#*sharpe finally getting and clutching the eagle*

[lacomandante]

was listening to old ripped cds from limewire and got to thinking. had sharpe been made a little later or the internet came a little sooner. "lose yourself" sharpe music video..........

[gh0st-onesh0ts]

A Stranger that i once knew- Boothill x Gn!reader

"We've traveled the seas, we've ridden the stars We've seen everything from Saturn to Mars As much as it seems like you own my heart It's astronomy, we're two worlds apart"

t/w- burns on y/n, past memories

summary- Boothill finds you in a flower shops years after the incident

a/n-please for the love of god imagine him with a cowboy accent, i cant write one :(

Nav

It was a slow day at the shop, rain covered the windows and the big glass doors. You sat at the front desk making flower arrangements to hang outside the day it stopped raining. Lavender, Tuplips-

“I need flowers for my daughter's grave.” A tall cowboy barged in through the front door. He looked like he wasn’t human.

“Oh, I'm Sorry for your loss.”

The large man stayed silent after that. you quickly scurried around collecting all the flowers that you needed for the bouquet Lillies, Hydrangea and what else? You thought to yourself. While putting together this arrangement you felt the man's eyes burn into you. He studied your every movement, like you were gonna pull a gun on him at any moment.

“Whats your name?”

“Y/n.” As your name left your lips, the mans eyes widen.

“Y-y/n? I thought you died in the fire.”

The fire that had left your body scared. The fire that had left a mark of shame on almost all of your body. You instinctively grabbed the side of your neck.

“why… why did you run?”

Why did you run? Because you were scared? Because you couldn't be a parent, because you were ashamed that you couldn't save your daughter? You don't remember anymore. You'd pushes that bit of your past down so much…

“Boothill-”

“Y/n!” His showed his sharp teeth. “You ran! Leaving me with nothin’! I thought you died!”

“I was scared!” You yelled back. You've never been much for yelling matches, but this was the only way you could get it across. “I was ashamed… I couldn't save our daughter.”

Boothill seemed to tense up at your answer. He seemed to have a tough exterior but you swear you could see tears in his eyes. He met your eyes and walked closer to you, clutching his hat against his chest. “Darling…”

Your vision bargain to go blurry as tears began to fall. It had been years, you'd forgotten how much you missed him. “She would've been 13 this year.”

“Yes. Darling she would've.”

“I'm sorry!” The tears you'd been holding in for years spilled out.

Your coworker finally came out of the back room, and seeing your tears she instantly turned to Boothill. “What did you do!”

“I didn't do nothing!”

“Likely story!”

“no he's right… he didn't do anything.”

“then what the hell happened?”

Neither of you said a word, your coworker wrapped an arm around your shoulder trying to comfort you. Boothill couldn't help but look at you with sad eyes. He didn't know what to do, he'd been alone for so many years human emotion was strange to him.

“would you like to go visit her grave?

“Yea… yes I would.”

Your coworker still looked at him with eagle eyes. “If you hurt a hair on their head, I'll swear to aeons.”

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

Seeing Triple

John-117 was tired.

He was too tired. He couldn't see straight, but he couldn't sleep either. He couldn't quiet his mind, but he couldn't put together a coherent thought. It was all one mixed-up, jumbled-up mess inside his brain.

Well... nothing new there.

The Pelican rocked gently as Esparza flew them back toward the FOB. The blood tray was sealed tight, leaving the troop bay dark except for the dim emergency lights that lined the walls. Not that John needed lights to see, per se... his augmentations afforded him extremely advanced night vision.

Still, the darkness was welcome. He lay his head back against the bulkhead, hoping to let the gentle swaying of the Pelican rock him to some semblance of rest. He could actually, against all odds, feel his body begin to drift off...

Then he heard the sound of someone clearing their throat. The Master Chief lurched to his feet, the Sidekick that he kept holstered on his hip already in hand and trained on the source of the sound. "Hands where I can see them," he ordered sternly, before he even had the chance to register what he was looking at.

When he finally did manage to focus his gaze two thirds of a second later, the Spartan felt something unfamiliar grip his chest. Surprise. It was a sensation he hadn't felt in quite a while.

The other, unexpected, occupant of the Pelican was in a stance that mirrored John's almost perfectly, though in his hand he clutched an M6D. He cut a striking figure, standing over seven feet tall in armor painted a green so dark it almost looked black. Three numbers were scrawled across his left breastplate in bold, white paint.

117

"Who are you supposed to be?" the intruder barked, his hands gripping the pistol tightly. His voice was shockingly familiar.

Before John managed to answer, a third figure stepped forward from the back of the Pelican. "What kind of mess did she get me into this time?" the newcomer said, his tone clearly exasperated. His armor, though similar to John and the first intruder's, was painted in the mottled greens and grays of a camouflage pattern as opposed to the set green of the others. His upper arms were dominated by large pauldrons bearing the symbol of an eagle with outstretched wings.

A pistol appeared in the man's hand, and in an instant all three of them were regarding one another through the iron sights of their sidearms.

"Maybe one of us ought to say something before we all start turning each other to Swiss cheese," the newest addition to this bizarre party said slowly. His voice was, once again, hauntingly familiar - though there was something different about it. Younger, maybe.

"You want to talk?" the man in the darker armor barked. "Alright then, talk. Where did you two come from? Who authorized you to wear my armor?"

John cocked his head to one side. "Your armor?" he questioned. Something clearly wasn't quite right here. Several moments passed in increasingly tense silence.

"Everyone lowers their weapon at the same time," John finally said. "Then we can figure out what's going on here without being worried about any... accidental discharges." It was a measured tactic - if these impersonators were here to attack him, he still felt fairly confident that he would be able to handle a pair of copycats even without the use of his weapon. Besides, it would mitigate the risk of a stray round catching the pilot.

The others considered John's suggestion for a moment, then nodded. In unison. It was unsettling.

Slowly, the trio managed to lower their weapons to the ground without anyone deciding to do something stupid. Then they eyed each other in another bout of tense silence.

"I guess I'll go first," the one in the darkest armor finally said. Then, rather inexplicably, he lifted his hands to his helmet and removed it.

Any thought along the lines of Why in the world are you taking your helmet off in a combat zone? died on John's lips when he took in the man's face. Or rather... he took in his own face.

The sharp intake of breath from the other interloper was evidence that he had been taken off-guard by the view as well.

"Master Chief Petty Officer John-117," the now helmetless man said, fixing each of the others with a hard stare. "Now who are you?"

John turned toward the man in the back of the Pelican. Despite the fact that they were each still wearing their helmets - their identical helmets - it was clear to see that he was staring right back at John with the same question on his mind. And, in that moment, they each found their answer.

John dropped his head, feeling somehow even more tired than before. "This one is going to hurt," he said quietly. "I just know it."

---

@helix-studios117, I finally got it done my dude.

[girlwithadragonheart]

Death's Chosen

Part 5

Halsin x OC: Aspen

Summary: Aspen finally tells her secret.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Lots and lots of death, graphic description of death and decay, grief, self hatred, self blame, Halsin comfort

A/N: I’m on a roll!

Part 4 BG3 Masterlist Part 6(wip)

Aspen woke the next morning with the ache of fresh grief settled deep in her chest, as if the forest itself had turned its back on her. Her body felt heavy with exhaustion, but she dragged herself out of bed, slipping into the same oversized tunic of Halsin’s that had become her quiet refuge. Scratch stirred beside her, yawning and stretching his legs, but he didn’t follow her right away, sensing her troubled thoughts.

The place she had been laying in the grass was blackened and withered. She frowned, arms crossed tight over her chest as she walked through the grove quietly, keeping her head low. The mark on her chest throbbed---a cold, sharp pulse that twisted and churned beneath her skin. The dark veins around it had spread farther overnight, faint black tendrils reaching up toward her collarbone and down her ribs. She clutched the fabric of her tunic tighter over her chest, hiding the creeping corruption. Nonetheless, she could feel it crawling through her veins, filling her with dread.

It didn’t matter. She would leave before it could get worse---before she could hurt anyone. Maybe bloodshed could be avoided this time.

As she neared the gate, her steps faltered. Scratch darted in front of her, blocking her path with a low whine. He pressed his cold nose into her leg, nudging her back toward the heart of the grove.

“Move, Scratch,” Aspen whispered, her voice brittle. “I have to go, I can’t-- I can’t stay.” 

Scratch whined again, more insistent this time, tail low and ears pinned back. Tears flooded Aspen’s gaze, and she put a hand to his head.

“Please,” she said weakly. “I have to.” His look said “no”, and he bolted into the dense foliage that lined the grove’s paths. “No---Scratch!” Aspen hissed, but it was too late. She knew where he was going.

By the time she reached the gate, Halsin was already there, waiting. His tall form stood silhouetted in the morning light, arms folded across his chest. He didn’t look angry. If anything, his expression was calm---concerned, but steady. As if he had already guessed what she was planning long before Scratch reported her.

She was set in her path, though, and she knew this was the right thing. Aspen slowed to a stop a few paces away, her heart racing, hands clenched into fists. “Halsin,” she whispered firmly. “I have to go, you don’t understand.”

“You are not running from this,” Halsin interrupted. His voice carried the weight of command, like the steady flow of a river that could not be stopped.

His tone made her straighten her spine. “You have no idea what I’m running from,” she hissed. “Move.”

“Then tell me,” he insisted.” She looked wild, hair mussed and his tunic wrinkled. Her bare feet were dirty and her hair stuck to her sweat-slicked forehead.

She shook her head. “It’s not for you to know.”

“Aspen---”

Before she could hear what he said, she wildshaped into a mouse, running between his feet and into the forest. Once she cleared the border, she changed again into a wolf, bounding through the woods with abandon. When she got a fair distance, she jumped, shifting into a raven and taking flight.

She heard heavy footsteps in the woods behind her and the screech of an eagle. She attempted to out-maneuver him as he chased her through the branches into the sky. The wind rushed through her feathers, and she heard the mighty wings beating behind her as he gained speed.

She squawked as a heavy force collided with her back. The two of them tumbled through the air, landing with him pinning her to the ground. Together, they shifted back to their natural forms, Aspen struggling beneath him as he pinned her wrists.

“Get off of me, you great brute!” She yelled, thrashing against his hold.

“What are you so afraid of?” He questioned, refusing to let up this one time.

“I killed them!” She screamed. “Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you want to know? I killed them. They’re dead because of me!” Hot, angry tears spilled down her cheeks. Anger and despair radiated off of her in waves so devastating that Halsin had no choice but to sit back in shock. He reeled as though she had struck him, and she scrambled away on the cliff’s edge, knees up to her chest.

Aspen rocked, trying to make herself as small as possible, holding her knees as though she could hold herself together through sheer will alone. Every breath she took felt like shards of ice in her lungs, and the guilt was a relentless tide crashing over her, pulling her under. Her nails dug into the fabric of Halsin’s tunic---his scent clinging to it, a reminder of everything good and safe that she was destined to lose.

Halsin knelt beside her, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, giving her space to speak or not---her choice. But his presence was an anchor, grounding her to the moment. There was no anger in his gaze, only patient understanding, as though he knew the storm raging inside her and was willing to stand beneath it without faltering.

The silence stretched, thick and oppressive. Aspen stared down at her hands, her voice cracking when she finally spoke. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t---” Her throat tightened, choking off the words.

Halsin’s gaze remained steady. “Tell me, Aspen. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

She shook her head violently, her hair falling in front of her face. She gripped the ends of it, as though trying to hide, as though she could protect herself from his kindness. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand,” he said softly, no demand in his voice---just an invitation.

Aspen squeezed her eyes shut, as if doing so could block out the memories clawing their way to the surface. But they came anyway, as unstoppable as they were horrible.

“I was asleep,” she whispered, each word a struggle. “That’s the worst part---I wasn’t awake, wasn’t aware. I wasn’t… fighting anyone or defending myself. It just… started.”

The cold mark on her chest pulsed in response, a cruel reminder of the power she couldn’t control. “I had a nightmare. I don’t even remember what it was about now,” she laughed without humor. “The curse seeped out of me while I slept. It spread through the camp like poison, killing everything it touched. I didn’t even know it was happening.” Her voice cracked as the weight of her guilt pressed down on her.

“I woke up from the dream, and I saw them. Heard them. If you’d heard their screams---” her voice broke, and she shook her head, sniffling. “They tried to reach me,” she continued, hands trembling. “The people in my circle---my friends. They saw what was happening, but they couldn’t stop it. The land around us withered. Their bodies… decayed before they could get close enough to wake me.”

She tugged at her hair lightly, the sting of her scalp bringing her back to the present. “I woke up to the sound of their screams. And by the time I opened my eyes, they were already gone. All of them.” Her voice wavered as fresh tears filled her eyes, but she forced herself to keep going.

“All but her.” She swallowed hard, her throat thick with emotion. “My mother. She was the only one who made it through.”

Halsin lungs refused to take a breath as she spoke. As though he was caught under the weight of her personal torment, living what she had endured.

“She made it to me, but the curse…” Aspen’s voice broke, and she clutched the fabric of her tunic tighter over her chest, as if she could smother the memories with the same desperation she had used to bury her grief. “It was already inside her by then. It was killing her right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do.”

She looked down at her hands, holding them suspended in front of her. “She died in my arms,” Aspen whispered, her voice barely audible. “I watched as the beautiful Elven woman I knew grew elderly within seconds. I watched her hair fall out and her skin grow holes with decay. I watched her eyes mold until they were but specs in the gaping sockets,” she sobbed. “I held her until she was nothing but the bones of the woman who raised me. And I couldn’t stop it,” she said weakly. “I couldn’t save her.”

The memory of that night---the sight of her mother’s lifeless body cradled against her, the stench of death and decay thick in the air---pressed down on her like a suffocating weight. “I killed them all,” she whispered again, the words like shards of glass on her tongue, doomed to forever wound her. “My mother, my friends… every living thing. They’re all dead because of me.”

Halsin sat back slightly, absorbing the enormity of her confession, of her sorrow. He had seen and endured many things in his long life, but the kind of grief Aspen carried was rare---the kind that hollowed a person out from the inside.

“You were asleep,” he murmured, as if reminding her. “You didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“You think that matters?” Aspen snapped, the sudden burst of anger shocking even her. She leapt to her feet, pacing along the cliff’s edge, her hands trembling with frustration. “Intent doesn’t bring them back. Intent doesn’t change what I did.”

Halsin rose slowly, his hands open at his sides, keeping his movements deliberate---calming. “You blame yourself for something that was beyond your control.”

“I have to blame someone,” she hissed. “And who else is there?” She pressed her fists to her temples, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “This thing inside me---it’s poison. Everything I touch dies. I can’t stay here. I’ll hurt everyone. I’ll hurt you.”

Halsin took a step toward her, his voice low and even. “You are not poison, Aspen. And you do not have to face this alone.”

She whirled on him, fury and anguish burning in her eyes. “Why aren’t you angry? Why aren’t you afraid?”

He held her gaze, steady as a mountain. “Because I see you,” he said gently. “Not just your curse. I see the woman standing in front of me---the one who’s been fighting so hard to protect everyone else, even if it meant carrying this burden alone.”

Aspen faltered, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had come. She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking from the effort of keeping everything bottled up inside. “I don’t know how to live with this,” she whispered, hanging her head with defeat.

Halsin stepped closer, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “You don’t have to know right now,” he said quietly. “All you need to do is let someone help you carry it.”

For a moment, Aspen stood frozen, torn between the instinct to run and the deep yearning for comfort. Her fear won over, afraid if he got too close the curse would consume him too. She pulled away, taking a step back, but no further.

Halsin saw the relief in her eyes and her want for help. “You are not lost,” he whispered. “And you are not beyond saving. Silvanus has not forsaken you just yet.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: As always, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! Have a lovely day/night, my loves <3

Tag List: @leiotyp

Interested in my OCs? Go see the OC Masterlist!

[kingmikoto]

𝙞𝙛 𝙬𝙚 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣 ☆ 𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙨𝙪𝙮𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙞

☆ ──── 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: just something i wanted to write for no reason at all other than a sudden suya brainrot i had and wanted to indulge in,, indulging is always good,, also just a forewarning this is an au so it doesn't follow the context of the actual anime/manga

☆ ──── 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜(𝙨): mentionings of violence, suggestive themes, gang au, f!reader gang leader au x mitsuya takashi

It finally happened. You, who were so careful, so cautious, so meticulous. You, who were always after everyone’s ass to be as thorough as possible and not get caught up in their half-ass habits when it comes to dire missions that led to mistakes only made in vain. You, who had told your comrade not to fucking smoke that damn cigarette because you knew it would be a dead give away in the eagle eyes of Toman. You, the infamous black cat of your gang, had ultimately gotten caught.

You had noticed how you were punctiliously bound by rope that could be done by someone who was skilled in the arts of shibari. Something that you knew much about. A light hanging from the ceiling that only partially lit the dark room leaving much to the imagination. You could maybe make out a few shadows that may have been figures, but seeing that they had been so still for the last half an hour they were probably inanimate objects. 

“How long are you just going to sit there and ponder?” You called out. It was only a guess. 

“Oh, you noticed?” The voice called back.

“I could probably hear you breathing from a mile away.” 

A cheshire grin played at your lips as the shadow emerged into the light. His soft lilac hair was illuminated around the crown of his head making him look like an angel sporting a halo. His features, albeit soft, were sharp in all the right places. You could barely make out the tattoo on his temple anymore for his hair had grown out making it look muddled in the meadow of lilac. 

Several other notable figures had followed suit. All characters you had recognized over the time that you had been in your gang that operated only in the shadows and left nearly nothing to the imagination. 

“And here I thought I was being discreet.”

“Just as discreet as your shibari ties.” You retorted.

He chuckled and smiled as he pulled a seat in front of you and sat down. “Actually, it’s kinbaku.”

You peered down at yourself once more, noticing how decorated the knots were in comparison to traditional shibari. 

“But, I’m glad someone finally appreciates the arts.” He continued as he sat up from his chair. His shirt lifted as he rose, revealing a shiny gun on his strap. 

“I’m quite familiar.” You watched as he slowly walked around you. The room was deafeningly silent and you felt as if you were suddenly putting on a show for a familiar audience. 

The sound of his gun slowly coming off his strap captured the attention of your ears.

“Beauty is art in itself.”

The muzzle slowly inched itself across the rope that was so tightly and decoratively bound to your body. 

“Kinbaku is artistic…” He came around behind you and crouched as he lifted the muzzle to the rope around your hips to where another knot met the top of your breast. “...Sensual…”

His gun was right up to your neck now. “...and sexual.”

Your heartbeat was quickening by the moment, but your eyes nor your lips never trembled as his warmth left you to stand boldly in front of you. His stature was perfect as he towered over you. The sadistic smile really never left his pretty lips that contrasted the tender gaze in his violaceous hues. 

“I see that you’re a man of culture.” Your eyes flicked to him. “And I suddenly find myself in your clutches at such a gruesome and inopportune time. How unlucky of me.”

A touch of sadness now met his gaze as tilted his head to the side. Locks of violet falling so delightfully in front of his face. 

“How unlucky of you, indeed.” He cocked his gun to your mouth and you hadn’t even flinched at his fatal gesture. He watched with dejection at his triumph. He had been trying for years now to uncover you and get rid of you, but his hatred turned to obsession. Obsession that you had completely mirrored his thoughst of you into. A femme fatale. One he knew he couldn’t ever tame.

“And unlucky for me, as well.” He urged his gun to press against your lips. 

You could only grin up at him as you opened your mouth to engulf the muzzle sloppily between your lips and not break eye contact for even just a moment. 

Fascination lit up in his eyes as everyone in the room visibly became disgruntled and enamored by your actions. You were met with chuckles and scoffs and suddenly his smile was back. 

He cocked his gun and lowered himself to your eye level as you felt his breath fan lightly against your eyelashes.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with, angel.” His voice was low and slow. The danger in his tone only enticed you.

He slowly removed the gun from your mouth and your smile only returned as he gently moved away the stray hairs from your face as with his muzzle.

“Oh, I think I do.”

He couldn’t help the way his groin just twitched between his legs as he glanced down at you. You who were in no position, only sat there smug as hell as if you had the upperhand in a room full of gang members.

His eyes narrowed at you and suddenly the light in his head went off, but it was too late. 

The window behind had shattered in an instant as several dark entities flooded into the room and the impact had sent your hair flying. Your grin was audacious, wide and toothy and your gazes never tore from one another. Instead, he sighed in defeat as he put his hands up and disarmed himself as you were untied and guns had been put to the heads of every person in the room. 

“Touche.” You heard the short blonde behind Mitsuya say. 

He was impressed as hell, while everyone else struggled to admit that they were, once again met with their match.

You pouted as you rubbed at your wrists. “That’s a shame. I thought they would be a little tight enough to leave marks. Now, I don’t have anything to remind myself of tonight.”

“[name], stop fooling around.” Your comrade, Benkei, who had gotten the both of you caught in the first place, grunted as he shoved your semi automatic into your strap.

You gave him a bitter look and he smiled apologetically at you, knowing he had been the cause of your dismay. 

“Come back and I’ll give you something to remember.” The lilac haired male replied to you with a complacent grin on his dreamy visage. 

You scoffed as you gathered your hair back into a ponytail and readjusted the straps on your blouse. “Maybe, I’ll take you up on that.”

You made your way to the window as your comrades began to file out silently like shadows that blended into the night. 

“But for now, I’ll have to bid you farewell.”

“A shame, really.” What had amazed you was that he had actually looked saddened by your fleeting presence. 

A small sorrow had somehow burrowed itself into your chest as you looked at him fondly.

You put a hand over your heart with the handgun that you had managed to confiscate from him like your members had done the same to the others. A small look of surprise had dissipated into amusement at the sudden realization.

“I’m giving you a reason to find me again.” You waved it into the air as you shoved it in your blouse.

“I don’t have any doubts that we’ll run into each other once more.” His tone was playful yet alluring. “Until we meet again.”

You clutched at your breast as you gave him one last longing look. It was odd how his eyes were already beginning to undress you as you stood there with all the power in the world, and yet he was overpowering you more and more as each second ticked away. The truth was, you were losing each bit of self control and it was straining every bit of your being to leave him so untouched.

“Until we meet again.”

The image of him never left your thoughts.

[angelfishofthelord]

(and heal)

hurt/comfort fic, set in 11x02 if Ephraim followed through on his threat of "what should we cut off first?"

It’s been a few days. A few days since they killed Death and unleashed the Darkness and fought off hoards of zombie-like infected people. A few days since the Darkness became a baby and then disappeared from her own nursery. A few days Sam found a cure for the infected after having the poison coursing through his own veins.

It’s also been a few days since they’ve heard from Castiel.

They can’t track his phone, no matter how many times Dean has told Sam to check again.

(What I have, you can’t help me.)

They followed up on a sightings of seeing a man like him but they still haven’t turned up anything that will lead them to where he is now. From the eyewitness reports it sounds like he’s been hexed with Rowena’s attack dog curse.

(Sam, Dean. Goodbye.)

They’ve also been looking for Rowena and Crowley, hoping one would lead to him Neither of them have been found yet.

(It may be some time before we see one another again.)

A few days stretches like a chasm before them, black and boundless. They keep circling and searching the same area where the last sighting was reporting, more to make them feel like they’re doing something than because it’s actually effective. They  don’t talk much; not about Dean finally being free of the Mark, or about the Darkness, or if Castiel is going to be found dead or alive. The scratchy throat of the radio is the only running conversation as they move from town to town, the long shadow of the Impala crawling like a funeral procession of one.

Then they hear something: a rumor in a diner. Nothing more than the chatty whispers of teenagers at the next table slurping giant gulps of soda between munching on sliders. One of the girls is talking about an abandoned sawmill on the edge of the next town that sometimes screams at starry nights; about dusty black windows illuminated with sparks that another boy dismisses as a trick of the moonlight.

Stars don't scream; Sam and Dean know better than to think the natural is responsible for the unnatural.

If they can’t find Castiel, Sam and Dean figure, they may as well get rid of whatever spirit might be haunting the sawmill before some kid believes the stories enough to check it out for themselves. As soon as they pull up to the skeletal building, however, Sam reaches over and switches the radio off. Dean’s fingers move to turn off the engine, but it takes him a few seconds to connect with the key because his eyes are fixed  on the sight in front of them.

There’s no mistaking the familiar style of the mark etched in blood on the outside of the building. It’s warding sigils. Angels. Angels are here, or have been here, which means Castiel must be here, or close by at least.

The two brothers arm themselves, silently, thoroughly. Blades two each. Sigiled cuffs. Holy fire in one pocket, lighter in the other. Flashlights with beams wide as the mouth of a cave. The door squeaks when they push it open, a long, protracted hiss of rusty hinges. There’s enough cobwebs hanging from the ceiling to reach their nostrils so they breathe shallowly, trying not to inhale too sharply as they move forward. More sigils are painted on the walls inside, blood mingled with the unwiped sawdust. Whoever was--is--here didn’t want to be found by anyone, man or inhuman.

Towards the back of the main room Dean finds the first body. A man in his late twenties, perhaps, wearing a dark suit, striped tie christened with a gaping, bloodless hole in the center. Angel. Dean steps over him, aiming the flashlight left and right until the beam falls across a second body lying face down. Then he turns the flashlight to the other side of the room and it illuminates the wide-open mouth of a third dead angel. His mouth hangs open as he sits propped up against the corner, one hand clasped over a deep wound at his side that has long stopped sputtering grace.

“So angels got him,” Sam whispers, unnecessarily, more because the thought had never crossed their mind. In the past few days of searching for their friend the two had entertained the thought of spells or demons or perhaps the Darkness taking Castiel hostage, but not his own family.

“Bastards,” Dean mutters, kicking the foot of the one face down beside them. “Looks like they got what was coming to them.”

Sam frowns slightly, squinting in the pale light as they walk forward. The sitting angel with the side wound looks familiar, like the vessel Hannah took when they talked to her at Heaven’s gate. He’s about to say something when Dean lowers the light down to a spot on the ground. “Sam,” he vocalizes hoarsely.

He follows his brother’s gaze to the glint of metal near his feet. The breath of the flashlight washes over the scattered tools on the floor--a wrench, a rusty circular saw leaning against the wall like a dark moon, and then-- Sam recognizes what it is. It’s been several years but it’s hard to forget the curve of the metal contraption that was fitted on the screaming angel in Crowley’s lair.

“What’s this doing here?” Dean breathes, bending towards it. The torture device is speckled with blood--fresh  blood that leaves a smear on his finger when he touches it. Half of the long pins in the side are missing. One of them is glimmering a few inches away under the toppled over table, the sharp end slick and red.

“Let’s just get Cas and get out of here.” Sam steadies his own voice with determination and nods towards the doorway ahead. The plastic flaps of the entrance shimmer as they push them aside and walk in to find themselves standing in a windowless dark room. While Dean fumbles with his sputtering flashlight and then goes towards the side to feel for a light switch, Sam moves forward cautiously, only to crash into a round, hard corner of what must  be another table.

“Shit,” he mutters as he stumbles to his knees, hard, just as Dean flips the switch.

Light drowns the room.

Sam’s eyes widen. He stays on his knees, body electric with shock. Besides him his brother makes a horrible choking noise that sounds very similar to “Cas.”

“No,” Sam whispers. His tongue feels heavy and swollen.

Dean’s legs are pitching him from side to side and he means to make them walk forward but they don’t. They can’t. His eyes flicker from side to side, up and down over the sight before him, like tracing a dot-to-dot pattern again and again.

Castiel--pinned against the wall, arms eagle spread. Metal pins driven into either side of his head, giving him long bloody side burns. His feet --shoeless, sockless-- are dangling limply from his ankles where two more pins are driven in. The palms of his hands are stretched open, fingers curled limply around the spikes embedded into the center.

Castiel’s eyelids are shut. Somewhere in the back of the mounting scream in Dean’s mind he realizes that he’s looking at a corpse and every muscle in his body dissolves.

Before he too, hits the ground beside his immobile younger brother, the corpse blinks.

They both leap to their feet and sprint forward immediately. “Get him down,” they gasp to each other at the same time. Sam goes to pull out the pins in his ankles while Dean hooks his arms under Castiel’s to hold him up so he won’t tear his palms when the weight sags.

“Hey, hey,” he repeats, brushing the matted hair out of Castiel’s eyes. “We’re here, Cas. We’re here.”

Castiel blinks, opening his left eye half way. “D’n.” The white of his eyes are webbed in red streaks. His lips are split and yellow-crusted.

“It’s okay.” Dean sucks in a breath and puts two finger on the pin in the right side of Castiel’s head. “It’s okay.” He pulls quickly, hurling the pin behind him before reaching for the next one. Castiel doesn’t even so much as flinch, which worries Dean even more.

When the pin on the left is removed the angel suddenly sags forward, sending Dean lurching back slightly before he bends on one knee to balance the weight. “I’ve got you,” he gasps, circling a hand around his back only to sink into the dampness of open flesh. Castiel’s entire back is lacerated to the point where Dean can’t tell where the skin ends and the exposed muscle and tissue begin. The marble white of his spine shows through the blood, black lines on the ridges showing where his back had been scraped raw against the concrete wall. Dean tries not to look at the spot on the wall where Castiel had been impaled, but he sees it anyways, the red spread of blood filling the corner of his eyes.

Castiel slumps bonelessly into his shoulder. “It’s okay,” Dean murmurs thickly. “S’okay.”

“They cut off his hands.” The announcement comes from above, in a strangled voice that must be Sam’s. Dean jolts his head up and then nearly falls backwards. He’d assumed that Castiel had fallen forward because Sam had removed the pins in his palms.

But his brother is standing there, immobile, next to a hand impaled into the wall. Dean drops his eyes to Castiel’s arms, the ones hanging loosely beside his. The ones that end in a smooth circle sliced clean from the wrist.

“They cut off his hands,” Sam repeats, unaware that he’s repeating himself. He tugs the pin loose and the amputated appendage falls into his outstretched hand. It feels heavier than he thought, fits smaller into his own palm. His knees are starting to fold again and he braces himself against the wall with one hand to keep from collapsing. Somewhere at the side he’s dimly aware of the sob-like sound coming from his brother as he clutches the angel in his arms tighter.

read more on aO3

[magpie-to-the-morning]

Emma! With you at the beach I was thinking about In from the Cold/With a Twist Whiskey at the beach with his girl. I'm sure it would be equal parts romantic and filthy. Am I right? Or, you know, am I RIGHT?!

Love you byeeeeee

You are SO RIGHT.

Very much UNlike me, I think our girl from In from the Cold/With a Twist would have a hard time taking time off. She's a small business owner and her pub is her life. It's not that she's against the idea of a vacation, per se, but I think it would take several months of Whiskey cajoling and teasing and puppy-dog eyeing for her to give in (and even then, I'm positive she'd use the opportunity to also get the floors refinished or something to make herself feel better about shutting down for a week or two).

Whiskey strikes me as a man who knows how to vacation. He comes from money, he works a job with a ton of down time (I'm guessing at his level it's far from 9-5 and they mostly call him in for specific missions), so he's well acquainted with leisure time. He's the one who arranges their house rental (an elegant old Victorian with stunning views from its widow's walk and private beach access). Come to think of it, he might even reveal at some point that he owns the damn place and has been going since he was a kid.

It might take our girl a little while to settle in ("I just feel like I should be doing something"), but Whiskey eases her into it: a spa day or two, some delicious restaurants, nighttime snuggling on the beach.

Eventually she gets into the spirit - renting them bikes, exploring the island (it's Martha's Vineyard, I've just decided), dragging Whiskey onto the antique carousel there. The two of them share ice cream cones and long, sappy walks on the beach, and we discover that Jack gets wicked sea sick when they go on a whale watch ("Why didn't you say anything?" "You were so excited about seeing the damn fish, darlin'. Didn't wanna spoil the fun.")

And as for the spice...

I think Jack KNOWS his girl is having trouble letting go. Luckily, they've been together for a while now (this happens after their quick weekend trip to the fetish convention in With a Twist), so he's got a few tricks up his sleeves now. After a very indulgent night of seafood and champagne, during which he was especially affectionate (sitting on the same side of the table as her, nibbling her earlobe, his hand sliding further and further up her thigh until he can rest his fingers against her dampening underthings...), he gets them back to their bedroom and pounces.

He's all over her, clutching and devouring and consuming her, kissing her breathless and pushing her into the silky sheets, covering her body with his own. After a quick check in he ties her spread-eagled on the bed, blindfolded and gagged so all she has to do is lie back and submit. No thinking, no stress, just allowing herself to be served up for his pleasure - and hers.

And fuck, Jack takes his time. He's brought gear. He spends what seems like hours licking and biting and sucking her tits, working her nipples into hard points and then pulling out a set of nipple clamps. He teases her with that flogger they bought at the convention, alternating teasing flicks and soft drags of its tethers with sharp snaps to make her twitch and start.

She can't speak but he knows damn well what she's begging for when she starts rolling her hips, begging for his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anything to fill the emptiness inside her. Jack chuckles and indulges her, but never for long enough. He edges her until she cries, checking in every once in awhile to make sure she's good (and she is, just desperately ready for him, all her concerns falling away until her entire being throbs with one single need: to come, please, please, please.)

He finally lets her, his cock buried inside her and his loving hand around her throat, telling her "Come on, sugar, you did so good for me. You can come now, I promise. That's it, that's my good girl, Jack's got you. Let it all go."

He unties her afterwards, kissing the marks he's left and rubbing her wrists and ankles to make sure her circulation is good. She's limp and blissed out in his arms and they fall asleep listening to the sound of waves pounding at the shore.

[diaco1968]

Altair x Reader

Warnings! Smut, lemon, unprotected, a bit of choking, bit of humiliation, sounds a little dub/non con in the end

Note: I just realized I've written nothing for my first and longest crush, none other than the arrogant grumpy assassin! Sorry for the slight ooc-ness, I get weird writing about him...

Also amazing art! It's thanks to this, I've been visually crushing over this man for the longest time! *^*

Artist

"Wanna blow off some steam, Assassin?"

He could still feel your hands all over him, the feeling of your touch;

Your fingers running up his abs, tracing his chest, running over his shoulders, nails lightly scraping the back of his neck before they carded through his hair finally coming to a rest in a tight demanding grip on the back of his head.

It was unlike whatever he was used to.

The girls in the garden. They just did what they were assigned to do. Though they were obedient and submissive, they didn't claw at him like they desired him.

It was unusual.

It was exhilarating.

It was wrong.

It had been one of the rare occasions where there was a brief pause in the conflict between the assassins and the templars. A moment of peace that kept you all from jumping at each other's throats while their mentors and your commanders talked out their differences for a mutually beneficial truce. And of course they both had the option of having their choice of bodyguards accompanying them.

That was how he first met you. In person and eye to eye. With a distance of less than a rooftop, even less than a swords lenght, apart.

He couldn't get it off his mind now.

You had heard of him, seen the havoc he had caused in your ranks without even being seen. And he had seen you before as you barked orders at your little pawns and cut through his less experienced brethren with no mercy.

Always from afar.

Maybe that was the reason you colided hard the moment those roles were gone and out of the way. Attracted by the differences like day and night.

So when you cornered him alone with that very suggestion you were met with little to no resistance as you grabbed his collar and crashed your lips onto his. You demanded and you took as you pleased, making him bend to your will and despite his arrogant self, he liked that. He liked being wanted. The way you had him on his back in moments, straddling him so full of confidence. You were quite a skilled rider too.

Had him wondering if he had finally met his match?

Now as he stalked in the shadows waiting for you to make a wrong move, he wanted to take back. He wanted you. He had spent weeks being distracted time and again by the memories of your little encounter, now that he was so close to you again he couldn't help but drown deeper and deeper in his inner conflict. Thess were slightly different times, what if you rejected him? It would be so embarrassing... and he couldn't just kill you off if you did, that would harm the truce...

He shook his head as he caught himself thinking nonsense again.

Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent...

You were a templar though... did you count?-

He didn't have time to measure your innocence as your pawns left to do something you ordered them to and finally you were all alone. All his. Easy prey.

A hand wrapped around your arm, twisting it behind you as he pulled you into the alleyway and slammed you front first into the wall.

"You've become too dull."

"Have I really?"

That was when he noticed you didn't use your other hand to brace yourself on the wall. The little sharp pain in his side from the blade threateningly pressing into him was proof enough.

"You'd still die anyway. So, yes, you have."

He let go of your arm and you turned around to face him in the very little space provided by his arms caging you to the wall, teasingly grinding your ass back onto him. He of course suppressed the little hiss in response, not wanting to give you the satisfaction.

"You think I dismissed my men because I'm dull and not because I saw a certain assassin lurking around in the shadows?"

He narrowed his glinting golden eyes at you.

"You are bluffing."

You chuckled as you wiped at your scraped cheek to ease the stinging.

"What ever helps your ego."

You could see his scowl even from under the hood casting shadows over his face that complimented his features, as he loomed over you, completely silent. His sunkissed skin, sharp bones, haunting eyes, defined scar over his lips.

"You are in templar territory, what do you want, bird?"

His grimace at the nickname had you smirking triumphantly. Why did you have to know their language... it was annoying.

"Don't call me that!"

"But that's your name."

You looked smug and he didn't like that but you didn't have all day for the yarn of his ego to untangle on it's own. You reached up, slipping your hand inside the hood and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him down to you so you could whisper in his ear.

"Or do you prefer, Eagle? Am I your poor little prey this time?"

He could feel the goosebumps rise over his arms as he growled in annoyance, your voice rolled over his skin smoothly.

"If you were, you wouldn't live long enough to mock me."

"Flattering."

Your smirk widened, nipping the side of his jaw and pushing him off a whole step before he could react.

"Come, boy."

"... tch..."

Clicking his tongue he wondered if this was all worth it any way as he watched your form striding down the alley, taking his time before he decided to follow you.

To an abandoned building, top floors almost burnt away, leading to a giant hole in the roof opening up to the skies. At the entrance you grabbed his hand cause he was hesitating to step in.

He would have preferred more hospitality... like your own quarters maybe...

He didn't have time to ponder as you pushed him back on one of the few surviving furniture, before straddling his lap.

... a long wooden bench... in a burnt building with cold stone wallls...

"We're in a church!-"

You were already half way through his robes, heavily dropping the weapon belt on the ground as you looked up at his anxious expression, scoffing.

"And? Are you a religious man, Assassin?"

He glared at you but you had a point. He just didn't expect such disrespect from you. Were you not fighting as part of Richard's army?...

"You're shameless."

"Shame is a weakness. You didn't seek me out beacuse I am a weakling now, did you?"

You plopped down on his now not dangerously armed crotch and his hands shot up to grab your hips and steady you.

"Who said I seeked you out? I was just in the area for a job."

"Ouch... you mean you killed off one of my men and came to add insult to the injury?"

He paused as you paused staring down at him. Well maybe he didn't choose his words right. He wasn't good at lying on the spot.

"That's hot."

At this point he had no idea if you meant the things you said or if you were being sarcastic. But he didnt care as you started grinding down over him.

Like last time.

Oh hell no.

He flipped you, so now you were lying on your back looking up at him surprised.

"Not this time. You are mine now."

"Oh? Fine then, show me what you've got."

You almost immediately regretted that as the pit in your stomach deepened not only from excitement but from fear as his fingers wrapped around your throat tightly, nudging your legs apart to settle between them. As you let him discard your clothes, it was probably the first time it downed on you. The danger you were in. He could actually kill you. And no one would know. Kill you and leave you there disgraced and dishonored with no one to know where to look for you.

You wheezed loudly, clutching the wrist of the hand he had wrapped around your neck, your train of thoughts derailed as he unceremoniously thrusted himself into you.

His fingers left your neck, to fist in your hair instead, arching your neck so he had more room as his lips met the delicate skin, his stubble scratching you pleasantly. You grabbed the back of his neck, pressing his face deeper into the crook of your neck and he didn't mind endulging you, sucking and nipping on the skin, combined with shallow slow thrusts had you arching and twisting under him, trying desperately to get more friction out of him. He gripped your hips tightly, pinning you down and restraining your movements.

"I said you'll be good and do as I tell you to."

"That is not what you said."

"Don't test me, (y/n)."

He growled in your ear, his voice rumbling from deep in his chest and you were not about to argue with that as you hummed in response and decided to oblige.

He briefly pulled out of you, only to pull you up and dropping you on your knees on the stoney ground. With a hand on the back of your neck he had you face down, arse up and he plunged himself back into you groaning at the way you twitched around him eagerly with a loud wanton moan.

His other hand grabbed your hip to keep you from jerking forward while he drilled into you, completely different from his earlier pace.

"This is what you want after all. To be fucked like a little bitch with an important audience."

Between your moans and scratching at the ground in pleasure mixed with pain you didnt have time to wonder who, until he grabbed a fist full of your hair and pulled you back against him so you were facing  the old crushed cross behind the altar.

"...you fucking basta-geh!"

He shoved his fingers into your mouth, down your throat, deep enough to make you choke and gag around them.

"I'd watch my mouth, if I were you."

He resumed kissing your abused neck, fingers thrusting in your mouth, creating lewd wet noises and heavy moans.

You were close, he could tell. You were constricting around him so tight he almost released a few times if not for the way you bit his fingers angrily. But he wanted you to finish first. Wanted you to whimper and beg as you just couldn't anymore.

He sunk his teeth in your shoulder and that was it for you. A high pitched mewl and you were clamping down on him violently as your release shook you to your core, slumping over him as he slowed down ever so slightly.

Then he let you drop on your front and resumed his brutal pace, seeking his own release now, disregarding your half hearted protesting sobs.

It didn't take him long and he finished over your ass, panting heavily as he watched your shaky body, get used to the abuse way too quickly as you rolled over underneath him to shoot him a glare.

Awkward silence engulfed you both as he got on his feet and even helped you up with a hand and you both started fixing up your clothes and putting your weapons back in place.

This was not how it ended last time. The silenece made him wonder if he did something very wrong. If your little forbidden rendezvous had come to an end because of him. If it had, it was probably for the best but... he felt a pang of sadness thinking about it. Oh how he wished for you to open your smug mouth and say something. Anything.

"I think we can both agree, I am better off in charge."

"You wish, Templar."

"...well... yes, I do. That's the whole reason behind our ancient conflict, Assassin."

[bump1nthen1ght]

Thicker than Water (Demon x Reader) Chapter 1

Pairing: Female Reader x Gender Fluid! Demon

Genre: High Fantasy

Warnings: Arm Injuries, Several mentions of blood

Word Count: 1870 Words

Summary: A summoning gone awry ends up in your favor

Chapter 2

A/N: Alright, I know I literally just posted a demon story but this post showed up on my dash and my god if I have never been more inspired to write a fic. I legit wrote this in 2 hours in a frenzy. Also I plan this story to be multi-chap, but still rather short, so maybe 3 parts in total

Before that night, you had never known what nearly-passing out felt like.

Your mother had done it, once or twice, usually after a particularly stressful day at the shop. If you didn’t check on her between your studies she may forget to eat entirely, your father as well. But you had been lucky; Someone had always been there to catch her, to cradle her head and spoon-feed her strength back.

On the forest floor, surrounded by the smell of your own blood, you have no such luxury.

The black spots flickering in your vision blend into the desne canopy above you and your tears only muddle your sight. The iron and copper of the summoning circle drawn around you drown out the scent of fresh pine and grass, while your ears can only focus on your own heartbeat and the bickering of the four boys.

Oh, that’s right, they’re still here.

It seems you had lost more fluid than you realized, probably because of your incessant crying. You had tried to stop the flow, but your brain was losing coherent function with every second. The boys conversation sounds far away and hollow, bouncing off your eardrums and confusing your sense of direction

“You idiot, I told you not to go for the arm!”

“We needed a lot of blood!”

“But she needs to read the ritual dumbass! She can’t if she dies!”

Ah yes, the ritual, it all is flooding back to you now.

Having received a private education from your father at your family’s apothecary, you were already prone to isolation as a child. It didn’t help having no siblings, nor a lacking natural talent for friend-making. Although you had lived in the city all your life, the young people your age knew very little about you, and you them.

You knew they had rumors about you, The daughter the apothecary hides away; That your gaze can turn people to stone, that you can curse and poison people with a couple words and the right ingredients.

The truth was you weren’t so glamorous. You knew your way around a medicine cabinet, sure, but nothing about poisons or magic spells. You didn’t have any special abilities to compensate or explain your reluctance for socialization. Just some overprotective parents and a shy disposition.

So when the handsome postmasters-son began to pay you special visits, you let your guard down. You let him walk you to and from the market, memorizing your weekend route. You let him in for a bit of tea late at night, especially when it seemed so cold, and told him where the spare key was kept. And yes, you even told him about your favorite secluded spot in the forest, where the sounds of civilization were far away, where you could be alone.

And here, in these last moments of your life, you can’t help but feel so naive.

“Hey, hey!”

A boot taps your cheek, shaking you out of your revelry. Your glassy eyes look over to your right.

It’s one of the local merchant’s boys, you think his name is Nicholas? It doesn’t really matter. All you knew about him was that he was a bit rough around the edges; always nicking things from pockets, looking up ladies skirts, and skipping his lessons. That’s what your dad complained about anyway.

A page is shoveled in front of you, dangling over your face. Your eyes take a while, but focus on the words. Nicholas’ boot heel digs into your neck.

“Read it out loud, or we’ll kill you.”

Clearly I’m going to die anyway dumbass, why should I help you?

You might’ve retorted, if you were in such a physical condition to do so. But instead, you do as you're told, and start speaking.

To your left, the postmaster’s son, Richard, sucks in a breath with anticipation. Any false composure he had while luring you here is gone, his feet tapping with excitement as he holds your left arm and lef bound spread eagle.

Holding your right leg is Markus, another merchant boy. He picks at his teeth.

“What are you guys going to wish for?” He whispers. It goes in your ear and out the other, too focused on forming coherent sentences.

“A full-harem of babes, obviously.” Simpers Hunter, the son of a landlord. He isn’t ugly, only a bit plain, and has enough money to boot. Compared to the other bachelors in town however, he has had little luck in procuring a courtship.

“A million coins could get you that and more, idiot. That’s what I’m wishing for.” Whispers Richard.

“What are you going to wish for Nic?” Asks Markus

“Oh my gods, will you guys shut the fuck up?”

Nic snarls, unconsciously digging his heel back into your throat. You choke and stutter, but keep going. The runes around you, written in your own blood, begin to glow.

All of the boy’s eyes widen and they step back from you. Your limbs sink like dead weight as the words begin to flow out your mouth with no thought. The paper with the chant drops to the ground, out of your sight, but it's like your brain has been reprogrammed; You know the rest, know it in your bones.

The grass begins to simmer and burn under the summoning circle, smoke swirling into formation above you. When the final word whispers out of you, you feel your body go lax. You don’t even remember tensing up

I guess this is it. Sorry Mom, Sorry Dad.

You clench your eyes, just hoping the demon will be quick. That it will at least leave a recognizable corpse.

“Holy shit.” You hear muttered, unsure by whom.

Your eyes are closed, body teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, but your senses are still intact. A hot wave of breath washes over your face and the ground below you trembles with heavy footsteps. The boys are quiet but you can hear their hearts pounding. They thrum with life, while yours slowly fades.

“Why have you summoned me, mortal?”

Even half-dead, your muscles tense in fear. The demon's voice is deep and resonates like a crowd talking all at once. It reeks of inhuman power and cracks like thunder.

A brief silence passes, before Nicholas finds his courage.

“We have come to ask for a wish.”

Later, when recounting the story, you will mention that the demon looked over to Nicolas, unamused, despite never seeing it yourself. The demon huffs, the heat of it blowing over you once more.

“I don’t believe I asked you.” The demon mutters. The cacophony of voices blend together into one, bland and emotionless. Even in your state however, you are able to decipher a couple of louder tones which overpower the others. They seem...angry.

“But...you…”

“I asked….”

Your eyes snap open as a wet droplet lands on your cheek. Lingering above you, drool seeping from their unnaturally sharp teeth, is the creature. It’s face resembles that of a goat, but sharp fangs stick out from their lower lips. Their eyes are golden and shine in the night, piercing right into yours. Despite the part of your body screaming out in terror, another part feels oddly….comforted. It’s why you don't startle when they brush a hand against your cheek, their thumb wiping away your tears. Their palm is warm, not like a blistering flame, but like a thick quilt. Like hot chocolate on a rainy day.

“......What do you need of me, little one?”

Their hand, padded and calloused, slides down your arm, closing up the large gash on your inner bicep. In another movement, they do the same to the other. Power and vitality seems to sink back into your body, drip by drip.

Words escape you, but not Nicolas.

“Excuse me, demon, but we're the ones who summoned you.” The sarcastic tone of his does little to hide the quivers of his fear, especially when the demon's neck turns toward him at an unnatural speed. Still, he persists. “Not her. And we want-”

“Do you take me for a blind fool?” The voice bellows, sending all the boys to their knees. Markus clutches his ears while Hunter whimpers on the ground. Nicolas falls back to the ground, eyes widen.  The demon stands to their full height, several feet above all of you. “Do you think I was born without smell, without sense?” The step away from your body, swiping at the ground with their fingers, taking a small bit of your blood with it.

The demon sticks their thumb and forefinger in front of Nicolas’s face, causing him to yelp and fall onto his back. “Is this your blood which forged the connection? Was it your words that spoke me into existence? Was it your body which came to the brink, wrenched open the door and pulled us both through?”

Nicolas, trembling like a leaf, shakes his head no. The demon’s eyes jerk up to the others. “And was it any of these young men?”  

Richard furiously shakes his head, while Hunter stays collapsed on the ground. Markus pushes himself away, hands still clamped around his ears. The demon sneers, before turning and walking back to you.

The demon kneels before propping your upper body up with a gentle touch. A comforting claw rubs your lower back while another paw rubs the tension out of your shoulders.

“Now, mistress, what may you ask of me?”

Your muscles may no longer tire from blood loss, but your mind truly feels like it’s on the brink of breaking. The demon, with fearsome fangs and a soft look, looks to you for an answer.

“I-I…” You mutter as the demon continues to massage your back. They hum.

“Take your time, it is alright. Rituals are difficult, I can only imagine the toll your body feels.” The mass of voices have synchronized, fading from a hundred to a single, harmonious tune. It is cavernously deep, but pleasant. It reminds you of the portly older man who used to read stories aloud every holiday.

You feel your body unconsciously turn towards your captors. Nicholas stays stuck to the ground, the whites of his eyes almost glowing in the darkness. The others have slowly moved to their knees, all terrified with shaky limbs, and look like they might make a run for it. Markus is slowly inching towards Nicholas’ shoulders, trying to lift him up to his senses.

For the first time in your life, a deep, boiling hatred burns your skin.

Cowards. You sneer, with all the malice stored in your reserves.

“I want-I want…” You stumble as the anger bubbles out of your belly. “I want them to hurt. To feel humiliated.” Nails bite into the palm of your hand, letting out blood as you clench knuckles. “I want everyone to know what they’ve done, who they are, every fault they’ve ever been guilty of. I want them alive, but I want them to burn.”

The demon smiles, pulling you in for a hug. You collapse into their embrace, keeping your eyes locked onto the boys, those rats. The demon hums a contented tune as they rub your back.

“As you wish, my master.”

[yacoka]

MARRY ME

──⊱ [repost] three times kuroo said marry me, and the one time he (really) meant it

character(s) — kuroo tetsurou, kozume kenma, yaku morisuke, kai nobuyuki

pairing — kuroo tetsurou x reader

genre — fluff

warning(s) — none

word count — 2400+

beta(s) — none

the first time

Your phone buzzes for the millionth time, and you don’t even need to check it to know it’s Kuroo complaining about how he had left his lunch at home. Even though you knew he was just complaining for the sake of it, you planned to rush home and make him lunch anyways. For him, you would do anything.

If it meant rushing off straight after class ended and running back home under the scalding afternoon sun, so be it. After all, love makes fools out of everyone.

You ignored the yelps of surprise and annoyance as you dash past people on the streets, checking your watch occasionally. You had to be back in school in an hour to make sure Kuroo had at least half an hour to eat, and you weren’t going to waste a single second.

The second you reached home, you threw down your bag and began yanking out the necessary ingredients to make his favourite dish - grilled salted mackerel pike. You knew that that was meant to be saved for your brother’s lunch tomorrow, but he could always buy another one in the evening.

Strands of hair stuck to your sweat-slicked neck, and you resisted the urge to brush them away, your hands handling the pungent fish. You had never understood Kuroo’s love for fish, but if he liked it, you would cook it.

Once the vegetables and fish were done, you carefully plated it into the bento box, laying them as nicely as you could over the rice. You didn’t have any time to make it look presentable, and you figured Kuroo would be too busy scarfing it down to admire the aesthetics of it anyways.

A quick glance at the clock told you there was only ten minutes left for you to get back to school, and you let out a sharp curse. There wasn’t enough time for you to do the dishes. Casting a guilty glance at the mountain of dirty utensils and pots in the sink, you sent a silent apology to your parents, swearing to do them when you got home later.

You dashed out of the house, bento box clutched tightly in one hand and your phone in the other. As much as your chest tightened in protest of the lack of oxygen from how hard you were pushing yourself, you kept going.

Kuroo needed his lunch, oxygen could wait.

Skidding to a halt just before the gym doors, you checked yourself in the phone camera. You grimaced at your tousled hair and flushed face, there wasn’t much that you could do to fix those right now.

Right, time to give the damn rooster head his lunch. A few deep breaths to even out your breathing, and you stepped into the gym, where Kuroo was slumped onto the floor next to Kenma’s sitting figure, complaining loudly that he would die from hunger if Kenma didn’t share his lunch with him.

“Kids these days have no respect for their elders, leaving them to starve to death.” Kuroo pulls a face at the two-toned blonde.

“Kuroo!” You called out, cutting off whatever retort Kenma had planned.

“Oya? Y/n? are you here to bring me food?” He teased, getting to his feet.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” you thrust out the lunch box.

Kuroo’s mouth popped open. “That- that’s for me?” He pointed at himself.

You rolled your eyes. “No it’s for Kenma, because he clearly needs a second lunch.”

The mentioned boy snickers, earning a glare from Kuroo before he turns back to you.

“Y/n,” he says, face filled with seriousness. “Marry me.”

You flush, heat spreading all the way to the tips of your ears. “Shut up and take the food or I’ll leave with it!”

He grins and takes the container from you, fingers brushing lightly against yours. Once you were sure he had a firm grip on it, you yanked your hand back and clutched it to your chest, fingers burning where he had touched.

“Enjoy it or whatever, just return it to me tomorrow.” You turned on your heel abruptly and darted out of the gym, catching only the thanks Kuroo threw after your retreating back.

“Thank you Y/n!”

the second time

If you had a dollar for every time Kuroo disappeared from your side because he got distracted by his friends, you’d be a millionaire by now. Somehow you had managed to walk for god knows how long, just rambling to yourself without even realizing he had vanished. You let out a sigh of annoyance and began backtracking. Hopefully, you would bump into him somewhere along the way.

As you maneuvered your way through the various groups of students lingering in the hallway, you heard a familiar voice chuckle nervously. Your head whipped towards the source and found Kuroo backed up against the wall by a few girls who had sickeningly sweet smiles plastered across their faces.

You purse your lips in an attempt to keep your laughter back, amused by the desperate look on Kuroo’s face.

“Kuroo, are you free after school today? I know a great cafe that just opened down the road!” One of the girls batted her lashes at him, leaning in as she spoke.

Kuroo pressed himself further into the wall. “Ah, I have volleyball practice later. But thank you for the offer.”

He tried to inch his way out, but the group tightened around him, forcing him to stay put.

“Aww, can’t you skip just once? You’re always having practice,” another girl pouts, resting her hand on his bicep.

You stopped laughing.

Okay, that was enough fun at his expense, that girl was crossing a line by touching him. You cleared your throat loudly as you strolled forward, a look of pure boredom plastered across your face.

“Kuroo, how many times are you gonna get lost?” You chided him, intentionally ignoring the girls.

A look of pure relief had appeared upon his face the second he spotted you, and his eyes screamed ‘save me’ even as he replied to you smoothly, “As long as you come find me, I'll be fine.”

You frowned at him. “What if I decided not to find you one day?”

Kuroo let out a gasp of fake offense. “You wouldn’t!”

“Ahem, we were having a conversation here.” The first girl shot you a nasty look.

Raising an eyebrow at her, you replied coolly, “It seems to me that the conversation is over, so maybe don’t interrupt the one we have now?”

She scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder, narrowly missing Kuroo’s face. “Who said it was over? You’re the one who barged in.”

You stifled a laugh at the indignant look on Kuroo's face at almost eating hair. “I said it was over, I need kuroo for other things that are more important than you trying to come on to him. C’mon kitty, let’s go.”

Ignoring the soft protest from Kuroo at the nickname, you pushed past the girls and grabbed his arm, tugging him out of the circle they had formed around him.

“Bye girls.” You waved over your shoulder and walked off with Kuroo in tow.

Once you were a safe distance away from them, Kuroo draped himself over you. “Please, marry me. Maybe then they’d leave me alone.”

Trying your best to calm your racing heart and pretend you weren’t affected by him, you shrugged him off.

“Oh shut up, if you weren’t so friendly all the time maybe they wouldn’t try to make so many moves.”

Kuroo sighs loudly. “It's called being civilized, you should try it sometime.”

You raise a brow at him. “Did that save you from them?”

“....No.”

“Right so shut up.”

“Marry me tho?”

“I said shut up!”

the third time

You sat under a tree, leaning against it as you flipped through your textbook. You were waiting for Kuroo to end volleyball practice so that you could go for dinner. His treat, he had promised you the other day, for finding kenma and dragging him to practice.

The time for the end of practice came, and you sat there patiently, waiting for him to walk past you. Members of the volleyball team had already greeted you on their way out, but still no Kuroo. Finally, as Yaku and Kai appeared, you stood up and walked up to them.

“Hey Yaku, Kai.” They greeted you back. “Where’s Kuroo?”

Yaku grimaced slightly as he replied. “The idiot got a leg cramp right as practice ended, so he’s sitting in the middle of the court trying to wait it out right now.”

You rolled your eyes. “Seriously? Okay, thanks, I’ll go find him and make sure he’s okay.”

“Give us a call if you need help, We’ll come back to school.” Kai told you.

“What? No, we won’t-“ Yaku squawked in outrage as Kai elbowed him. “Fine, we will.”

“Thanks guys, but I doubt I need to. I should be able to handle this oversized cat on my own.” You smiled at them and took your leave, heading towards the gym.

On your way in, you bumped into Kenma who had his eyes glued to his switch.

“Kenma!” You reached out a hand to steady the boy.

“Oh, hey Y/n. he’s in there,” Kenma nods inside. “He has a leg cramp.”

“Yeah, Yaku told me. I’ll take care of him,” you patted Kenma’s arm. “Don’t walk and play, you might trip.”

Kenma frowned slightly, “I haven't tripped yet.”

You laughed and shook your head, waving at him as he left. Crossing the threshold into the gym, you spotted Kuroo lying spread eagle in the middle of the court, eyes closed.

“Oi, what happened to dinner?” You called out to him as you walked over.

He started, body flinging upright as he stared at you wide-eyed.

“Oh shit, that was today?”

You stared at him in disbelief. Really? He forgot?

Examining his face closely, you noted how exhausted he looked, with dark circles under his eyes and the exhaustion that sat heavily upon his shoulders. Sighing heavily, you sat on the floor next to him.

“Alright, which leg is it,” you asked, prodding both legs.

He pointed to his right calf, and you got to work, kneading the tight muscle. Kuroo groaned in pain.

“Could you be, a little gentler?” He gritted out.

Raising your eyebrows at him, you pressed down particularly hard, causing him to yelp and attempt to pull his leg away.

“Stop complaining and let me do my thing,” you demanded, smacking him lightly.

He sulked but stopped trying to move away from you, the occasional grunt coming from him as he watched you massage his leg. When you were sure the cramp had passed, you let go of him, shaking out your now sore hands. Kuroo grabbed onto them, clutching them gently as he looked at you.

“Marry me.” His voice sounded so serious for a second that you were taken aback until he burst into laughter. “Your face! God, you looked so startled!”

Scowling, you smacked him across the head hard. “Shut up, idiot! You’re the one that always fakes proposing to me when we’re not even dating!”

He grins at you, a smile that reaches his eyes as he asks, “Well then, will you date me?”

What.

Kuroo takes your silence the wrong way and begins rambling. “Unless you don’t like me and I’ve been reading the signs all wrong, Then you can totally just take it as a joke because-“

You slap a hand over his mouth. “Yes.”

He says something, but the words are muffled by your hand and he tugs it down to repeat his words again. “Yes as in you’ll date me or yes as in I read the signs wrong?”

“Yes as in you read the signs wrong, because why else would I do all the stupid shit I do for someone who I don’t like.” You deadpan. Kuroo’s face shifts into mild panic and you facepalm.

“Yes, I do like you, you idiot!”

“Oh, jesus, don’t play with my feelings like that! What if I got a heart attack? I'm old, you know!” He yelps as you punch him in the chest.

“You’re 18, not 80.”

“Okay but you’d still date me if I was 80 right?” He smirks, tugging on the collar of your uniform.

“Who said I’d date you now?”

“You just did! And there’s no taking back that confession!” He laughs gleefully.

“What’s stopping me from rejecting you though,” you smile darkly.

He freezes, arms in mid-wave.

“Uhhhh, I’ll buy you food?”

“Deal.”

plus one

It's been a while since you had seen your boyfriend for more than brief moments in the morning and night, and for the first time in weeks, he said he was going to end work early and come home for dinner.

You hummed as you went around the kitchen preparing a variety of dishes for him, the most important one being his favourite grilled mackerel. Even after years of being together, you still hadn’t gotten used to the smell of fish and fought the urge to gag as the smell wafted up to you.

Kuroo knew how much you didn’t like it, so he never requested you to cook it, opting to eat it only when you guys went to his parents' house for dinner.

But seeing as how he had been working hard and pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion, you decided to suck it up and prepare the dish for him. What was one mere dish in comparison to love, huh?

Right as you set the last dish onto the dining table, Kuroo came through the door, tossing his bag onto the sofa carelessly and draped himself over your back.

“Hey kitty, how was work?” You smiled as you felt him burrow his face into your neck.

“It was tiring, as always. how was- is that grilled mackerel?” He lifted his head to stare at the table, where the dish sits smack in the middle smiling at him.

“Yeah, it is,” you said casually, twisting around in his hold to face him. “I figured you’d like to eat your favourite after working so hard for the past few weeks.”

“Marry me.” It comes out as a rush, the words tripping over themself as his tongue twists over the words.

There’s a ringing in your ears as you process what he just said, taking in the nerves that have settled upon his face.

Your answer escapes in a breathy laugh as you grin up at him.

“Yes.”

A smile stretches across his face and he pulls you into a deep kiss, pouring every bit of happiness and love he felt for you into the kiss.

“I love you so much,” he says in between pecks. “I love you so so so much.”

“I love you too, Tetsu.”

“.....I forgot the ring!”

[we-are-only-halfway-home93]

Come and Lay the Roses 29- No Room For Innocence- [Ivar x OC]

Summary: Aaline witnesses a blood eagle.

Characters: Ivar x OC, Bjorn x Torvi, Ubbe x Margrethe, Hvitserk x Thora, Sigurd x OC, Ragnar, Lagertha 

Warnings: arranged marriage, violence, sex, torture, language, mentions of rape/sexual assault

Word Count: 2544

Ch. 28

AN: I’d like to apologize for how long it’s taken me to update. I have no excuses. All I can say is life. 

It took me a while to get the blood eagle scene done. I wasn’t sure how I wanted that to look for a while. I think it turned out okay. I listened to Heimta Thurs by Wardruna the whole time I wrote it to put me in the right head space. 

I’d like to thank everyone who’s stuck with me for this long. I sincerely appreciate you.

“Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.” ~ Samuel Johnson

Aaline heaved as her body expelled what little she’d eaten that day. Her stomach had been in knots all day and it finally rebelled against her. She heaved again as a timid knock sounded on the door. “What?” she croaked. 

Torvi pushed the door open with care and peeked around the frame. She winced when Aaline gagged again, nothing coming up except bile and saliva. 

She pushed her way into the room and shut the door behind her, turning the lock and leaning against it. “Are you alright?” She asked. 

Aaline rolled her eyes up to her sister-in-law and bit back the snarky comment she so badly wanted to express. She clenched her eyes shut as her stomach seized but was thankful when nothing came up. 

“I’m fine.”

“I vomited when I saw my first blood eagle.” Torvi shared. Aaline slowly sat back, her hands still clutching the rim of the toilet. Her nausea had dissipated but her stomach still felt weak. 

“I hid behind the shed. I swore everything I’d eaten in the last week came out of me that night.” Aaline turned her head and stared at Torvi. She had a faraway look in her eyes and a sad smile on her face. 

“Did you love him?” Aaline asked. She remembered that Björn was Torvi's third husband and that her first had been blood eagled by Ragnar after he tried to kill Aslaug and their children. Ivar hadn’t even been born yet and Björn was just a teenager. 

Torvi blinked and turned her head. She smiled fully at Aaline and shook her head. “No. I thought I did but I was young. I didn’t know what love was. The love I had for him was one of companionship and youth. I did not love him like a wife should.”

Aaline nodded, processing. “And you married the son of his executioner.” She looked up when Torvi laughed. 

“I didn’t blame Björn. I didn’t even blame Ragnar. I was angry, yes, but my husband broke our laws, committed crimes. He was going to die no matter what.” Torvi shrugged and stepped deeper into the bathroom.

“Ivar will understand if you are unwell. This is a difficult experience.” Aaline shook her head. 

“I told you, I’m fine. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ve been feeling under the weather for the last few days. It’s probably just a stomach bug.” Aaline made to stand. Torvi helped her up and studied her closely. Aaline closed the lid of the toilet and flushed, wincing at the reminder of her episode. 

“How long have you been feeling poorly?” Torvi asked. Aaline shrugged, washing her hands. 

“I’m not sure. A few days at least.”

“Just nausea or something else?” Aaline sighed and dried her hands, trying to be patient. 

“Mostly nausea. A few headaches,  some stomach cramps. I’m tired all the time. Really, Torvi, I’m fine. It’s just a stomach bug.” 

She tossed the towel down onto the counter and pulled the door open. “Can we please go? Ivar’s supposed to help me get ready.” Torvi looked at her, her gaze skeptical. She nodded once and preceded Aaline out of the bathroom. Aaline shook her head at Torvi’s behavior and followed her, closing the door behind her.

.

“It’s a preposterous plan. I don’t even know how you talked me into it.” 

“It’s because you know I’m right.” 

Ecbert looked up with sharp eyes at the young woman before him. She held her head high and carried an air of superiority around her. Ecbert didn’t know if she was stupid or just insane. Perhaps a bit of both. 

Ecbert himself wondered where his own sanity had gone to consider this plan. It wasn’t even a good one and he truly didn’t even know its purpose. 

 “I don’t see how this plan will weaken Ragnar.”

The woman scoffed and he narrowed his eyes. “Ivar will go mad with grief and anger. Ragnar won’t be able to control him thus losing control of his men. He’ll be overthrown and you’ll be able to swoop in and take control of his empire.”

The plan was shaky at best. It all hinged on a small group of men being able to go unnoticed by Ragnar Lothbrok’s very observant sons. Even then they weren’t guaranteed a win right away. The women before him needed to stay out of it personally and Ecbert wasn’t sure if she was capable. 

“You remember what we discussed.” He said. 

She narrowed her eyes and sat up straighter almost like she was trying to look intimidating. “I remember.” 

Ecbert arched one perfect brow and waited, hoping she’d take his cue. She did and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not to approach anyone in the Lothbrok family.” She admitted through clenched teeth. 

Ecbert sat back only marginally satisfied. 

“Good.” He waved a hand at her, dismissing her and she rose with anger. Ecbert didn’t flinch when she slammed through the double doors. He was too engrossed in calculating everything that could go wrong with their plan.

.

It was late, almost midnight and Ivar was helping Aaline into the traditional white outfit worn during a blood eagle. Aaline knew very little about the traditions involved in a ritualistic murder. She knew it was a big deal. Their family was taking revenge on the man who murdered Sigurd. 

The blood eagle was a sacrifice to Odin. Aelle would serve as both a warning and a blessing. His death would bless their retribution, keeping them safe from further harm. It would also warn others intent on wronging them. His death would tell them what would happen to anyone who tried to take them down.

White was worn to show the blood that was spilled. It was expected for blood to transfer on all spectators and it would symbolize the blessing that Odin brought upon them.

Traditionally, it was expected that the victim remain silent less they be barred entrance into Valhalla. Björn had talked long about how Jarl Borg had taken the whole of his punishment in silence, never making a sound as Ragnar killed him. 

She could see the respect shining clearly in Björn’s eyes. Even though Jarl Borg had tried to murder his brothers and step-mother, Björn had admiration for the man. Aaline was eager to understand why.

A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts and she looked up. Hvitserk opened the door and nodded once, pushing it further open and leaving them again. It was time.

Ivar settled his hands on her shoulders and stepped around to face her. “It’s not going to be pretty.” She rolled her eyes and looked away but he caught her chin between his fingers and pulled her back to look at him.

“There’s going to be blood, lots of it. He’ll scream and he’ll cry and there’ll be piss and shit along with the blood. Do you think you can handle that?” Ivar’s voice was soft when he spoke but she could hear the hard edge. He still wanted her to back out. He wanted her to sit up here in their room alone while the rest of the family witnessed the execution of the man responsible for their pain. 

She wrapped her hand around Ivar’s wrist and gently pushed it away. “I think you forget who you’re married to.” She said. 

She stepped around him and headed towards the door, turning at the frame to look over her shoulder at him. He was staring at her, his face unreadable. She cocked an eyebrow. He shook his head and followed her out the door.

As they descended the stairs, the light grew dimmer. The shadows on the wall danced. The smell of incense was heavy in the air. A heavy bass resounded in the air and chains rattled against the stone.

 When they turned the final corner into the room, Aaline allowed herself to take in the scene. Ragnar stood in the center of the room on a raised platform. His back was to them and his shoulders flexed as he worked with something on the table before him. Behind him, standing shoulder width apart, were two identical wooden posts with half circle brackets at the top. 

Ivar cupped her elbow and steered her towards the rest of his siblings. The brothers and their wives were standing in a semi-circle around Sibylle whose eyes were glassy.  Aaline didn’t know if it was her tears or the drugs that gave her the appearance. 

Ivar stopped beside Hvitserk and nodded, folding his hands in front of him as they waited. Aaline surveyed the room. Lagertha stood just behind the table that Ragnar was working at. Rollo and Floki stood across from them, Helga next to Floki. Several of Ragnar’s men filled the rest of the room. She and Ivar were the last to arrive.

Ragnar turned to Rollo and Floki and nodded once. The two men retreated behind a door behind Lagertha. The drum beat held steady. 

Rollo and Floki returned with Aelle bound between them. A gag was tied tight in his mouth and his wrists and ankles were hogtied. He was naked from the waist up. Rollo and Floki stepped onto the platform and shoved Aelle to his knees between the wooden posts. 

She couldn’t hear what he was saying to them but Aaline could see his mouth trying to move around the gag. Rollo and Floki ignored him as they tied his wrists to the posts beside him. Tears poured down his face and she felt more than heard Ivar chuckle behind her.

The fires surrounding them were hot and the incense made her drowsy. She felt like she was outside of herself, watching the movement around her with detachment. She hardly felt Ivar’s hands on her shoulders.   

Ragnar turned then to the trembling Aelle and scanned the line of his back with clinical apathy. He placed a hand on Aelle’s shoulder and the man startled. Ragnar stilled him with strong fingers pressed deep into the meat of his shoulder. Ragnar bent low and settled his face next to Aelle’s. 

Aelle’s screams were drowned out by the thumping of the drums and the crackling of the fire. Blood pooled around his knees as Ragnar drew the blade up the center of his back. Ivar’s fingers tightened on her shoulders.

Her eyes were glued to the scene before her. She felt entranced by Ragnar’s work. Ivar brought his chin down to her shoulder and watched with her.

Ragnar drew the knife quickly across Aelle’s shoulders and back, pulling the skin back from the bones. Blood sailed through the air, spattering the spectators with warm drops. 

Aaline inhaled sharply and the scent of copper filled her sinuses. Ivar’s hands trailed down her arms and to her hands. He knotted their fingers together as more blood sliced through the air and painted their faces. 

Ragnar soon replaced his blade with an axe, the blade winking in the firelight. Aelle’s screams had died as shock set in. He wasn’t dead yet. Aaline could see his chest heaving up and down. Blood dripped down his arms and sides as Ragnar moved his flesh as he pleased. 

With a flash, the axe came down and separated ribs from spine. The sound of breaking bone reverberated through the air, over taking the drums. Ragnar hacked at the bones, sending blood flinging through the air. Aaline could feel it settled on her cheeks and fought back the urge to lick her lips.

Ivar did no such thing, leaning close and licking a long stripe up the side of her face, humming at the metallic taste that coated his tongue. Aaline shivered as his breath ghosted over her ear. “I can’t wait to lick his blood off you.” He nipped sharply at her earlobe and she shivered. He was hard as steel against the small of her back.

With his ribs now spread wide away from his body, Aelle died. Aaline watched as Ragnar finished the ritual, slipping his hands inside Aelle’s chest from behind and pulling his lungs from within. He settled the useless organs across Aelle’s still shoulders and stepped back.

He was covered in blood. His bare feet were sticky with it as he stepped around to Aelle’s front. His hands were stained crimson as he, almost reverently, pushed Aelle’s hair back off his forehead. His face and beard were saturated in the life giving fluid as he gazed down at the man who ordered his son dead. 

When Ragnar’s head came up, Rollo and Floki got to work. 

Aelle was to be placed on display outside of Ecbert’s home. He was to serve as a warning to the rest of the Saxons.

Once Rollo and Floki began cutting down Aelle, the rest of the spectators began making their way out of the ceremony room. A bonfire was lit in the backyard and they were to spend the rest of the night celebrating Aelle’s demise and Sigurd’s life. 

Aaline was confident she and Ivar wouldn’t make it to the bonfire. 

Ivar tugged her back the way they’d come with insistent hands. She allowed him to lead her away, her mind still preoccupied with the blood eagle.

As soon as Ivar had their bedroom door shut, she was pressed face first against the wood of the door. She gasped and smacked her palms against the door. 

Ivar already had his hands under her dress and his fingers inside her panties. His groan vibrated against her back and she shuddered when he immediately sank two thick fingers inside her. “You’re soaked.” He whispered brokenly against her ear. 

She moaned and arched her back, pulling his fingers deeper and feeling him hard against her ass. 

“Did it turn you on? Watching a man die?” He rocked his fingers inside of her, pressing his palm against her clit. She pressed her forehead to the door, pressing back against him. She needed more. More pressure, more fingers, more friction. Just more. 

“More.” She moaned. Ivar cursed and withdrew his fingers. She felt him fumbling behind her. Before she had time to take a breath, he was sheathed to the hilt inside her. She yelped, her muscles stretching to accommodate him. 

The sting between her legs quickly subsided when he started moving. His fingers returned between her legs and circled her clit in quick, firm circles. Her knees buckled but he wrapped an arm around her waist and kept them upright. 

Ivar groaned against her neck before sinking his teeth hard into the muscle of her shoulder. Her pussy clenched around him and he groaned, the vibrations against her skin sending goosebumps down her back. 

Her whole body vibrated and her knees began to shake as her orgasm crested inside her. Ivar circled her clit twice more and her orgasm washed over her. She shook against him, her internal muscles squeezing him tight. He wrapped a hand around her throat and grunted, his cock twitching inside her. 

She sagged against the door, her heart pounding and her knees like jello. Ivar licked the side of her neck, moaning at the taste of sweat and blood.

Tags: @dreamlesswonder @youbloodymadgenius  @inforapound  @bcarolinablr @funmadnessandbadassvikings @feyrearcheron-nightcourt @londongal2810 @khiraeth @didiintheblog @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @xbellaxcarolinax @shannygoatgruff @kingniazx@revolution-starter @jay-bel

[shapeshiftersandfire]

The Osprey and the Barn Owl, pt. ii

Emma plots her escape from Sinister’s lab. Without knowing what’s around every corner, she has to take her best guess and hope she can escape before the Marauders catch her.

previous

for @amonthofwhump​’s bracket challenge!

Bracket One; Trope: escape attempt

taglist: @whumpinggrounds​

cw: lady whump, wing whump, lab whump, collar mention, blood mention, stress position, threats to break bones, hair pulling, starvation mention, implied sleep deprivation, emma gets punched in the face, wing clipping

With no sunlight and no way to tell time, Emma tries to measure her stay in visits from Sinister and his lackeys. But the visits are so irregular, sometimes with long stretches of time between them and others with only a few breaths, that Emma can’t properly deduce whether it’s night or day or how long she’s been there.

She’s left with the perpetual ache in her shoulders and her wings, strung up in three directions with no relief. Only once so far have they let her down to relax her joints and finally fold her tormented wings.

They creak and smart and sting as she folds them, the places where her feathers have been ripped out throb; sharp pain runs through her wings when she moves them the right way. She sits for a moment, leaning up against the wall as the feeling comes back into her legs, trying to survey the damage done. But her arms are too sore to do much more than hang them at her sides and let the blood and feeling flow back into her fingers.

She doesn’t even have the strength to try to comb the blood from her feathers. The most she can do is wipe the tears from her face--and Sinister’s lackeys watch her do it. They stand in the doorway and watch her wipe the salty tear tracks from her face. Some watch with a smirk, others watch with indifference. Emma doesn’t know which she prefers more.

The Marauders give her a moment to compose herself, to catch her breath and clean her face of dried salt, before Multiple Man and one of his copies hauls her up and drags her out the door. Emma stumbles along at the center of a loose ring of Marauders. She can’t quite get her feet underneath her; her legs cramp and tingle and being in heels doesn’t help her cause. More than once she nearly twists her ankle, and fans her wings in an effort to keep herself upright.

But the action earns her a pair of hands clamped around the base of her already sore wings and her face slammed into the nearest wall. Emma cries out in pain and distress, the hands tighten around her wings, pulling at the tender joints, sending bolts of pain up her back.

“Wait--wait--” she tries to gasp out in between yanks on her wings. Any other words she tries to say come out as thin wails. She claws at the wall, desperate for some relief from the grip on her wings, but there’s none to be found.

“Try that again--” Arclight, it’s Arclight that has her pinned against the wall, Arclight whose hands are tight around her wings, whose fingers dig into her back, who twists just the right way and Emma screams, her knees buckling, even as Arclight holds her up-- “and I’ll snap your wings in two.”

Emma stiffens, hardly daring to breathe, and closes her eyes. She can’t close her wings, she’s not even sure she should move them, lest Arclight make good on his promise to break them in two. But after a moment the kite releases his hold on her and she drops to her knees, wings drooping to the floor.

Still, Emma manages to find her voice. “I assure you,” she says hoarsely, hoping her voice doesn’t waver with fear, “I have no intentions of trying anything of any kind.” Her arms shake with the effort to support her weight; her head spins.

“Good.” Arclight hauls her up again, this time by her hair, and drags her down the rest of the way down the hall.

“Let go of me!” Emma’s hands fly to her head, all at once trying to dislodge the iron grip Arclight has and trying to keep her wings still. Every instinct screams at her to flap them in desperation, anything to get him to let go and he won’t, and every jerk brings tears to Emma’s eyes. No matter how she protests, he doesn’t let go, not until they reach the end of the hall.

Someone opens a door wide enough for Arclight to throw Emma in. She hits the floor with a hard thump as the door is slammed shut behind her. The sound of the door slamming reverberates through her skull, making the radiating pain worse. Her hair aches down to the roots, and no amount of rubbing makes it go away immediately. Emma lays on the floor for a moment, clutching at the back of her head as though Arclight’s fingers are going to dig into her scalp at any moment.

But she’s alone, and when the ache finally fades as much as it will, Emma sits up and looks around. She’s in another gray room, smaller than her original one, with nothing more than a toilet and a sink.

Emma sighs. “Must everything in this facility be gray?” The design choices are less than appealing to her--and she wears white day in and day out.

The first thing she does is sit back against the wall, white on gray, the only color in this small bland landscape her pale hair and brown speckled wings. She shudders against the cold seeping through her wings. The cold does some good against the muscle aches in her back.

How much longer is she going to be here? How long is Sinister going to keep her strung up like that? It’s not a sustainable position, it’s not something he can leave her in for extended periods of time. She’s growing tired already, and it can’t have been more than a day. Every inch of her aches already, and she’d like nothing more than to curl up on the floor and sleep for a few hours. But she doesn’t have a guarantee they’ll grant her that.

Another few minutes and Emma finally hauls herself up off the floor with a sigh. She goes to the counter and looks into the mirror, finally seeing the dark circles lining her eyes, the dried salt still clinging to her cheeks, the smudged eyeshadow across the bridge of her nose. Only a day, and she’s already a mess.

And it’s only going to get worse.

She pulls her gloves off and sets them beside the sink. Her arms shake as she leans on the counter. She’s worn and exhausted, her body aches with the strain of being  strung up for so long, her wings are sore and swollen, bloodied and ruffled. Sinister’s attempt to look for a decent feather has left her feathers mussed and out of place. With whatever time she has to herself, she’ll have to clean up her wings and get them looking presentable again for however long they’ll last.

A wet paper towel is decent enough to get the blood off, but it's a tedious process that means scrubbing at her feathers a little harder than she’d like. The slightest bit of pressure near the missing feathers, now red and swollen and clotted with dried blood, sends bolts of pain through her wings. The most Emma can do is lay cold towels over the sites in the hopes of relieving the irritation and swelling as best she can.

Someone knocks on the door. “Five minutes.”

Emma sighs. A limited amount of time. She has to make the most of it.

With her last few minutes, she takes the time to relieve herself and drink as much water from the faucet as she thinks is safe--she doesn’t know when she’ll be let out again and she can’t take any risks.

She takes another moment to splash cold water on her face, washing away the dried tears and smudged eyeshadow. It does little to help her exhaustion, but she can’t deny she feels the slightest bit refreshed by such a simple thing. The cold water clears her head. And that’s when the thought finally crosses her mind: she needs an escape plan.

The X-Men haven’t yet come to break her out, and she can’t rely on them to get to her before things get worse. She’s seen some of the things Sinister has sitting around the lab. She’s seen what he’s done to Warren. She’s not eager to see what he has in store for her. But, if she plays her cards right, she’ll be out before he could even think about taking a knife to her wings.

With a plan in mind, and much to the disappointment of the Marauders--no doubt looking for another excuse to swing her around by the wings--Emma emerges from the restroom with time to spare.

Arclight’s displeasure is clear, but Emma offers no resistance. She quietly shuffles along, wings low, and uses this time to get a look at her prison.

Everything is gray, for starters, rather drab, really, though she doesn’t know what other color she’d expect a laboratory to be. Certainly not red. Red in a laboratory is never a good color to see, if her wings are any indication.

Every hallway, every door, every room she catches the briefest glimpse of is gray, and there’s hardly a distinguishing feature between them. What Emma can tell from the few hallways she can see down is that they don’t lead anywhere, only to more rooms and things she knows she doesn’t want to see--even as part of her wonders if she’s going to see them anyway--when Sinister inevitably cuts more from her than just small bits of her wings.

Her wings fluff up at the very thought.

She spots a few avenues she thinks could be promising, but of course without properly exploring them, she won’t know until she’s on her way out. There won’t be nearly enough time for her to test every single one of them; once the Marauders find her out of her cell, the hunt will be on, and she’ll have a finite amount of time before they catch her.

If only she had her telepathy…

But no, they took that from her the moment she came through the door. They made damn sure she’d never be able to use her powers against them. No one wants to worry about a telepath that could render them unconscious without even being in the same room.

Well… She’ll make due with what she has.

(And the moment she gets home, she’ll have Logan hack the damn collar off her neck and grind it into the floor with her heel.)

“Eyes to yourself,” Harpoon snaps, raising his wings to her.

Emma mantles her own, even when she knows she has no chance against the hulking eagle. But she’d rather have her wings broken in a fight than have them broken by a madman in the name of “science.”

“That’s enough.” Arclight steps between them, wings flared. “I won’t have any fights breaking out here.” To Harpoon, ignoring Emma entirely, he says, “Sinister needs her in one piece. You can break her wings when he’s finished with her. If there’s anything left." He shoots Emma a knowing glance. It only fuels her need to escape as soon as possible.

With that, they finish leading her back to her cell. Arclight simply guides her in, but makes no move to chain her. “Sinister has decided to hold on the restraints for now.” He scowls at her. “I don’t agree with it, but he seems to think you’ll be well enough behaved.”

Emma scoffs. “Of course. I have no intentions of running--”

She has every intention of running--

“--therefore I would hate to take advantage of Sinister’s hospitality.” She opens her bloodied wings for emphasis. Arclight says nothing.

When they leave, Emma slumps down against the back wall of the cell and tries to get some sleep. It’s all she can do.

                                                        [***]

When she’s next retrieved for a break, Emma doesn’t know if she’ll be able to pull off her escape. She’s weaker this time around; Sinister has started taking more from her than just a handful of feathers. Blood, tissue--Emma’s screams had echoed off the walls of the small cell and been loud enough even Arclight had petitioned Sinister to gag her the next time he wanted to cut into her wings--and she suspects he’ll be coming for bone next.

All the while, she’s been hanging by her arms with her wings splayed out behind her. The toothed clamps have been irritating her wings, rubbing little bald spots where they bite her. Her arms and wrists have begun to go numb and she’s lost all feeling in her legs. There’s no way for her to move to get comfortable without aggravating something else.

The pain in her body doesn’t give her much opportunity to refine the details of her escape plan, of which she doesn’t have many. She knows, at least, that when she’s taken out for another break she’s going to make a run for it and hope for the best. If she can find a way out before the Marauders catch her, she’s golden, if not...She doesn’t want to think about that.

Part of her wonders if Sinister knows she’s plotting something. He’s given her a look every so often as he works on her, as though he has an idea there’s something stirring in her head. She’s tried to keep the thought buried deep in her mind where he won’t find it; she doesn’t need her telepathy to know how to guard her thoughts, although it certainly helps.

On the other hand, she hasn’t felt Sinister trying to probe her mind for any thoughts of escape. So either he has his suspicions and says nothing, content to let Emma hang herself; or he doesn’t have the slightest inkling, thinking her too weak to attempt anything.

Well. She’s about to surprise him, isn’t she?

She’s barely got the energy to shuffle along with the Marauders. It’s only Arclight and Harpoon this time; the kite had called off the other three when they’d pulled Emma from the cell and decided she was in no state to be making trouble.

She’s about to surprise them, too.

Emma musters enough energy to look around without getting Harpoon’s attention. She’s committed her possible avenues of escape to memory, counted the halls and held on to the ones she thinks will be her ticket out. All that’s left for her to do is make a break for it.

She’s already decided she’s going to run after her break. She needs to get water on her face, the back of her neck; take a drink, clean her wings. There’s no sense in running with a sluggish mind.

Or an empty stomach, she thinks regretfully. Water is the only thing she’s had in her stomach for days, though it feels like longer. Oh, how she wishes they would give her something to eat. She can’t remember the last time she had anything.

Emma groans as she leans on the counter. The circles under her eyes have darkened. She’s grown pale. Her hair is mussed and greasy; her wings are bloodied, her feathers unruly; she’s gone bald in some places, between the yanking and cutting and the clamps. Every inch of her hurts.

What she really needs is a warm shower and something warm in her stomach. And what she wouldn’t give to have either of those.

She can’t decide which one she looks forward to more.

“Three minutes.”

Emma lets out a strained groan. “Please,” she tries to say, her voice tired and thin. They don’t hear her.

She uses every second of her time this time, to where they practically drag her out. She goes willingly, doesn’t fight them, doesn’t even so much as give a hint that she’s planning on running. It’s not hard, either. Emma is genuinely exhausted and nothing about her current condition says she has it in her to attempt escape.

But she does it anyway.

As they pass one of the few hallways Emma made a mental note of, she feels a slight breeze come down the hall. It smells fresh, not yet tainted by the stale lab air, and it’s comfortably cold against her wings. Arclight grumbles, something about someone leaving the door opened again, but for Emma, it’s an opportunity. And she takes it.

With as much energy as Emma can muster, she makes a break. She slips behind Harpoon and bolts down the hallway, following the breeze as it combs through her wings. There’s a commotion behind her as Harpoon and Arclight realize she’s taken off, momentarily shocked that she’s even able to take off at all, and the sound of Arclight radioing for the other Marauders echoes down the hall.

The footsteps aren’t long to follow. Emma is out of sight by then, or so she hopes; she doesn’t see anyone when she looks over her shoulder but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to catch up with her soon. She rounds the corner. Two gray doors lay at the end of the hall, and Emma knows--she knows--that on the other side of those doors is the freedom she craves.

And she knows, no matter how sore and abused her wings are, she’s going to have to fly--and hope she can carry herself all the way home.

The Marauders aren’t far behind her. She can hear them getting closer with each step she takes. She pushes herself towards the doors, even as her body protests, unused to such activity after being chained in one position for so long. But she pushes, she runs faster, and then she’s out--warm air brushes her face, real air, not the stale, recycled air of the lab.

Real air, and trees, and the sun is warm on her face and her wings, it’s been so long since she’s seen the outside and she doesn’t want to go back in, not to Sinister--

The door flies open behind her, the Marauders are on her, if she doesn’t go now, she never will.

Emma unfurls her wings, even as they ache and smart and fiercely protest, and flaps once, twice, and then she’s off, she can just barely make out the horizon over the tree line. The city dosn’t seem so far away, and the Xavier Institute is just beyond that, she can get there no problem, it won’t take her long--and if she has to stop in the city she can take a cab if she needs to--

The trees begin to warp in front of her eyes. Her head spins severely, uncomfortably. Her stomach churns. She loses control of her wings; she can’t fly straight, she can’t fly at all, she needs to land--she needs to get away--and she can’t--she’s going down, and she’s going down fast.

No, no, no--

And then there’s a hand around her ankle and she’s not just falling she’s being yanked out of the sky. She hits the ground hard enough to see stars; the ground never stops spinning, it just spins differently. Black tinges the edges of her vision.

Emma rolls over, watching the clouds swirl above her head and thinking with tears in her eyes that it will be the last time she ever sees them. They’ve caught her, the Marauders caught her, and she’s never going to see the sky or the sun or the trees again.

Her last view of the sky is blocked by Harpoon. The eagle draws his fist back, Emma’s head clears as she realizes what’s coming.

“No, no--”

Harpoon’s face is the last thing she sees.

                                                        [***]

Thick, heavy pain pulses through Emma’s face. She can barely open her eyes. Black outlines her vision. Warm blood runs down her face, drips onto the floor. The sound is deafening. It echoes off the walls. It grates in her ears.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Emma can’t raise her head. Trying to makes her head pound and her stomach turn. She groans.

She’s chained up again. The soreness in her arms and her wings is painfully familiar. This time, she doesn’t have the strength to sit with the restraints, and instead she leans against them, straining her limbs further.

The door opens. Emma’s heart races.

She whimpers.

“I must say,” Sinister’s smooth voice rattles her head, “I didn’t expect you to run.” He tilts her head up to look at him. She can’t see much through her swollen eye, and her good eye is filled with tears. Sinister’s face is blurred.

“I must commend you,” he says, “for having that kind of audacity. You made it farther than any of us had anticipated.” He lets her head drop. “But I can’t let such a thing go unpunished, can I?”

Emma finds the strength to raise her head, blinking tears down her face. She should have known he would find some way to keep her from running again. She thinks somewhere in the back of her mind she knew there would be consequences to face for her attempted escape if she was caught, but she’d been so sure she’d get away that she hadn’t taken the time to consider it. Sh whines.

Sinister moves away from her and toward something at the front of the room.

She hadn’t noticed it before, the metal tray sitting across from her. On it are two instruments she can barely make out. Both of them are long and silver and look like blades of some kind. Her heart catches in her throat as she realizes what Sinister plans on doing with her. She lets out a strangled whine.

“Please…”

Sinister ignores her, turning away to look over the instruments on the table. “Be grateful I have no intentions of breaking your legs,” he says, glowering at her. “As for your wings...I have two options.” He lifts the first instrument, something Emma can barely make out as being a large pair of sheers. She lets out a thin wail.

“No, no, please…”

“Your wings will serve me better while they’re still attached.” He sets the sheers down. “But,” he says slowly, thoughtfully, hovering his hand over the second instrument on the tray, “I can’t risk you flying off again, can I?”

He picks up the second instrument. Nothing but a simple pair of scissors.

Emma pulls weakly at her restraints. “Please,” she begs, her voice heavy with tears, as she realizes what Sinister plans on doing. “Please, please don’t, please don’t.”

He ignores her pleas. “And that, Miss Frost, is why I’ve chosen to spare you the pain of a permanent grounding. A simple cut is all I’m going to give you. Quick and painless.”

“Please!” She struggles in her chains to no avail.

Still Sinister ignores her. He reaches down and grabs a handful of her feathers; the overwhelming wave of discomfort and nausea-inducing feeling of wrong makes Emma’s head spin. She can’t look, can’t bring herself to look at her feathers in Sinister’s hand, or the scissors he’s about to use on her.

“No,” she whimpers, finding her voice, harsh and ragged, “no, please, don’t--don’t take them from me!”

The cut doesn’t hurt, but Emma screams all the same.

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 105: Luna Lovegood

Last co-authored with Tiffiny Smith, thanks for all your help!

HPHPHPHP

Regulus found himself tangled in something - the branches of a tree? After a moment of panic making sure it wasn't the Whomping Willow, he disentangled himself and peeked out at the ground below, where the other seven were getting their bearings.

What caught his attention, however, was the giant tower not ten yards away. Despite its forbidding appearance, it had some wide, decent-sized steps leading up to a door with an eagle-shaped knocker, the whole affair had some pretty windows, and there was a well-maintained path with a sign (or maybe three) on it leading to the road some distance away. Regulus couldn't read the sign (it was facing the road), but Potter made a beeline for it.

Then he stopped and stared.

"Well?" Sirius hollered. "What's it say? Where are we?"

"Whose place is this?" Alice asked, staring at the tower.

"The Quibbler," said Potter. "Editor, X. Lovegood. Anybody heard of him?" The pureblood name rang an old bell in his head, but he'd never met one personally.

"Lovegood?" said Frank, furrowing his brow in confusion, the same running through his own mind. Had his mum ever mentioned an oddball named Lovegood in school?

"Don't ask me!" Potter said back. "Listen to this: pick your own mistletoe. And Keep Off the... dir..igg...ibble plums."

Sirius darted over to a bush with radish-like fruits on them and threw one at Potter, who caught it and looked confused.

Regulus decided watching them was a waste of time and set about searching for the book, which was wedged in a windowsill just barely out of reach. He Accio'd it and started reading. Well, Luna was either the wife or kid of this X., and judging by the fact Harry was back off to school, either were likely. Either a student Harry was about to meet or the new DADA teacher.

It wasn't as if he was anxious to be away from here, at least he was finally in a respectable pureblood home again, only the second since all this madness had started counting his own. Yet, for the first time in his life, he didn't care. He had no inclination to get to know these people just because his parents would have wanted him too, not knowing who else they wanted him to befriend, Bellatrix at the top of his list he may start avoiding right along with Sirius now. Best to focus on the part of getting them out of here instead.

Right off the bat Harry was having bizarre dreams. His parents were mentioned, and Potter came back from the sign to join the others. Sirius's mouth was wagging noiselessly at the notion that Mrs. Weasley would cry over Kreacher's dead body. Out of it all, Ron and Hermione wearing crowns was about the most normal part of Harry's dreams, and the dark corridor with a door at the end stood out only because of how irrelevant it was.

Harry woke up, and everyone brightened immediately at the prospect of going to Hogwarts.

"Nothing too bad can happen there, right?" said Potter cheerily, and Regulus rolled his eyes at him. He wasn't the only one. Had he been listening to the past four books?

The hustle and bustle of getting ready to leave was a sharp contrast to the tranquility of the garden. Mother's shrieking, which nobody was bothering to silence, and which Regulus winced slightly at having to read aloud, only added to the distinction.

Then Sirius showed up in dog form, managed to insist his way into Mad-Eye Moody's guard (which was one short) and Molly worried on and on about everything (which Regulus was beginning to understand she thought of as her solemn duty, surpassed only perhaps by Mad-Eye) and causing Harry to liken her to Aunt Petunia, which raised instant protest from Lily.

"Mrs. Weasley is nothing like that vile woman!" the redhead fumed. "Their attitudes may be similar, but they spring from polar opposite motivations."

No one had the death sentence in them to argue with her even if they disagreed, which none did.

The group proceeded to the train until it was time to depart, and Padfoot said his goodbyes to Harry in far too human-like fashion, but it was absolutely ruined by Mrs. Weasley using his real name instead of Padfoot, or even Snuffles. Regulus still couldn't help pausing over the scene regardless as his mind wrapped around every oddity of it. Sirius, as a dog, which he still wasn't used to the idea of. Sirius giving a fond farewell to a godson he'd arguably spent more time worrying about than his own brother. He wanted to talk to him, the urge growing more desperate with every page, but there was a streak of pride deep in him that made the idea loathsome. Sirius would only listen to him now because he was starting to agree with him rather than just wanting to talk to his brother again, Regulus would just have to figure this out for himself.

Once on the train, at least Harry's problems took an easy center stage, Ron and Hermione mock-abandoning him for their prefect duties and leaving him in the company of Ginny, Neville, and the pre-acclaimed 'Loony' Lovegood, per Ginny's introduction.

She certainly did start off a sight, and only got more interesting the longer she talked. Loony did seem to support her, between the butterbeer cork necklace and wearing vegetation as jewelry. This odd paper, the Quibbler, was once again referenced in Luna's own hands, but rather than finally getting a peek at that article mentioning Sirius, Harry instead turned to Neville and they began chatting about some plant.

He admittedly would have grown rather bored with that very fast, if it didn't send some slime all over the whole compartment just as Cho Chang walked in.

Regulus nearly fell out of the tree laughing at the mental image, and even as he caught his breath back and glanced down he saw he wasn't the only one. Peter had been scaling the tree, to join him presumably, but was now only halfway up and clutching a branch precariously for support. Sirius had fallen into the dirigible plum bush and looked covered in them like he was trying to add to Luna's fashion statement.

Literally all of them had gotten a laugh out of it, even that Muggleborn Evans. He smiled to himself and reached down to offer Peter a hand to help him the rest of the way up, watching patiently as he got himself a more steady branch before continuing.

Regulus listened with some unfamiliar dread in his stomach as the two prefects returned to the carriage and explained their new duties, as well as explaining Malfoy was the Slytherin one, to no one's surprise. His parents were already talking about the party they'd be throwing when he got that badge come next summer, and they'd given Sirius a whole new level of shit when he hadn't gotten one. Neither boy had even thought that was possible until they'd seen it in action. Sirius had acted as if he hadn't even cared, and for the first time Regulus squirmed at his fate pressing in on him even sooner than he'd imagined. Now it was next summer that would be the real test instead of even waiting until he was of age and letting his parents down he didn't necessarily want what they did. He certainly had no desire to be a prefect, how would they take that news?

"Hey, you alright?" Peter asked quietly. He'd been picking off leaves and shredding them for his own amusement, he'd even been considering moving a branch over into a patch of sun and maybe closing his eyes and really enjoy this brief respite of anything horrifying happening to them or Harry, but he couldn't very well do that when Regulus started chewing on the inside of his cheek over something as silly as the prefect badges.

Regulus met his eyes in surprise for several moments, before smiling kindly and answering honestly, "I've been better." He glanced down at his brother though and kept reading instead of elaborating, and Peter nodded to himself, Sirius did feel like the problem and the answer on most given situations.

Sirius was too busy still laughing to even notice Peter had ditched them again, let alone Regulus was trying to catch his eye from ten feet above him. Luna Lovegood was a hoot, he wished she was alive and in school with them now! She'd be as much fun to pull pranks on as Evans, this blonde may even laugh along at them!

James was listing against him for support as they all heard the article about Sirius presumably being some singing sensation. "Well go on then Stubby!" James wheezed. "Give us a tune and I'm sure the Ministry will never look twice at you again!"

"Don't encourage him," Remus rolled his eyes, but far too late, Sirius began singing the last Sorting Hat song they'd heard verbatim.

Lily, Alice, and Frank didn't think he could make the next top charts or anything, but they were reasonably impressed he even remembered the thing from the beginning of their year.

Regulus seemed to be ignoring them above anyways and didn't let them have any more fun with it, predictably, as he kept reading the next article as well, something about Fudge murdering goblins into pies, it was just too funny! Sirius still hadn't climbed out of the bush.

"Oh stop you idiots," Lily finally had enough, her temper snapping, they literally could not take anything seriously! "In case you've forgotten, Sirius is a wanted man for multiple murders! How is laughing at this poor girl helping that?"

"Haven't forgotten," Remus scowled at her, instantly insulted she seemed to think otherwise.

"No harm in laughing off this drivel in the meantime," James finished, completely unrepentant as he grinned at her.

Lily glanced down and saw Sirius Black was still smiling, the first time she knew of he'd done so in the face of this bleak future ahead of him, and hesitated saying anything back.

Regulus hadn't really thought much of the article, no sane person would believe that long enough to hear anyone out, and yet the real story was just as convoluted. Instead he'd kept going, now killing any pretense of a good mood as Malfoy barged into the compartment. His blood chilled at the parting words he left, not in fact more arrogance, but a sly observation of apparently having noticed Sirius on the platform!

His idiot brother was already safe back at Grimmauld place though, he quickly soothed himself, whether he wanted to be or not. Malfoy, Lucius or Draco, were no match for him even if he wasn't.

His mouth was still much more dry than usual though as he forced himself to keep going, but Sirius' snort of disbelief echoing up below wasn't as comforting as he would have thought.

Things only got more grim as Harry got off the train, and Hagrid of all people was absent from his usual post. None of them could even imagine it, the giant of a man had been there every year for the lake ride, now even that was changing. Would nothing in this future remain the same?

Clearly not, as even the carriages were now being pulled by beasts! What was happening to this school?

Peter saw Regulus's disturbed look as he read about the description of those ghastly horse-like things, and shouted loud enough that Stoatshead Hill had likely heard. "Ha! Take that you arseholes, I wasn't making them up!"

"Huh," was all James and Sirius could manage to say to that, while Remus's eyes widened with just as much excitement as if he were hearing about Blast-Ended Skrewts all over again.

"Fascinating, I'm so f'ing sorry Peter! What do you think they even are? Why can only you see them?"

"I can too," Frank frowned at the lot, but even Alice gave him a look of shock for the declaration.

He shrugged and looked just a bit shy at all attention suddenly on him. "What? Hadn't come up."

"How about all the ruddy times the 'horseless carriages' were mentioned!" Lily accused. "What on Earth are they?"

"Don't know," he frowned and tensed his shoulders as still everyone was looking at him now. "I've tried looking them up, but as Harry's said himself, it's a pretty big library when you don't know what you're looking for."

"What kind of Ravenclaw are you?" Sirius scowled.

Peter just smiled that finally his friends didn't think he was playing some weirdly elaborate prank on them any longer. It was no wonder to him his dormmates often thought he was soft in the head, seeing things they couldn't. Now the next time he swore he saw one in the forest, they'd actually believe him!

"What does it say that this Loony girl can see them too though," Sirius grinned and looked up at Peter obviously. He flipped him off, and Sirius laughed.

James and Remus released a breath both of them had been holding for a painfully long time, things really were going back to normal.

[bruh-haikyuu]

can i request a scenario with jealous akaashi where his fem!s/o intentionally ignores him and entertain other guys just to piss him off? thankyu x.

A/N: Akaashi fggghg *brain explodes* Fem!MC in here does kyudo (or Japanese archery)!! So I hope you like the limited extent of my knowledge from just watching Tsurune and reading pdfs on kyudo hdjfhdf

P.S: I also made myself a carrd if you want to check it out! (it’s complete with bg music and shit damn); I’m also changing the format of my dividers so you can see them better!

monophobia. | akaashi keiji

word count: 3742

warnings: angst

(n.) the fear of being alone

It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.

You could count on yourself and your godforsaken boyfriend that you’d rather stick your arrows up your ass before you’d admit it was your fault—which it clearly wasn’t.

Your chest guard felt sickly cramped as you tightened the string of your bow. You didn’t even give a second glance to the green lawn that faced the dojo—the arrows you’d fired today wasn’t sticking anywhere close to the target, and frankly, you had hoped that your coping method would fare much better than you’d thought.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed the wooden placard hanging from the entrance of the enclosure. Last year, a group of your upperclassmen had bought the gaudy thing from the nearby gift shop as a “parting gift to their cute kouhai”. You remembered the forced grin you and the other members shared when they decided to put it up at the first place anyone would see when they entered the dojo.

Heijoshin. Ordinary mind. An undisturbed heart at all times.

“An arrow won’t hit unless your spirit is in balance: resolute, yet serene,” the voice of the Kyudo Club’s coach echoed in your head.

Was it bothering you that much, your fight with Akaashi? If this lingered in your head, it’d affect your archery performances as well as the impressions you and the rest of the club had worked so hard on forming upon the new members… Maybe you should apologize soon—

Scowling, you clicked your tongue and picked up another arrow. “My mind is as ordinary as it can be. It’s not a problem… it’s not my fault.”

You nocked the shaft to your bow, your glove grazing gently on the fibers of the string. A petty fight wasn’t going to be enough to waver your resolve. If someone had to apologize, it was him. He’d started the whole thing anyway…

Taking a deep breath, the muscles of your shoulders slackened and you raised the bow over your head, drawing the string in an arc so perfect that’d have your upperclassmen and Akaashi gasping in awe. Into the stage of kai*, the wooden placard seemed to glow brightly in your head. This was it. This was going to be the perfect shot… Heijoshin…

You freed your mind off the entire universe and released. Miss.

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

Just into your second year, your former upperclassmen had bestowed upon you the “honor” of being the Captain of the Kyudo Club—and to think that the tasteless placard in the dojo was weighty enough. Your boyfriend Akaashi, on the other hand, was a hair luckier with his entire Vice-Captain gig going on.

“’Lucky’… In my case, that word would fit better in a phrase like ‘lucky charm’ or ‘lucky fortune’. But about the things that I have to handle, it’s nearly unthinkable even if I’m only second-in-command,” he said, face paling in deep thought.

You laughed and fiddled with the yumibukuro* encasing your bow. “I suppose Bokuto-senpai is proving to be much more extraordinary than we’d thought. The Boys’ Volleyball Club is in for an exciting treat with him as Captain; you’re going to need a lot of lucky charms this time.”

“If we get enough new first-years to subdue him, then maybe it’d be a treat for me. Until then, I’m counting on my lucky charm to make sure I stay grounded.”

You blushed at his words, finding interest at the hem of your blazer—he always had his way to render you flustered even with a poker face on. Noticing the slight bump of your knuckles, Akaashi glanced at your dainty hands against his (though both calloused from hours of intense sports) and threaded your fingers together. Amused, he watched the red on your cheeks deepen.

“I-I’ll do my best so you can do your best, Keiji-san.”

Smiling, he brought your linked hands to eye level. “I look forward to it.”

“Akaashi!”

From around the corner where the both of you were huddled together, third-year Bokuto Koutarou, Captain of the Boys’ Volleyball Club, emerged. At a distance, he really did look like a horned owl just as the rumors said.

“Akaashi, I thought we were going to hand out the flyers together, you sleazy dog… Is that your girlfriend? Hi there, Kyudo-chan! Sorry, but I’m gonna have to take back what belongs to the Volleyball Club for a while, ‘kay?”

You only bowed politely, though roping all the forces in your body to not belt out in laughter. A quiet sigh escaping his lips, Akaashi reluctantly unraveled his fingers from yours and went to pick up the pile of hand-drawn promotions that had been sitting right below the bench. As his back faced you to go and fulfill his club duties, you felt your heart sink.

“Um… Keiji-san?”

He turned around hopefully, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. “Yes, Y/N-san?”

“You’ll be there to see my kyudo demonstration, right?”

A single eyebrow raised, Akaashi chuckled. “Of course, Buchou-san*.”

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

You laid spread-eagle on the middle of the dojo’s floor thinking about lunch then Akaashi, then lunch, then Akaashi again.

Every muscle in your system was asleep at this point, leaving you rooted to the wooden slats. Your stomach on the other hand was a different case altogether. Maybe you shouldn’t have skipped out on lunch.

Maybe you shouldn’t have fought with Akaashi.

Groaning, you shook your head to dismiss the notion. No way. He started it. What were you feeling so sorry for? Rolling over to your side, you wondered if you could just fall asleep and start a new life inside your head.

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

“Midori, can you check the strings on the bows for me? I’ll just go and get the extra gloves from Ikuya-sensei for a bit.”

Your fellow second-year member meekly picked up one of the ragged bamboo bows and gave you a thumbs-up. Slipping into your indoors shoes as you leave the dojo, you rubbed at your eyes, the fatigue of trying to negotiate with your coach to make your upperclassmen’s placard “more impressionable for the guests” seeping into your head.

Though exhausted, you were satisfied. Last year’s tournament had created a deep image for Fukurodani Academy’s Kyudo Club. While you barely mentioned it, you were proud of the fact that you contributed to many of the perfect shots for your team as their omae*. The result was an unexpected crowd of first-years as well as second and third-years at the Kyudo Club’s booth at today’s opening ceremony.

“Put on a show for them, L/N-san,”  your club’s advisor grinned while handing you a box of new gloves under her desk.

Your face brightened at the thought of finally being able to pull off the shot you’ve been practicing for weeks. And with your boyfriend watching you every step of the way, you were confident you were going to blow their socks off. So far, so good—

“I’ve always liked you, Akaashi-san! Please go out with me.”

You froze like a deer caught in headlights. Quick enough to give you whiplash, you snapped your head in the direction of the wall beside you. Peering over the bricks that separated you from the view, you tiptoed to a level that allowed you to watch the entire affair without being seen.

There he was, like the feminine voice had indicated, your boyfriend Akaashi Keiji in all his glory, a dumbstruck expression painting his face. Standing across him was a second-year girl, someone you’d habitually seen to be from Class 2-2. What was her name again…? Gotou…?

However, the first thing you noticed about the entire rendezvous was that Gotou-san was pretty. Awfully pretty. It took you a moment to process that Akaashi was actually a rather attractive individual too, and for him to get confessed to shouldn’t be much of a surprise to you, or even anyone.

…But why did your chest hurt so much?

“I-I’m sorry, Gotou-san,” your ears perked up at his voice. Akaashi was bowing graciously before the girl in front of him. “I can’t accept your confession.”

You felt rude for even thinking that your faith in Akaashi was hopeless. Just as relief washed over you like a cold torrent, Gotou Hanako suddenly threw herself at your boyfriend with tears streaming down her face. You nearly choked over your own breath.

“I know I can’t have you, but please let me hold you like this for now…!” she sobbed into his uniform.

In your head, Akaashi had already pushed the girl away, reprimanding her of the severity of her extreme advances. In your head, you walked away from the site calmly, knowing that your boyfriend wouldn’t doubt a speck of your relationship. In your head, everything was fine.

But in real life, Akaashi didn’t push her away. In real life, Akaashi stroked her back and let her cling onto him like an anchor. In real life, there was the green monster called envy.

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

You smacked your forehead on the side of a shelf storing kyudo uniforms when a rapt knock on the entrance door brought you to wake. You winced at the sharp sting settling on your temple; though you couldn’t see it, you felt a faint patch of red and purple already forming there.

“Sorry for the intrusion, Y/N—um… L/N-san.”

Dizzied from your sudden nap and the slight concussion that the shelf had given you, you’d barely noticed that Akaashi had entered the compound. He looked exactly the same as he always did—tousled dark hair, with a slight jaded look to his eyes. Neatly pressed uniform, direct orders from his mother, paired with the porcelain tone of his skin. But the tense air to him made worlds of difference, and you nearly mistook him for a stranger because of it.

In his clutches was a dainty lunch box, wrapped neatly with a ginko-patterned cloth that made the blood rise to your face. It so happened to be the exact same ginko-patterned cloth that you used to bundle up your own lunch. Alas, for a ‘lucky charm’, you wouldn’t consider it lucky to have the one thing that could save you from starvation to be held by the last person you wanted to see in that moment.

“Your younger sister asked me to bring it to you,” he said. The cold tone he used did nothing to blend well with the atmosphere. “Technically, she just gave it to me then left.”

You cursed your sister in your mind, making sure she received as much astral flicks to the forehead as possible. Indignantly puffing out your chest, you snatched the box away from Akaashi while doing your absolute best to not get vacuumed into the soft gaze that he held.

“Thank you very much. A-Akaashi-san,” you wanted to vomit with the way you churned out his last name. Had you grown so accustomed to calling him by his first name that you’d completely forgotten how to call him by his last?

Please say something. Despite the wall you had built in your head to separate the both of you, you didn’t want it. You could honestly just apologize and get the whole thing over with, but what was so difficult about doing that?

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

You’d expect the audience to work up a healthy sweat in your palms, but even with their interested gazes, you felt absolutely nothing. Meanwhile, Akaashi was seated elegantly at the front of the crowd, giving you what could be the warmest smile in the world.

Against your usual responses to him, you quickly turned away, effectively barricading him from you. You’d decided after the spectacle you had seen, that nothing was going to distract you from performing the perfect shot. Not even the kind glances Akaashi was giving you.

“The Captain of the Kyudo Club will now demonstrate the standard hassetsu*,” Midori announced to the crowd as you approached the front lines.

All eyes fell on you as you carefully positioned yourself then your bow according to your target. When you arrived at the point to nock your arrow in its cranny, your breaths fell jagged and the world seemed to fall apart.

Why did that have to happen? Why did you have to see that right before a pivotal moment like this? Akaashi knew how risky it was to pull off that move in public, so why did he do it? You, who had been so confident about showing the audience a breathtaking exhibition, now hesitated of the outcome of your shot.

You didn’t even realize you had already fully pinned your string back in all its force… How long had you been holding that? Was it eight seconds already? Gritting your teeth in prayers, you hoped that it was enough and released, the whinnied whip of the arrow nearly throwing you backwards.

Your chest dropped at the sight of the target. Your arrow hit right on, but it was dangerously close to the frames. Too long, you scowled, chastising yourself. That draw was timed too long.

Behind you, Akaashi made a startled face that quickly contradicted all the smiles he had given you so far. Seeing his guiltless expression only made you even more irritated. “Would a volunteer like to have a try?” A couple of eager hands shot up like fireworks. You were almost impressed that they still wanted to try out even after seeing a shot like that.

However, in the crowd of excited figures, you spotted a first year who’d been eyeing you virtuously since he had entered the dojo. Come to think of it, you’d seen him in last year’s tournament too… he’d been staring at you wide-eyed back then as well—taking in your posture and movements like a living camera despite only being a volunteer staff at the venue.

“You there. At the front, what’s your name?” you called out him. Were you even thinking? If so, what were you thinking of? You didn’t even care. You were just… angry. “Do you have any experience in kyudo?”

His back straightened like a ruler when he stood, the wisps of his black hair flying all over his face as he smoothed out his uniform before you. “T-Takehashi Keigo from Class 1-2!  U-um, my experience… In my first year of middle school I joined a neighborhood kyudo association… I’m afraid I’m not as good as you though. I-I saw your performance at the tournament last year… it was amazing.”

Looking between Akaashi and the boy in front of you, you simpered. Jackpot.

Handing him your bow and glove, you made sure your skin lingered against his for a tad bit too long; just enough for a certain someone’s pair of rain-colored eyes to notice. “Show me how you handle the bow, Takehashi-kun. I will guide you from there.”

Like the cherry blossoms bordering the fence outside the dojo, the boy’s face bloomed into a vibrant shade of pink and red. As Takehashi took his stance, it came to your attention, that for someone who only had limited exposure to kyudo grounding, he wasn’t bad. If this wasn’t a case to simply make your boyfriend feel bitter, you would probably probe into his skills a little bit further.

“Ah, wait. Your hikiwake* is a bit shaky. Here, let me…”

If your head hadn’t been clouded with acid, you probably wouldn’t be doing this. You probably wouldn’t be sidled so cozily against the shoulder of an unknowing first-year with an obvious devotion for you. You probably wouldn’t be acting like such a petty girlfriend—what was Akaashi’s head clouded with when he embraced Gotou like that? Was he thinking of you when he did it?

Akaashi’s glare was drilling through your back already. Even inside the cool dojo, you could feel the heat seeping inside your kyudogi*. You didn’t want to stop. A lone voice within you screamed of selfishness, but at what cost? You almost smiled at the thought of giving him a taste of his own medicine.

By the time demonstrations were over, there was a half-full applications log for the Kyudo Club, a near empty dojo, and an evidently disgruntled Akaashi Keiji. The latter had quickly dragged you away to the quiet crook harboring the lawn maintenance shed with no words to spare.

“…What were you doing?” he gritted, shoes tapping impatiently and throwing bits and pieces of sand at your feet.

You frowned, “What’re you accusing me of?”

“There’s nothing to accuse you of if you were doing it on purpose,” Akaashi shot back. “You were practically holding that first year much too close to be modest. I don’t know what kind of message you’re trying to convey to me, but you have to stop.”

“What if I said that it was purely accidental?” you, too, felt increasingly impatient. Apologize already, you thought, as if he would miraculously hear you.

“Don’t peg me for Bokuto-san; I’m not gullible. I knew you were deliberately doing it, Y/N-san.”

Your lips flattened into a thin line. You were running out of composure by now; the fuse was lit and ready to go. “Does that make hugging Gotou-san much less of a intentional action then?”

The missile has blown and the fog thickened. You watched the color drain from your boyfriend’s features—his pale skin was somehow even more paler than before. Meanwhile, his eyes were the perfect image of horror: its reflective surface bounced off your image like a broken mirror, distorting you and the world around it.

You took his silence as a cue to continue. “I saw you. I saw her confess to you. I saw you hug her even though you rejected her… I don’t get it, Keiji-san. Why did you do it? Did it ever occur to you that you had a girlfriend?”

“I was just as confused as you. I was only consoling her and that was that,” the way his voice grew louder only made your chest tighten. “If someone had rejected you, wouldn’t you want to be comforted? Or is the great L/N Y/N too inhospitable for that?”

You and Akaashi never argued. Never. Everyone had said you were like the pieces of a perfect jigsaw puzzle. Compatible in all angles. But now, seeing him yell and hearing yourself yell was the antithesis of that entire allegory. It was like you had bent yourselves apart by force.

“I wouldn’t know because I never confessed to anyone! You were the one who confessed to me first, moron,” you seethed, blood boiling in your veins.

“Then, I wish I never did!”

And the entire world fell apart.

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

“Wait!”

You had blurted the word out so easily. If only it was just as easy to say it when you fought… things would be a little lighter.

Akaashi, who had earlier looked arguably reluctant, turned on his heel rather swiftly at your call. Now that you’d done the trick, what was next? Apologizing immediately seemed very anticlimactic and you weren’t one to admit loss so effortlessly—

“L/N-san, if it’s not important, I’m sure you don’t need me here,” your last name sounded like an alien language on his tongue. It was hostile and definitely foreign.

‘Hostile’ to hell! you huffed as you watched his back drift away ever so slowly before you. “D-don’t go!”

Fantastic, now he was looking at you like you were the alien in the room. Meeting his steely gaze, your feet shifted nervously against the wooden slats. A stubborn knot tightened in your throat, nearly forcing out what you’d presumed to be vomit settling behind your mouth.

“Please don’t leave me, Keiji-san…” your eyes flickered fleetingly before finally descending on your feet, “I’m scared of going back to being alone. I-I understand if you want to break up with me but—”

“Y/N-san, I’m not breaking up with you.”

The sound you made was an incoherent mixture of a relieved sigh and cry of shock. Whatever the noise was, your expression on the other hand was enough to make Akaashi’s cheeks puff up in subdued laughter. You didn’t say it, but you really did miss his smile; the way it’d stir up all the warmth in your stomach, it formed bubbles of fluttery comfort that rose all the way up to your head.

“I-I thought you were going to break up with me,” he said as-a-matter-of-factly. “What I did was unacceptable. I was overwhelmed by Gotou-san’s actions and I became so angered by your, uh… ‘vengeance’ that I didn’t think to consider your feelings more. I was selfish, Y/N-san. And I’m sorry for hurting your feelings. Please forgive me for the awful things I’ve done to you.”

Were you even breathing anymore? When was the last time you inhaled air? When you murmured his name, like the mantra that it seemed like, all the weight you had been shouldering the past few days was finally knocked off your back. You could finally breathe.

“How unfair, Keiji-san.”

“Huh?!”

“That apology was too sentimental for me to outdo,” you continued rather gruffly, though in your heart, the gates for Akaashi was already wide open. “But, still… I’m really sorry for what I did. I see that the stunt I pulled off was pushing it too much… I promise, Takehashi-kun and I don’t have any further relations aside from captain to club member. In that way, I want to fix what happened… If that’s alright with you?”

When Akaashi thought about something serious, he became as still as a statue. In your dojo, he stood unmoving, you were afraid if you were to say something he’d shatter and turn into dust. Yet, the grim look would have fooled you if it weren’t for the words he’d uttered next.

“Y/N-san, would it be appropriate if I kissed you right now?”

“Wh-what?!” your lips tingled along with the searing heat that clouded your cheeks. God, he was really high-maintenance whenever he wanted to be. “Sorry, but I think that’s impossible r-right now! If you did that, I’ll definitely—”

As you rambled on, you didn’t realize that Akaashi had moved closer to you and ruffled your hair endearingly. He laughed, “I know, I know. I just missed seeing your flustered face. If a kiss won’t do… then, can you show me your archery?”

Picking up your bow leaning on the side of a shelf, you beamed brightly. Your heart was clearer than the sky that day. Heijoshin. No misses.

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

Glossary:

kai - the sixth stage of the hassetsu: the full draw

yumibukuro - cloth casing for the bow

buchou-san - ���chief’ (of a club)

omae - the first archer to shoot in a tachi (a group of archers shooting, usually five)

hassetsu - the eight stages of a shooting ritual

hikiwake - the fifth stage of the hassetsu: the draw

kyudogi - the kimono-like top of standard kyudo gear

[the-awkward-outlaw]

Instead of Eagle Flies, reader is the one who gets shot and Arthur tells her this, “ Don’t die on me– Please. ” After killing Cornwall. Reader survives though but isn't allowed to fight with the boys for awhile.

Okay this one made me mad because of the ending. Why couldn’t we see this ending in the game?! Rockstar, you robbed us! 

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Warnings: blood, violence, swearing (but Tuberculosis? What’s that?) 

Hell. That’s where you’re at right now. You’re running along a boardwalk over the black, flaming ground, accompanied by Sadie Adler. She’s closely followed by Arthur Morgan and you three run along the path, closer to the main building of the oil factory. Up ahead are at least a dozen men, factory workers and army men, shooting at you. The three of you return fire. Mixed among them are a few members of your gang and some Wapiti warriors. 

The three of you finally leave the boardwalk and land on solid ground. Out of a door on the right, the Wapiti chief’s son Eagle Flies gets pinned by an army soldier. Arthur shoots him, giving Eagle Flies the chance to throw the dying man off. 

“Arthur! You came!” he says. It’s clear by his voice he’s relieved. 

“Course. Now come on, we ain’t outta the woods yet,” Arthur replies. 

You’re given about five seconds before a new wave of army men rounds the corner and begins shooting. As they’re taken down, Sadie screams. 

“Move up!” 

You and the others do now that you’re joined by Charles, Javier, Bill, John and Dutch. You make your way up towards the tracks where a train sits, always keeping an eye on Arthur. Of course, you’re worried about everyone’s survival. Despite how bad things have gotten in the gang, they’re still your family. Arthur’s as strong as ever, but he’s still just a man and you know from experience how easily a man can die when hit with a bullet. You can’t afford to lose him to one. He is your husband, after all. 

As the gang gets closer to the train, a door on one of the boxcars slides open. More army soldiers hop out firing, and then a gatling gun comes into view. A man grabs the handles and begins firing. You and the others take cover as quickly as you can, but you see two Wapiti warriors fall. 

“Arthur!” you scream over the roar of the gun. “Take him out!” 

Arthur hears you and nods, aiming around the corner of the building he’s hiding behind. Being the best shot, he’s the best chance of killing this bastard. You fire at the soldier handling the gun, successfully attracting his attention to you. It only takes a second before you see the telltale ribbon of blood fly into the air and the silence of the gun to know Arthur’s done the job. You let out your breath and continue on with the others, advancing upon the factory. 

This whole thing is a nightmare. You understand Eagle Flies’s fury behind this attack, but why the hell aren’t you and the others turning around and running away now that you know he’s alive and capable of doing so? Dutch keeps encouraging everyone to go on, to secure this place. You’ve no doubt he’s got some ulterior motive behind this whole thing. Why wouldn’t he? This whole time, he’s been stringing the Indians along, using their feud with the army for his own gain, and he’s made things twice as bad in the process. You’ve gotten extremely infuriated with his behavior in the past few weeks. The only reason you and Arthur have stayed so long is because you want to get as many out alive as you can. 

The gang’s in the main area just around the oil factory within the fences, taking down more of the army. Eagle Flies and Paytah run past you, taking down three soldiers with their bows and arrows. You see Arthur kneel down and shoot a man in the neck. Just as you’re aiming at another man, you get knocked onto the ground by something heavy. 

“Y/N!” you hear Arthur scream as you struggle against the thing holding you down. Turning around, you see it’s a soldier who tackled you. He’s got you pinned in such a way you can’t pull your pistol or knife out to get him off you. He grits his teeth and points a revolver at your face, clicking the hammer down. 

Suddenly the man’s thrown off you. Arthur’s picked him up by the collar and shoves his long knife into the man’s belly. He gurgles and collapses next to you. Arthur takes your hand and lifts you up. Despite being surrounded by gunfire, he checks to see you’re okay. You fend him off quickly and return to the fight. 

After a few more moments, the last few soldiers left standing flee into the hills and forests surrounding the factory. Dutch calls to everyone, making sure the gang’s alright. Surprisingly, no one was killed. The same cannot be said for the Wapiti, who have suffered heavy losses from this attack. You feel a surge of sorrow as Eagle Flies and Paytah wander, checking on the bodies of those who had been their friends, seeing if any of them lived. 

Dutch calls Arthur to his side and the two go into the building to retrieve railroad bonds. So that’s why Dutch pursued for so long. Of course he didn’t give a damn about the Indians. He merely used their attack as an excuse to steal the bonds. You feel a sharp flood of anger towards him and you go into the factory, wanting to give him a piece of your mind. 

You get into the building and find yourself alone. You’re not entirely sure where Arthur and Dutch went, but you see, out the large open door leading to the train tracks, more army soldiers approaching. Leading them is a familiar figure: Colonel Favours, the piece of shit spear-heading the movement and violence against the Wapiti. 

You start firing at the squad approaching you, but they fire back, forcing you to take cover behind some crates. They quickly advance and start going past you and into the factory. You’re worried, Arthur’s still in there. You just hope he and Dutch heard the gunshots and know to get out quickly. 

You hear them rushing past inside the factory and then something loud bursts and hisses, followed by Arthur’s yell. 

“Dutch!” you hear him scream. By his voice, you instantly know he’s in trouble. You shoot the last man you’ve been fighting with and run inside to find a soldier’s pinned Arthur to the ground. Dutch is nowhere to be seen. You quickly shoot the soldier and rush over to help Arthur up. 

Just as you reach him, you hear footsteps behind you. When you turn, you feel something slap you hard against the face and then a blinding pain in your abdomen. It knocks you off your feet and Arthur screams your name. 

You look up and see Colonel Favours standing above you, his gun pointed at your head. Just as he’s about to pull the trigger, his temple explodes in a cloud of blood, the air wrenched by the shot of a gun. He collapses near your feet and you clutch a hand over the spot on your abdomen that feels like it’s been set on fire. Pulling your hand away, you see it covered in blood. 

“Oh Goddamnit, Y/N!” Arthur growls as he runs over to your side and looks at your wound. Your breathing is sharp and fast. You’re scared. You’ve been shot before, but it was in your upper arm and far from lethal. This is different. You know how quickly people can die from a gunshot to the gut. 

“Arthur!” you whimper. 

“Shhh, shhhh, I got ya,” he says. He picks you up slowly, apologizing over and over again as you cry out in pain. He carries you towards the door bridal style. 

“That was damn stupid, sweetheart,” he grunts. “You shouldn’t have done that!” 

“I couldn’t let him kill you,” you say, tears leaking from your eyes. 

He rushes to the door and kicks it open, stepping out onto the platform. On the ground, Dutch and the others are mounting up. Arthur grits his teeth and glares at Dutch. 

“You. You walked away!” 

“I did no such thing,” Dutch says. 

Arthur is about to argue, but Charles rushes over. “Shot’s bad, Arthur. We need to get her somewhere and yank that bullet out.” 

Dutch hollers at the others to return to camp, but Charles, John and Sadie stay behind with Arthur, who’s still holding you. Eagle Flies runs over. 

“Bring her to my father, Arthur. We must move quickly.” 

By this point, the shock is beginning to set in. Your heart’s pumping hard and you’re starting to shiver. Arthur sets you down on your feet and strips off his coat, draping it over you. He calls his horse over and he and Charles lift you into the saddle. You cry out in pain and Arthur apologizes again. He gets in the saddle behind you. 

The group begins riding towards Wapiti. You try focusing on the conversation they’re having, anything in order to ignore the pain from your wound. You try to stay calm, knowing that the more you panic, the quicker you’ll bleed out. 

Arthur keeps a firm grip on you while directing his horse. He mutters in your ear to hold on. 

“I don’t want any of the money from those bonds,” Charles says. “Too much blood on them.” 

“I agree. Eagle Flies, I’m sorry about this. About all this. Dutch used you just like he used the rest of us. We’re nothin’ but angry pawns in his game.” 

Eagle Flies thanks Arthur for all his help, despite how things ended. “I’m just sorry it was Y/N to pay the ultimate price.” 

Arthur becomes furious at this. “Dutch had a chance to get me out. He saw I was in trouble and he walked away. If Y/N hadn’t been there, I’d be dead now!” 

“That seems to be what he does now,” John says. “No one matters anymore, everyone’s expendable.” 

“Let’s just get her there quickly, she ain’t got much time left,” Sadie says from the back. 

Arthur kicks his horse into a faster gallop, despite it causing more pain. Arthur whispers in your ear again, begging you to stay with him. You grip his hand as hard as you can, but he doesn’t like how weak it is. 

The horses slow to a trot as they enter the tribe. Many of the members stop and stare hard at you and the intruders, but then their eyes soften when they see Eagle Flies and Paytah. Eagle Flies dismounts his horse and rushes to his father’s tipi. Rains Fall comes out as Arthur dismounts and pulls you into his arms. At this point, you don’t have much energy left to even groan in pain. 

“Bring her inside. We will do what we can,” Rains Fall says to Arthur. 

 You’re carried into the tipi and set down near the fire. Another man enters the tent, one you’ve seen in the tribe during your previous visits, but never met. He’s introduced as Snow Owl. He inspects you quickly. 

“The bullet must be removed immediately.” He has in his hand a small sack of tools. He pulls out a pair of thin tongs and holds them above the fire, sterilizing them. He removes them and waits for them to cool. 

Charles says that he wants to help the Wapiti begin moving as it will likely only be hours before the army comes here to retaliate for the earlier attack. Sadie stays by your side and Arthur holds your hand still. 

“Arthur, will you come with me to camp?” John says. “I want to get Jack and Abigail. Think our time with the gang is done.” 

Arthur sighs. He doesn’t want to leave you now but he’s so enraged by what Dutch did he wants to tell him exactly what he thinks about him. “Sure. Best be quick though.” 

“Arthur?” you whimper, your voice weak. 

He leans down and kisses you softly. “I’ll be back before you know it, darlin’. Just… don’t die on me. Please. I need ya.” He kisses your head, cupping your cheek. You want to beg him to stay with you, that you’re scared, but you’re so weak you can’t get the words out. Arthur gets up and heads out with John. You want to cry. 

Snow Owl inspects the tongs and deems them cool enough to use on you. He instructs Sadie and Eagle Flies to hold you down. Sadie grabs your legs while Eagle Flies pins your shoulders down. Your heart begins to beat fast as Snow Owl gently pulls your shirt and the hem of your chemise out from under your pants and lifts them enough to see your wound. 

Despite your fear of the pain you’re about to be in, you hear a soft song being sung by Rains Fall. There are no words, just a tune, but you feel oddly comforted. Until Snow Owl dips the tongs down and goes into your wound. Your eyes widen, your vision sparking and your entire body’s on fire. A guttural scream forces its way out of your throat and you start to cringe your body, trying to get away from the pain. You’re writhing so much that Paytah has to jump in and help hold you down. 

The pain’s too much, your vision begins fogging. You feel something tugging at your abdomen and look down, the pain becoming less. Snow Owl is holding up the tongs, a bullet held in between them. You take in a deep breath and then you're pulled into a world of darkness. 

************************************

You’ve no idea what time it is, if it’s night or day, or how long it’s been since you were shot. Your senses slowly begin waking up. First is your hearing, you hear the crackling of a fire, the soft sound of someone breathing. It sounds familiar. Next is your smell detecting the hint of pine and leather. It smells comforting, like home. Last to return is touch. You’re lying in a slightly elevated position, your neck and head propped up on something soft and warm. Something gently strokes across your forehead in a repetitive motion. There’s a dull but constant ache in your belly. 

The memories of everything that’s happened come back. You recall watching Arthur, struggling beneath a soldier until you shot him, which resulted in you getting shot too. You remember the painful ride to Wapiti and Arthur leaving you at the moment when you wanted him there the most. 

You take in a deep breath, and the thing rubbing your forehead moves down to your cheek. Your eyes begin to open and the first thing you see is Arthur looking down at you, a soft smile on his lips. He sighs in relief. 

“Hey, sweetheart. You’re okay.” 

You find your head’s in his lap and the thing rubbing your forehead is his thumb. You smile back in return and try lifting your hand to grab his, but it feels like your arm’s made out of metal and is now too heavy for you to lift. 

Arthur asks if you’re thirsty and you nod. He gently lifts you up into a sitting position and pulls you into his lap. You settle into his chest, ignoring the burn in your abdomen. You’re shivering a little, feeling cold. Arthur rustles through his satchel and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. He uncorks it and helps you have a few sips. When you’re done, he notices how you’re shaking. He grabs his dark green shotgun coat and drapes it over you. Between the coat and his body, you quickly warm up. He kisses your head softly. 

“You in a lot of pain, sweetheart?” 

“It’s not horrible,” you mumble into his shirt. His arms fold tighter around you. “When… when are we going back to the gang?” 

You’re surprised you’re not back in Beaver Hollow now, and that you can’t hear the squawking of Grimshaw now. All you can hear is the fire and birds singing outside the tent. Sure, you and Arthur had discussed potentially leaving the gang when things started to get really bad, but it just hadn’t happened. 

“We’re, uh, we’re not, sweetheart. John and I got Abigail and Jack and I told Dutch that I’m done giving him everything and getting nothing in return. He almost made me lose you. I’ve lost a lot of things because of this life, but I won’t lose you. Not if I can help it.” 

He settles a hand over your head and you manage to drape an arm around his waist. “Good. I was starting to think we wouldn’t get out alive with how things were getting.” 

“That was my thought too, and I ain’t willin’ to risk my life no more for the spoutings of a mad man. Not anymore.”

You sigh, nuzzling into his chest. With his scent flooding into your nose, the whiskey in your belly and the warmth of his body, it doesn’t take long to fall asleep again. 

***********************************

Over the next few weeks, Arthur keeps an extremely protective watch over you. The first week was tough since you really couldn’t move much, but you needed to be moved to a more secure place. Arthur and John had their belongings from the gang, but you were all essentially living in tents. It wasn’t an ideal environment for Jack and Abigail wanted a proper home for her family. Sadie was willing to go anywhere with your group, and Charles had stayed to help the Wapiti. 

Eventually John stumbled upon a cabin large enough to house at least you, Arthur and his family. Sadie was happy to camp outside for the time being, so you were moved there. 

Arthur was extremely protective of you. Of course, he’s always been but it’s tripled in your condition. He confines you as much as he can to the bed you share on the ground level of the cabin (John, Abigail and Jack sleep in a bed in the loft). You quickly grow tired of it and Arthur relents to letting you go sit outside by the fire, but never leaving sight of the cabin. 

You can tell he’s struggling with the sudden change of your lifestyle. It’s been a long time since he didn’t have to worry about jobs to do. Of course, he and John take a few risks to go and rob in order to get the money they’ve lost. It makes Abigail furious as she knows the best way to properly leave the gang is to get a new lifestyle.

It weighs heavy on all your minds that Dutch and Micah could very well come looking for you all. It sounds like they put up quite a fight when John and Arthur announced they were leaving. Dutch always said the gang wasn’t like a prison camp, that anyone was free to leave when they wanted to, but he took John and Arthur’s leaving as personal. Arthur retorted that Dutch denying he left Arthur to die was personal, which only made him more angry and more determined to keep his boys in the gang. 

Fear that the remaining members of the gang will find you forces your group to abandon the cabin and continue heading west in search of a safer place to live. The Pinkertons are no longer a threat as their main target is Dutch and they know he’s in the east. Arthur didn’t want to move you, fearing you’re not strong enough, but Abigail was determined to keep moving, wanting to keep her boy safe. You convinced Arthur you could ride to a new location, that you were strong enough and he finally relented, though he was almost a pest with how much he tried to make sure you weren’t in any pain. 

It’s been weeks now since you left the gang and you’re mostly healed. You and Arthur live alone in a cabin just east of Strawberry and north of the Upper Montana River. The house sits on a slight ridge, which gives your backyard a stunning view of the river and Great Plains beyond. 

John, Abigail and Jack no longer accompany you. It was decided a few weeks back that you’d be harder to track by lawmen and Dutch if you separated. Sadie went her own separate way as well, stating she might try her hand at bounty hunting. Those goodbyes were the worst in your life and you miss them all dearly, but you’re not unhappy. 

You and Arthur are building a good life out here in this cabin. He happily gave up life as an outlaw, working as a rancher. He sells his drawings on the side and makes surprisingly good money with them. You take up writing as a hobby and get a job in Strawberry working in the post office. You and Arthur make enough money to live a comfortable life. 

Occasionally you receive word from John or Sadie, who both promised to keep in touch (under aliases of course). About a year after abandoning the gang, John sends word that Abigail left him and, in order to try and win her back, he bought a plot of land called Beecher’s Hope.

“Don’t know why John would want that piece of garbage,” Arthur said. “Nothin’ but dirt and dead grass.” 

John’s letter went on to say that he and Sadie were doing some bounty hunting work in order to pay for the land (in a legal fashion) and asked if you and Arthur would be interested in helping him to build a house. You were, so you headed on down to help John put his house up and it turned out he had Uncle and Charles with him. 

You stand now near the campfire on Beecher’s Hope. The house is partially built, at least the exterior structure is up. It’s night and no one is working now. Uncle is showing Charles some dancing moves, which he doesn’t seem to appreciate. John and Arthur watch, drinking beer. You walk up to Arthur and loop your arm through his, leaning your head on his arm. He winds his arm behind you and kisses your head. 

You’re hoping all this effort on John’s part will get him his family back. Otherwise all this work and time will be for nothing, but you still have had a great time. It’s been nice to reunite with so many old friends. You wish you could bump into the other girls, even old Grimshaw. 

Of Dutch and Micah, you have heard little. A few months after fleeing the gang, you heard rumors they headed north, got trapped by Pinkertons and then disappeared. There’s been some speculation they may have headed back down this way, but you’ve heard nothing substantial. Even so, they’re likely any worry to you. 

You look up into the star-speckled sky. You’re content in this moment. You’ve never loved Arthur more than you do now and you’ve never been this happy. Of all the things you suffered through with living in the gang, you’d happily do them all over again if you knew they’d wind up here. 

[lots-of-little-pink-clouds]

Black Cadillac Valentines

Summary: A oneshot explaining how the PC from Bloodlines knows the Prince of Tucson, Arizona, Lettow Kaminsky. Also, the Cadillac incident Dove tells you about at the beginning of VTM: Night Road.

Characters: Malkavian PC (VTM: Bloodlines), Heather Poe, Lettow Kaminsky, Dove, Sebastian LaCroix (mentioned).

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660233

February 14th 2005

Briar Rose rots under the sand.

An eagle makes its nest out of blue bones.

Father plucks the feathers from a lark's wings.

Beauregard Sawyer wanders the streets of Tucson, Arizona under the pale light of the moon. All around him, couples walk arm-in-arm on the sidewalk, smiling and laughing and exchanging gifts and kisses.

After arriving in Tucson and presenting themselves to its new Prince last month, Beau and his ghoul, Heather Poe, kept busy. Beau was convinced that something was here, something important. Ever aware of his moods, Heather looked at local real estate agents for a secure haven to live in while Beau began his search. She eventually found a small two-bedroom, one-bathroom basement apartment where the elderly couple who lived in the house above never asked any questions. They officially moved in three days ago.

Whether it was successfully moving in or because it was Valentine's Day, Heather wanted to celebrate and Beau could never say no to his Heather Feather. She was planning something, so he stepped out to give her time to set up.

Beau closes his eyes, readjusts his blue-sunset aviators, and relaxes for the first time in months. Los Angeles was a total bust, but at least its Jester Prince was dust and ashes. Hopefully whoever takes over will be able to clean up the mess the Ankaran Sarcophagus left behind. He takes a deep, calming breath.

The scent of smoke fills his nose.

She got in the wrong Cadillac.

His eyes snap open as he stops in front of the parking lot of a Marriott. He watches as a red-haired woman flings herself out of a burning black Cadillac, pushes herself to her feet, and takes off running past him.

"Isn't that the Prince's Seneschal?" he wonders. Beau's Sight doesn't grant him night vision, but he could swear her silhouette matched that of the hulking Nosferatu woman with the skull face that loomed behind Tucson's Gangrel Prince. Funny, he can't remember her name.

Looking back at the vehicle the woman just vacated, Beau spots a man in a wolf costume hanging halfway out of the driver seat window, screaming and clutching the bleeding remnants of his arm. Ignoring the human, Beau turns back to the woman, flames licking at her heels, as she runs out into the street.

At that moment, a car with its headlights off swerves around the corner at full speed and slams into her. Beau stares as she goes flying, hits the pavement, rolls, and is run over. The car stops and a man in a cream suit jacket climbs out and goes to check on her.

Eagle eyes scan the eastern horizon.

Not yet, he thinks.

He has to keep her safe.

"That's the Prince of Tucson," Beau realizes, bewildered. The Prince of Tucson, Lettow Kaminsky, helps the woman to her feet and pats her down to douse the remaining sparks of fire that cling to her clothes. Beau's attention turns again to the woman and, "Yep, that's definitely his Seneschal."

Then, because his night couldn't get any weirder, a jeep speeds around the corner that the Prince came from. Four heads stick out from the vehicle's open windows and point guns towards the Prince and his right-hand-woman.

Beau immediately ducks into the nearest alleyway, reaching into his hoodie's pocket for his pistol as the sound of gunfire erupts behind him. Screams fill the air. He peeks around the corner and spots the Prince and the Seneschal taking cover behind the Prince's car. The jeep swerves and comes to a stop, the Kindred inside clambering out and taking up defensive positions as pedestrians flee.

The wise decision would be to let them fend for themselves. The Prince and his Seneschal are both Elders. They would be fine. And after LaCroix and the debacle in LA, Beau's never held much stock in the Camarilla or any of its rivals. Kindred and Kine are the same in that sense - both will do whatever it takes to attain power. However...

Father's flock frays and turns to dust.

A lark stretches her wings to embrace the dawn.

Decision made, Beau leans around the corner, raises his pistol, and fires, just missing the head of one of the attackers. Immediately, the person calls to their fellows, drawing attention to the new challenger shooting at them. Their voice cuts out as Beau finally hits his target, the impact knocking them back on the pavement and stunning them.

"Shame that Kindred are so resilient," he thinks. He ducks around the corner again as the other Kindred focus on taking him out. Sticking his head back out as the assailants reload, Beau catches the Prince's eyes and gestures to him.

"Come on! This way!"

Then he steps out from the alley and continues shooting. He watches as the two share a look. The Seneschal finally nods and then they dart out from behind the car, dodging fire as they go.

Beau feels a bullet tear through his gut. He grimaces, throwing himself around the corner and back into the alleyway just as the two Camarilla members reach him. The Seneschal covers them, turning around and firing at their attackers with extreme prejudice.

"Evening Prince," Beau says, using the wall to push himself back to his feet.

"You are... Beauregard, correct?" the Gangrel asks.

"Yeah. My ghoul and I moved here last month." Beau puts a hand over the wound in his side to staunch the bleeding. "I know a place you can hide until they're gone. Or until dawn, whichever comes first. This way." He starts jogging down the alley. Lettow and his Nosferatu companion follow as the shouts of their pursuers ring out behind them.

"Who were those guys anyway?" Beau asks.

"Remnants of the Sabbat that took advantage of the turf war," Lettow replies.

Beau heard about that. From what little he learned from LaCroix and afterwards from rumors, Tucson's Camarilla was embroiled in a turf war. It started four years ago, when the old Ventrue Prince sought to purge the city of the riff raff. That is to say, every Kindred not part of Clan Ventrue.

Many people took offence to that.

Some rebelled, others fled. The Prince's childer took it as an opportunity to latch onto any form of power they could get their hands on and began fighting each other. Soon, they too were as much of a target as the other clans the Prince warred against.

Then in the midst of all that, the Sabbat arrived - led by Beau's sire, LaCroix always loved to mention - and made everything exponentially worse. It was every Kindred for themselves up until Lettow killed the old Prince and took over.

"We need to lose them," the Seneschal says. Footsteps pound on the pavement behind them, the Sabbat giving chase. The Nosferatu huffs, fists clenching white around her gun as she shoots behind her.

A dove with clipped wings and no other place to go.

"We'll find a way," the Prince replies.

"My haven's not too far," Beau says, "If we can shake 'em, I'll lead you straight there."

"You sure we can trust this guy?" the Seneschal asks. Beau feels the Gangrel Prince's sharp eagle gaze settle on his back.

His eyes see all, a gift from someone dear to him.

"For now," Lettow replies with certainty. Then to Beau, he says, "I do not take betrayal lightly. For your sake, you will uphold your end of the bargain."

"And if I don't, you'll dust me?" Beau laughs. "Sounds like someone I used to know. But you don't have to worry, Prince. I always keep my word."

With that, Beau leads them through Tucson's twisting alleyways, letting his feet and the voices tell him which way to go. He guides them through narrow streets and over roof tops, the Sabbat slowly falling behind. The trio eventually lose their pursuers completely when Beau stops, grabs the Seneschal's muscled bicep and the Prince's sleeve and lets the tingles of camouflage cover all three of them. The Sabbat run past none the wiser.

They wait for a time as the confused shouts of the other Kindred gets farther away. Approaching police sirens scare off the remnants. Only after the cops pass does Beau drop the camouflage with a heavy sigh.

"I think we lost them," he says.

"We should get somewhere safe in case they come back," the Nosferatu adds. The Prince nods and turns to Beau.

"Does your offer of sanctuary still apply?"

Beau shrugs. "Sure, why not. It's been a weird day. Night. Whatever."

He leads them back through the maze of alleys. Without the hassle of being tailed, the trio make it to Beau and Heather's haven without difficulty. Beau takes out his key and unlocks the door, leading them inside.

"Beau?" Heather's voice calls from the kitchen, "Is that you?"

"It's me," Beau replies, closing the door and locking it.

Heather rushes to him, red hair whipping behind her. Beau catches her, stumbling backwards as she flings herself at him.

"I missed you," she says, hugging him. He smiles and pats her back.

The Prince coughs, interrupting the moment. Heather quickly lets go. Her face flushes as she recognizes their guests.

"Ran into some friends. They needed a place to stay a bit," Beau shrugs, taking off his aviators and tossing them onto the hall table. "Hope you don't mind. I know you had plans."

"No, no, it's fine," she replies, tucking her hair behind her ear. She shuffles in place, wringing her hands. "Um, Beau?"

At her tone, Beau pauses. "What did you do?"

She bites her lip. He crosses his arms.

"... I caught a fish again."

Beau blinks. Then, he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Feather, remember what I told you last time you did this?"

"I'm sorry," she deflates. "But we just moved in, and I wanted to get you something since you've been so stressed lately."

"And I appreciate it, I really do, but it's still super dangerous. What if you got caught?"

Her silence is telling.

"You got caught."

"... I caught two fish."

"Please Heather, please tell me you didn't use the shovel."

She swallows and braces herself. Beau throws his hands up.

"Feather, you know how I feel about the shovel!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Just... Just go," Beau rubs his eyes, desperately wanting to scream. "Where are they?"

"I locked them in the guest room..."

He waves her off, exasperated. He watches her disappear into the living room before turning to their guests. "Are you two hungry? I've got bagged in the fridge, and you're welcome to that, but I gotta take care of this mess."

The Camarilla members stare at him. Beau glances between them.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"See," the Seneschal finally says, turning to Lettow, "I told you he was a Lunatic."

"Come now Dove," the Prince sighs, "That is no way to speak to our host."

"Oh right," Beau thinks, "Her name was Dove." Then the rest of her sentence registered.

"Lunatic, huh? That's a new one."

"It's the eyes," Lettow says. "Because of your sunglasses, it was hard to tell. I believed you were Toreador."

"Huh." Beau pauses. "I honestly don't care either way. Let others see what they wish to see, the truth is always obscured." He shrugs. "But enough of that, we did a lot of running earlier. Are you hungry?"

"I could eat," Dove replies.

The Prince agrees. "We will make do."

Cold and slimy and unfulfilling.

Blood bags don't provide enough subsistence for Kindred. The ones who subsist entirely on them are either desperate or clinging to the remnants of their humanity. Most prefer obtaining their fill directly from the source. With this in mind, Beau extends another olive branch to them. The voices whisper that something good will come of this relationship.

"If you want, you can help me with the fish," he offers. The two look at each other.

"Fish?" Lettow asks. His lips twitch into a small bemused smile. A dubious expression crosses Dove's face.

Beau grins as he leads them to the guest room. He stops by the closet and pulls out the shovel he and Heather own, hauling it over one shoulder before continuing on. Dried blood sticks to its metal blade.

"Yeah, fish. But not literal fish. I think you'll like it."