little more honest than you would like. Either it or the fire has given a pretty flush to his cheeks. “You were unlucky to cross Ivarr. He is a menace.”
“You know him?”
“I know of him.”
“Will you go to Fremdeleigh? To find Basim?”
Hytham nods. “He is testing me. To see if I will return to Ravensthorpe, or follow him. I am good for more than reading scrolls and maps.”
“You look as though you are good in a fight.” You tap a finger to one scar that runs over his shoulder, paler than the rest of his skin. He glances away when you say this, like a maid who has been she is pretty. “It would be a risk to return there. Not when I’ve no promise that there is anything left to salvage.”
“A shame,” says Hytham with a smile, glancing at you, only to look away again. “All this bread and...fish,” his nose wrinkles, “is going with me.”
“Speak plainly, priest.” Your teasing is less pleasing to him than the idea of dried fish, and he waves you off with a flutter of a four-fingered hand. “If you’ve an idea, let’s hear it.”
“Return to Fremdeleigh. Recover your stores if you can. And if you can, come with us to Ravensthorpe. A healer is always welcome, especially one who is not empty-handed.”
“Healer?” You raise your brows with a laugh. “In Fremdeleigh, I am a horse-thief. What if this Ivarr recognizes me?” 
“He cannot recognize you if he does not see you.”
“Spoken like a man who watches the world from beneath a hood.”
Perhaps it is the firelight, but you think you see Hytham’s ears flush a deep red. “Do as you wish,” he says after a moment. “I ride when this rain stops.”
So it is that when the rain stops, you go with him.
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quillith · 2 years
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one for ALL your guys you want to 👁👄👁
OH GOD there are so many. I put under a cut!
Nev: Escapism - Alternative Version (Cover by xUnreachablee)
I guess I have to face That in this awful place I shouldn't show a trace of doubt
SO I would post the entire lyrics page since it's short but. This song was added for Nev's backstory! Her family forbade her from leaving her tiny secluded hometown in the north of the Greying Wildlands. She stayed for over 90 years there before she ran away to adventure! Her family believed they were doing what was best for her but and made their home comfortable but. Yknow
Deliverance: Girls Just Want to Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper
That's all they really want Is some fun When the working day is done Oh, girls, they wanna have fun Oh, girls just wanna have fun
HAHAHA I mean. Deli may be a Working Girlboss but she honestly just wants to live her life to the fullest. For some people that involves saying yes to every opportunity they can get. For others it involves poisoning people. all in a day's work!
Yew: colony by Isaac Dunbar
The aftermath of an armageddon Of my world Who will comfort me? Just the buzzing bees And the burnt-down trees? Who will comfort me?
Yew is known as resident bug guy! Believes dead loves ones come back as insects. After Nana passed away, Yew's interest in soulbugs grew exponentially.. What else can you do when your one parental figure is gone and you were never good at making friends?
Ymira: Poison Root by Alex G
Now I know everything Now I know everything Now I know everything Now I know everything
Ymira... adding her because she's fun. one of her backstory details includes the fact that she's a gossip and loves to perform songs based off of things she's heard. and well. there are consequences to being a nosy bitch.
Xue: My Time by bo en (cw for su/cidal themes)
Close your eyes, you'll be here soon 一二三四五分 ( 1 2 3 4 5 minutes) 時々本当に寝たい (I really want to sleep now) でもこのワードできない (But I cannot)
HELLO this is my dragonborn bloodhunter who accidentally killed his sister, attempted a hasty revivification only for her body to become physically alive but without her actual self to create a husk of who she used to be. this regret is deeply embedded within him! He's now relentlessly looking for means to get his sister back to how she was before the accident. Gilear Faeth is on his kinlist. He's an eternal intern. A favored poor little meow meow among peers.
Yippee: Alphys from the Undertale OST
Instrumental! Alphys has a lot of traits that Yippee possesses. A nerd, someone who rambles about what they're obsessed about whenever given the chance, and hopelessly bad at interacting with their crush.
Morgan: Crack Baby by Mitski
Crack baby you don't know what you want But you know that you're needing it And you know that you need it bad With wild horses running through your hollow bones
THE MOST RECENT ADDITION. There's something about being connected to the Heart. Constantly feeling its presence and things affected by it. Alongside this, Morgan has a lot of questions! She's lost a lot, and would like it all back, please, please.
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alleiradayne · 3 years
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Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…
THE MIDNIGHT RIDE
Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.
Some urban legends never die.
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Part IV - The Midnight Ride
Summary: The end of an era. Warnings/Tags: Some fluff, general elements of horror and fear, graveyards, brushes with death again... Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Word Count: 5,104
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"You alright?"
Lost in thought, I had hardly heard Sam. But the warmth of his presence roused me from my stupor. I shook my head and rubbed the burn from my eyes as I spoke. "Yeah, I… I'm just exhausted. And this research isn't exactly entertaining."
Sam took a seat beside me at the small motel table and pulled his chair so close I might as well have sat in his lap. The warmth of one massive hand enveloped mine, and he set the other on my bouncing knee. That quake subsided beneath his touch, something no other person in my life had managed. But then a sudden awareness sent a shiver down my spine, and I scanned the motel room, searching. Sam, perceptive as ever, answered my unasked question. "Dean's in the shower. He'll be a while. We've got some time. To talk. Only if you—"
I didn't want to talk. At all. What I wanted betrayed every common sense I had. At that moment, I’d do whatever I could, use whatever magic at Sam’s disposal, make a deal with Rowena, anything to cleanse last night's stain of indelible memories from my mind. And yet, I knew those options were anything but. Between Sam’s apparent affection for me and Dean’s overprotective brotherly nature, neither would allow me to harm myself willingly just to get rid of a few nightmares.
But as I stared into Sam’s prismatic gaze, the desire to replace those memories, to shadow them with newer, happier moments, overpowered me.
No. I didn’t want to talk. So, instead, I kissed him.
Myriad descriptions, all vastly varied from one to the next, could never capture the feeling of Sam's lips on mine. I could regale you with comparison after comparison. But none of them would do him justice. Though the moment lasted but a breath, eons passed in that explosive connection where I knew and felt and lived a thousand lifetimes with him. I wanted to do nothing more in that breath than melt into him forever.
My tablet chirped, and the case loomed at the edge of my subconscious. All those imaginary lifetimes vanished as I parted from him, replaced by a cruel reality. Not that I'd squander a reality that consisted of Sam Winchester's love. Or his crooked grin and half-lidded gaze.
"Good talk."
Despite my sour mood, I laughed. "I'm glad we could come to an understanding."
His fingers slipped between mine as he spoke. "Thing is, I forgot… what I said about us last night. When I asked if you wanted to talk now, I meant about what happened to you."
"Oh." Well, shit.
I have never known a person wiser, more emotionally aware than Sam. And Dean often gave him a run for his money. But after all the years hunting together, Sam and I operated on an uncannily similar wavelength. The guy read me like an open book. And when I balked at recounting my harrowing journey beyond the veil, he understood without another word.
"Only if you want," he repeated with a reassuring squeeze of my thigh. "Otherwise, I wouldn't mind a little more of your…" he paused with a coy smirk as his eyes darted to my lips and back. "... preferred method of communication."
"I…" My tablet chirped once more, obliterating the one desire I'd felt in months. "Sam, I promise, we make it out of this case alive, I won't leave your bedroom for a week."
His smile widened as he said, "Only if we spend the following week in yours."
I kissed him again, a little harder, more insistent. Parted, I agreed. "Done."
My tablet chimed for the third time, and I turned to it at last. Sam pointed at the screen and said, "What's cockblocking me?"
Though I laughed, a furious sting prickled my cheeks at the thought of Sam's… I forced the imagery from my mind and decidedly focused on the tablet instead of his face. "I was emailing the curator at the museum. She just sent me some documents about Sleepy Hollow's history."
"Oh?" Sam mused. "Anything worthwhile?" He reached for his laptop, pulled it across the table, and flipped up the lid.
When I opened the attached documents, my heart sank. They merely verified much of what I'd already learned. "Sleepy Hollow was a part of the Tarrytown settlement, originally called North Tarrytown. Most of this information is just facts and history about the town. While the Ichabod Crane story is all rooted in it, the urban legends and folklore are only related so far as this jackass on a horse with no head."
"Not surprising," Sam stated.
"No,” I whined, “but it is a little disheartening that he has next to nothing to do with the town he haunts.”
Sam nodded, then said, “There might be more, though. Earlier this morning, I read that Washington Irving was born in Manhattan. He traveled for many years, but he eventually returned to New York and lived out the rest of his life in Sleepy Hollow. He's buried in that cemetery."
"I suppose," I replied, "but I was looking for something a little more concrete than the author lived and died here. Like actual people that Irving modeled his characters after. Or other legends. He traveled in Europe for quite some time. There's even a Scandanavian story, The Wild Hunt, that has the same throughline. A headless rider that lobs his head at people."
Sam piqued at that, eyes narrowed and head tilted. "But Ichabod Crane is the original telling of the story here. Right?"
I nodded. "Forgetting that it's a hodgepodge of cultural ghost stories, yes."
He laughed at that. "I haven’t read it since I was a kid.”
“Me neither,” I replied. “I only know bits and pieces.”
Dean burst from the bathroom at that, a towel wrapped around his head and one about his waist. “Ichabod Crane was a new school teacher in Sleepy Hollow. And he was hellbent on marrying a woman, Katrina, who was set to inherit her father's very wealthy farm estate.”
"Oh," I mused with a mocking smirk at Sam. "Sounds like we have an expert in our midst."
Dean waved me off as he dug through his bag at the end of the bed. "Sam knows it, too. Right?"
“Yeah," Sam started, "there was another suitor, though. Arthur Van Brunt. He went by Brom Bones Van Brunt.” He paused as he stood. “It’s kind of funny, really, this story reads like a high school drama. The lanky geeky nerd and the oafish jock fight over a girl. Except they never get into the physical altercation Brom wanted. He goaded Ichabod constantly, pulling pranks on him. But Ichabod never took the bait.”
I looked at my tablet, where a black and white photograph of a man stared back at me, then returned to them both. Dean withdrew a change of clothes from his bag, then headed back to the bathroom. Through the open door, he said, “So the story goes, Ichabod went to a party at the Van Tassel farm where he intended to woo and win over Katrina. Brom, instead, scares the living piss out of him with a bunch of ghost stories, one of which was the Headless Horseman.”
“Yeah, I remember that much,” I said. “And then he tried to propose to Katrina, but she shot him down.”
“Exactly,” Sam chimed. “I love how ambiguous the ending is here. Ichabod leaves the party all upset about Katrina. He gets on his horse, Gunpowder, who is very skittish, and heads home. But the Hessian shows up and chases him. Ichabod had just learned the legend, so he heads for the bridge near the Old Dutch Burying Ground. He knows the spirit can’t cross the bridge. Ichabod would have made a decent hunter.”
Dean’s laughter echoed from the bathroom, and he emerged dressed and hair coiffed. “I forgot how innocent this story is. He gets to the bridge and crosses it, but the Hessian hurls his freakin’ head at him before disappearing. The head domes Ichabod and knocks him off his horse. Nobody ever finds his body. Only his hat, Gunpowder’s wrecked saddle, and a randomly smashed pumpkin were found near the bridge.”
A thought bubbled up in the back of my mind and raced to my lips. “So that’s where the jack-o-lantern head comes from. What if… holy shit, what if it was just a prank gone wrong? What if Brom was playing another trick on him and accidentally killed Ichabod?”
Hesitation stalled them both as Sam and Dean regarded one another. Then Dean turned to me and asked, “That does not explain what the hell happened last night. No fucking way that was a prank.”
I hated it, but I knew he was right. “But then what the hell! I’m almost beginning to think it is a tulp—”
“It’s notta tulpa!” Sam shouted. Dean clamped a hand over his mouth, and his shoulders shook with uncontrollable laughter. Sam rounded on him and barked, “Shut up!”
“I can’t help it,” Dean managed through peeling laughter. “Your Arnold impression is improving.”
“C’mon, guys, we need to figure this out,” I groaned.
Dean settled through a deep breath, although his face remained far too red. Sam slumped into his seat again, his stare glazing over, unseeing. When he remained silent, Dean said, “Alright, let’s say they’re spirits. And it’s still this mess of combined ancient myths, ghost stories, and cultural legends. We’re still on the same page there, right?”
Sam and I nodded slowly. “After what happened last night, there’s no way they’re anything else.”
“If they’re spirits that haven’t moved on, we have to burn the bodies,” I stated.
“Or destroy an object that might be keeping them topside,” Dean added.
Scrambled thoughts rattled through my mind as I ran down a list of objects. I soon found myself lost in a warren of possibilities, and as I stared ahead at my tablet, equally dazed as Sam. An answer picked at the edge of my subconscious, like a half-remembered dream. No matter how hard I tried to grasp it, the thought slipped through my hand like water.
“None of it is real.”
From the corner of my eye, I glared at Sam. He remained still, his glassy far-off stare yet unfocused as he spoke. "It's all stories. They're all stories that are too much of a mess for a tulpa. So none of it is real. Whatever these spirits have latched onto, it's nothing from those stories." 
With his words, the image on my tablet clarified as my mind focused. Understanding crept along my skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. I stood then, spurred to my feet, and spoke. “The unmarked grave never mattered. It’s fake.”
Sam nodded. “There aren’t any bodies to burn because those bodies never existed to begin with.”
“It’s all fairy tales and make-believe bullshit,” Dean declared.
I looked first to Sam, then Dean, then back to my tablet, where an image of Washington Irving filled the screen. I turned the tablet to face them, and all at once, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Together, we spoke.
“Death of the author.”
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Never in my entire life had I wished to be anywhere else more than at that very moment.
Three stark-white flashlights illuminated a grand headstone, memorialized by the town of Sleepy Hollow, for one Washington Irving. After so many years without care, overgrowth covered much of the base, and the stone desperately needed a washing. Beyond that, none of us made a single move to start the arduous process of digging five feet into the earth. We simply stood there, silent as the dead beneath our boots.
"Either of you uncomfortable with this?" Dean asked, breaking the silence.
"Yeah," Sam and I replied.
Dean started towards the headstone and said, "Good. Glad it's not just me. Something about this feels wrong."
"It's because we've never seen someone's spirit manifest as anything other than itself," Sam stated. "We're literally digging up a guy because his spirit might have transfigured into characters from his own story."
"Can spirits even do that?" I asked as I scanned the treeline of the graveyard. Though dense fog had choked the grounds last night, literal clouds suffocated the entire cemetery where we stood. "That seems like a lot of power for a single spirit."
Dean posted at the head of the grave. "Only one way to find out." He pocketed his flashlight and hefted his shovel. When he saw us still standing at the foot of the plot, he said, "I'm not digging this grave on my own."
Despite the need to end such a vengeful spirit, I had little motivation to help. Slower than necessary, I picked up my shovel and shuffled to the center of the plot. Sam stepped in behind me, shovel at the ready.
Dean raised his shovel to his waist. Before he moved further, a distant, indiscernible sound echoed through the woods. What was once visible of the nearby treeline no longer was. That thick fog filled the darkness, and I saw neither trees nor sky nor stars. I heard the sound again, too far to tell what it was, but not far enough to miss. My flashlight shook violently as I spun about, but I found nothing besides the Impala behind us.
I turned back to Dean just in time to watch as he plunged his shovel's blade into the dirt. Agonizingly slow, it descended each inch slower than the last. That distant sound echoed once more, ever so slightly closer. As though he conducted an orchestra, that sound crescendoed into an unbearable scream as Dean’ shovel descended until metal returned to the earth.
Earsplitting thunder exploded overhead, and instinct forced all three of us to our knees. That booming drum rolled, mutated until it rumbled through the ground. I knew that sound, too familiar with the feel reverberating through my feet. A fresh wave of icy dread coursed through my veins as those thundering hooves pounded the dirt.
Over the headstone, I pointed my flashlight as I stood. Terror incarnate barreled through the graveyard astride his deathly steed. Above his head, a readied missile sprouted flames as he raced towards us. Every instinct screamed to run. Fuck everything about the legend, the haunting, just get the hell out of there.
But I couldn't move. Frozen solid, I merely gripped my flashlight and shivered.
"Run!"
Dean's shove launched me into Sam's arms, kickstarting my senses. I sprinted for the Impala, desperate for her salvation. I reached it a beat behind Sam and Dean and dove into the backseat. The engine roared to life with a sharp snarl as Dean twisted the ignition. He wrenched down on the shifter, slammed on the gas, and I launched into the backrest as the car sped off in reverse.
"What are you doing?!" I screamed.
"What I should have done last night!" he barked.
I opened my mouth to demand a better answer but only managed to scream and gesticulate wildly. The Headless Horseman vaulted Washington Irving's headstone and, in one smooth motion, launched his flaming cannonball directly at the car.
The sickening crunch of iron on steel paled in comparison to Dean's wail of rage. He threw the wheel to the left, and I grasped onto the backrest as the car lurched, spinning about-face. The transmission groaned in protest as Dean threw the shifter into drive and slammed on the gas once more. With all her horses leaping down the road, the Impala raced into the night, and I flattened against the backseat.
"Mother fucking piece of shit ghost!" Dean bellowed. "Fucking hit my car with a god damned cannonball! I’ll kill you! Do you hear me?!"
“Dean, just watch where you’re going!” Sam shouted as he braced against the backrest and the frame of the car.
The speedometer slid past eighty, and I gripped the leather backrest, nails scoring the supple hide. Sweat coated my palms, and my heart railed against my chest. "Dean, what the hell are you doing! You're going to get us killed!"
The fork in the road appeared around the sharp corner, and Dean roared, "Just trust me!" as he took the paved road to the left.
One hundred. The blinding flash of a memory overpowered my senses. Nearly forgotten, the dull vision replayed in my mind, muted, as though it belonged to someone else. A car sped along a country road. A dog. Spinning, careening, crashing. I screamed as my seatbelt failed. Blood pooled in the cornstalks beneath a sky so blue.
"Try to follow me now, you son of a bitch!"
Dean's voice snapped me back to reality. Behind us, the Headless Horseman gained, and his whip gathered with a flick of his wrist. The vicious bones uncoiled, and another memory threatened to take me under once more. It seemed that death had its own wish for me and would not rest until it came true. Another flash of a fresh memory consumed my senses, dragged me down to my own personal hell. But then a light emerged amidst the darkness, warm and enveloping. I opened my eyes to find Sam holding my hand.
"Focus, Y/N. Stay with me, we're gonna get through this, I promise."
"There's the bridge!" Dean shouted as he pointed. The engine whined, straining under his insistent foot. He glared in his rearview mirror as he growled, "Let's race, motherfucker."
The Impala raced over the transition from asphalt to old stone and wood, rattling the car from nose to rear end. Sam’s fingers turned ghastly white in my grip, but he paid that no mind. His focus remained steady, wide eyes staring into mine. Though he tried to reassure me, the roar of the Impala swallowed his words, and they fell on deaf ears. Like a moth to the flame, I turned back to the Headless Horseman one last time.
The coiled whip unfurled laboriously, each bone rolling over the next and slower than the last. That crawl, that agonizingly painful creep blurred the liminal space between truth and myth’s fabrication until nothing but a swathe of gray smeared reality. My mind filled in that blank void, and I knew then that death had arrived to collect his escaped prisoner.
But the end never came. That infinite second ticked by, lost to the endless depths of space and time as the car breached the end of the bridge. I braced myself against Sam as he reached over the backrest for me. Dean stood both feet on the brake, and the car lurched forward as the tires seized, shredding on the asphalt. When the deafening roar of the Impala faded to its soothing idle, I eased my grip on Sam's arms, and he returned to his seat. Dean checked both of us before scrambling from the car, and we followed not a beat behind.
In the center of the bridge, the Headless Horseman and his nightmare steed hung in the air, suspended mid-gallop. A deep purple glow seeped through the grouted stone surrounding the horse, and beneath his hooves, the bricks quaked. Violent flashes of an eerie green mist lanced from the cracks in the centuries-old rock and lashed the rider’s raised arms to drag him from his horse. Wrenched free of the saddle, he crashed to the stone, his metal armor clattering with a sickening crunch. I winced, unsure of what I was witnessing, an unwitting and unwilling voyeur.
But I forced myself to keep looking. I had to. I had to see it through to the end, to know without a shadow of a doubt that we had indeed laid such a vengeful spirit to rest.
The Hessian launched into the air with a vicious twist of the mysterious green lashes. Gale winds swept over the bridge, filling my nose with burning brimstone, and then the horse burst into flames. He screamed his unholy cry, and I startled into Sam's arms. Though I continued to watch, I cowered into him, and he held me close without a word. The vile inferno consumed the horse in seconds, reducing him to a pile of ash.
The rider convulsed as though in pain, writhing and contorting so awkwardly to be free of his bonds. Metal twisted, grinding and scraping against itself in his bid for escape. I realized then that, in his death throes, the Headless Horseman would emit no other sound. He could not beg for forgiveness nor absolution. He could not plead for his continued existence nor one last moment on earth. No last words with a loved one. And for a minuscule second, I pitied him.
Lightning fractured the sky as the purple glow between the bricks focused in a circle encompassing the rider. As the edges brightened, the bricks inside slipped away into an endless darkness. I had seen nothing like it in all my years hunting. And as the green bonds lowered him towards the void, he thrashed, deeply aware of the end that approached.
A scream rent from my mouth as an arm of sinew and bone and rotted flesh burst from the black depths and grasped the rider's leg. Metal collapsed like tissue paper beneath the fierce grip, and bone crumpled to dust. Another arm lunged for his chest and cleaved his breastplate in two, embedding in his ribs. A third nearly ripped his arm from its socket, his forearm crushed, and a fourth pierced his thigh. Those horrifying limbs dragged the Headless Horseman to his doom, jailors imprisoning their captive.
Feet, legs, and torso succumbed to the darkness, and a defeated stillness settled his ruined body. At last, his arms and headless shoulders sank beneath the zenith, and The Headless Horseman was no more. Like so many grains of sand through an hourglass, the ashes of his steed followed him into the void. 
A final flare of purple and green light surged as lightning illuminated the sky once more. Wind settled, and clouds parted to reveal a full, brilliant moon and a night sky full of glittering stars. At last, the void receded, and the bridge stood whole once more. The sounds of night creatures returned, and the clearing surrounding the bridge expanded as though it took a full, deep breath to hold, its first in thirty years.
Maybe, it knew. Just as I felt it in my bones, the trees, the stone, the tall grass, and the creek beneath the bridge all felt it down to their tiniest molecules. It was over. At long last, the Headless Horseman was no more.
For now.
A clattering of bones cut through the peaceful calm, and I flung my arms out ahead of Sam and Dean. Not that I would protect them from much of anything, what with nothing but my bare fists at the ready. Tension crept across my shoulders when I spotted the source of the sound, and the three of us scrambled backwards towards the car.
The bone whip rattled to a stop a few feet from us, perfectly coiled with its handle extended towards my boots. I regarded Sam first, then Dean, only to then turn back for the Impala's trunk with a scoff. A readied can of salt lay on top of the stockpile, and I grabbed it as I grumbled to myself.
"Unless something's keeping it topside.” I slammed the trunk shut. “Gimme a break. Of course, something was keeping it here," I continued to myself as I stomped back to Sam and Dean. I prodded the latter in the shoulder and asked, "How? How the hell did you know?"
Dean shook his head as he held his lighter in one hand and withdrew a motel matchbook from his pocket. "I didn't. I didn't know the bridge would work. And I didn't know the whip had anything to do with it. I just had a—"
"Remember the last time I had a hunch and convinced you to drive the Impala over a hundred?" Sam interjected.
Before Dean could respond, I spoke. "Speaking of which…" I paused as I finished pouring a generous amount of salt on the neat pile of bones and snapped the can shut. "Don't ever drive that fast again."
Dean’s brow shot to his hairline as his jaw dropped. He gestured to the bridge, looked to it, then turned to the pile of bones and gesticulated wildly at them. After he stuttered the beginning of a few statements, he blurted, "What was I supposed to do?!"
"Not one-oh-five, that's for damn sure!" I stated. "We could have died!"
"We would have if I hadn't—"
"Alright, that's enough!" Sam interjected. "I'm sorry I brought it up. Let's just put this son of a bitch away for good this time."
"Yes, sir," Dean agreed. "One salt and burn, coming right up."
The book of matches took the flame of Dean's lighter with a sharp hiss. A flick of his wrist sent the little ball of fire cascading to the ground, and in a single beat of my heart, red consumed the world in a crimson concussion.
The ring in my ears faded, and the blinding light dimmed, darkness settling around us once more. Flat on my back, I stared up at the shimmering night sky, beyond dazed. When I sat up, Sam’s hollow voice called from afar. But the moment his touch soothed my shoulders, a shock of clarity rushed through me, and I saw he knelt over me.
“Talk to me, Y/N,” he repeated. “You okay?”
I thought for a moment, taking inventory once again. No broken bones, no blood. Not even a hint of pain despite the lingering soreness from the previous night. “I… I think so. What happened?”
Dean strode into view, an ornately gilded box cradled in his hands. He set it on the ground at his feet, and then I spotted it. The whip lay intact where it had rolled to a stop earlier. Salt scorched black cowered beneath the pale white bones as though frightened of its failure to purify the whip. I pointed at it and repeated myself. “What the fuck just happened?!”
Sam spoke when Dean hesitated. “It looks like the whip is protected. Somehow. Whether the Headless Horseman did it or it’s part of his curse, I’m not sure. And it’s irrelevant anyway. We’ll have to find some other way to destroy it.”
“But then… What happened last time? With your dad?” I asked as I stood. Sam hopped to my side once more, his gentle strength lifting me to my feet.
Metal rasped on metal, and my attention snapped to Dean. His hand rested atop the box, the metal gears working with fine clicks and clanks. When he removed his hand, the lid lifted half an inch and hissed a violent release of pressure. Of its own accord, the lid then continued to rise, revealing rich black velvet. Darker than night, the fabric lined the entire box, and it absorbed the moonlight, much like the void that had taken the Headless Horseman. When Dean withdrew a similar thick velvet cloth from the box, he spoke. “John did put the Headless Horseman away thirty years ago.” He paused as he grasped the whip with the velvet. Gingerly, he eased it into the box, then spread the cloth over it. The heavy lid shut with a hollow thunk and the metal gears worked once more, sealing shut on its own. “But, he came back.”
“Because of the whip?” I asked.
Dean nodded as hefted the box and turned for the Impala. Sam and I followed, eager to be on our way. Given our cargo, I doubted Dean would want to stay another night in Sleepy Hollow. Resolved, I figured I’d at least steal a pillow for the ride back.
We followed as Sam said, “We’ll take it back to the Bunker and find another way to destroy it.”
“Otherwise…” My question drifted, lingering like an unwanted guest that had overstayed their welcome.
With a grunt, Dean shoved the box into the trunk. “Otherwise, the next unlucky bastard that touches this thing will become the Headless Horseman.”
The terrifying implication settled in the pit of my stomach. An indestructible weapon possessing unwitting people. And yet, I knew that dichotomy well. Old as time, that one. The immovable object, an inanimate manifestation of immortality, meets the unstoppable force, the perpetual stupidity of human curiosity.
“We need to get on the road,” Dean stated as he shut the trunk, then strode for the driver’s door. There, he cried a soft, short sob and spoke to the car. “Oh, Baby, look at you. We’ll get you home and cleaned up.” Then he ripped the cannonball free, wrenched the door open, and slid into the driver’s seat. The awkward crunch of ill-fitting metal joints damn near broke my heart. And not just for Dean, but for the Impala as well, for she had seen us through a most harrowing night yet again.
Sam leaned in beside me then and asked, “Mind if I sit with you?”
“I’d… I’d like that. Very much,” I replied as a sudden chill crept beneath my skin. “I don’t think I could handle the whole ride back by myself.”
He opened the door and gestured ahead. “I make a pretty good pillow.”
As he slid in beside me, I said, “I look forward to finding out.” The warmth of his entire body, so close to mine, pulled me in, a moon to her earth. His long arm draped over my shoulder, and I curled into him. For a brief moment, the case ceased to exist. Only my exhaustion reminded me that I had gone toe to toe with the Headless Horseman and, for the most part, won.
But then a familiar thought occurred to me, and my weary eyes snapped wide open. “It’s true, then.”
“What is?” Dean asked as he turned over the backrest.
My breath caught in my throat, unwilling to put into the universe my worst nightmare. But between Dean’s confident stare and Sam’s soft gaze, I’d never felt safer. Even in my darkest moments, the Winchesters would be there for me. I put my faith and confidence not only in them but in myself as well. No matter what happened next, I believed in us.
“What’s true, Y/N,” Sam asked.
I gave him my best smile and spoke.
“Some urban legends never die.”
Dean shook his head as he turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The Impala rattled as she started, exhausted as each of us. When she settled to idle, Dean looked at me in the rearview mirror and spoke.
“No. They live just long enough to meet us.”
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Ask of the Lesser (Frankenstein/Lovecraft Works) 9: The Importance of Being Ernest
The creatures’ furious howling accompanied by shattering glass echoed ahead of us as Victor and I ascended the dark stairway. Victor had slowed so I could keep up, but even with the pole doubling as a cane for support, I still found myself falling behind him as we followed the sounds to Curwen’s lab. Inside the room of scorched stone, the creatures were ransacking everything they could reach, from scoring their claws across cryptic inscriptions to hooves smashing large bowls and scattering salt from broken vases. Victor growled and reached for Curwen’s tattered copy of the Necronomicon, but I yanked his paw back. He blinked at me in surprise.
“They will demolish Curwen’s lab permanently, Victor, but that means little if the man himself walks free,” I explained.
Victor bared his teeth with a determined nod, and we hurried down the stone hallway. Human voices came from an adjoining corridor up ahead. My initial joy at hearing the approach of my fellow species faltered as I recognized the concentrated rage within their cries. Shouts of my prison escape and finding my horse near the same university where Victor had done his wicked work filled the hall. Victor backed behind me with a whine, but they had already turned into view. The roars of vengeance fell silent.
“Guten Tag,” I greeted them with a little wave. Victor covered his face and turned away with a whimper. “I understand how this may appear, but Curwen—”
“Monster,” Button Boy croaked. The groups hardened stares melted like wax to reveal the most primal form of human fear beneath.
“You are wrong,” I stammered, trying to turn Victor around to face them. “He is no enemy, but Curwen is—”
“Monster!” Button Boy wailed, pointing a trembling finger. The gravity of my situation deprived me of enjoying my adversary’s despair.
I began to explain, but rationalization failed as raw instinct sent the entire caravan scrambling back from where they had come, wailing warnings of hellspawn and demons.
“They will return, we must hurry!” I breathed. Victor remained silent, his paws still clutching that half-formed crater of a face. How the tables had turned for him! I touched his shoulder.
“Do not listen to them, they call me a monster too.”
He whimpered a little.
“Victor, we must hurry. We need to find Curwen before he does this to anyone else.”
A familiar scream echoed further down the hall.
“You will never get anything from me!”
I coughed in disbelief. Walton?
Victor’s head perked up as the captain shouted an onslaught of sailor curses. Flexing his paws, Victor started forward with newfound determination. The brief rest rejuvenated me as well and we followed the screams to another door. We crouched out of sight, and Victor’s claw pushed it open. I saw Curwen feverishly pacing across an old lecture room, now crowded with twisting instruments of varying sizes and shapes I recognized as medieval torture devices.
Suspended in the center of it all was Walton with his hands tied above his head shaking enough to make the entire rope tremble. I stifled my happy cry, he was alive! My joy wilted as Curwen yanked Walton’s chin up to his wild eyes.
“Failure bars me at every turn. Victor must have shared more than what you published—tell me!”
“Not a word,” Walton spat. “He took it to the grave—where you should have left him!”
“Your bravery may have served you well on the ice, but here in my world, it is a liability.” Curwen said in his hollow tone. He twirled a knife dangerously close to the captain’s throat. “I will get answers from you. What that takes is entirely in your hands, which, if you have not noticed, are tied at present.”
“You leave him alone!” I shouted, jumping into view.
Curwen turned to where I stood in the doorway. I could see the raw cut I had left above his right eye, it would leave a nasty scar.
“You? You are dead!”
“I came back. Runs in the family.”
“Ernest, you must flee,” Walton shouted. “Tell the townsfolk, get help! If Curwen’s work is not thwarted, we will all perish!”
The smell of smoke from the hall graced me, thick and smoldering. The town is way ahead of you, Walton.
“Curwen’s work is at an end. His lab and underground stock are destroyed,” I smiled as Curwen’s eye’s widened. “Your creations are not so enthusiastic regarding your plans.”
Curwen remained poised, though I could see the tightness in his jaw.
“Do not take that tone with me, boy! Never mind the lab, I can rebuild. Victor was the closest I have come to raising the dead yet! My legacy has only just begun, but dearest Ernest, I can promise that you shall never leave these walls.” He pressed the knife to Walton’s neck. “Now call off those fiends.”
Glass shattered above us as a flaming torch broke through the window and clattered against a table crowded with Curwen’s chemicals. The furniture went up in a glorious ball of fire.
“You are in no place to make to make demands, Curwen,” I said steadily, though the smoke tightened my lungs. Curwen saw my weakness.
“But a feeble invalid is?”
“That depends on you. I am not the one with any use for this.” I walked toward the flaming table and held out the journal, letting the pole fall against my side. Curwen’s ever-proper frame stiffened.
“Victor’s journal?”
“This old thing?” I chuckled, lowering the book dangerously close to the flames. “These diagrams are far too advanced for a feeble invalid such as myself. It would make fine kindling, though!”
“Fool!” Curwen’s voice boomed around the room with monstrous ferocity. “You know not what you do. Burn those notes, and mankind will lose the ability to cure death forever!” His face loosened into a kind smile as the knife left Walton’s throat. “Maybe my ideals do not align with yours, but consider the benefits if this research were delivered into worthier hands? Would you damn humanity based on one bad egg?” His neck snapped to the side with a wicked sneer. “Do you admit your brother’s research was immoral? That he set out to create monsters as they claimed at the tavern? On the docks?”
My fingers tightened around the book as I fought for breath. “He would have LOVED his creature, had you not mixed his notions of life with such unbridled evil!”
“Oh, so you are buddies now?” Curwen cackled. “Have me take all the blame and forgive him for his bad parenting!”
“I cannot forgive him, but I understand his reasoning. I could never hate my own brother. Do you agree, Victor?”
Slippery shuffling came behind me as Victor crawled into view. I watched his shadow overlap mine as he stood on his hind legs. Walton screamed and struggled with newfound terror. Curwen’s face turned the color of clean bone.
“Ask of the Lesser, lest the Greater shall not wish to Answer, and shall command more than you,” I quoted, and Curwen stepped back. “You thought I was easy prey, but you made a mistake picking on a nothing like me.”
Curwen wiped sweat from his brow. “You misinterpreted the entire point of that warning—as though the grand scale I work on would encompass the likes of you!”
“Interpretation is a funny thing,” I said. Curwen’s taunts would shackle me no longer.
Curwen did not respond. His eyes were all for my brother.
“Do not do this, Victor,” he croaked. “I can return you in full yet. Consider the possibilities! We can still—”
Victor leaped over my head toward Curwen with a howling scream. Curwen grabbed a nearby vase and smashed it on the floor. Salt scattered around as greenish-black smoke hid him from view. I spotted Curwen edging toward the backdoor and shouted as much to Victor. Curwen pointed to the salt and began speaking in an unfamiliar language as the salt trembled around me.
“Y’AI ’NG’NGAH,
YOG-SOTHOTH,
H’EE—L’GEB-”
Several vibrating grains combined beside my shoe and popped like a kernel of corn into a glazed eyeball. Similar piles of merging salt began morphing into various bits of flesh that in turn lumped together to form larger pieces.
“Victor, he means to summon up creatures against us!” I cried.
Victor burst through the smoke and slashed at Curwen. Curwen’s incantation ended in a splutter of pain as claws scored across his arm. The half-built body of Curwen’s abomination slumped lifelessly on the floor. At the edge of my vision, flat tentacles slipped away.
Curwen pulled a vial from his satchel and smashed it against Victor’s head. Victor howled and pawed violently at his eyes as Curwen rushed to the backdoor. I started forward, but he was too far ahead. Curwen paused at the threshold to laugh.
“Mistakes were made here, but failure breeds success. You think yourself so great? I command a darkness your puny mind could never comprehend! My work is far from over, and so is yours. Those fiends you have released even I cannot control! When they are done wrecking the place of their birth, they will charge into the city and spill the precious lifeblood of every man, woman and child in sight!”
The blood I had been transporting was food for the creatures? My last shipment had been confiscated, they had to be starving! Curwen smiled as he shut the door.
“They are your responsibility now, Ernest.”
Victor stopped pawing at his head. He glanced at the door, then me.
The townsfolk cheered somewhere nearby. Smoke drifted in from the hallway to merge with the spiraling cloud from the blazing table. Curwen’s brainless creatures surely had the sense to flee fire! I bit my lip, if the two groups met, it would be a massacre.
“Victor, in your journal you wrote of attempting to disperse your creation, correct?” I flipped to the corresponding page and the quote Victor’s shaky hand had scribbled down. “If I read this, would it turn them back to salt?”
Victor nodded and reached for the journal.
“No, it has to be me. You cannot speak, remember?”
The paw lowered. Victor released a little whimper and tapped my shoulder in concern.
“I can do it. You must stop Curwen!”
Victor stared back.
“When we were children, you always told me I could be great if I only applied myself,” I said quietly. “You saw something in me when everyone else only noticed weakness. Let me prove you right, Victor. Let me disperse them!”
“With all due respect, Ernest, I am burning here!” Walton pleaded, still suspended central to an encroaching wall of flame.
Victor dashed over and snapped the rope between his paw while the other gently lowered Walton to the ground. Walton trembled at the towering creature, though to his credit he did not turn away. The flames were growing around us, it would not be long before both Curwen’s exit and the hall were inaccessible. Victor glanced to me, and I smiled. His head dipped, and he rushed over to pry the backdoor off its hinges before following Curwen.
“You must explain all of this to me later, Ernest,” Walton huffed, rubbing his rope burned wrists.
“Walton, you need to get the townsfolk away from here,” I urged. “They will listen to an upstanding citizen such as yourself. If I fail to disperse those creatures, they will devour everyone!”
“You sound like a general,” Walton laughed, and I wondered how much more of this madness the withered captain could take. “Despite your slouching, I can see that same determination Victor had when I met him on the ice. It is a power than makes universal law crumble. I shall assist you however I can, Ernest.”
“You are a good man,” I said, and I meant it. “I apologize for lashing out at you before.”
“Ernest, you must not—”
“All I ask, Walton, is for you to write my biography more tastefully than Victors. Just get to the point instead of throwing in such pretentious Romantic prose.”
Walton shook my single hand. “If that is your request, you must stay alive to make me.”
“I will try.”
Walton nodded and we rushed into the hall. As he followed the cheering, I went the opposite direction, toward Curwen’s lab and his creatures. Each step I took was purposeful. Victor would stop Curwen, Walton would evacuate the townsfolk, and I would disperse the monsters. None of us were greater than the other, we were each equal in necessity. If I played my part, all would be well.
I found all ten creatures mindlessly pummeling the steel and concrete remains of Curwen’s instruments, to fixated on smashing dust to notice my approach. I opened the journal with my trembling hand, watching the fiends’ destruction.
“OGTHROD AI’F,
GEB’L—EE’H.”
I dared to glance up and saw the creatures had paused. They could have overpowered me easily, but instead, something like peace settled in their eyes as I continued.
“YOG-SOTHOTH,
‘NGAH’NG.”
A transformation began before my eyes, so terrible I focused solely on repeating the final words.
“AI’Y,
ZHRO!”
Silence greeted the closing lines. I glanced upwards, but nothing remained of Curwen’s creations, except a thin coating of fine bluish-grey dust scattered on the floor.
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