#C: Owen

[hunterclaringtonswitch]

It's kind of anticlimactic since I've been doing my final semester remotely from the hotel, but I have officially graduated, Sir!

That's incredible, Owen! We need to have a celebration.

[briannabrackens]

who: @owenstark when and where; the lann's day celebrations, whilst everyone is wearing masks. what: bri and minty are going around dapping all of the 10s.

"three…two…one…" their voices came in unison, brianna's hand slipping from minty's to send the small glass of brightwater whiskey down her throat; it burned more than usual this night, and she almost spluttered on the smokiness of it - far more smokey than usual, or perhaps it was due to all the fruity tasting arbor wine she had indulged in this night. this was brianna's final choice, one she had been building up toward for the better half of an hour - because she knew not what the northerners had done to themselves, but they seemed to more attractive than they had ever been.

or perhaps again, arbor wine made everything tainted rose.

"go, go, go." brianna whispered, half giggling already as her and minthara darted in opposite directions in the crowds. how was she supposed to approach a king? the king in the north of all people, who was known to be increasingly distrusting of southerners, whom she had heard so many rumours about. she would not have picked him, and yet, the sight of him had made her double take this evening; as though she could hardly believe he of all people could look in such a way. but he could, and he did.

his guards remained around him, and he was always surrounded with his courtiers; but from what she noticed, she seemed to drink heavily too. and he would move to demand another drink.

and so, with a spare goblet in her hands, she simply waited for the right time - it was taking far too long. but she managed it in the end; it took multiple half-arsed dances to ensure the drink did not spill, but she held the drink nonetheless. it was for someone. and when he finally broke from his circle by only a few steps, she ensured to make eye contact with him; what was not expected, was him accidentally barging into her. and yet, the drink went onto the floor, wetting the bottom of her skirts. she flickered her gaze back up at him, her doe-like orbs narrowed; and she suddenly remembered herself.

she offered him the goblet of whiskey. "drink 'o kings." she commented, her clover accent sneaking through. and then, she extended her spare hand for him, as though he was supposed to take it.

[toridimopoulos]

@owenmacnally

Location: The Outpost

Rosalie had been busy, and Eve was still at work, leaving Tori to venture to The Outpost alone, purely out of boredom. Which was a rare occurrence for the brunette, given her penchant for being surrounded by friends, yet she didn't mind. The music festival had descended into chaos, and while she went unscathed she was still undeniably stressed. Just as she as made her way up to the bar to order a drink, Victoria noticed a familiar figure sitting three stools away.

"Buy me a drink," She teased, moving to stand beside him, a playful grin on her face. "Unless you're in one of your usual bad moods. I never know what to expect with you."

[banisheed]

TIMING: Pre-goo LOCATION: The Common PARTIES: Owen (@apaininyourneck) and Siobhan (@banisheed) SUMMARY: Falling victim to a promise to share his murders with Siobhan, Owen meets up with her and spills more than he meant to.

A crochet fox tumbled off the bench, its plush body produced an enviable initial bounce and then a pitiful second bounce before it rolled away. Siobhan watched it with a glazed expression; no feeling or thoughts processed in the valley of her mind. Siobhan had no trouble finding the bench beside the man who sold the crochet animals, she did have several troubles with his presence, however. First: the annoying chorus of his hocking of nonsensical animal toys was unbearable the first second she heard it. Second: she didn’t understand why they weren’t crochet dead animals, roadkill made much cuter subjects, though she still preferred the real thing. Third: that the sight of him ruined the green horizon, staining it with his ugly, living human body; he, like the toys, would have looked better dead. She thought she devised the perfect plan when she purchased all his animals, certain that with nothing to sell, he would leave. Instead, as Siobhan piled up the useless toys on her bench, he produced a second box filled with even more crochet animals and a false sense of their worth, imbued by having a woman buy all of his first batch outright. He had become more annoying, Siobhan was buried in a pile of crochet animals, and Owen was nowhere to be seen. Not that she could really see from under the mountain of crochet. 

It was her fault that she refused to look at clocks based on the principle of the matter (how dare something tell her what the time is) but if Siobhan ever admitted something was her fault, the skies would turn red, birds would fall, and rivers would dry up. She thought it was in the best interest of the planet that she remained as she always had been. When Owen finally appeared, or at least, whatever spindly man she assumed to be Owen appeared, she swiped the bench and sent more crochet animals tumbling away. “Sit,” she commanded the man; no ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’ or ‘nice shirt’. “I’ve been sat here covered in these insipid toys; I’ve had a terrible day. I deserve entertainment.” The entertainment in question was the deal they’d made: Owen would tell her about his murders and she would pay him. It was a simple deal, but during rough times (boredom) she needed whatever she could get. Eventually, her manners came back to her. “Siobhan,” she said, hand outstretched. “Like on the internet. Normally I am sexy, today I am covered in toys. Tell me about your murders.” 

—

For someone who regularly sought out the unusual, the never before tried, Owen was surprised to find this town still had the ability to reveal something new. Some of the town’s inhabitants did, anyway. Talking blatantly and casually about murder online was more of a joke than anything else, meant to shock and offend. Being asked very seriously about ‘his murders’ in exchange for money was a first. For a moment, Owen considered bailing on the strange woman. Not like he particularly needed the money and talking to weirdos was always draining but something pulled him to the park that day. Morbid curiosity? 

Whatever the reason, Owen found himself surprised, again - a woman sat on the proposed bench, covered in crochet animals. The man at the stand looked very happy with himself, his creations’ lifeless eyes staring into the distance. Kicking away a stray animal that tumbled towards him, he sniffed at the demand. The thought ‘too dumb to be a narc’ popped into his head again. Arms crossing, petulantly not sitting down, Owen cocked his head. Entertainment was a morbid way to describe whatever this exchange was. “I would have picked a different location if I had known about your crochet fetish. My bad.”

Ignoring the offered hand, Owen finally took a seat, leaning back and spreading his legs so more crafts fell to the ground. The seller didn’t look all too pleased with how his work was being treated but a sideways glance from the slayer turned the man’s attention away. “Eager.” He regarded Siobhan curiously before the words spilled out. “First one was at sixteen. If you count beheading something that’s already dead a murder.” Perhaps a bit more information than he’d previously considered providing but Owen had never been all that shy about his origins. And it would be interesting to see this strange woman react. 

—

“It’s not a fetish,” Siobhan grumbled, pushing more crochet animals off of her. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was beginning to feel rather fond of them. At least, the weight of all of them felt a little like a very pointy blanket. She didn’t take offense to the lack of hand shaking, she wasn’t sure why humans did it to begin with. As a child, she assumed it was so you could feel up the metacarpals but when became more knowledgeable of the human world, she learned that it wasn’t polite to squeeze so tightly on someone’s hand. “Sixteen?” She repeated. She’d been fifteen herself, not that this was a competition (it was). 

Siobhan hummed, tapping her chin. “No, I don’t count that as a murder. If they’re already dead—a vampire or zombie or what have you—it doesn’t count. You’re just putting them back where they belong.” Was Owen a slayer? It didn’t matter much to her anyway, of all the hunters that existed, she liked slayers the best. They were the only sort she agreed with. “Tell me about a living person you killed.” She turned to him, excitement twinkling in her brown eyes. “Something good! Everyone does a little killing in their adolescence; it’s natural. I want the fun stuff.” She smiled wide. 

—

The lack of a reaction, doubled with Siobhan rattling off a few types of monsters, was telling in a way. She wasn’t like him, that much was clear, but knowledgeable for sure. Owen honestly couldn’t tell whether she was simply the weirdest human in town or something different. Either way, she was less than impressed with putting the undead back where they belonged - certainly a sentiment the slayer agreed with - which didn’t leave Owen with a lot of stories he particularly wanted to share. Leaving was always an option. Or just bullshitting this lady since this was resembling a bad prank video a bit too much. 

Lying came easy to Owen, it was second nature when sarcasm was the default and more than half of what left your mouth wasn’t serious in the slightest. Which is why it came as a surprise that the perfectly fabricated story in his mind stayed there when he spoke. “The first one wasn’t on purpose. I was just supposed to stop him, knock him out but human necks are much more fragile than vampires’.” His mouth clamped shut and an expression that was fairly unfamiliar to the slayer slid across his face - confusion. “I think his spine severed the moment the brick hit his head.” 

Without warning, Owen was on his feet, eyes narrowed and heart pounding. Her name had been inches away from leaving his mouth in connection to the story. A story he hadn’t even meant to tell, to this weird as shit stranger who… He felt off, ill almost, with every second that passed when he wasn’t speaking. “It was much easier after the first one. A few slayers, ones that found out about her, threatened her. Used their own weapons to get rid of them. A warning to the rest if they wanted to keep their eyes. Or their scalps.” 

—

Siobhan always thought delight looked good on her face; her features were suited to the actions. Her soft pink lips knew just how wide to go, and they pushed up the lightly freckled skin of her cheeks into her big, friendly brown eyes. Siobhan was aware she didn’t have many sharp edges, not really, and it was during her adolescent years—it was always the adolescent years that made a body seem detestable—she hated how soft she looked. As she’d aged, some sharpness had come to her but mostly she just looked like a woman enjoying her time with this lanky man. With the crochet animals on her lap, none of the grotesqueness of their conversation was apparent and she reveled in the dichotomy. She also reveled in the adorability of Owen’s actions against the futility of his situation. Even as a slayer, he was still just as silly as every other human.

A few more crochet animals tumbled from her lap: a fox, a sheep, a racoon and a bear. “Divine,” Siobhan hummed, imagining the crunch of his spine and the almost comical thud noise blunt objects made against the human body. Did the brick shatter when it hit the ground? Did his body bounce? What had Owen’s face looked like, staring down at the accident? What did he think when blood started to pool out from under the body? How did he hide? Did he even bother to? “Her?” Siobhan asked but she was smart enough to put the pieces together; what kind of a ‘her’ would earn the ire of slayers? “Love? Family? Sentimentality is strange, isn’t it? It can twist you against your own people.” She knew all about it.

Siobhan waved her hand in the air. “Okay, so how many was it? How many people did you kill for ‘her’? Did she think it was romantic? I would.”

—

His throat felt constricted, pieces settling together as the familiarity of the fog over his mind registered. Fae. A fucking fae that he had made an honest to fuck deal with. Apparently, the internet was fair play when it came to getting mind fucked. Siobhan looked completely unphased by the slayer now looming over her, even as anger settled over his features. It didn’t matter that the man responsible for adding stuffed animals to this situation was still present, still very curious about what was going on - a knife was withdrawn from inside Owen’s coat all the same. Except she was still rattling off questions and he was still obligated to answer them. 

“I lost count. Couple dozen, at least,” he gritted out, the sound of panicked footsteps running in the opposite direction reaching his ears. At least the damn audience was gone. Which allowed Owen to lean in closer, one arm braced on the bench behind her, the other holding the knife tight against her chest. It wasn’t iron but it would still hurt like a bitch. “We’re not talking about her and the deal is off. Now.”

The words burned his throat, made his grip on the knife a little bit shaky. Not part of the deal. “Lots of cut jugulars, it’s easy and quiet.” They kept spilling out but at least Owen had made no deal to answer questions about her. “Decapitation if I needed to make a point. Sometimes asphyxiation, sometimes they were supposed to wake up again but didn’t.”

—

“Oh, getting kinky, are we?” Siobhan grinned, flush with delight. The sting of his knife digging into her chest was an electric thrill across her body; sharp pains were her favorite, nothing like the throbbing ache of a punch or the burning aftermath of a stab. A firework; brilliant and bright, popping under her skin. It was easy to say that Siobhan adored knives. From the mess of crochet animals, her hand slipped out and she pressed one of her knives to the underside of his wrist. “I didn’t know you felt this way about me, Owen. Oh, you’re just an adorable lad, aren’t you?” Most people didn’t understand that she could kill them far more easily than they could kill her; it wasn’t the knife Owen had to worry about, which she held rather casually at an admittedly weak angle for herself, but the seconds it would take her to breathe. Hands moved slower than mouths. Screams happened faster than jugular slashes and she didn’t even need to scream, that right kind of squeak would do it. To Siobhan, practiced in her deadliness, threats were a baby’s babbling and the fact that no one ever seemed to understand this was the thing that actually scared her; boredom was terrifying. 

It was for that reason that she never screamed; her fun had to be invented when the sort of people she was stuck dealing with were so unoriginal. “Sore subject, Owen?” Siobhan’s grin widened, spreading lopsidedly across her face. “I didn’t know you had a lover’s heart under there; all broken now, is it? Do you see her? When you think of taking off my head, do you see hers? Do you imagine the curve of her neck, the softness of her lips? Do you see her teeth? You must have loved her teeth. Did she bite you? Did you like it when she did? Did it make you feel loved?” Siobhan shook her head, pitching her knife harder against his wrist, forcing him to make a choice: either try to kill her or take the bloody thing away. “Darling, you’re all smoke. You see it, don’t you? You’re a dying fire, smoldering; smoke in the shape of a man.” She shook her head again. “I release you from your promise to me, pet.” 

—

The threat of a knife to the chest did literally nothing except delight the fae who seemed to grow more amused by the second. Owen, on the other hand, was a breath away from snapping. There weren’t many situations where he wouldn’t be amused and interested in a discussion about the innate nature of knives which didn’t involve killing but this was one of them. His head felt stuffed to the brim with more and more memories, stories being dragged to the surface by the deal, stories that had successfully been kept under lock and key for years. “And you’re a bitch,” he hissed back, even with a second blade now added to the equation. Not a clever retort by far but at least it wasn’t yet another admission from his past. 

With every word Siobhan spoke, his knuckles grew whiter, edge of his knife pressing harder against her chest even as it caused the blade against his own skin to do the same. Owen wanted to laugh at her, to belittle the words she cooed like facts but the only thing waiting on the tip of his tongue was the reasoning for all the murders which would only confirm the fae’s little narrative. He would have shoved the knife through her chest then and there, consequences to his own odds of survival be damned, if the knowledge that she would just enjoy it hadn’t been lingering. 

The noise he made as he finally backed away was closer to a growl than anything else, a few stray drops of blood trickling from his wrist. Smoke didn’t bleed. Smoke didn’t feel all encompassing anger of the likes currently directed at Siobhan. 

A veil lifted then, clearing his mind from the pressure of more stories, more sharing, but leaving behind the bitter aftertaste and the fae’s cleverly concocted words. Owen could try to kill her now but he didn’t have the equipment, didn’t have the knowledge. Didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of taking his life along with everything else she had managed to claim in just these last few minutes. “You don’t know shit,” he spat instead, still clutching at the knife like a lifeline. “And the only fact here is that I’m going to find you again.” 

—

“Oh no, not a bitch…” Siobhan teased, her voice withered through the air in one extended breath. Where Owen’s anger filled the space between them, an almost palpable heat that rose off of his contorted features, Siobhan found herself increasingly curious. What happened with his vampire lover that turned him so sour? Did she get bored of him? Did he suddenly know better, that higher being wouldn’t fall for a pathetic human? No, Siobhan reasoned that if he’d been the one to break off their little engagement, he wouldn’t be so angry about it. It must have been her and whatever she did, he must have really loved her. Did he kill her? Did he have the strength to watch his lover leave? Siobhan ached to know, as if Owen’s life was some book she’d tossed open and now needed the ending of. He wouldn’t give it to her. Likely, if she tried, he’d stab her and he wouldn’t be a gentleman about it. Pity. 

“Oh no, you’re going to find me? What are you going to do? Cry at me?” Siobhan dug around her crochet pile until she found a little bunny, with ears longer than its chunky, gray crochet body. She held it out to him, ears flopping; a harmless creature, a sweet, innocent, rosy-cheeked creature. “One for the road, Owen? Maybe if you hug it while you sleep it’ll send your sad dreams away.” She watched blood drip from his wrist in drops so tiny that she couldn’t find them when they fell. He clutched his knife like that was the thing he slept with and Siobhan thought that he probably did. “Owen, darling, don’t be cross with me. You’ll still be filled with self-loathing if you kill me. As much as it pains me to say this, sometimes murder is not the solution.” She shook the bunny. “Well?” 

—

Owen knew he should have left by now. Maybe if he was someone who was used to his confidence getting dug at, his whole being turned inside out, he would have recognized the signs that this was well and beyond over. Well, he did recognize the signs but was foolishly choosing to ignore them because she couldn’t be allowed to have the last word. His jaw ached from the tension of clenching it, narrow eyes turning from the fae to the fluffy creature being held out to him. 

“You’ve heard my stories. I’ll think of something creative for you,” he gritted out, furious at how the tables were turned. Normally the one putting people on edge, the one getting threatened with violence while casually grinning, now Owen found himself on the other end of it. With a heavy exhale, his grip on the knife loosened slightly, blood finally flowing back into the clenched fingers. “Not the solution, no. Going to be really fucking fun and satisfying, though.” 

The knife sliced through yarn and cotton with ease, leaving only half a torso and a head in Siobhan’s hand, fluff dripping from the bunny like blood. Owen stalked away once the offending bunny had gotten what it deserved, which was a picnic compared to what he would do to Siobhan when the time came. 

[nasirofmanderlys]

@owenstark / a repost for the sake of the tracker everyone is using and i got fomo lmao

there was a notable member of the northern court missing from the attendance of these festivities within the dragon’s court; the last time the northmen had ventured this far south it had been what westeros had deemed the hour of the wolf, and now there was no denying the sense of dissatisfaction nasir manderly felt upon seeing the sight of jaehaerys targaryen upon the iron throne. to see those lords who fought green and tore the realm apart to feed hightower ambition become some of the most powerful men in the realm under the guidance and direction of the dragon king; he watched the interactions between the crownlanders and the stormlanders silently. noting how it was the dragon king planned on uniting these two groups of people, when one was believed to be socially and ethnically superior than the other.

his vivd dark orbs continued to glance over the crowds, the man’s absence being wholly obvious to those prominent members of the northern court and those who had supported queen daenaerys - for the missing figure had been trusted with venturing to kings landing to confirm positive relations between the two realms. he truly was nowhere to be seen, and the king of winter had still not yet spoken on what matters continued to exist between the pair; was there some tension between the sun of winter and the wolf of winter? the hand and the king?

his gaze then moved over to the sight of the winter king himself, dried sourleaf rolled in his hand as he smoked, momentarily alone from the rest of the northern court. as nasir approached him, he could tell everything about the winter king seemed skewered of sorts - wrong.

in the end, it were the two of them that whole heartedly believed they had not moved at too fast a pace. that the north would need to keep up with the progressive acts of the king, or be left behind in times of ancient where they starved and suffered. they seemed to be in the minority on that front, and now they stood on the other side; the men who had thought and wanted too much, too soon. “your grace.” nasir spoke, his tone familiar as he approached the man to the side; the mood was no surprise. the mood had been this way since the day meera karstark died. “where is karstark?” nasir asked, his question pointed as he glanced towards the king.

[chasseurdeloup]

@apaininyourneck replied to your post “[pm] I took care of your wolf buddy, you'll be...”:

[pm] You could have but I guess being a little bitch about saving monsters is more your thing. Well, trying to save monsters, at least.

​[pm] Yeah well, glad I didn't. Now I don't have to be disgusted with myself for that, at least. Dodged a bullet there.

You shouldn't have opened the fucking door. He locked himself in the bathroom before transforming. He was clearly trying to fucking contain himself. He would have been fine and he could have rode it out. .No one had to get hurt or die. Could have avoided the arson, too. Everything would have gone a lot better if your brain weren't as dead as the shit you usually hunt.

[closingwaters]

@apaininyourneck replied to your post “Do you believe in the power of manifestation?”:

Those sound like the words of someone who doesn't want to take responsibility for their actions.

​I take plenty of responsibility. I fail quite often, and I play my part by playing my hand. Fate gives me my hand and it plays out the way it should.

Are you projecting here?

[wintervsuns]

who: @owenstark when and where: the rooms that lord brandon karstark had been moved into following the urgent audince with ren, in which she informed king owen stark and brandon himself of what had happened with the incident between the queen of winter, lady meera reed and jin renshu. context: the post.

an hour had gone by - an hour in which brandon karstark had remained stood, having been kept within his chambers for the sake of maintaining the peace. there came every inch of him that he needed to fight, every inch of him that he needed to suppress: and that was the selfish, vengeful urge to have justice done by his own hand. the hand of the king would trust in the passing of the sentence according to the king of winter - he would need to. what other choice did he have?

his steps paced as he waited, the blood whirling in his ears only reminding him further of the fact his blood was rushing whilst hers had spilled, stained in some corner of the great hall; no servant would be able to scrub it from the floor. they would cover it, with some hay, some rug, but it would always be there. it was always there. so many times he found himself looking towards the door, knowing he could put up considerable risk towards the guards: adam stark's or nots, he almost demanded to be able to get to the queen.

get to the king. get to he who had always been beyond them. then he steadied himself again, reminding himself of the importance in maintaining trust; the king's judgement. how many times had he chuckled and laughed at his wife's perceived strangeness within their own private quarters, remembering the strange woman who spoke to nobody. how many times had he seen the princess cassana coming out of her own disorientation, where the grip on a hand remained and the world made no sense. he needed to have trust. he needed to.

and when the door opened, the king of winter stepped over the threshold. the king of winter; not owen of house stark. brandon had watched him silently change, the king of winter come again: what could have been the last of the starks had become the thing of legend. the king in the north. and the sun of winter did not like what was upon the face he looked at. somehow, he knew.

"when?" brandon asked, remaining stood.

[canis-or-cannotis-lycaon]

@apaininyourneck replied to your post “Best night out?”:

If you're old enough to drink, you're too old for mini golf.

​Whaaaat, no way. In fact it's even more fun if you do both simultaneously. Fun has no age limit

[ravellaarryns]

who: @owenstark where: winterfell, following the end of the great northern war. the queen of the vale ventures to the kingdom of the north for the northern games, to put silence to the swirling rumours. or stir them, depending on conversations with the winter king go.

it were quite something, having to inject life and mirth into orbs that were usually flatline and corpselike; especially in a setting such as this one, devoid of any sense of civility. all there was were the thunderous voices of the first men of westeros, whose brains were no doubt smaller than the brains of those andal bloodlines. it were known they were more animal than man, more apelike than civilised, similar to those barbarians of the summer isles and beyond: barbarian, was the word for them. and the king before them had decided making an alliance with barbarians was the correct course of action, barbarians that tore themselves to shreds seemingly every few moments at the slightest hint of progression.

sitting upon the high stalls besides her flame haired sister, she watched as the northern court revelled. this time it were wrestling. watching a bunch of half dressed mongrels beat at one another, one of them being the king of winter himself. that being said, he did not look a barbarian. no doubt there continued to be quiet conversation between herself and her sister, attempting to hear one another over the sound of the crowd, but there always came moments of silence as ravella looked around the sprawling land. it seemed endless, the way the snow lined horizon melted with the pale sky. and as she watched the fighting, the constant blows upon the face, the way the freezing cold seemed to make no difference to them, she found herself wondering about the state of the alliance between the realms.

after all, there were no soldiers of the vale of arryn fighting beside the forces of the king of winter. despite the personal chord it had struck within winterfell's heart itself, with the butchering of one of their princes she did not care to know the name of. had there been some level of offence taken by her decision not to involve the vale, despite it being against the terms of their alliance and their treaty? silently, reaching forward for a glass of red wine she had brought herself from the vale, she looked over owen within the winter snow and decided she would take the opportunity to learn for herself.

the last time they had spoken, he had been at her coronation. had bellowed at the way she greeted his son. and now she had a daughter. an abomination. some time had passed since the wrestling event, and they remained outside in the snow; wrapped in black furs. and then there he was. the king. "your grace." she greeted, flickering her gaze down in a show of civil, southern respect in the same moment his head bowed momentarily. she rose, and the way in which she stood remained ever so stiff: almost as though she were a piece of ice itself. "it is a relief to see the realm secure and thriving under your leadership once more. let it remain so." she thought of her conversation with her sister, regarding the choices of the vale. was it only the queen who held that opinion?

"i confess to unfortunately being limited on time, and my first priority was addressing certain matters with you. it is best you ask me to walk to ensure privacy."

[hunterclaringtonswitch]

Text: Here's your daily reminder that I love you. <3

Text: I love you too. And Sam and Sky and my siblings.

Text: I wouldn’t have been able to let myself say that before coming here, meeting you and addressing my issues.

[kiillmeromantically]

@intcxications liked for a starter from here

based: linked in source

written with beta

owen liked to consider himself a patient man. after all he had managed to do a lot of things in his life people didn't think he would. yet for some reason that day she was getting on his last nerve. it didn't help that they were stuck in near bumper to bumper traffic. he had only agreed to give her a lift because he didn't have anywhere to be. his son was away at a sleepover. his fingers had been drumming against the steering wheel as she continued to talk. before he could truly over think it, he was reaching to begin to undo his belt," little one," he said slowly," i think it's time for you to be quiet." he noticed how she seemed to be staring when she realized what he was doing. he reached out to brush a few strands of her hair from her face," don't you agree?"

[rememberences]

who: @owenstark when and where: shortly following graham royce's conversation with jaehaerys targaryen (still to be written up) the king of the north schedules a meeting with the king consort of the vale.

there remained a weight upon the mind of graham royce, one which played at his mood in the way people that knew him knew it would; made him sullen, more easily irritable and curt - with little to no patience for mistakes. the tensions that had begun to develop between the crownlands and the vale were tensions that could have all too easily been avoided, should one understand law, order and honour enough to stick to the traditional terms of an alliance.

there was an emphasis on graham thinking of the crownlands, for he knew this was not the stormlanders; the vale of arryn would have no issue isolating the dragon king from the safety of the mountains of the moon for his inability to stick to an arrangement.

and so, dressed in traditional shades of dark brown and royce bronze as he made his way through the halls of casterly rock - which in itself, was an explosion waiting to occur considering the history between their two nations, he found himself darting his grey orbs to the sight of a northern page approaching him - quickly, as if he had been trying to catch up with him for some time. the sight of the direwolf upon the paper gave clear enough an indication as to who it was attempting to reach out - and reach out they had both done, many a time. the vale and the north remained steadfast allies, as seen in their collaborative efforts to subdue the matter regarding the sisters.

whilst graham would have preferred putting down disorder in the way that was traditional to a knight of the vale, the diplomacy and skill of domeric had shown him there needed to be other ways. it did not take long for him to enter a small room, one which he knew was never truly private, regardless of what they thought. and upon the chair, remained the winter wolf. "quite mysterious." graham spoke, his tone as usually curt as it always was, with a vale accent wrapping around each syllable.

"what can i do for you, your grace? i understand the selling price remains in discussion by our master and mistress of coin." siblings. he knew not to bring up domeric by name to the king of the north - that was something not worth dealing with.

[mcelebrper]

Open to tops: Owen is a stripper that often disregards any “no touching” policies when it comes to his private shows. After a recent private show he was offered a significant amount of money to film an adult film, which he’s accepted and shown up to.

Open to all kinds of videos being recorded, we can lean into any cliche porn plots, multiple partners/gangabangs, any kind of kinks. Happy to plot things out, your character can be older, younger (18+ required), whatever you’d like! Your character could be the client from before, a regular of Owen’s, or just someone else agreeing to shoot a video for pay, or even a professional porn star.

Message me to continue over private message or discord only.

Owen had never done anything like this before, or at least on camera. He didn’t mind the attention though, he performed on stage and in private rooms all the time and liked the attention he received, and he wasn’t camera shy either. That, and the fact that he was being paid a good amount of money even compared to his private shows just to get laid, was more than enough to entice him. He showed up to the address he had been given at the time he was told to, then made his way inside to seek out the man in charge. Liam walked around before he flashed the man a soft smile. “Hey, morning. Here for the video, where do you need me?” The young man asked with an excited smile on his face.

[nasirofmanderlys]

who: @kingtheonstark​ where: the northern council meeting, during the stay in the reach

Over a decade had passed since the third son of Winter had ever needed to be a concern for the power and honour of House Manderly; their words remaining as true and ever-present as it were a thousand years ago when the promise was first made. That very same promise that came with striking a balance, a balance between honouring the history that came before the merman followed the currents of life's decisions to find a home within the most freezing of Winter, and making terms with what their life was today.

At this point in history, the Manderlys all had known nothing but that balance which no longer felt like it required effort; it was as natural to them as their hands upon wheel of their mighty vessels, or their heads bowed before towering figures of the Seven. "Your Grace - a moment, if possible."

They had brought the Faith to the North, as seen with the people of White Harbor being majority Faith worshipping folk; all whilst continuing to have love for their King in the North. The Manderlys had perfected the balance that came with honouring their promise, out of more than duty, but genuine love and adoration - Nasir himself had been encouraged to be close to who was supposed to the future ruling Lord of the North. A little encouragement from his father, considering his eldest son had always been quiet; far quieter than the eldest Stark son, and even quieter than the casual warmth and charisma the Sun of Winter had - but when he spoke, he found the three seemed to bond over a feast within Winterfell.

There were times where the Starks understood the Manderlys did things differently, thought of things differently; it had taken centuries of work to mould the careful relationship the houses have with one another, ruling lord and their bannerman. That was not to mention there were not moments where it seemed as though the currents were bumpy, as was natural between two families who were so different but so very much the same deep down; such as one of recent history. One Nasir was not entirely sure whether the King of Winter knew as much as he did, considering it involved both of their siblings.

A Stark brother and a Manderly sister. There were times where Manderly pride mattered much, and their Southern way of thinking did influence them to some extent; such as the match being rejected by Nasir at first, as well as his late Lord father, Lord Hisham Manderly. Only, it seemed as though Lord Stark took responsibility for what would perceived as a slight to those of White Harbor; for their daughter, their sister, was more than worthy for the then single heir to the North. Affection from shared proximity during wardship meant little, if anything.

"Now the Prince has returned, I believe it my duty to mention something. Whether you know or not, remains beyond my knowledge. But, it was not your father that forbade the Prince from marrying my sister." The argument between father and son, that had ruined their relationship. As he heard, at least. "It was me and my father who said no. "He was a third son at the time, when you were available for marrying. If she were to marry any Stark, it should have been you."

The Master of Laws remained when the rest of the Small Council left, glancing towards the man with a look that made it clear they needed to speak; only waiting for the room to be entirely vacant before leaning backwards slightly in his chair. Theon was entirely used to the way in which Nasir spoke, which was never rude or abrasive in nature; but rather honest, in a very Northern style of trait. His tone however, was often quite soft spoken - it was something that always made Stark and Karstark laugh alike. Harsh words, kind voice. "I understand the Prince is back. I am wondering whether he will extend such a wish for marriage to House Manderly again." 

He paused. Then, it came - in typical Nasir fashion.

“The answer is still no.”

[chasseurdeloup]

Let the Flames Begin || Owen and Kaden

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Wormhole PARTIES: @apaininyourneck and @chasseurdeloup CONTENT WARNINGS: Building fire SUMMARY: Kaden visits the Wormhole and Owen invites him to stay after his shift. They weren't the only two to stay after close.

“Last call, fuckers,” Owen shouted over The Wormhole’s patrons, accompanied by the jarring sound of the bell that always managed to elicit a chorus of groans from the people sitting closest. There weren’t too many sad saps still left at this hour, not surprising considering it was a Wednesday night, and the slayer’s skin was crawling with pent up energy after the excruciatingly slow shift. The few shots some of the regulars had offered him were pretty much the only thing keeping him from going insane but at least this hell of a night was almost over. A few of the patrons stumbled up to the bar for one last drink, probably making sure that they wouldn’t come close to being sober on the way home while others took their last sips and exited gracefully with the bar’s lights still dim. 

His attention was caught by a sole customer sitting with an empty glass, looking like he was neither getting ready to leave or order another drink. Owen probably would have let him sit and stew about whatever had him drinking alone on a Wednesday evening if a; he hadn’t currently been bored out of his mind and b; the man hadn’t looked familiar. And even if he just had one of those faces that made people think he looked familiar, he was handsome and drinking alone at 2AM. Prime material for dealing with the aforementioned pent up energy. 

“You know an empty glass isn’t going to help you get drunk,” Owen said as a greeting, whipping the rag over his shoulder to brace his hands on the table currently only occupied by the solo stranger. 

—

Merde, was it really last call already? Kaden had lost track of the time but, in his defense, it probably didn’t help that he ended up at the bar after a late shift. Once he was off the clock, he considered going home and collapsing into bed– well, couch. Only he wasn’t completely exhausted yet. By now, Kaden had learned that sleep without exhaustion would only lead to one thing: nightmares. Waking up screaming in the middle of the cabin once was more than enough. Not that his cousins asked any questions beyond if it was real or nightmare; they shared enough of a past to know about the darkness buried just beneath the surface. No one grew up training to be a hunt without at least a little of that. And their family had plenty.

Kaden threw back the rest of his whiskey, wiping the remains off of his lips and beard with the back of his hand. He should leave. It was time to leave. But all he could do was stare blankly ahead at the wall behind the bar, lined with bottles, both empty and half-full. His feet were planted on the ground and his body held up by the bar in front of him. 

The sound of a voice addressing him brought a sharp inhale, jolting him out of his stupor. If he were anyone else, he might have jumped. The hunter training had sunk in deep, it seemed. “You don’t say,” he said, making eye contact with the bartender in question. “Does help that I emptied it.” Kaden shrugged. His senses were slow to process but the longer he looked over at the guy across the way, the more his eyes narrowed. “Have I seen you somewhere before?” If he'd ever talked to this man, he definitely didn’t remember it, but there was something familiar enough to stop him in his tracks. 

—

The accent had been unexpected, vaguely familiar and registering as most likely French. Not too many people with a noticeable French accent around here, giving more suspicion to Owen’s earlier thought that the man looked familiar. Not someone who’d ever had the pleasure of sharing his bed for the night, that much was sure - the slayer tended to remember those or, in the rare cases he didn’t, they remembered him with various amounts of fondness. As he sized the Frenchman up, it seemed Owen was getting the same treatment. A smirk slid onto his face at the question, head tilting before he reached for the closest bottle of whiskey and a second glass as he replied. “Funny, that was going to be my line. Now I’ll have to come up with something original to flirt with you.”

Letting the unabashed words hang between them, Owen topped off the other man’s glass without asking, pouring a little bit of whiskey into his own as well. Anyone who’d wanted the last drink of the night was already served and he could delay closing for a little longer to satisfy his curiosity. “Owen,” he finally said, offering his hand across the bar top as green eyes searched for details and clues as to why this man looked familiar. He bore the personality of someone troubled but in this town, and this bar specifically, that meant little to nothing. The faint scars on his face were interesting however, giving the slayer another reason for wanting to see what might be hiding under those clothes. 

—

“That so?” Kaden answered, one brow raised and a similar smirk forming on his own face. Wasn’t going to turn down a free drink. Not yet, at least. “Wasn’t a great line, anyway. I’m sure you can do better than that.” He watched as the amber liquid spilled into his glass. He probably didn’t need quite that much but who was he to argue? He took hold of it and lifted it in a silent cheer before taking a swig. Certainly wasn’t top shelf, but he’d had far worse. 

If he was counting on the name to jog his memory, the hunter was out of luck. ‘Owen’ didn’t ring a bell. He tried to pull in what he could to make the pieces fit together and form a full picture. There was lilt in the man’s voice, not quite distinct enough for Kaden to identify its origin, but enough to indicate that Wicked’s Rest wasn’t where the bartender hailed from. Wasn’t French, though, he knew that much. He was sporting a few scars, not just on his hands, but on his face as well. That could mean a few things, sure, but it was more in line with the patrons at another bar in town than elsewhere. 

‘Owen.’ He rolled the name over in his mind again while giving him another one over. And there it was– a spark. “Wait a second…” The hunter raised his hand and wagged his finger as he began to connect the dots. “You’re not– were you? That guy? The one who got kicked out of the 3 daggers?” Normally he would be more careful about dropping the name of the hunter bar on the outskirts of town, but the bar was nearly empty and anyone else that was there potentially listening was surely drunk off their asses. 

—

It was always a nice change of pace when people didn’t get instantly flustered by Owen’s total lack of inhibition. Granted, he’d barely started but someone with a jawline that sharp was probably used to a hell of a lot of unabashed flirting. “Guess you’ll have to find out, won’t you?” The raised glass was met with ease, eyes still locked on this new companion even as he took a drink. It was interesting to see the cogs turning so visibly on the other man’s face, mirroring the slayer’s own thought process. It was possible he had purchased a weapon at some point but that probably would have given him some inkling as to what this man’s name was. 

Before frustration began to set in, the Frenchman beat him to it and put both of them out of their misery. It seemed Owen had been right to clock the faint scars. Something akin to pride slid across the slayer’s face as a finger was wagged in his direction, arms folding over his chest as he leaned back. Another hunter. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember which kind which pointed towards him not being a slayer. Then again, Emilio was a slayer and enough of a drunk to have frequented the 3 Daggers at some point and Owen had never noticed him.

“Wow, I don’t even know your name and already you’re shaming me for something that was in no way my fault.” If there had been any shame to be found over the incident in question (there wasn’t), it in no way showed on Owen’s face. Getting banned from a bar that turned a side eye to even the most aggressive of bar fights and the filthiest language was probably one of his proudest accomplishments since arriving to Wicked’s Rest. “Seems my reputation has a bigger reach than I thought.” 

—

“Holding out on me, I see,” Kaden replied. “You’re pretty certain I’m going to stick around then, huh?” He sure wasn’t planning on this going any farther than a drink or two considering Monty, but he’d be lying if he said he was ready to go home and try to fend off the nightmares already. And for now it was just flirting. Nothing he had to explain just yet. Not that he knew what the hell he would say when and if his relationship status came up. Kaden had no idea how to define whatever it was he had with the cowboy, mostly because defining any of that was terrifying. It meant he cared and things might be real or long term and all of that was… Merde. Kaden slammed back more of the whiskey in front of him, doing his best to chase the thoughts away. 

The look he gave Owen was enough to indicate that he didn’t believe a damn word of that. “Something tells me there’s more to that story than you’re letting on. I got in a bar fight there my first night and no one said one damn word.” Anyone running a hunter bar had to expect some level of rowdiness and bullshit. Kaden had seen enough of them to know that a lot of things that would get you thrown out of most places slid under the radar around his peers. “I thought Walker was fucking with me when he said someone got banned. I can only imagine what the hell you did to make that happen.” He shook his head but huffed out a laugh all the same. 

“Kaden, by the way,” he noted, finally putting his own hand out to shake now that the mystery had been solved. Slightly. “Ranger,” he added, “in case you were wondering.” It was usually the first question tossed around at the 3 Daggers, figured he might as well cut to the chase.

—

Owen shrugged. “Not holding out, just giving you the benefit of not having an audience when I inevitably make you blush. And of course you’re staying, I’m bribing you with booze and nice company.” It was still hard to get a read on whether or not this guy was flirting back for flirting’s sake or actually showing an interest. It was at least worth playing out, especially since none of the other stragglers left behind in the bar raised much interest. 

A smile of remembrance slid across the slayer’s face as Kaden expressed his doubts, thinking back to the rather hilarious conversation with Walker. It was even funnier that the bar’s owner clearly wasn’t giving out the reason for Owen’s banishment to anyone curious enough to ask. Whether he wanted to prevent a repeated incident or was simply too pissed off still to talk about it, the slayer could enjoy the mystery of it all for now. Making up explanations for what had happened was one of the best ways to spend time conversing with other hunters. “Guess you’ll have to keep on imagining,” he replied coyly. 

The offered hand was shaken, Owen’s own lingering for a moment too long before relinquishing the grip. Ranger definitely made sense. It always seemed they had the biggest scars in Owen’s experience, not surprising considering the hellish animals they were fighting. Sure, slayers sometimes ended up with plenty of scars of their own since some vampires liked to play dirty. “Slayer,” he provided back with the same ease, eyes flitting over to the clock. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.” Before stepping away from Kaden, Owen topped off the man’s glass, a clear indicator for him to stay even as the bell from hell was rung for the second time this evening and the lights flicked on. 

No words were needed after that, people groaning and mumbling as they picked up their belongings and stumbled out the door. If you were a regular at The Wormhole, you knew better than to try and bribe your way into staying longer when Owen was manning the bar. People had gotten their asses kicked for less. Once the final patron had drunkenly left, singing some obscure song to himself, Owen locked the door behind him and finally took a seat on the other side of the bar, next to Kaden. “So I’m guessing you’re not banned from the 3 Daggers. What brings you here, then?”

—

“Really?” Kaden shook his head, huffing out a laugh. “Good luck. It’s going to take more than that to make me blush.” He could already hear his cousins refuting that, saying that it was pretty easy to make him blush – so long as you wore a stetson. Putain. He took another sip of his whiskey after that thought. “But fair enough. I can’t say no to free booze. Might as well give you a chance to try,” he said with a smirk. Sure, this wasn’t going to amount to anything but there were worse ways to spend his time, at least.

Kaden rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated (but exaggerated) sigh. The connard wasn’t even going to tell him how he got banned from the bar. “Come on, now I know you’re holding out on me,” he said as he leaned over the bar a little more. “Slayer? Somehow I keep running into those.” He wasn’t sure how far he wanted any of this to go, not really, but he knew that he wanted that damn story if nothing else. And it was clear that Owen wanted him to stay. He wasn’t going to argue, especially not with his seemingly never-ending glass of whiskey. He took another drink, embracing the warmth running down his throat into his chest. It made the bell ringing almost tolerable. Almost. 

He didn’t have to wait too long before they had the entire place to themselves now that the other man was done with work and seated next to him. “Not banned, no. Even though I got into a bar fight the first night there.” He ran his fingers across the glass in front of him. “Sometimes I like to pretend I’m normal. So here I am.” He gave a shrug before taking another sip. “Plus, it’s a shorter walk home from here.” 

—

Of course Kaden wanted to hear the story. Granted, it definitely wasn’t as grand as the secrecy surrounding it made it out to be but it was decent fun. And a good way to keep someone hooked, even though Owen didn’t assume the other hunter had more pressing matters to attend to at this hour. At the very least he was enjoying the booze. “Hmm, guess we’ll have to find out how persistent and persuasive you can be, won’t we?” Neither things guaranteed that Kaden would get his curiosity satiated of course, but it would be fun to watch him try. 

With the bar now empty sans people Owen actually wanted to have around at the moment, his posture relaxed, his guard chipping away ever so slightly. Only the surface level guard, obviously, the ones closer to home weren’t made to be dropped. “First night? Feisty. I’m impressed.” Reaching for his own glass, he took a generous drink before moving around for a cigarette, one he felt was well deserved after another evening of not letting loose on horribly annoying customers. 

“Not sure why normal sounds appealing to you but sure, fuck it. To pretending to be normal.” Owen raised his glass and waited for Kaden’s to meet it in the air before a grin slid onto his face. “And to short walks ho-”

It wasn’t too loud but in the otherwise quiet bar, the distant clatter caught the slayer’s attention. Glass dropped to the bar, Owen glanced at his companion before turning back to the source of the noise, cursing under his breath. Right. That’s why they checked the fucking bathrooms before closing up. “Gimme a sec,” he muttered, annoyance tinting his words as he slid off the stool and strode towards the bathroom doors. Three heavy hits on the door provided no response and he rolled his eyes, not in the mood to have to call a damn ambulance here now. 

“Hey, man. Whatever the fuck you’re up to in there, we’re closed so take it somewhere else.” His fist met the door again, only rewarding him with the faint sound of someone moving inside. Perhaps the sound of pained groans but he couldn’t be sure. “Alright, your fucking call.” Heading back towards the bar, and the keys that could get him into the bathroom and get that shithead out, Owen was stopped short by what was definitely snarling from the other side of the door. His eyes narrowed and he glanced over towards the other hunter. 

—

Of course he wasn’t telling right away. That meant it was either a great story or a lackluster one where the mystery was more alluring. And Owen was getting his way regardless, it seemed, because the curiosity was killing Kaden. “I’m nothing if not stubborn. I’ll find a way to get that story out of you one way or another.” Not that he was willing to actually go that far beyond the flirting. But that was besides the point.

“What can I say, I make a lot of trouble lately,” he said with a smirk, holding his hand out, hoping to snag a cigarette from Owen as well. Granted most of that was beyond embarrassing, between the cafe and the zoo alone, his version of trouble was certainly not attractive. At least not to most people. He figured Monty was an exception to the rule, lucky for him. Still, he didn’t feel the need to embarss himself this evening by recounting those tales.

Before Kaden could even finish raising his glass, let alone make it clear that only one of them was making that short walk home, the sharp noise made his head turn, stealing his attention. It wasn’t surprising that both of the hunters noticed the clattering somewhere in the back of the bar. His brow furrowed, turning to the direction it was coming from. Strange, everyone should have cleared out. He caught Owen’s glance, wondering if the slayer had any answers that he didn’t. He got the feeling this wasn’t entirely unusual by his reaction. 

That might have been almost comforting. But that’s when Kaden felt it – the sensation sliding across his skin. 

Putain.

That wasn’t just some guy passed out in the bathroom, it was a shifter. If he had to guess, probably a werewolf, but it was hard to say for sure then and there. Panic gripped Kaden’s lungs, squeezing them and restricting his air flow. How the fuck was he supposed to handle this? In front of another hunter, too. One who had gotten himself kicked out of a hunter bar of all places. He didn’t imagine Owen’s heart bled the way Kaden’s so often did. If he had to guess, he was more like his sister than anyone. 

He stood up from his seat on the stool slowly, approaching the door to the restroom before the slayer had said a word. Snarling. Scratching. The pinpricks down his back. There was no mistaking it. But why the fuck had this goddamn werewolf picked this bar of all bars to transform? “Putain de merde,” he muttered, unsure where he was even directing his frustration at this point. 

“We might not want to open that door,” he said to Owen, eyes still trained on the door separating the two hunters from the shifter. “Werewolf. Probably best to let them ride it out. Safer.” For the werewolf more so than them. 

—

Judging from the look on Kaden’s face, whatever was fucking up the bathroom wasn’t just your regular flavour of snarling animal or someone high off his balls. How fitting that some form of shifter would turn up at the bar right when a hunter was hanging out after closing. Annoying as all hell, too, since Kaden had definitely been warming up to the idea of more drinks and some activities that didn’t require talking. Killing a shifter in the bar had not been Owen’s preferred method of cardio for this evening. 

His hands had just grasped the cold metal of the keys when Kaden finally spoke, warning against opening the door. Sure, hunting when you weren’t expecting it wasn’t the most fun but doing nothing? And then, what, just let the guy walk out of here, bare ass flapping in the wind? Fuck, no. “You know I’m the one that will have to clean up the mess the guy’s making in there, right?” Owen argued back, even though that was far from the reason he wanted to get this over with. Before Kaden could counter, a bang much louder than the ones before reverberated around them, accompanied by a crack. Then another and finally, the door broke off its hinges, slamming on the ground to reveal the culprit. 

Usually, Owen only saw werewolves when they were behind the safety net of The Pit’s ring. He probably would have figured out a way to not get killed but it was a luxury to have the hunter by his side. Or at least he hoped so since he hadn’t exactly seen the man in action. God, what if he was a shit hunter and got himself killed? Owen really wasn’t in the mood for hiding bodies tonight. Keeping his eyes on the snarling and foaming mouth, the sharp teeth and sharper claws, he let his hands roam the counter next to him until they landed on something useful. The knife, a bit small for Owen’s taste, was brandished. “Don’t suppose you have any weapons on you?” The slayer thought of his jacket, hanging in the back, equipped with bits and pieces in case of an emergency. 

—

Fucking hell, the wolf couldn’t just stay behind closed doors, could it? Kaden didn’t want to fight this wolf, refused to kill it, but he knew on some level that he had to rely on his training. It was two hunters against an out of control monster. It wasn’t going to back off because Kaden was showing empathy. It would tear them both to shreds all the same. “Shit,” he shouted, jumping up from his seat. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his silver blade. A pit dropped in his stomach as his hands gripped the handle. 

The beast rocked back on its hind legs and launched itself toward the ranger. Kaden threw himself to the side, ducking and rolling out of the way of the claws set to sink into his skin. Okay, had to incapacitate without killing or majorly injuring the wolf. Should avoid major arteries. That was going to be hard, he was hard wired to spot and aim for them first and foremost. Flank. Limbs. That should be safe enough and effective. As the monster spun on its heels, headed for the ranger, Kaden dodged, slashing the blade at its haunches as he sprinted past. His blade dug in deep and guilt sunk in just as deep. No, no time for that.

Owen asked for another weapon, something better. Kaden’s hand hovered over his back pocket, but hesitated. No. He didn’t want to arm this guy anymore than he was. He didn’t want to find out how deadly he could be with a blade if it meant the outcome was taking the life of a person. “Sorry, packed light tonight.” A lie. He had at least three more knives just within easy reach. The less Owen knew the better. And hey, if he wanted them, he could find them and come get them himself. 

The wolf finished yowling in pain and set its sights back on Kaden. Merde. Had to think fast. Counter. He gripped the edge of the bar and swung himself to the other side where he was face to face with all sorts of bottles full of alcohol. Huh. Might be time for a molotov cocktail or two. “Keep it distracted!” he shouted. He had a plan. One that would either kill all of them or get them all out alive. More or less. 

—

Focused eyes trailed the knife that appeared in Kaden’s hand, a much better weapon than the dull knife used for slicing lemons when one of those customers whined about a slice. Every muscle was tensed and prepared, lacking the usual calm and confidence that characterized his usual fights. Getting killed by a vampire was always a chance but a slim enough one to make Owen cocky in those fights. This snarling beast was a different story - it looked like it could bite off heads in a single movement. Improved healing wasn’t likely to help with that. 

The fighting started, wolf making a beeline for the person in its direct view. Thankfully, Kaden wasn’t one of those hunter that was all talk and no skill. Despite the precarious scenario, Owen was definitely impressed and okay, maybe a little turned on by the determination in the ranger’s eyes. No time for that now, though, as the news of no decent weapons reached the slayer’s ears. “Figures,” he sighed, the calm of his voice jarring when mixed with the screeching sound of a werewolf in pain. If the wolf hadn’t noticed Owen before, now it didn’t give a shit, all of its anger directed towards the man that had just slashed its leg. Kaden expertly swung himself to the other side of the bar and glass shattered where the wolf lashed fruitlessly in his direction. That was going to be a bitch to clean up.

Owen didn’t usually follow orders but since this was a case of life or death, and the expert in werewolf killing was barking out commands, he let it slide. The size of the knife would only invite proximity so he quickly reached for the worn down broom, snapping off the end with his foot. The wolf was preparing to climb over the bar before its attention was diverted by Owen’s deafening finger whistle. “No dogs behind the bar.” Whether the creature understood him or not, mission accomplished. 

With a growl, it lunged, massive body heading for the slayer. Grateful for his speed, Owen ducked, body sliding across the sticky ground. The stick in his hand was brandished, swinging at the furry body and making enough contact to mess with the wolf’s course. It crashed, rolling to a stop and smashing into the jukebox. The thing didn’t work anyway so Owen wouldn’t need to make excuses for that. Jumping to his feet, he turned just in time to realize he underestimated the shifter’s reflexes, large body already heading his way. 

Whipping the stick around, bracing the other end against the floor, Owen planted his feet. The chipped wood didn’t sink in deep, mostly proving to make the thing angrier, but at least it was keeping the swinging claws away from his face. For now. “Any… updates?” he grunted, hands slipping on the wood, bringing his upper arm into clawing distance. It was only a second, just enough time for a single slash, but pain now radiated up his arm as blood trickled down it. 

—

It was a good thing that Owen was quick on his feet, it would keep him alive. Kaden had to hope that he wasn’t too quick. He wanted to get them all out alive – that included the werewolf, whoever they were. Kaden made a note to try and figure that exact fact out once this was all said and done to fucking warn them to not get in this particular spot again. First thing was first: survival.

Kaden grabbed bottles off the shelf, didn’t care if they were expensive or not, wasn’t his problem, and started popping tops off. Towels, towels. somewhere they had to be towels. He rummaged around the back of the bar, shoving things out of the way, smashing some shit, (once again, not his problem) until he found a pile of disgusting, used towels. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He started stuffing the bottles he’d assembled. He had five, but as soon as the second one was ready, he dug into his pocket for his lighter. Kaden flipped it open, flicked the dial, lit the flame, and put the fire up to the towel.

This better fucking work and not start a goddamn uncontrolable fire. 

Didn’t have time to second guess. Kaden popped up from behind the bar, staying low as he could while still getting a good view of the scene. There was only a stick of wood separating Owen from the werewolve’s claws and teeth. “You know it’s not a vampire, right?” he shouted over. “Wood’s not gonna help.” He really shouldn’t provoke the slayer, not when things were going in Kaden’s favor. 

“Incoming!” he shouted as he grabbed the first molotov cocktail, looked around and spotted a clearing with some tables that might make a decent bonfire. Better scare off the fucking monster. Kaden threw the bottle, ducking behind the bar again afterwards, and it smashed against the furniture, glass shattering everywhere and flame bursting. The wolf turned its attention to the loud sound and the fire. The ranger watched its eyes grow wide and panic start to set in. 

Take two. Kaden grabbed another and smashed it closer to the wolf, hoping to chase it away from the slayer. He didn’t think it would do too much damage to Owen but, well, the ranger figured he was smart enough to duck. 

—

This was insane. This was why Owen didn’t like teamwork, much less letting someone else make the decisions. ‘Keep it distracted.’ Sure, how about just letting the fucking thing maul him to death while Kaden did whatever the fuck he was messing with behind there. Should have let the ranger deal with this while Owen ducked out and got some actual fucking weapons. “It’s fucking helping me keep my limbs!” Owen growled back, though even that was debatable considering the giant cut on his arm. 

Finally, something good came from the damn ranger. Owen had joked about setting this place on fire far too often and, while mostly a joke, he did get a moment of enjoyment from seeing flames start to lick and chew at the disgusting furniture. The werewolf’s attention was caught, too. Glancing over at Kaden just in time to see the second bottle lit and brandished, Owen shoved with all his strength, pushing the wolf closer to where the bottle hit. Slightly off, as he would have liked to see the whole creature go up in flames, but a part of the wolf’s leg had gotten close enough to catch a few embers. It whimpered, eyes wide and head turning wildly until it landed on an exit.

“No, you fucking don’t,” Owen grumbled, grabbing at the nearest chair and smashing it against the wolf’s back. Finally some progress as the wolf stumbled to the ground, panic emanating from it as its eyes moved between the two lit fires and Owen. Going back to some very classic practices, he reached for a beer bottle he had yet to clean up, breaking it into something that would probably do good enough at slashing the subdued wolf’s jugular. 

—

Kaden grabbed another bottle stuffed with a towel and threw himself over to the other side of the bar with the unlit molotov cocktail in hand. The flames were rising and it was clear that it was nearly time for them to exit the premise and maybe call the fire department. He smelled the singed fur as the wolf whined and looked over to see that it was cornered, scrambling for the exit when the chair landed on top of it. The creature was down, and almost out. One more hit and it would be knocked out and they could just drag the unconscious body out, maybe lock it in a closet somewhere and hope that it stayed contained until they could shift back.

He heard his hope shatter with the glass and saw the bottle brandished as a weapon in Owen’s hand. He should have known, he should have remembered that other hunters weren’t playing by his rules. The ranger grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back, away from the wolf before he could second guess his actions. That would come as soon as he let go of the other hunter and realized the situation he’d put himself righ into. “He’s just a kid,” he shouted. “We can knock him out, drag him out of here. He’ll probably shift back by then. We don’t have to kill him.” 

Kaden’s heart had been racing earlier, between the adrenaline and the action, his heartrate was up, but it didn’t compare to the pounding in his chest now, the sheer panic that was threatening to push his heart right out of him. “I can load him up in my truck and get him to the middle of nowhere in the Pines.” He knew he should stop fucking talking, stop digging the grave he had already marked for himself, but he couldn’t help it. He had to try. They could all get out of this alive, all three of them, and he would be damned if he didn’t do what he could to make that reality. 

—

Owen had approached slowly, cautiously, not wanting to get caught by those sharp claws again. Too slowly, it turned out, as he was suddenly pulled back right before he could finish the job. The surprise of it allowed Kaden to pull him back a few steps, the argument momentarily making him lose focus as well. Blinking at the creature scrambling on the ground, the one responsible for the deep and painful cut in his arm, Owen scoffed angrily. What the fuck was this guy on about? 

Shoving the offending hands off his shoulders, Owen turned so that he could turn his incredulous expression to Kaden while still keeping the wolf in his sights. “What brand of fucking idiot are you?” he demanded, bottle still firmly in his grasp. “Drag him out of here… are you for fucking real? No, seriously, is this an elaborate joke? He attacked us. Fucker’s not getting off that easy.” Without waiting for a retort that would most likely only fuel the anger already burning hot in the pit of Owen’s stomach, he moved quickly for the wolf once more. And again, was stopped. 

This time, Owen didn’t bother to pause or listen to any more reasoning from this bleeding-heart, piece of shit ranger. Flames were consuming the bar, his arm was bleeding and a night that had held the promise of a decent one night stand was turning into a shit show. So he swung his elbow backwards, aiming for the shorter man’s face, figuring that at least someone was going to be the object of the rage now boiling inside him. 

—

Kaden knew it was a snowball’s chance in hell that Owen would listen to him, that he’d agree towalk away from a werewolf that had attacked them. It was going to be a tall order for any hunter, but he could see the violence shining in his eyes just as clearly as he could see the light of the flames dancing there. “He didn’t do shit. He’s scared and he’s not in con–” The words didn’t have a chance to leave his lips before the elbow slammed his jaw shut. He tried to curse, but only found blood in his mouth from where his teeth tore the inside of his mouth. Kaden took a step back only to spit out what he could before reaching to grab the slayer’s shirt by the collar and yanking it back with enough force that he heard a seam or two pop under the pressure. “Back. Off,” he spat as he tried to wrap his arms around the man’s neck, trying to get him into a choke hold. 

The flames were only growing, consuming more and more of the bar around them. The werewolf was whimpering as the fire closed in around them. Soon, the hunters would be separated from the beast by the flames. Kaden didn’t know if it was going to be soon enough, though. Or if the wolf knew well enough to barge down the door behind it. Hell, he didn’t know if they had the strength. And he sure as hell didn’t know what Owen was going to do to him either way. 

—

For someone who had participated in a good share of fist fights, Owen hadn’t fought many of his own before. Not like this, anyway. A skirmish at the Three Daggers before he was asked to never show his face again, sure. But an actual fight, and to save the life of a monstrous beast at that? He hadn’t felt anger like this towards another hunter since the day he left home. The bottle in his hand was abandoned in lieu of preventing Kaden from choking him, shirt tearing and leaving angry marks on his skin. Arms slithered around his neck with clear purpose, the sudden pressure immediately bringing spots dancing into the edges of his vision. 

Using his height to his advantage, Owen whipped his weight forward, grabbing onto Kaden’s arms as he did to make sure the ranger would have no option but to go with the throw. Once the other man was off him and blood could once more make its way to his head, he took a step towards the ranger, fists balled. A breaking sound drew his attention to the whole reason behind this chaos, head whipping around to catch the wolf scrambling out the window and making a desperate sprint in the other direction. With the window now broken, the faint sound of sirens approaching could be heard. Green eyes, unnaturally dark with anger, turned back towards Kaden. 

—

Right when Kaden thought the slayer was going to slump into unconsciousness in his arms, the world was turning itself upside down. He landed on the ground with a thud and a surge of pain shooting through his back. He could feel the heat from the flames creeping closer to him as he worked to push himself off the ground. A crash of shattering glass rang out behind him accompanied by the sound of claws scraping against the wall. If that wasn’t enough to clue him in that the werewolf had made it out, his hunter senses dulled and faded as the distance between him and werewolf widened. Relief washed over him, but it was short lived. Not because he looked up to see Owen looming over him, no, but because he realized the werewolf was now loose and running through town. At least it was late, there wouldn’t be many people out and about. He could only hope that it was headed straight for the woods. For everyone’s sake.

Kaden couldn’t do anything about that right now, though. He had more immediate problems. Like the hunter staring him down with nothing but anger and hatred in his eyes. Like the fire threatening to consume the bar whole. Like the sirens blaring and getting ever closer. The ranger took a chance and stood up straight, hoping that he wasn’t about to be kicked back down. “We have to get out of here.” He hoped that Owen realized that there would be time to kick his ass later. He hoped that he wasn’t planning to throw him into the flames. He hoped that he was leaving this bar alive. As much as Kaden would rather walk out of the place without another fight, he wasn’t stupid enough to assume he’d be given that grace and his hand reached back to a knife stored behind his belt, hovering over it, ready to pull the blade out at any second if the need arrived. 

—

This level of anger wasn’t rational, a small part of Owen realized. Being pissed about the shitstorm the two hunters were finding themselves in was enough to set anyone on edge, sure, but he was so far beyond that. It was a living, breathing thing now, making the blood in his veins burn and hands ache to feel something break. A sliver of rational thought remained, enough to see a hand reach out of sight, illuminated by the flickering flames. A sneer twisted up his features, even more daunting in the fire’s glow. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he gritted out before grabbing at the nearest chair not being engulfed by flames, throwing it in Kaden’s direction. 

Then he charged, throwing his body at the ranger, weapon be damned. Owen needed to feel his knuckles meet flesh, needed this man - who had deliberately kept away his weapons and gotten Owen clawed to hell, who had let an aggressive monster escape due to some idiotic moral code, who had lit his place of work on fire instead of doing the logical thing - to pay. He wasn’t even aware of whether or not it had been easy, getting himself into a position where blows were landing in Kaden’s face. Everything was a blur, his own injuries and the surrounding heat mere background noise. 

A heavy hand on his shoulder snapped Owen out of the daze, whole body whipping around to set his sight on whoever was disturbing him. The motion was followed by a slung fist, knocking over the nearest fireman who had made the mistake of touching him. Maybe everything was a bit of a blur because of the air inside, Owen faintly realizing that his lungs were burning with the effort of inhaling smoke. More people wearing masks approached, shouting something about getting them out. No. He wasn’t finished. An attempt to charge back at Kaden was halted by the firemen, Owen’s efforts to break free diminished by the fact that it was really getting hard to breathe now. 

—

Shit. Kaden’s hand wrapped around the grip of his knife just before he threw himself out of the way of the chair flying towards his head. The chair missed, but the slayer didn’t, hits landing on his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, one blow after another. He raised his hands to try and block his face from taking another punch. The blade caught some of the slayer’s skin, he could tell that much even if he couldn’t tell whose blood it was splattering across his face anymore. He did what he could to protect his head with his arm, though the hits twisted around to find his jaw when they weren’t slamming his forearm into his nose. Kaden was used to the pain, familiar, but he was also familiar with this sort of anger – the type that didn’t stop, the kind that consumed like the flames that were threatening to engulf them. 

The ranger didn’t want to kill or hurt anyone in the bar that night. For once, he wanted to have a day without violence. But violence always found him, ever present. So he slashed out with the knife in his hand, jamming it into whatever limbs reached out to hit him, reaching out to slash the slayer across the face, hoping that any of the pain would make him stop or at least slow down. It didn’t. 

Kaden was shocked when the rhythm of pain ceased, an empty space where a blow should have been. The adrenaline pumping through him missed its cue and the ranger could feel his legs wobbling beneath him as a fireman grabbed him and carried him out of the bar. He didn’t see where Owen went, where the took him, it was too hard to watch or keep track between how lightheaded he was and how swollen his face was. If he had to guess, the firefighters were keeping the slayer from the ranger. He was impressed they had managed to pull Owen away from the fight at all. 

There were sirens and questions and the throbbing pain. His ears rang and he didn’t have answers for the questions and feigned ignorance due to the beating he took, didn’t see what started the fire, couldn’t tell. The WRPD didn’t keep him, they knew they weren’t getting answers from him and they weren’t about to press a fellow officer too hard anyway, even if he was just the glorified dog catcher. Kaden looked for Owen in the sea of people as he slipped away to head back to the cabin and was relieved he couldn’t find the other man. He had a feeling that wouldn’t last forever, though – that the slayer would find him and they’d meet again soon enough. Kaden was going to delay that day as long as possible. Right after he threw a bag of frozen vegetables on his aching face.