#Nine Red Sheaths

[textmel8r]

[ DRABBLE ] 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ! ( eleventh installment ) in which you find toji fushiguro’s number off a sugar baby site .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; toji fushiguro

୨୧˚ cw; sugar mommy! reader , sugar baby! toji , profanity , prostitution , bisexual! toji , smut , spit , gunplay

୨୧˚ an; if there are plot holes, no there aren’t. i just wanted an excuse to write toji suckin on some gun🧌

୨୧˚ join my discord server ! we share headcanons, fanfic recs, color roles, and more drooling emoji

His hair is wet, sopping and adhering to the canvas of his forehead. Back at the hotel, Toji set the record for the world’s shortest shower, forsaking even a once-over with a towel in favor of slipping his clothes right back on. He doesn’t even recall the shitty excuse he tossed at his one night stand, not bothering to stay long enough to hear her response. Quickness was of the utmost importance, the man told himself to justify blowing through four separate red lights. 

Oh, the irony. Because now, Toji stands before the grand entrance of your extravagant abode with a palm flat against the column of wall beside the door as he staves off constant hitch wracking his lungs. Unhurried, stagnant, moving as though he was thawing out frozen limbs. The last half hour having been spent on nothing but hastiness, it is at this time when all of these troubles and concerns fight their way to the front end of Toji’s mind. 

The most prominent question: why?

Why did you ask him here? What use could you possibly get out of his shriveled husk?

Toji knows where your spare key is. Beneath the clay pot, the one flourishing with a bouquet of pastel Hydrangea flowers. Glaringly obvious to any happening stranger—Toji had barked at you endlessly to swap its hiding spot for one a little less in plain-fucking-sight, and everytime you told him you’d get to it. And you never did. Idiot woman. He steals a glance to the pot once more and notices the flowers’ stems have a lot more limpness in them than he remembers. Wilted. Poor little things.

Toji knows where your spare key is. He knocks anyway. The side of his fist pounding poplar wood once, twice, three times, and then he takes a step back. Blunted thumbnails pick at the callouses welded into the inside of his knuckles. 

He can’t even blink before the door peels ajar. Fast, like you’d been waiting nearby for him. 

The permanent slouch in his spine corrects itself when Toji stiffens. Shoulders squared, thick fingers curled into iron fists against his thighs. And like the colossal moron he is, Toji doesn’t speak. He just looks at you, standing there in the openness between door and frame. A downy robe obscures you in its rouge silk, cascading down just barely passing the center of your thigh. Your thigh… Toji observes more carefully, noting the bulky extremity protruding out from the side of your shapely leg. A boxy bulge sheathed under a reddish robe; the man scoffs. 

 “Thank you for coming,” you break the silence first, offering all-too polite benediction. Almost robotic, like you’d recited it from a script you memorized. 

“Yeah,” Toji replies, curt.

Mores standing, more silence. Melodic chirps from the crickets fill the chasms of dead air. 

Then finally, finally, you make a move. Toeing the door wider with a bare foot, stepping back to accommodate his bulky constitution. “Come inside.” It is a quiet command, the last words you speak before pivoting on a heel and heading deeper into your home. Toji acts on the instruction, plodding in your trail. He kicks the door shut with the outsole of his muddy boot. 

“Sorry,” there goes your second apology of the night, “I know it’s late.”

He doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn't care much for these pointless I’m sorry’s right now. You’ve guided Toji into the living room—back toward him, shifting weight between legs, plucking at the stitches along the seam of your garb. Toji stands merely ten paces behind, awkward in the way he is uncertain of what to do. What to say. Existing here, in your presence, in your house… it all felt so disgustingly unnatural now. He should've never come back to this place. God, he should’ve never done a lot of things.

“Why am I here?” Toji asks bluntly. Cutting to the chase, because the suspense of anticipating the worst has his stomach coiling in sharp knots. He’s waiting for a fleet of officers to come barrelling down your staircase, ready to gun him down where he stands. Or, alternatively and arguably more dread-inducing, you’ve corralled him here so you can collect proper reparations for all the anguish he’s put you through. Both would be thoroughly deserved.

A glance is thrown from over your shoulder. “I have something for you. Please, sit.” 

“Okay.”

Toji settles on the sofa while you pad upstairs. He never cared much for your couch, its expensive leather was stiff and unforgivingly uncomfortable. Like it was brand new. Like you never had time to sit in it with the schedule you worked. That was the setting for the rest of the room, as well—unlived in in appearance, cold and empty. 

Footsteps thud. He turns his head and watches you curiously as you reemerge from the second level of the house. A ball of worn fabric swaddles your fist.

Toji sits up a little, looking up to where you stand before him with the puzzling bundle of textile. “Is that my..?”

“Your shirt,” you finish for him, tossing the thing into Toji’s chest, to which it hits before tumbling limply into his lap. Not for a second does he bother sparing a glimpse to the useless shirt; still, he commits to your eyes, hoping that you can decipher the inquisitiveness in his. 

Gravelly and mystified, “what?”

“You left your shirt here the last time—”

“What?” A decrepit, holey tee shirt cannot be the reason why he’s sitting on your couch right now. In a bone-crushing clutch, the shirt sits braving force from Toji’s iron fist. He holds it with such conviction that his fingers activate a tremble.

You’re not stupid. You’re the most intelligent, most sagacious woman—person—he knows. So it really fucking irks him when you continue to play oblivious. 

“What do you mean, what?”

“I’m not here right now because of a dumb shirt.”

Your lips smack together pensively, looking fixedly at the drab, eggshell walls. To the porcelain tiles now scuffed from being grazed on by two bespattered tactical boots. To your own feet, to the perturbed curl of your toes. To anywhere besides him. Never had you avoided looking at Toji so unmitigatedly, as if locking eyes for even a split second would cause worldwide devastation.

He reflects upon the night you’d thrown him out, discarding him back to the streets where he belonged. “‘Get the fuck out of my home’, she says,” Toji mumbles a recitement of your own words, struggling to keep the muzzle on his distaste. Elbows on his knees, head in his hand, he taps his index to his lip in thought. “You hate me, and then suddenly you like me enough to return my damn shirt… What kind of game are you playing? Just fucking cut it out and be blunt about what you want from me because I’ve had a really shit day and I’m not in the mood to be cute for you, Y/n.”

You bear his outburst in stride, pulling a face of forlorn at his apparent exhaustion. You don’t shout back at him, nor do you comment on his attitude that you’d surely never let slide in the past. 

“Okay.” 

On tiptoes, you shuffle closer to fit between Toji’s spread thighs. There is a streak of hesitation that perpetually hugs around your body, he realizes, because every which way you turn oozes trepidation in its slow tempo. Jitters teeter down your person, oscillations so tangible that it sways your hair. “You’re shakin’,” Toji annotates, tilting his chin back to gaze up at you. Shaking like a leaf, in fact, and he wonders where all your composure has fled to. “Why’re—”

“I need to…” You take a pause to swallow down the thick ball of uneasiness clogging your esophagus. A sheen glints along your forehead, cheeks, neckline; fucking sweat. “I have to confirm something.”

You are off. This whole situation is off, and Toji can’t pin a point on any of it until…

Slowly, clumsily, your hand glides down the elegant curve of your oblique, toward the ponderous bulk against your thigh. With the brain of a seasoned assassin, Toji pieces the puzzle together with time to spare. Time he could’ve spent lunging at you, pinning you to the floor beneath his body weight, subduing your wrists in the cuffs of his own fingers. But he doesn’t. Be it a product of his own stupidity, his lackluster will to live, or maybe even his inextinguishable urge to devote his trust to you, Toji lets you draw open the curtain of your robe and pull your concealed gun on him. 

With heavy puffs of breathing, you direct the barrel of your handgun toward the centerpoint of his chest. It wobbles in a hybrid of uncertainty and inexperience, and there’s a cold, metallic rattle discernible the whole time. Toji admires the gun—it’s a small thing, some flavor of a colt pistol with a cask forged from iron. It looks weighty and misplaced in the palms of your delicate hands. 

“Nice piece,” he allots useless, apathetic praise. 

Evidently, you aren’t in the mood to reciprocate his quips. “Be serious.”

“I am.”

There is something picturesque about you in this context, it overpowers the innate fear he should be feeling right now. You tower before him like a deus ex machina, his own personal angel of death, granting him divine reprieve from this remarkably bleak concept of life. Toji wants to kneel, call you beautiful, and kiss your feet in appreciation.

“I wasn’t lying when I told you I liked you.” Those words contradict the finger you hold against the trigger. You shake your head, contracting the muscles in your jaw. “Was it just a version of you that I fell for?”

Toji concedes. “Yeah.”

“Do I even know you?”

His thick eyebrows furrow at the question. Do I even know you? “There’s so much I haven’t told you yet.”

You sneer, “you mean, so much you’ve lied abou—”

“No.” Toji holds up his hand, a pardon to interrupt. Because he has never spewed untruths in lieu of keeping his double life a secret. He never lied about his job, his addictions, his mental instability—there were no flimsy excuses, Toji had simply pretended his weaknesses did not exist. You made him forget they were even there in the first place. “No, I didn’t lie. Not once.”

“Then what purpose did you have for me at all?” Wetness glistened over rounded eyes, and wistful tears began to collect along your lash line. Toji watches a bead of sadness break loose, hanging from a cluster of eyelashes. Looking up to the ceiling, you attempt to blink it away. “I just… Fuck. I promised myself I wouldn’t sleep with you—wouldn’t get attached—but you… Why did you lay with me?”

The gun still aims to his heart. “I wanted to.”

“I feel like my head is spinning,” you weep, sniffling in the air. So utterly hopeless. “I feel like I don’t know you at all. Or your intentions.” You were a woman of prowess and authority, a real powerhouse in the sense that you always seemed to just know. Knowing what, knowing why, knowing how; he was so strangely drawn to that superlative superpower, finding your wisdom one of the most alluring things in the world. So perhaps that’s why Toji feels worse than cow shit right now, subjected to the awful sight of your realization that you truly don’t know who he is. The reigns were relinquished from your hands. “I’m scared, Toji.”

“Of me?” A stupid question he already knows good and well the answer to, but he asks anyway.

You whimper out your answer with a dejected nod. “Yes.”

The sorrow that oozes from your stare physically hurts, something akin to watching an eclipse with naked eyes, so Toji fixates on the handgun instead. The metallic shine indicates that it was recently purchased and most likely never used. You must’ve bought the thing specifically for this purpose.

“Are you going to kill me, Y/n?”

There’s no response. It aggravates him. 

“Are you?” Toji asks once more, projecting a rougher tone. Digging for an answer. 

Through tears, you whimper out a little reply, a question to his question. “Will you stop me?”

No. No, he fucking won’t. He sees through your plan; you’re waiting for him to lash out, to fight for his life. You want him to give you a reason to pull the trigger and prove your theories right—theories that he’s nothing more than a dangerous, vindictive animal hell bent on satiating his bloodlust. But Toji isn’t much of anything other than a torpid waste of oxygen. He won’t combat fate, he won’t put his hands on you even in the face of death. Toji takes your shaking wrist into his hand, keeping every last movement slow and sticky. You flinch away upon contact, but the look in his eyes was nothing if not assuaging, so you let yourself be handled. He draws you near, close enough to press the end of the barrel directly against his head. “Aim here,” he instructs with a lulling timbre, and fixes the thing to rest harshly on his temple. “It’ll be quicker. Less blood.”

Horrified, “what are you doing?”

“I ain’t gonna get violent with you.” Toji feels ready. This is okay, to die in a room as pretty as this one, facing a sorry sight as pretty as you. It’ll be a hassle to clean up for you, but you’re sharp as a knife. You’ll figure it out. His other hand, the one not attached to your forearm, rises to touch at your hip. Massaging over the thick robe, holding the dip of your waist with a vice grip. “If this is what I gotta do to prove myself, then fine. I’m ready, so take the safety off and put a bullet in my brain already.”

“N-no…”

“Yes.” He jimmies your arm, coaxing you to shoot. “Fucking do it, I know you can.”

“No!” You roar in his face, lips reeled back in a desperate snarl. “No, you made your point!” A knee sinks into the space of cushion between Toji’s legs, a hand clawing at his forearm. “Stop it, enough already!”

Toji is bemused by your fanfare of emotion. He barely winces as you work hard to pry your wrist from his handhold, scratching overgrown and timeworn acrylics into the tough flesh of his arm. “I can’t keep up with you, woman.” He tuts, observing the struggle. “Y’kick me out, then you call me back. Don’t talk to me for months, but you’re paying my rent. Pull a gun on me, then start crying when I give you a push.” Reaching up, Toji finds the warmth of your neck, cupping his palm to it. Sliding up and up, pushing your jaw with thick fingers because he needs you to stop focusing on the gun and start focusing on him. Your head is steered by his ginger hand, forcing your guys’ eyes to bridge. “You had me fooled. Here I thought you were more mature than whatever-the-fuck this is.”

“You want to talk about maturity?” Like a coin, the doleful effusion you bled was flipped into bewildered agitation. Fire ignites underneath your tongue and Toji braces for its heat.

“Yeah, sure,” ever the impudent asshole, “let’s talk.”

You give him a funny look. A you have a lot of fucking nerve look. “It’s because of your immaturity that we’re here right now!” Getting closer, your other leg fits across the opposite side of his, effectively perching yourself over his thick thigh. Toji grunts under the force in which you sit down. “You and your stupid flirtations. You made me believe that we could have…” Breaking off into a frustrated groan, you shook your head. “How selfish can you be, Toji? To pursue me when you know damn well what you’ve done is unforgivable.”

The tip of his tongue finds his molars, and he looks away for a moment to analyze your question. A moment that is cut entirely too short when you return the favor of maneuvering his head. “No, you need to look at me, too.”

There isn’t any elaborate reasoning he can present to you on a silver dish. When it comes down to the brass tacks of it all, that was just it: Toji is selfish. The only taste of love Toji had ever gotten was when he was young and dumb in his early twenties, spontaneously marrying the first woman who convinced him that he was worthy of tenderness. God, she was gentle with him, seizing his heart in her hands with so much caution and kindness that it made him physically ill. When she passed, he was positive that his heart had been buried alongside her deep in the Earth. That warmth never returned, not once in the years following when he’d find himself falling into strangers’ beds for a quick living. And he’d curse himself, reliving memories of her every night before sleep. So young and dumb, far too much so to appreciate what he had; what he’d never get again. 

But then you came along. 

Man, what a plot twist you were.

“You make me feel things.” What the fuck is he even saying? ‘You make me feel things’? That explanation was about as insightful as a child would be. Toji has never so directly spoken about his feelings before, this is challenging. 

Non-judgemental, you heed his message and urge him to continue. “Good things or bad things?”

“Uh,” Toji thinks for a second, “nostalgic things? I… Haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

“Felt like what?”

There comes a pregnant pause, and Toji takes this time to peer up at you. You sit tall on his leg, head at a tilt while you wait patiently for him to select a word. An attribute that you shock into his system every time you enter the vicinity. It’s a shitty, embarrassing answer, but he spits it out anyway. “Loved.” Using your quiet to his advantage, Toji prattles on. “Or somethin’ like that. I’m a fucking moron though, for thinking I could keep secrets. Selfish is a good way to put it.”

“You’ve killed people for money. You are the epitome of the word selfish.”

“That shit’s behind me.”

You reel, leaning back in his lap to gauge Toji’s expression. “Really?” It’s asked with skepticism, and Toji’s eye twitches.

“What, you think I’m bullshitting?” His hand involuntarily squeezes your wrist, a futile attempt to communicate his sincerity through touch. “No, I haven’t taken a job since last I left your place. I quit.”

This discovery retires some of that scorn. With a weaker voice than before, “officially?”

Toji gives you a subtle nod. “As much as you want to believe I liked dropping bodies, I really, really didn’t.”

There is a hint of a smile, just barely curling at the corner of your lip, before it droops back down into the biggest frown he’s seen you wear all night. “But then wait a second… Where have you been getting your income from? I stopped issuing checks when we—” You stop yourself from saying it. 

“Ah, I’ve just been,” shit, what a dilemma. “Getting some sugar.” It comes out with an awkward chuckle. It’s not a complete lie, sugar baby-ing and prostituting—it was all sex work nevertheless. He isn’t fond of the whorish implication, but you know him. You’ve seen him at his sluttiest, and you weren't disgusted.

“You’ve been having sex?” You veer in toward him. There is no shock or discomfort lacing your words—you know him—only bona fide earnestness. 

“Yeah.” Toji feels compelled to say sorry, but he doesn’t. “I needed the cash.” He doesn’t care to rally the question back at you, doesn’t care to know if you’ve fucked anyone else.

It’s subtle, but he can feel the pity radiating off you, seeping into his pores and burrowing under flesh. You look at him the same way you’d look at a scraped-up mutt abandoned on the side of the highway. He fucking despises that look from anyone else, but from you? It’s not so bad. If anything, it’s maybe even a bit soothing, the way you can console him with just your eyes. 

“Toji, let go of my arm.”

He does as told, dripping your wrist. The handgun falls to the couch, neglected, but Toji doesn’t get the chance to watch it because you’re shrouding the view. A buxom body nestles against the convex of Toji’s ample chest, two arms coil around his thick neck, fingers scritching over his scalp. You’re hugging him.

“Is this okay?” You must’ve felt him stiffen under the weight of your affections, perhaps you took it as a sign of discomfort. But that’s not it at all; the hesitation was a byproduct of Toji’s emotional stoicism. A defense mechanism he’s built for himself, successful in warding off contingence. Sex was okay. Sex was gritty and rugged and crude, enough to make him forget he was being touched at all. But this? Fucking hugging? 

How childish was he for submitting to something so teenage? This was the equivalent of popping a boner from hand holding.

And still… “I like it.” Once again, he lets you tear down his walls. Succumbing to you felt organic, almost as if Toji could just close his eyes and let muscle memory guide his limbs to their place. A heavy head knocks forward, plummeting in the valley between your breasts that have been exposed by the plunging neckline of your robe. Unbeknownst to you, the knot holding it closed had untied itself somewhere in the haste, and it has become more of a loose garnish to your body clad in nothing more than a matching set of dark, rebellious little underwear. Strong arms return the gesture, squeezing you to him so tightly that you must let out an audible oomph as your lungs constrict.

“I like it…” Toji repeats under his breath, nosing a path up to your clavicle. On you, notes of that saccharine, peachy body wash he’d once massaged into your skin. He takes self-indulgent whiffs, closing his eyes to hyperfixate on his sense of smell. “I like you.”

Totally abrupt, no sensibility in the manner, Toji blurts it out. Those three bedeviled words he swore to condemn to the pit of his guts, never to be released aloud. His conscience dictates his actions now, apparently, because the man has no longer any will to swallow his sentiments. After all the terrible, traumatizing shit he’s dragged you through, it’s the least he can offer. You’ve been deserving of those three words for a while now, Toji just never knew how to give them to you. As it turns out, it’s a lot simpler than his imaginations led him to believe. 

“You’ve never told me that before.”

He holds you impossibly tighter, hands flat and feeling the landscape of your back. “You knew, though.”

The hand in Toji’s dampened hair clenches when he ghosts his lips over that throbbing neck vein. “Still, you could have said it sooner.”

“I’m sorry.” He kisses you there, then kisses you again. Slow and tantalizing, just the way you liked. “Sorry for being awful.”

Teeth peek out and catch your skin. 

“I don’t—” you stop to gasp, cradling Toji’s head and holding him deep into the crib of your neck. “Think you’re awful.”

“Mm.” Blindly, he gropes the cushion beside his thigh, feeling for the discarded gun. Toji taps the cool metal against the chub of your cheek, attentive to the trigger—he never goes near it. Catching you in a lidded staring contest, “you use this on good guys, then?”

You pull a grimace. “I don’t use it at all.”

Toji is thoroughly amused. “You were gonna use it on me,” he chuckles quietly, so close to your pretty face that the point of his nose brushes yours. “Or were you just tryin’ to give me a scare?”

“I…” You trail off into brief thought. “I was afraid. I’m only a normal woman, Toji, it’s not everyday I find myself in the presence of a criminal.”

Again, he laughs, thumb sweeping back drapery that shades your thigh. You make no efforts to halt him, instead just following his line of sight all the way down to the black, leathery holster strapped high upon your thigh. Something about it is so enticing, the way fat pudges out along the sides of the tight strip. Like a garter belt, but a thousand times sexier. “‘Normal’ my ass.” Toji plucks the thing, gauging its limitation to stretch, before releasing it to snap back into place and choke your squishy thigh once more. You yelp, smacking his bicep.

“That hurt, asshole.”

“Sorry,” Toji apologizes loosely. He shakes the gun, hearing its rattle. “So this was a test, then.” There is no quizzical lilt, because there is no question about it. It was a test of trust. The weapon was a mere instigator, a tool to coax Toji into showing his ‘truest colors’; unmasking his supposed violent tendencies. All that trust you placed in Toji’s basket must’ve vanished on that rainy night, in the wake of his confession to murder. All that trust… It soured into bitter doubt. 

“A very idiotic, very flawed test,” you sigh, on the cusp of a humorless smirk. “You passed, by the way.”

“I don’t feel like I did. You thought that I would’ve hurt you.”

“I was just preparing for the worst case scenario.” 

The way in which he surveyed you was kindred to the nature of religion. Gritty fingertips explored your Holy face, and Toji worshiped every feature. Could you truly not see how sacred you are to him? Toji doesn’t caress the faces of his quick fucks, and he certainly wouldn’t surrender his life to them. 

“Put that thought out of your brain. Right now. I will never put my hands on you.”

You look flushed. Your cheek kindles warmth beneath his hand. “I want to kiss you.”

Toji’s instantaneous submission was laughable. Jaw unhinging, scarred lips parting wide, tongue twitching with anticipation. He opens his mouth for you and waits.

His face gets clamped in between two tenacious hands. Nails dig into Toji’s face as he’s yanked in to meet you in a teeth-clanking lip lock. It feels like a breath of fresh air, to kiss you like this again. Suddenly, he forgets what those strangers’ genitals tasted like. He forgets the taste of coke dripping down the back of his throat after snorting his fifth line in one night. Forgets the taste of soupy, liquor-flavored bile. All Toji knows is you and your nectarous little mouth. Your honeyed tongue is a tyrant in his mouth, dominating every wet corner, branding your essence into his taste buds. 

“I missed you,” Toji laments into your lips. He grapples with your hips, manhandling them into a constant gyration deep onto the crux of his lap. “I missed us.”

“I can tell,” you mumble and give a sharp grind against him. Against the prominent tent beaming up from the crotch of his pants, and he shudders. Then, you look at him stone cold sober from lust and ask him foolishly, “do you want to have sex right now?”

A nasally exhale huffs out, because you have to be joking with him. “My cock’s hard, ain’t it?” 

You’re a beacon of po-faced prudishness, all the while he pants for more. “Your erection is a given, considering the position we’re in,” close-grained and consolidated in intimacy. You tap Toji’s forehead, “how do you feel up here? I’d like to know.”

Such shitty pillow talk, but even still, Toji felt rosy. It made him feel acknowledged; recognized as more than just a dick to bounce on. Fuck, you’re really turning him on with that corny, mushy bullshit. “I’m good,” he tells you honestly. “I want you.”

I want to be inside of you.

“And you’ll let me know if that feeling changes?”

He groans against your cheek, “Jesus, yes, just fuckin’ touch me.”

“Ask me appropriately.”

Here he goes, sounding like a little bitch again. “Please, m-ma’am… Take it out.” Another memory to add to his internal cringe compilation.

Satisfied, you sit up on your haunches. “Lift your ass.” He does so, and accepts your help to shimmy the waistband of those constricting pants down to quarter thigh. Just low enough to make a spectacle of the hard rod straining against the thin material of his snug boxer briefs; gray and breathable and damp with his pre-ejaculant.

“Shit.” Toji huffs, giving a weak jerk when your hands begin the delicate procedure of feeding his slippery appendage through the piss hole at the front of his ruined underwear. He watches you pull him out with grace—he’s privy to the consideration you show to his most sensitive spots when you handle him like this. He thinks it’s endearing.

There his dick stands, tall and proud in the valley where both pairs of hips meet flush with one another. Toji looks down at the pinkish thing, watches the way it drifts back to hit his navel, falling under its own mass. “Rub me,” Toji whispers with his forehead pressed against the shelf of your shoulder, gazing down under heavy lids to watch his own dick drool spittle into his tee shirt. A hand precipitously hangs below his chin, fingers and palm working with each other to create a makeshift bowl. Assuming to catch something. 

“Spit, Toji.”

A second hand strokes the back of his skull, and the gesture emmenates patience. There’s only a split second of hesitation before he grants your vulgar request. Toji swishes his tongue around, collecting every ounce of saliva that coats the inner seams of his sticky mouth before opening up. The wet muscle unfurls, and a waterslide of spit cascades down into the palm of your awaiting hand. He’s rewarded for his efforts—good job, Toji—before you get down to business. 

His spit is cold when it smears along his tip. Toji bites his lip, sinks his digits deep into the meat of your ass, and fixates on keeping a composed breathing pattern because fuck, your hand was magical. You jerk him off leisurely, maintaining languid strokes that squeeze tighter near the peak of his length. “This alright?” You coo next to Toji’s ear, keeping your free hand busy playing with his raven locks. 

Toji makes a pitiful, throaty noise in response. “Do it faster.”

“No.”

He grits his teeth. “Unfair…” Toji’s hands tremble. To combat this, he begins grabbing at the robe still hugging over you, shielding that sexy body from his perverted glare. You make no indications that he should stop, so he doesn’t. Shucking off that expensive, red cape down your perfect shoulders, splitting the front open right down the middle. It’s a black, lacy little number, and the cups of your darling bralette plead transparency.

Toji pulls the thing up without dawdling, sighing blithely at the heavenly prospect of your perfect breasts bared and ready to be taken by his mouth. “God.” He captures your tit in one hand, squeezing it, playing with its weight. Your latter breast gets swiftly tucked between his lips, subjected to enthusiastic teasing from Toji’s tongue. He’s teething, rolling your budding nipple between rows of ivory fangs like he’s trying for milk. 

“You’re so hungry for it.”

“You've been depriving me of this,” Toji emphasizes his point with a long, keen lick to your cleavage. “An’ you expect me not to be starving.”

You pull him off your chest by the scruff of his neck, hoisting Toji’s heavy head up at your face level. Saliva moistens his lips, and you take your time swiping up his spit with your deft thumb pad. “Shall we get on with it, then?” Condescension and sympathy duel each other when you speak to him, like he is the unreasonable one for becoming a frenzied mess of sensuality. 

Toji is about to answer when it catches his eye. The glinting iron barrel, taunting him. It sits once more at the side of his thigh, untouched and forgotten. Begging to be used.

“I want you to fuck me.” There’s a brief intermission of silence while he collects the weapon, grabbing it by the cask and offering you its handle. You’re inquisitive, staring at the thing with uncertainty, so Toji lays his motives out across the table. “Hold this on me while you do it.”

You chortle, expecting his laugh to come next. But it never does, so you stop and raise a brow. “Come again?”

“You went through the trouble of buying this just for me, yeah?” It was obvious to anyone with two working eyes that you had no experience maintaining firearms. The gun was spotless, brand-spanking-new, and never had you mentioned to Toji that you keep something so dangerous in your home. So yeah, you can try to deny it all you want, but he knows that the only reason you now own a pistol is in case you needed to pop a cap in his brain. “Now I’m asking you to use it.”

“Toji,” you sweatdrop, “I don’t think…”

He takes your hand in his and presses the grip of the gun into your palm before securing your fingers around its silicon. Wide eyes look at him with pure solicitousness. “It’s okay.” Just like before, he steers you into position. “Jus’ keep your arm up like this. Hold it to my head. Yeah, perfect.”

“This is sick, even for you.” Despite your words, you don’t sound too dismayed. 

“Been rocking a half chub the second you pointed it at me.” 

“Filthy.”

Toji hums offhandedly, peeking down at your panty-clad pussy. Your undies were cute, he thinks, teasing the tiny ribbon bow perched on the waistband with a feather-light fingertip. Twin ebony fibers crafted the panties, just as chiffon as the bra. “Gets me off,” he shrugs, hooking his index beneath the gusset and dragging it to the side where it’ll stay in the crease of your thigh. Toji can feel the blaze of your core grate against his hand. You’re turned on. He looks back at you. “Putting my life in your hands.”

You’re shifting, stretching up a little higher to accommodate his cock. One of your knees props up at a right angle, the other remains firmly planted into the couch. “You’re so insane.” Ruddiness blooms along Toji’s neck when you hawk a wad of spit into your hand and bring it down to rub yourself. Lubricating yourself for him, moaning for him, fuck. He’s holding himself too. 

“Aintcha feelin’ powerful, though?” Toji challenges haughtily, slapping his swollen tip against your pubic bone. In response, he feels the barrel of the handgun sink a little rougher into the thin skin on his temple, and it makes him chuckle out loud. “Makes you wanna give it to me harder, don’t it?”

Tacky, spit-soaked fingers catch the angle of his running jaw with a grip so taut, it squishes his cheeks and forces his lips into a reluctant pout. “What am I going to do with that mouth?” You glower, and his mind races with a catalog of hundreds of different risque solutions to propose. However, he doesn’t get one out before your next order: “Put it in.”

And he does right away. A concoction of spit, semen, and cunt juice made the insertion process quick and painless. Without delay, your hips crash down into his lap, and it draws a paltry cheep past his clenched teeth. Fronts stick together thanks to the bone-crushing bear hug he ensnares you in. You give in, throwing your arms over his broad shoulders to attune to the sudden adjacency. He can feel a hard, steely nozzle trace around the circumference of his skull, ending at the base behind his head. 

And that’s how you two sit for a while; inside one another, breathing humid puffs of carbon dioxide into each other’s necks. 

“I’m… Gonna move now.”

“Please,” Toji murmurs.

 Hands walk down your spine, finding purchase on the malleable globes of your ass. Toji kneads like it’s dough; grabbing, pulling, grinding you back and forth. This is how sex should feel, you’ve made him come to realize. Equal parts raw and nasty in perfect tandem with intimacy and comfort. Hell, you have a fucking gun trained at his cerebellum, and even with that unusual addition, this is the safest sex he’s had in months. 

You are an expert in the ways of motion, methodically pirouetting those godsent curves in the most salacious degrees. “Oh God, don’t fucking stop,” Toji pleads, lapping against the slope of your neck. It’s killing him, the way you’re fucking his body deep into the couch like you owned it. It’s physically strenuous to keep his teeth at bay. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

The gun clinks against his head, the thud echoing in his mushy brain. “Hey,” you manage to pant out between short grunts. “No marks, y-you know that.”

Oh. Right. Stupid fucking professional job bullshit…

In the throes of Toji’s desire to swallow you whole, your warning goes in one ear and flies right out the other. “It’ll be fine,” he hushes you, skimming his sharp canines up your throat. 

“Toji.”

“How about here, then?” Before you could say ‘knife’, the tip of a tongue prodded into your ear. Swiveling around, collecting your flavor. Even here, you tasted clean. Like soapy chemicals, but not unpleasant. 

“Toji!”

You’ve stopped fucking him. Toji blinks, and suddenly, he’s being pushed into the back of the sofa by a hand in the center of his pectorals. It takes a second to catch his breath, but when he does, “what?”

Gawking, you palm your ear and cast a horrified look. “You can’t lick there! That’s dirty!”

“But I felt your pussy squeeze when I slid my tongue in—” He hacks around the foreign object. Did you just…?

“Your fucking mouth.” The barrel now lodges in his mouth, pressing back against Toji’s tongue hard enough to trigger salivary glands. It’s obvious that his nonchalance had rendered you harebrained, but thrusting the gun between his jaws like that was the last thing Toji expected you to do. It appeared that the surprise of it all was mutual—you, too, ogle your hand that holds the firearm. “Oh my—Toji, I’m sorry I didn’t—”

With haste, you move to reel back. But Toji’s reflexes are military grade, so he’s able to snag your wrist and hold you there. The shock subsided, and in its wake was the most intense form of pleasure he’d ever felt. Has there ever been a more pure forgery of submission than this? Choking on the loaded gun of your lover, hinging on each breath, wondering if your next will be your last. The whole concept is giving him a headrush far greater than any drug could. So Toji holds you in place, muffling out his pleas through the metal. Staring at you down his nose, eyes teeming with his adoration. 

I want it. And he means it. 

Thank God you’re not one of those dumb bimbo bitches he normally fucks with. You understand the message conveyed in his eyes. You see it. You’re not dense, you know what he wants, and you’ll give it to him. “Tap my leg if you need a break.” He won’t. 

The humping of his sore cock resumes, and any crumb of fortitude left within him curled up and wilted like the Hydrangeas on your front doorstep. He wilts too, collapsing back into the couch while you use his erection. 

You mewl contentedly, bracing yourself with a gentle touch to his pec. A stark contrast to the way your latter hand thrusted the piece in and out of Toji’s willing mouth. He’s not averse to something long and stiff down his throat—desperate times called for desperate measures, and if he had to suck a few cocks to cover the bills, then that’s exactly what he was gonna do. Though this was more enjoyable by miles, he thinks offhandedly while he stifles his gags. There’s no musty stench burning up his nasal cavity, no foul taste of unwashed skin. And a potential bullet was much more appetizing than the inevitable gluey spunk guaranteed at the end of every hummer. Spit bubbles up into a foamy mess at the corners of his lips as he sucks the gun. Sucks it like it’s attached to you, like you’ll be able to feel the way he coils his experienced tongue around the metallic muzzle.

“You’re really i-into that..” Awe infuses each shaky syllable, and Toji hopes maybe in some twisted rhyme or reason, he’s impressed you. Once more, he tries to talk back, but the barrier between his teeth results in utter incoherence. 

Orgasm was near shortly after, and the only warning Toji can supply is a broken half-cry, half-cough. His body began to jerk and twitch in strange ways. Like his right thigh, now sporting an uncontrollable tremble. Or his eyes rolling skyward. “You want to cum?” You asked softly despite your own impending climax, and you stroke the clenching muscles in his abdomen. 

“Nngh.” Fucking pathetic, but it’s the best he can do.

The muzzle clips the back of his throat, and tears spring into Toji’s trundling eyes. Everything gets brighter, and atmospheric sounds jumbled together into deadened white noise. Very distantly, weight lifts from his legs, and that’s when he can’t stop from diving over the edge of his orgasm.

Toji shakes, then shakes some more. Oh, his mouth is empty. When did that happen? Everything is wet and thick and syrupy. The brightness starts to fade, but even still, he has to cover his sensitive eyes with a forearm while he gasps his way back to reality. “Fu… F-fu… Ck…” You have diluted him down to nothing but a babbling idiot. Jesus Christ.

“—ji… Toji!”

Hazily, he peeks down from underneath his arm. You’re massaging soothing circles into his restless thighs that have still yet to calm down. But you’re doing it all with a quiet grin. “There he is.” 

I’m happy.

I’m happy.

Because you remind me that I can have good things.

There is your beautiful face, shining at the end of his orgasmic rainbow. Ready to clean up his mess, ready to talk him into slumber, ready to hold and caress under a shared blanket. Maybe he can deserve this—you—if he works hard enough.

Summoning whatever remained of his stamina, Toji lurches off the couch’s back to meet you into a sweet kiss. A simple kiss, devoid of any spit swapping; just his lips to yours.

“Here I am.”

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[catsteeth]

The Caged Bird & The Leased Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 12 ✿:+ War and Atonement 

Chapter Index | next chapter

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it. 

CW: MDNI, NSFW themes, VIOLENCE, threats of non-con, major character death, minor character death, mention of animal death, misogyny, angst, the boltons, mentions of being drugged, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of death, blood, threats of violence, mentions of arranged marriage, 

A/N: SEASON FINALEEEE (week long break) all I am gonna say is… yeesh. It’s a little long and it's really sad. K BYE!! SEE Y'ALL LAATERR

Word Count: 8.9K

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱ 

Sandor gripped his ax in his hand tightly as he stalked through the woods. Finding the men who killed Ray and the rest of the Sept was not hard. 

The lot of them were in the woods loudly shouting about something Sandor couldn’t care less about. As he marched up behind them, a few of the four men noticed him. They startled easily looking at the giant lumbering man charging towards them with an ax in hand. 

With a furious rage fueled growl he cut and slashed through three of them men with ease. Chopping through their neck, or their heads. 

Finally he approached the last man, a bald older man. He took his ax and with one blow he buried the ax into the man's cock. 

The man cried out in pain, dropping to his knees. Sandor took hold of the man's head, forcing him to look at him, 

“Where are the other ones? The one with the yellow cloak.” He questioned, unaffected by the violence he’d just afflicted on the other men.

“Fuck you!” The bald man screamed, 

“Those are your last words? Fuck you? Come on, you can do better.” Sandor mocked,

The man stammered for a moment unsure of how to reply, “Cunt!” he screamed.

“You’re shit at dying, you know that?” He said as though he had grown tired of his attempts. 

He raised the ax high above his head and threw it down. The man screamed but his screams silenced as the Hounds ax buried deep into his skull.

He pulled his ax out and continued on, starved for the only satisfaction he’d left. Violent revenge.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

In the Eyrie, Baelish was restraining your men from returning to your aid. He closed the Bloody Gates and forced his men loyal to him and his claim to prevent any of yours from leaving. You were left in Winterfell with only nine men.

In Winterfell, you’d spend most of your time training. 

You and Ser Varys’s swords clash against one another again and again. You were able to knock Varys off his own balance and land him on the ground. You pointed your sword at him,

“I didn’t ask for you to go easy on me, Varys.” You said with a huff, out of breath.

He shook his head, “I am not, my lady. It seems as though you’ve improved remarkably, and quite quickly.” He smiled at you as he stood, “You’re a natural.” He nodded, 

You smiled and looked down, you sheathed your sword, proud of yourself. It was the first time you’d felt that feeling… Pride in your accomplishments. Before you could allow yourself to soak in that feeling, a low and gruff voice from behind you spoke. 

“Aye, I’d say so. A real killer. You can see it in her eyes.” You turned with a furrowed brow around to see a tall wild looking man. He wore furs of different origin, and his hair was the brightest red you’d ever seen. He looked at you with wide and excited eyes, “Pretty murderous eyes-“ You let out a dry chuckle, 

Varys Cole however found nothing amusing in it, he stepped forward and in front of you holding onto the hilt of his sword. “If you wish to speak to the Lady Arryn, you’ll learn to do it in a more respectful manner.” He spoke sternly.

“Who are you?” You asked, 

His eyes went from Varys to you quickly, he smiled at you, “Tormund.” He flashed his eyebrows at you.

“From beyond the wall?” You’d never met a Wildling but you’d imagine this is what they’d look like.

“Aye, you don’t like Wildlings?” His gaze narrowed at you slightly, 

You shook your head, “I am of no opinion.” 

“No opinion?” He asked with a raised eyebrow,

“I’ve never met one before.” You held in a laugh at this man's obvious attraction towards you.

“Aye well, now ye’ have.” He took one step closer, He looked over towards Varys pointing at him “I don’t think he likes wildlings much.” 

Varys took another step closer to him, you raised your hand to signal for him to step down, “It’s alright. I apologize for Ser Cole, he is quite protective of me.” You said softly,

“I’d be too if you were my woman-“ He said with his head lowered but his eyes still on you.

“She is the Lady of the Vale. I am her sword-“ Ser Varys Cole interjected. 

“You’re a sword?” he asked confused, never hearing the expression.

“Her protector.” Varys said sternly.

“The way she holds that sword I don’t think the pretty crow needs one. But a woman should have a man.” His voice was lustful, not seductive but lustful.

“You have a gift for subtlety.” You scoffed, holding in laughter.

“Aye, and gifted at many other things-” He took another step closer to you but Varys blocked him. 

The two men stared at one another attempting to intimidate the other. Before you could interject, Jon did. 

“Enough, come on, we've got things to do.” Jon said, pulling Tormund away. 

As the both of them walked away and into the Lord Commander's quarters, Varys looked at you with annoyance and you held in a laugh.

“He won’t relent if you encourage it.” He said walking towards you, 

“I found it amusing.” You shrugged. He’d no power, and you knew you’d never be with another man so long as you were without Sandor. Besides, waiting for your armies was getting dull.

“You shouldn’t allow people to speak to you like that.” He lectures, sounding like your father.

“Are you my advisor now?” You asked with a furrowed brow.

“I have been, it would seem.” He said, you couldn’t really argue because he was right.

“Perhaps.” You looked down, then back to him, “You are right. But I don’t wish to earn respect through men in armor flashing steel. That is not respect, it’s fear.” 

“Some may say they are one in the same.” 

“Some. Not I. I know the difference.” You said sternly, “Respect forged on the soil of fear will grow anger and contempt. Respect forged on the soil of kindness and compassion grows loyalty and trust.” You removed your belt that held your sword and handed it to Varys, “Soon the rest of the Knights left in the west will remember that.” 

Varys softly smiled and nodded at you, surprised but pleased with your wisdom. You smiled back.

Suddenly you could hear the guards shouting, “Open the gates!” the men shouted, 

You watched as the gates to Castle Black opened. Three people on horseback made their way in. Two of them were a mystery to you but one you recognized immediately. A tall and beautiful girl with red hair, your cousin.

As she dismounted you stepped closer towards her, unable to believe your eyes that it was her. You thought for so long that you’d never see her again.

“Sansa?” You asked softly, she looked at you, you could see a dark and tired pain in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around you, and you wrapped your arms around her in return. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked you, still wrapped around you. 

“I could ask you the same.” You said. 

You felt her arms loosen around you. As you pulled away to look at her you noticed she was looking behind you. As you turned to see what she saw, you saw Jon standing there. He was in as much disbelief as you were, maybe even more. You let go of her, and she ran into Jon’s arms. 

As they embraced, the man who rode in with Sansa walked up to you. 

“Lady Arryn?” He asked in a hush voice, 

You turned to better face him, “Do I know you, Ser?” you asked.

He shook his head, looking at you with curiosity and the same disbelief Jon looked at Sansa with. “Not very well. I was in the service of Lord Tyrion Lannister during your time in KingsLanding.” You then recognized him, you looked down and swallowed hard. “He thought you were dead, it took him some time to admit it but he did. Thought Stannis’s soldiers during the blackwater killed you, then he thought the hound took you. But when I saw him he didn’t have you, so I knew that couldn’t have been right.” He rambled mindlessly as he stared at you still examining you in disbelief.

Your eyes widened when you heard he’d seen Sandor, “You saw him?” You asked quickly.

“Before we saved Lady Sansa from the Bolton’s-” 

“The Boltons?” You interrupted him.

Petyr had threatened you with the prospect of giving Sansa away in your place. But she was in King's Landing, married to Lord Tyrion. You thought surely she was safe. You felt your stomach drop as you realized he’d done it, and it was your fault.

“Lady Brienne fought him while we were looking for Lady Arya.” He continued without answering your question.

“Fought him?” Your eyes went even wider, you felt your pulse quicken.

“And won, he fell down the mountain in the Vale.” You felt as if a wave of cold ocean water had crashed against your body. You felt your heart sink and your stomach turn.  “We were there looking for Arya, thought she might have been hiding within it.” You didn’t even pay attention to the last bit he said, your ears rang and “How did you get out?” He asked, you did not look at him. Couldn’t bring yourself to. You looked down, and you muttered, 

“Another time.” As you walked with hast back to your chambers, 

Your eyes began to well with tears and your face was hot, your breathing picked up and you couldn’t help but feel yourself begin to crumble.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・  

You slammed the door to your chamber closed, you collapsed onto your bed. 

You felt every part of your body ache, your heart felt hallowed out. Your breathing labored from your sobs. You couldn’t bear the pain, it was new. When the others you loved died, your body went numb but now, now you felt entirely too much. You felt far far far too much. You’d never felt your heart break, felt your heart truly cry, until now.

You sobbed into the furs of your bed, silencing your cries as best you could. But soon you heard your door open and close quickly as you looked up. It was Varys.

“(Y/N)?” He asked softly, he approached your side by your bed. “Are you alright?” He kneeled by your side, placing a hand on the side of your head as you laid there in agony.

“He warned me. He warned me and I did not listen to him.” You whimpered as you sobbed gently. 

Varys rubbed his thumb against your temple, “It was your life or hers, you couldn’t be made such a choice-” 

“But I could have. I didn’t give it because I thought she’d be safe… I thought he’d come back for me.” You angrily wiped your tears.

“He did-” 

“And he died for it. This whole time I waited and wished” You snapped angrily before your sorrow overtook you again, you threw your head back against the bed as you said,  “Gods, know I have been selfish and I have been spiteful. I wished to see the downfall of Littlefinger enough to overlook it willingly.” You shook your head, “It should have been me there. She is good, and I am nothing but nausea, nothing but a longing, nothing but disgrace, nothing but a piece to be moved about the board, nothing but a daughter who was meant to be a son.” Your numbness finally set in, you laid there, your tears falling from your eyes and your lips swollen, nose red but at least you didn’t need to feel it anymore. 

Varys took in your words, “Child. You are discerning, wise, and well reasoned. Those are traits of your father. You are also strong-willed, audacious, and above all loyal. Those are traits of your mother.” He shook his head, “When you were born, your mother and father could not have held greater contentedness. Since that day I have watched you create (Y/N) Arryn in wonder.” He smiled at you softly. 

“What of your family, Varys?” You felt silly for never, during this whole time, asking him such a simple question.

“I had a daughter once, for just a moment. When I was much younger.” He smiled at the memory, “My wife, Helena. A beauty she was, and as sharp as a dagger. She died, attempting to give life to our daughter. She was far too small for life to not slip from her. They both perished in her efforts.” His eyes welled up in tears but his smile persisted, “She would have been your age now.” He held your face in his hand “Since that day, I have only looked after one child my whole life.” He swallowed back emotion, he looked at you understandingly, “You’re in a dark period in your life,” 

“It seems as though my whole life has been a dark period, aside from a few days of either boredom or even fewer of happiness.” You spoke softly as you sniffed your runny nose. 

He shook his head, “You’ve lived a life within the rules of others. Soon you will live by your own. I am as old as your mother would be, I know these things well enough. You will be remembered, beloved, and respected. Soon the light and wisdom will come to you. You’ll be happy, child.” He smiled at you, he knew what he was saying and meant every word of it. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As Sandor stalked the woods, tracking down the rest of the men who’d slaughtered the sept. He found them, only they were standing on logs of wood with their heads in nooses. 

The men surrounding them were the members of the Brotherhood. The very men who’d abducted Sandor and who’d separated he and you.

Thoros looked over at Sandor marching over, bloody ax in hand, “Clegane, the fuck you doing here?” He asked, 

“Chasing them. You?” Sandor asked confused,

“Hanging them.”

“Any particular reason?” He questioned

“They’re our men. Or they were. They attacked a nearby Sept and murdered the villagers. Why do you want them?”

“Same reason. I was helping build it. They killed a friend of mine.” He said as he walked closer to them three men in nooses, with a cold look in his eyes.

“You’ve got friends?” Thoros asked mockingly, 

Sandor shook his head, “Not anymore. They’re mine.” He said, still walking closer.

Beric stopped him, “It’s the Brotherhood’s good name they’ve dragged through the dirt.”

“Fuck your name, they’re mine.” Sandor tried to step forward again but Beric’s hand stopped him, Sandor looked at him with dark eyes “I killed you once before, Dondarrion. Happy to do it again.” He narrowed his eyes, “Drop that arrow you bloody girl. Tougher girls than you have tried to kill me.” He threatened without looking away from Beric. Once the archer didn’t relent he turned to him and began to walk towards him, ax ready in hand. 

Beric interjected, “You can have one of them.”

Sandor turned around, “Two.” He haggled. 

Beric considered it, then finally nodded in approval. 

Sandor walked towards the first man, drew back his ax behind his head and as he was about to swing, Thoros grabbed it, stopping the swing. 

“No, no, no. We’re not butchers. We hang them.” Thoros said,

Sandor pulled his ax away from his grasp, “Hanging? All over in an instant. Where's the punishment in that?” He sighed, “I’ll only gut one of them.” trying to haggle again. 

“No,” Beric said firmly, 

“Chop off one hand?” Sandor asked

“We gave you two out of three out of respect for your loss. That’s generous.” Beric reaffirmed,

Sandor huffed, “Bunch of nancies.” He dropped his ax, “There was a time I would have killed all seven of you just to gut these three.” 

“Getting old, Clegane.” Thoros teased

“He’s not.” Sandor said before kicking out the wood logs from underneath the two men he was granted to kill. 

As they thrashed around, he stole the boots from one of the men. As he tried on the stolen boots he turned to the Brotherhood who were staring at him, “Got anything to eat?”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As you sat at a dining table with Jon, Edd, Tormund, Brienne, Podrick, and sat beside you was Sansa and to your otherside, Varys. 

You all sat together eating some sort of meat. It was awful but it was no worse than the food you and Sandor were forced to endure while you were on your own. 

It was awkwardly silent. The unspoken trauma that you and Sansa had experienced separately that lingered in the air was certainly to blame. Nor did your disdain for Brienne. You had to keep it hidden though you couldn’t help but scowl at her from time to time. You knew she most likely had no choice but to kill him. Your man did not relent, it wasn’t his nature to stop. When he fought he fought to kill. Still, it was hard not to feel resentment. But the hungry looks Tormund flashed your way certainly did not help ease tensions either.

A member of the Night's watch walked into the room, “A letter for you, Lord Commander.” breaking the tension for a moment.

“I’m not Lord Commander anymore.” Jon said, bringing back that same tension. However he conceded and took the scroll from the man.  He opened it breaking the Bolton’s wax seal, he did so nodding at him allowing him to go. 

You felt ill once you noticed the wax seal. 

Jon read a little of it, then began to read it aloud. “To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow. You allowed thousands of wildlings past the wall. You have betrayed your own kind, you have betrayed the north. Winterfell is mine, bastard. Come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon, his direwolves skin is on my floor, come and see. I want my bride back or the traitor to the east as was betrothed to me. Send one to me, Bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep them from me and I will ride North and slaughter every Wildling, man, and babe living under your protection.” You knew very little of the Boltons, but now you understood just how cruel they were, how much pleasure they took in it. And you knew just how much of a dangerous and sadistic environment Sansa was forced into, it made you feel a red hot rage. “You will watch as I skin them living. You–” Jon stopped, looking at both you and Sansa.

“Go on.” Sansa said, full of conviction. She had grown so much since you’d last seen her. Forced to anyway. 

“It’s just more of the same.” Jon said, looking away.

Sansa grabbed ahold of the letter when he wasn’t looking. She continued on reading, “You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister and cousin. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” 

“Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” Jon said cautiously,

“His father’s dead. Ramsay killed him.” She looked down, worried. “And now he has Rickon.” 

“We don’t know that.” Jon shook his head in denial.

“Yes we do.” Sansa said sternly, 

“How many men does he have in his army?” Tormund asked Sansa,

Sansa thought about it for a moment, “I heard him say 5000 once when he was talking about Stannis’s attack.”

“How many do you have?” Jon asked Tormund, 

“That can march and fight? 2000.” Tormund estimated.

“And you?” Jon turned his attention towards you.

You looked over to Varys next to you, wanting him to break the news rather than you. “Ser Cole?”

“Half the knights are divided evenly. 3000 so far on our causes side.” Varys said, confidently.

“That's an even fight, but where are they?” Jon questioned,

“Lord Baelish has denied them leave from the Eyrie. The other 3000 keep them at bay within the confines behind the Bloody Gate. Only 50 have escaped, and should, if all goes well, be here within a week's time.” Varys finished. Jon looked at him, then you could tell he was incredibly disappointed and for good. 

“I’ve only nine men with me, another 50 coming, hopefully.” You looked at Jon with lowered eyes, knowing it was hardly anything at all. 

Sansa remained unmoved, “You are the last son of the last trueborn Lord of Winterfell. Northern families are loyal they’ll fight if you ask.” Sansa gripped onto Jons hand as if she was begging him to see reason. “A monster has taken our home, and our little brother. We have to go back to winterfell.” 

Jon nodded, knowing there was no other option than war.

As you sat there you contemplated your options, contemplated what move you could make next.

You turned to Varys, “Ser Cole send a raven, I will attempt contact with Lord Baelish. I will set our… differences aside… momentarily.” 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Sandor ripped into a piece of pork while he sat around a fire with the rest of the Brotherhood.

Beric stared at him, as it ate it, “You ought to join us. We could use you.”

Sandor wasn’t too pleased with the prospect of joining a new group. He was only with the Sept to heal, and repay his debt to Ray. He wanted to get on with it and find you already. “Last time I went with you lot, it didn’t work out for me.” He faked a smile for a moment and dropped it swiftly as he dug further into their food. 

“Clegane, we're here for a reason.” Thoros said, trying to convince him, he clearly knew something he didn’t. “The Lord of Light is keeping Beric alive for a reason. We are part of something larger than ourselves.” 

“Lots of horrible shit in this world gets done for something larger than ourselves.” Sandor shook his head, not allowing himself to believe it. He was skeptical, and even if it were real what he said, if it meant he had to leave his plans to find you behind… he wouldn’t do it.

“Cold winds are rising in the North.” 

“And you’re going go to stop them?” Sandor asked mockingly. 

“We need good men to help us.” 

“Last time you saw me you wanted to execute me. Got me separated from my woman, she could be dead now. Why would I help you?” His eyes narrowed. 

“You can find another woman along the way.” Beric said, trying to comfort him in a way.

If he had said that to Sandor even a fortnight ago he would have beaten him for even suggesting it. But he flashed furious eyes at him, then looked down, “Don’t want another.” he said, sulking in his own misery.

Beric nodded, “True enough. But the Lord of Light gave you the power to defeat me. Why?” 

“I beat you, because I’m better than you, Beric. I was better than you before you started yammering about the Lord. And I’m better than you now.” Sandor said with confidence. And he was right, there were very few who could best him.

Beric chuckled, “Aye, you’re probably right. You’re a fighter, born a fighter. You walked away from that fight. How did that go? Good and bad young and old. The thing we’re fighting will destroy them all alike. And if that lady love of yours is still out there, that just will happen to her too. You can help a lot more than you’ve harmed, Clegane.” Beric finished, finally convincing him. 

Whatever threat was coming, if it meant you would be in danger, he would do everything he could to stop it. Even if it meant he would be apart from you longer, as long as you were alive, that would be enough.

He nodded, agreeing to whatever journey they had planned for them. 

As he did, a large and beautiful Falcon came and landed in a tree nearby, it loudly cawed at him. It was the very same Falcon that stayed with him while he was dying in the mountains of the Vale, the one that had gone missing since. 

“Fucking hells…” Sandor grumplied looking at the bird.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You, and Varys rode up to meet with Lord Baelish just outside of Mole Town. 

You sat on your horse about twenty feet in front of Baelish on his own horse. He had with him two other Knights of the Vale. 

“My beloved Niece.” Baelsih said, smirking, “I hear you have come to a change in heart.” 

You showed no emotion, stoic in your response, “No, a momentary delay. I have to request the aid of your army.” 

“It is certainly unusual. We are meant to be at war are we not?”

“We are, though I need numbers in another fight.” 

“Another?” He raised an eyebrow at you.

You didn’t indulge him in an argument, “I know what you did to Sansa.” You said, darkness growing in your eyes.

He attempted to rationalize his actions quickly, “She wished to return to Winterfell, and I aided her in her effort.”

“She escaped, Baelish.” You interjected quickly, “You should have seen her.” You held back emotion, swallowing it down, “They have threatened war, and we don’t have the numbers. They are going to kill her, kill her brothers, and they will take me in her place. You might believe that to be a good thing, for me to be gone from you. But with his power he will want the Eyrie just as badly, and we both know his cruelty.” 

He considered your words carefully, “How do I know you tell the truth? How do I know I am not sending men into a trap where you plan to slaughter them?”

“Because I am the Lady of the Vale. I would not lie to these men.” You looked at the traitors who accompanied Baelish. You could see shame in their eyes as they avoided your gaze. You turned your gaze back to Baelish, much harsher and cold, “Do one good thing. You’ll want Lady Sansa on your side, you’ll want her favor, you’ll want the north’s favor, and you’ll want my mercy.” 

“Lady Sansa knows I would never wish ill will onto her. She knows I did not kn-” 

“Ask her yourself.” You interrupted before riding off and away from him.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・ ꒱꒱

Once you returned to Winterfell, you received a raven from Baelish. The message read that Baelish would meet with Sansa and offer his aid to her, and her alone. You were determined to convince him. Determined to not let the world take another loved one away from you. You couldn’t take another loss. It would crush any bit of warmth within you that was left, leave you cruel and hateful.

When you entered Sansa’s chambers, you noticed her sewing something. 

“What are you working on?” You asked as you walked closer towards her.

“A cape for Jon. The same as our Father wore.” She said as she sewed. 

You sat beside her, “He was a good man.” you said, smiling softly at her. 

“He was.” She said with a sorrowful smile. As she raised her hand up, pulling a needle through the leather and fur of the cape. Her sleeve fell slightly, allowing you to see bruising. 

You held her wrist in your hands gently, stopping her from sewing. You swallowed hard, observing the bruise, feeling both guilt and rage serge through your blood. “I must know what you endured.” You said, sweetly and softly. Like a mother.

“I don’t want you to look at me differently.” She shook her head, and removed her hand. “Besides, I still don’t know what happened to you.” She said looking down shamefully.

You positioned yourself to face her better, “Littlefinger might have taken a child from me. I don’t even know if I have the right to cry over it, because I don't even know if I was, or was not. He took the only man I loved away from me, he took your sister from me. He killed my aunt. He might have killed my father.” You shook your head. “I don't even know that for certain either. The uncertain is worse than the certain, it was almost part of the torment. Kept me in a castle, fed me isolation until I never left my chambers, only thought of the uncertainties. Until he drugged me and sold me to the Boltons. But Varys Cole saved me and brought me here.” Her eyes fell on you, soft and warm. Sympathetic, not pitiful. You smiled through a growing emotion, “See, you’ve not looked at me differently at all.” 

Sansa, put down her needle. She looked at you, and with courage she told you all of what she’d endured. Since the moment you had left King’s Landing she had experienced every tragedy you had narrowly escaped. The things the Bolton’s had done was the worst of it. Your blood boiled with hatred. But soon the rage subsided with the overwhelming feeling of guilt, and sorrow.

“I seem to have left you my fate, inadvertently, twice now I am sorry.” You tried to hold back tears, though your voice wavered “Very, very sorry.” You held her hand, “I’d not look at you differently. You are my blood. I’m going to help you kill those men.” You took a breath, “Though there is one thing that you can do.” You said handing her the message Littlefinger had sent for you.

She took the letter and read it, “Littlefinger…” She whispered, “How far is Mole Town?” She asked you.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The dreaded moment came, a war consultation with Ramsay Bolton the morning before the battle. 

Smalljon Umber, and Harald Karstark were there to accompany Ramsay. You and Varys were there alongside Jon, Sansa, Tormund, Davos, and Lyanna Mormont. All of you on horseback on an open field. 

Ramsay smiled and spoke confidently, “My beloved wife. Thank you for returning Lady Bolton home safely. Now dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will Pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. I will pardon these treasonous Lords for betraying my house. And I shall give Lady Arryn the men to fight for the Vale.” You remained stone faced, and stone hearted. As did your companions. Ramsay then continued, “Come Bastard. You don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses, and you don’t have Winterfell. And she doesn’t even have the Eyrie.” He smiled at you, you only scowled.  “Why lead those poor souls into slaughter? There’s no need for a battle. Get off your horse, and kneel. I am a man of mercy.” He said, it made you feel ill.

You said nothing, only holding back your desire to stab him in the eye.

“You’re right. There's no need for a battle. Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let's do this the old way. You against me.” Jon said, you held back a smirk, knowing Bolton would never agree.

Ramsay “I keep hearing stories about you. The way the North tells it you’re the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good. Maybe not. I don’t know if I can beat you. But I know my army will beat yours.” His eyes were wild and wide. 

“Aye, you’ve the numbers. Would your men want to fight for you, when they hear you wouldn’t want to fight for them?” Jon said, it made you smirk.

Ramsay smiled, angrily “He’s good, very good. But are you going to let your little brother die because you are too proud to surrender?” 

“How do we know you have him?” Sansa said, without fear. 

Ramsay smirked, then nodded to one of his men. The man threw towards Sansa the decapitated head of Rickon’s direwolves head. Sansa looked upon it with cold and emotionless eyes. 

Ramsey continued, “Now if you want to save–” 

“You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton.” Sansa interrupted coldy, “Sleep well.” She said riding away. You watched as she left, you understood the feeling she had all too well. 

Ramsay smiled, “She’s a fine woman, your sister. Just as fine as your cousin.” You looked back at Ramsay, your gaze was hateful and cold, “I look forward to having one of them back in my bed. In the morning then. Bastard.” Ramsay said as he rode away.

You watched them ride off, “If it comes to it… I’ll take her place.” you said to Jon beside you.

Jon shook his head, “No, you won’t. We need every man we can get. Send some ravens.” He said pulling on the reins of his horse, riding away. 

You sat there for a moment, thinking of how furious Sandor would be. Furious that someone would have even threatened such actions towards you. Furious that you would even suggest taking such punishment if it meant someone else didn’t. Furious that you’d even gotten in this war. He would have killed Ramsay then and there. But Sandor wasn’t here anymore, only you. So you’d have to kill Ramsay yourself. 

You then followed after Jon. You’d a war to plan for.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Sandor and the rest of the Brotherhood rode through the Riverlands. It was snowing and cold. And Sandor was irritable for good reason. They were going to the Wall, and in Sandor’s mind that was the last place you would be. Of course he would be wrong in that, but you never thought you’d be there either.

“Bad night to be outdoors,” Thoros said, observing the obvious weather.

“You got real powerful to figure that out. Did the Lord of Light whisper that in your ear?” Sandor said mockingly, “‘It’s snowing, Thoros. It’s windy. It's gonna be a cold night.’” He said in a deeper voice mimicking the Lord Thoros served.

Thoros scoffed, “You’re a grouchy old bear, aren’t you, Clegane?” He held out a bottle towards Sandor as a peace offering “You want some rum?”

“Don’t like that shit, It’s too sweet.” Sandor said with a disgusted expression.

“Why are you always in such a foul mood?” Thoros teased,

“Experience.” Sandor replied

Above them a Falcon flew, Sandor saw it and huffed to himself. He thought he’d seen the last of it but the bird continued to stalk him. 

“There goes that bird again. Maybe cook it for supper…” Thoros said thinking out loud.

“No.” Sandor snapped quickly before regaining composure, “No one's eating that bird.” He grumbled.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You laid in your bed. You watched as the sun began to rise over the wall. In solitude you could be weak, devastated, and useless. You could let yourself sink and drown peacefully in your grief and sorrow. Allowing it to wrap you in its cold embrace. Until you heard the horn of war blow. Now you had to hold your head high, you had to be strong, you needed to be relentless. 

You pushed yourself out of bed and sat beside the fire in your room. 

Varys walked into your chambers, “The war horn has been blown, My Lady.” He said as he closed the door and approached you.

“I know it.” You said staring into the fire.

“I have something for you.” He said softly, you looked over towards him, “I had it made for you here.” You took the metal from his hands. It was black armor, fearsome looking. “Now I do not wish for you to fight. However, this is the first fight you shall lead into Battle.” 

“I lead only nine men.” 

“59, my lady. The men arrived late last night.” You felt a wave of relief but also a great weight of responsibility and duty, “Even if it were nine men, It is your first fight. You should lead in armor. Your father always wore armor, not in silver and blue but black.” You looked at the armor in your hand, it was a deep and dark black color, like a night sky. “He wore black to show the enemy that his presence, his army's presence, meant death.” You ran your hand over the falcon that was imprinted on the breast plate, “And of course there's a falcon, because there has to be a falcon.” He smiled, 

You smiled softly in return, “Thank you.” 

He placed a hand on your shoulder, “Are you frightened?” He asked ready to offer reassurance in your ability.

“No.” You said with strong conviction. You had no room to be frightened. You knew you would succeed because failure was not an option. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・

The Battle Began. Your men alongside the Stark forces were stationed at a treeline, to be sure you couldn’t be taken from behind. It was made known prior to the battle that the Stark army would not charge first. You had the least men, so you needed patience on your side. 

Across the field is the much larger Bolton army, who have placed archery distance markers with burning, flayed corpses attached to them. You had never seen such a grotesque scene. Though it only made your rage grow bigger. 

Ramsay rode out on his horse to the front of his own army, bringing a tied up Rickon Stark. You saw Ramsay dismount and walk towards Rickon with a dagger, you worried for a moment that Ramsay would slit Rickon's throat, but instead he cut bonds. Ramsay pointed at Jon. Rickon starts running in a straight line toward Jon. 

Jon, confused, watched as Ramsay pulled out a bow and arrow as Ramsay pointed it at Rickon. 

Jon, terrified for his brother, rode out alone onto the battlefield charging towards his brother. All the while Ramsay shoots and misses again. Your heart raced, watching it. Just when Rickon is about to reach Jon, however, Ramsay's final shot hits Rickon in the heart, killing him almost instantly.

“Gods.” You whispered to yourself, 

“Prepare to charge!” Davos announced, 

You looked over to your men and Ser Varys Cole, you nodded to them to prepare.

Jon you could see across the field. Your heart ached for him, you’d seen your own brother die with only the Gods to blame. And now Jon had one man to blame. So it did not surprise you when Jon charged full tilt at the Bolton army alone, who immediately lost their arrows on him. Alarmed, Davos ordered the Stark forces to charge after their commander. 

You commanded the same of your men, Varys gave you one last nod before riding into battle. 

Jon was thrown from his horse when it was shot out from under him, Jon prepares for his last stand by drawing his sword and facing the Bolton army alone. However he was saved by the Stark army, and the battle became a chaotic mess of blood, arrows, horses, and swords. Men were killed so quickly that they began to form small hills of the dead.

“It’s a slaughter. Where is Lady Sansa?” You asked Davos, he shook his head at you not knowing. You huffed and looked back to the battle in front of you. 

Ramsay ordered his own archers to shoot at the battle. Killing both the Stark forces and his own army. Instead of doing the same, Davos led his archers to join Jon Snow and the others into battle. 

You being left alone at the treeline where your armies first deployed you fled to a high hill to get a better view of the battle. 

Once you did you could see that the arrows Ramsay ordered out had killed both Stark and Bolton men, and soon the small hills of bodies had become a wall of the dead. It was then clear what they were planning. It was a sadistic way to prevent his enemy from retreating. The remaining Bolton army manage to surround the remaining Stark army and close them in with a shield phalanx. 

You watched horrified as the phalanx acted as a noose, tightening around the Stark forces, who by now are dying in droves. Any of them that attempt to retreat toward the wall of dead men, they trample the wounded and squeeze so tightly in the confined space that they are unable to properly move. Smalljon leads a small force over the wall of the dead to ensure that none are able to escape.

Finally you heard the sounds of Horse hooves behind you. You saw a sea of silver Knights being led by both Sansa and Petyr. As they approached you, Petyr looked at you with contempt and explained, “Knights of the Vale shall ride for Lady Sansa.” Making it clear they were not there for you.

You couldn’t argue, there was no time for that. You pulled the reins of your horse Lika. “They will follow me into battle then.” You said with strong conviction, Petyr nodded to them. 

The knights looked at you, “There is no time for motivation, no time for a speech. Your men are down there already dying. These men will kill you. So we will kill them first. Now circle them, take them from behind! Blow the horns, and Charge!” You shouted as you rode into battle. 

In the battle, Jon was suffocating, just when all hope seemed lost, he heard a war horn sound off in the distance. Around the bend appears a large mounted army of the Knights of the Vale, led by you. The newly arrived Arryn reinforcements quickly circle the phalanx. The Vale knights are able to attack on the Boltons' undefended side, wiping away Ramsay's phalanx and freeing the Stark soldiers. As you led them around, an arrow shot into Lika’s heart, she dropped to the ground and tossed you off and onto the ground. 

Disorientation from the fall, you looked up and saw a man in silver armor, laying against the wall of the dead men. As your eyes steadied you saw he was breathing labored, and coughing blood. As they steadied more you saw an arrow in his throat, and as they steadied even more you noticed the man was Varys Cole. You grunted as you crawled towards him on your elbows. 

“No,” You whimpered, you pulled yourself onto him, you held his neck, bleeding profusely, “NO!” You cried, 

Varys coughed up more blood, “(Y/N), you must leave here” he wheezed, 

“No, no, no,” You sobbed gently like a little girl as you held onto his wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

He took your wrist in hand “Leave me-” 

You interrupted him, continuing to sob, “Don’t leave me-”

“I am dying.” His eyes were low, and he spoke tiredly. 

“You cannot!” You shook your head and shouted as you cried

“All men can.” He removed his belt and sword along with it, handing it to you. “My sword is yours, child.” 

You continued to sob, “Varys-”  

He whipped your tears with his bloody hand, “It’s been yours long enough.” You held the hand he caressed your cheek with until it went limp and fell to his side.  

“Varys-V-V” You stammered as you sobbed, “Varys!” Clinging to his armor, as his eyes faded. Your numbness didn’t come as it often did. But sadness did not either. A rage fueled blood lust unlike anything you'd ever felt overtook your body.

Enraged and maddened with grief you took Varys’s sword in hand, you stood and charged into battle, eyes puffy and red swelled from the tears that fell from them, your nose and cheeks red and slashed with heat from emotion, you breathed deeply but your sobs made you choke on your own breathing. 

You managed to strike two men down with your sword. Grunting and screaming out in grief as you fought. All in which you endured to this moment flashed before your eyes. It only fueled your rage. 

After you striked down your third man an arrow flew and struck you in your thigh. You overpowered your body’s instrict to hunch over in pain. As your hands reached the arrow in your leg, a man came up behind you and grabbed you.

He placed his hand over your mouth pressing you against his body. His other hand held a dagger, he swung his arm around to stab you in the belly but you grabbed ahold of his forearm before he could make contact. 

You bit his hand as hard as you could, nearly taking off his finger completely. The man dropped the dagger and shouted out in pain.

Within an instant you broke the end of the arrow in your thigh off and pulled it through your leg. You then turned around and used the arrow to stab through the man's eye. Killing him.

You looked over to see Tormund staring at you, in awe, “Fuck you doing here?” Tormund asked,

“Fighting.” You responded, eyes still puffy and red. Mouth still stained with the blood of the man you’d just killed. You took back your sword and looked over to see Ramsay, now without a fighting force, decides to retreat to Winterfell to hold out in a siege. Your eyes found Jon nearby, “Jon, He’s fleeing!” You shouted. You and Jon ran following behind Ramsay alongside Tormund and the giant Wun Wun. You ran despite the horrid pain in your leg. 

Before you could reach the main gate. Ramsay closed them. However it didn’t last very long when Wun Wun was able to break down the main gate, allowing the Starks and Arryns to pour through. 

Your army along with the remaining Starks and Freefolks kill all remaining Bolton men in the castle. Wun Wun collapses to his knees after being hit by arrows, bolts, and javelins. Before Jon can comfort his friend, however, Ramsay kills the giant with an arrow through the eye. 

Ramsay, refusing to surrender, “You suggested one on one combat, I’ve reconsidered, I think that's a wonderful Idea.” He taunted Jon,

Ramsay then began shooting arrows at Jon unarmed. You threw a shield from a fallen Mormont soldier. Jon grabs it while boldly advancing, blocking all of Ramsay's shots. When he reached Ramsay, he smacks the bow out of his hands and knocks him to the ground. With Ramsay down, Jon pins him and proceeds to beat him savagely. 

You smiled as you watched it, tears falling from your eyes. You feared you may laugh.

Though it seems as if he will kill Ramsay, Jon stops. Jon then ordered for Ramsay to be locked in the kennels. The Bolton banners drop to the ground in a cluttered heap while the Starks banner is raised above Winterfell for the first time in three years.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・

You entered the Kennels. Looking upon the bloodied and beaten Ramsay, tied in a chair. 

He looked at you, “Are you waiting for me to speak first? Man does not normally introduce himself to his former betrothed.” He said mockingly

“Ramsay.” You stated quietly and coldly.

“You do remember, how lovely.” He laughed to himself, “You look wonderful. The crimson of violence suits you well. I knew it would.” He said, attempting to goad you.

“I understand who you are now. A broken little boy who cannot bear the pain of the world, so he becomes it. But cruelty is easy and you are not special for choosing it.” You took out your sword, you placed the tip of the blade against his chest, “I’ve wanted to bury my blade in you for a long time.” You said, fighting the urge to push it in,  “Only, it’s not my blade to hold.” You said, looking behind you, seeing Sansa standing here. She nodded to you and you nodded in return as you opened the kennel doors and stood with her on the outside of the kennel’s cage.

“Oh, Sansa.” Ramsay smiled, “Our time together is about to come to an end. That’s alright, you can’t kill me. I’m part of you now.” He said trying to torment her one last time.

Sansa however remained unfazed by his attempt, “Your words will disappear, your house will disappear, your name will disappear, all memories of you will disappear.” She said coldly as Ramsay’s starved dogs fled their cages and circled him.

“My Hounds will never harm me.” Ramsay said, with a growing fear in his voice.

“You haven’t fed them in seven days. You said it yourself.” Sansa said emotionlessly as she watched them circle.

“They’re loyal beasts.” Ramsay said, uncertainty present in his voice.

“They were. Now they’re starving.” 

“Down!” He shouted at the dog, instead of listening the dog began hungrily sniffing and licking his bloody face. “Down! Down! Down!” He shouted and shouted until his shouts became screams. Overcome by hunger, the hound proceeds to savagely maul his face and the others follow suit. As Ramsay is devoured alive by his own dogs, Sansa turns to you and you both lock arms as you and she walk away. Though you limped mostly. You both savor the sounds of his screams. You turn to look at one another, you both softly smile at one another.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

In Winterfell, A day had passed since the battle. You laid in your bed recovering from your physical injuries. Though you spent most of your time laying there sulking in your own misery.

That night Sansa entered your chambers with a cup of tea, “How’re you feeling?” She asked, handing you the cup as you sat up.

“Like I’ve had an arrow through my leg.” You said stoically as you took the cup.

She smiled, though her smile faded, “I am… sorry for your loss.” she said earnestly. 

“And I yours.” You said, just as earnest as she was. 

“I’ve come with good news.” She said trying to brighten your spirits, “Once they were left unattended at the gate, your armies fled the Vale, they are coming here, to Winterfell. And I hear some of Baelish’s Knights have left his side to join your ranks. You have shown great bravery, and great loyalty to your men. No one shall forget it.” She smiled at you.

“It wouldn’t have happened without you. They rode for you.” You smiled back, 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

During your recovery Jon continued his mission in defeating the White Walkers. He had traveled to Dragonstone to persuade The Dragon Queen to allow him to mine for Dragonglass. While there, Jon received a letter regarding the army of the dead approaching Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Tyrion who was acting as Daenerys hand, proposed a plan to capture a wight to prove to Cersei, the existence of the White Walkers. Jon agrees and departs with Davos, Jorah, and Gendry.

Once at the Wall, they met with Tormund with whom they shared their plan.

“Isn’t it your job to talk him out of stupid fucking ideas like this?” Tormund asked Davos, unconvinced that their plan was wise.

“I've been failing at that job as of late.” Davos teased, making Jon smirk.

“How many queens are there now?” Tormund asked Jon,

“Two.” He responded, 

“And you need to convince the one with dragons or the one who fucks her brother?” Tormund asked crudely but accurately. 

“Both.” Jon held back a laugh,

“How many men did you bring?” Tormund asked again, attempting to understand how bad of an idea this was.

“Not enough.” Jon said, this had become a recurring issue. 

“Not the armored woman?” Tormund asked like a whiny puppy, hoping you’d be joining.

Jon smiled and shook his head, as you were still back in Winterfell.

“You really want to go out there again?” Gentry said, “You’re not the only ones.”

The men at the table looked at him confused,

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Upon reaching Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, Sandor and the Brotherhood were taken by wildlings serving alongside the Night's Watch, and were held in the ice cells below the castle.

“My scouts found them a mile south of the Wall. Said they were on their way here.” The man said, 

Jon looked at Sandor in the cell, “You’re the Hound, I saw you once at Winterfell.” Recognizing him instantly. Sandor sat up in his cell, not responding.

“They want to go beyond the wall too.” Gentry said angrily, untrusting of the Brotherhood.

“We don’t want to go beyond the Wall, we have to. Our Lord told us that the Great War is coming. It doesn’t matter what our reasons are, there is a greater purpose at work. And we serve it together, whether we know it or not.” Beric said standing, ready to give a speech, “We may take the steps but the Lord of Light–”

Sandor couldn’t take it anymore and interrupted, “For fuck’s sake will you shut your hole? Are we coming with you or not?” 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

NOTE: Hmmm seems like our pookie bear might just be approaching…. I hope you like this. I am treating it as a season finale bc there won't be an update until maybe 6/30.

K love you, xoxo

Bambi

Beloved Tags: 

@dontfollowjuststuff @merfic @broadsdrinkwhisky  @vikingswhore0

@the-queen-of-sorrows @eddiesbongwater @not-neverland06  @symonedoesart 

@wyvernnest @bdudette @frosch-thefrog @patrick-hockstutter

@drymushroomfics @dream-a-little-nightmare 

[silverskye13]

Enemy caretaker, but Wels helping Tanguish this time!

Maybe something along the lines of, Wels getting Tanguish to tell him what he sees in Helsknight in exchange for the help, if you’d like a slightly more specific prompt ^^

When it comes to the whole Hermits vs helsmets thing, Welsknight can, nine times out of ten, say with confidence, he's the good guy. The Hermits are all, barring a few hiccups from time to time, objectively good people. Helmets are the opposites of Hermits. Ergo, helsmets are evil. And if he didn't have logic to prove this, he had Helsknight. Helsknight who, as soon as he had the wits to start making his own identity, immediately started orbiting Welsknight like the most destructive, malicious moon might tear up the atmosphere of a nearby planet. He was mean, vindictive, cruel, heartless, brutal, and worst of all, perfect. Perfect form with the sword, with his knightly duties and tenets, hels, even when their fights were more philosophical, he always seemed to have the perfect argument. There was something uniquely insufferable about fighting a perfect enemy. Grinding.

{This wasn't about Helsknight.}

Anyway. Helsmets. Everything their Hermits aren't. And if the Hermits are objectively good, well, it follows they're all pretty evil. And a good person fighting an evil person -- the good person is in the right. That's what good is all about, generally speaking.

So, chasing Tanguish through a strip mine: Objectively Good. He is Fighting Evil. Sure, that evil is terrified of him, and keeps scrambling away like he thinks Welsknight is the devil incarnate, but... Objectively, Welsknight is doing the right thing, the good thing. Fighting evil. Fighting Evil Is Good.

{Subjectively, Welsknight admits to himself, begrudgingly, it doesn't feel good.}

They ran into each other by accident. Welsknight was mining. He wasn't wearing his good armor -- just some old chain beneath his tunic, so nothing would maul him. He'd been digging away mindlessly and broke through a wall into the bottom of someone else's strip mine -- probably Tango's. He came out of the wall right beside a pile of chests, and right beside the little helsmet sneak thief pilfering from those chests.

Welsknight and Tanguish made eye contact. Welsknight drew his sword in the time it took either of them to blink, and swung it. Tanguish dodged. The vertical slash that would have pretty neatly bisected the little helsmet missed by less than a fraction of a hair's breadth. It was so close, in fact, that it cut through the chain chord that fastened his cloak to his shoulders, so when Welsknight lunged forward and grabbed that cloak in his fist, the pins tore free, and Welsknight was left standing with a bundle of cloth while the helsmet escaped down the hall. Welsknight sheathed his sword and sprinted after him.

It was a long, dark, relentless run. They didn't shout at each other. There was no epic chase music playing. There was only the pounding of feet, the wind in their lungs, and the echo of their movements bouncing off the tunnel walls. Tanguish turned a corner, and so did Welsknight. Tanguish leaped down a drop, Welsknight followed. The little creature was nimble and quick, but he had no idea where he was going, and all Wels had to do was follow. They burst out of strip mines into a mine shaft, splintering the depths of some cave somewhere. The sound of feet on stone turned abruptly to the hollow thrum of old, rotting wood. The place was only half-lit, and the glittering red eyes of spiders high in the ceiling glinted with watchful malice. Far below them, amidst the old beams at a bruising drop, the clattering bones of skeletons started pulling themselves together, warned awake by breath and sound.

Tanguish did a snap turn on the wood, a quick dart off a side path -- or what would have been, if his claws hadn't slipped. The caves were humid, and the ground stayed just the barest amount of slick. Momentum caught him in its fist and he tumbled, only saving himself from rolling off the edge by digging in with long claws. Welsknight slowed his sprint, pulling to a stop before he could make the same mistake. He and Tanguish made eye contact again.

{Subjectively, it felt very, very bad when someone stared up at you with blind panic, and, in a snap decision, figured out they would rather drop to their potential doom than be caught by you. Which was exactly what Tanguish did.}

The little helsmet gasped, bright yellow eyes flashing fearfully. He let go of the wood, plummeting off the mine shaft's boardwalk to the hard stone below. It wasn't a killing fall. Welsknight knew that because, when the helsmet hit the ground, he let out a cry of pain. Welsknight stepped up to the edge, paused long enough to make sure he wasn't leaping into a hazard, and then stepped over the side himself. He landed safely, his momentum dampened by the splay of his elytra, and the feather falling enchantment that sparked off his boots when they touched the ground.

Tanguish was curled up on the ground not far from him, hands grasping at his ankle, a painful grimace on his face. When Welsknight landed, Tanguish snapped his gaze to him, breath coming sharp in his chest.

Welsknight swallowed hard, steeled himself, and drew his sword.

For every one of his steps forward, Tanguish scrabbled back away from him. He didn't stand -- maybe his ankle was broken. He kicked away with his good leg, and pulled himself with his claws and elbows until he backed himself against a stalagmite. Welsknight continued forward. He reminded himself to be relentless. He reminded himself to be steadfast. He reminded himself that this would not be the first time he killed a disarmed enemy, someone completely at his mercy. He had done it to Helsknight a few times before, and Hels had done it... several times to him.

{But Helsknight didn't show fear. Helsknight didn't cry out. He growled. He snarled. He spat. He did grandstanding. He spoke quiet, seething oaths. He vowed to do awful things, threatened, and made good on those threats sometimes. Helsknight didn't show fear. He did the thing that monsters did: when he felt pain, he made himself dangerous.}

Tanguish did not make himself dangerous. He didn't make himself monstrous.

Tanguish pressed himself against the stalagmite like he thought, if he leaned hard enough against it, he might fall through it into safety. He didn't watch Welsknight. He watched Welsknight's sword like it was a snake, waiting for that fatal strike, as though, if he could only see it coming, he might be able to better prepare for it. He shook, shivers that gripped him so violently they made even his breaths shudder. He would probably cry, if he weren't too scared at the moment to remember what tears were.

And then, as though all of that weren't bad enough, he begged.

Welsknight closed the final distance between them, heart hardened as much as he was able. He drew up his sword, laying his free hand across the blade to better steady it. He was going to do this right. One swift, well-placed stab, somewhere the little thing wouldn't suffer.

"Please. P-please. Please--" Tanguish hiccuped a terrified breath and stammered with every exhale, over and over, like a prayer. "P-p-p-please."

Welsknight felt something cold wash down his spine. His determined scowl twitched.

{Just be done with it.}

Welsknight drew his sword back an inch more, tilted his shoulders--

"P-please don't," Tanguish gasped louder. Quicker. Words tumbling out of him like a flood. "Please d-don't--! Don't--! Please don't--!"

By the time Welsknight had moved into his lunge, Tanguish was screaming, his voice echoing loud and terrified off every wall in the cave.

"--d-don't kill me! Please don't--! Please--!"

His shriek cut off abruptly against the ringing crash of steel on stone. Tanguish choked, peering at Welsknight wide-eyed through his crossed, shaking arms he'd thrown up to shield himself. He was crying openly, hiccuping gasps that shook his whole body. Very slowly, he glanced to his side, to the gouge in the stone where Welsknight's sword lanced against the stalagmite at the level of his neck. Welsknight could see in the helsmet's eyes the fatal arithmetic of where that sword would have gone if it hadn't twitched to the side.

Tanguish lurched for Welsknight's sword. It was a motion that seemed almost as surprising to Wels as it was for Tanguish. Welsknight managed to draw the blade back before he could grab it. He cursed himself for his moment of weakness, pulled the sword high over his shoulder to bring it down on the treacherous little creature--

"Wait wait wait!!" Tanguish shouted, curling up small, arms over his head protectively. "I'll-ll-l l-leave! M-my ref-flection I'll--" he looked up at Welsknight beseechingly, begging with every inch of his terrified posture. "Y-you d-don't have t-to kill m-me I'll g-go. Please. I d-don't-- I don't-- I d-don't--"

Tanguish hiccuped, and swallowed, and bowed his head. It was by far the most miserable, defeated thing Welsknight had ever seen a person do. Tanguish curled up on the ground, face buried in his arms to save himself the view of the sword, and shaking and crying, he whispered. "I don't want to die."

{There is nothing, objectively, subjectively, abstractly good about killing someone begging desperately for mercy. Even if that someone is Evil. There is nothing good about bringing someone so much terror, they sob at your feet, would rather fall to some terrible end then meet whatever justice you have in store.}

{And, on that note, there is nothing just about relentlessly pursuing and killing someone for... what? Rifling through some chests?}

{Well, it was more than the chests. It was the fact that he was a helsmet. But the chests had kicked this whole thing off and... Well... It just seemed a bit stupid.}

With Tanguish cringing at his feet, Welsknight felt uniquely ridiculous. It was all very dramatic and harrowing, and surreal. Wasn't this thing, effectively, a demon? Wasn't this thing evil? Why then, did he feel like such a monster doing what was supposed to be right? Why wasn't right easier to do?

Somewhere further in the cavern, some mobs groaned. Welsknight was almost relieved to hear it. Zombies and skeletons and creepers were simple, straightforward evils. So simple and straightforward, they were almost benign. They hurt, so he killed them before they could hurt him. They were merciless, because they had no reason not to be. There wasn't enough sentience or thought in them to be any way else. They did not cry or run or beg. They didn't look at him like he was...

... A monster.

Welsknight had lowered his sword at some point. He didn't know when. Probably around the same time Tanguish had buried his face in his arms and stopped begging, resigning to his fate. Welsknight sighed. He suddenly felt very, very tired.

An arrow fired from a skeleton in the dark sailed wide and rattled off some rocks somewhere.

"Can you stand?"

Tanguish flinched at the sound of Welsknight's voice, but didn't answer.

"I said, can you stand?"

Tanguish cracked an eye open and looked up at him hopelessly. He sniffed, and swallowed, and rasped, "N-no." His gaze flicked to his ankle. "It's-- it's broken."

Welsknight sighed and sheathed his sword. The barest flicker of something like hope sparked in Tanguish's eyes. It was a look that nearly guttered out when Welsknight shoved his hand forward. Tanguish flinched away from him again, and then watched his outstretched hand like he feared it would suddenly lunge forward and strangle him.

"Well, come on," Welsknight snapped impatiently. That look, distrustful and scared, angered him. He didn't know why, other than it galled him to know someone thought he was more likely to harm than to help.

Hesitantly, Tanguish reached out and took Welsknight's hand.

Welsknight forced himself to be gentle, to not rip the infuriating helsmet to his feet. He pretended he was a squire again, and there was a knight over his shoulder telling him gentle when you take a lady's hand for a bow, you don't want to hurt her. Tanguish was not a fair lady at court {quite the opposite, in fact}, but he had the fragility of someone whose wrist might break if Welsknight squeezed too hard by accident. He tried not to be too bitter knowing he'd inspired that, made the helsmet breakable with terror.

Tanguish had to lean on him heavily to stand. He refused to look at Welsknight, an expression of misery etched into every line of his face, a wounded animal forced to take shelter by a starving wolf.

Welsknight decided abruptly that he'd never felt so guilty in his life.

{This is ridiculous. He's an enemy. He's evil. He should be scared of you.}

Welsknight stamped down the little voice in his head. He reached down and scooped up the helsmet's legs. Tanguish screwed his eyes shut and hugged himself, an action that made Welsknight scared he'd drop him. His elytra flared out behind him, splaying into a shape like eagle's wings. Welsknight leaped into the air, hovered briefly, long enough to figure out where he needed to go, and swooped off down into a nearby tunnel.

It was cramped. The wind whistled by his ears, and his wing-tips brushed the walls and floor when he flexed them. It was an act of immense concentration not to lose his balance and send them both hurtling into a wall. Yet somehow, he still managed to be disconcerted by the fact that Tanguish barely clung to him. He had one hand pressed against Welsknight's chest, almost restraining more than it held, like he anticipated needing to pitch himself from Welsknight's arms at any given moment. The other hand had found Welsknight's chainmail where it peaked out from beneath his sleeve, and the clawed fingers tangled in the links, like only the metal was safe to touch. His expression was grim death, someone offering trust not because they wanted to, but because they had no other choice. Someone who was convinced they weren't being saved, but were instead only prolonging the inevitable.

Guilt like nausea bubbled up in Welsknight's stomach, and he stubbornly told himself it was the motion of flight that made him feel so wretched.

At last, Welsknight burst from the winding tunnels and into the bright day. He soared skyward, reveling for a moment in the feeling of stretching his wings without fear of crashing. There was a brief moment where, high in the sky and warmed by the sun, Welsknight felt some relief from his guilt. He even dared to wonder if he might impress the helsmet he carried -- surely he'd never flown before, or if he had, never on Hermitcraft, where there was only sun and wind and endless horizon, and not the twisted, smothering red of hels. But when he looked down, Tanguish's eyes were closed, that same look of mournful patience on his face, waiting, perhaps, for Welsknight to make the fickle decision of dropping him to his death.

"The sky is beautiful today," Welsknight said before he could stop himself. A peace offering. Look. See. I'm not a monster. A monster could never admire the sun. The sun, something of Light and Good. The sun, which burns away the darkness. The sun, which seemed to glare down at him like a great, judgemental eye, and make stark the deep, creasing lines of fear and strain on Tanguish's face. The helsmet didn't respond, besides a very quiet and appeasing whimper of agreement.

Whatever you say, if it means I'll live.

There was a very nasty, vindictive anger in Welsknight that wanted to drop the little beast. Expect the worst of me? Fine! Have it then!

The much louder voice of his guilt replayed for Welsknight the image of Tanguish curled up on the floor begging for his life, with a sword aimed at his throat.

Welsknight swallowed another sigh. He angled towards the earth in slow, gentle circles, spiraling to a landing outside of his tiny castle home on its distant shore away from all the other hermits. He carried Tanguish to the door, then stood in front of it awkwardly, trying to remember if he'd locked it. Tanguish cracked an eye open, glanced between Welsknight and the closed door, and then slowly, like he was scared Welsknight were under a spell that sudden movements might break, he reached forward and turned the door handle for him.

Welsknight awkwardly bundled them both inside. He dropped Tanguish as gently as he could manage onto his couch, and meandered to his brewing stand. He set to work on a healing potion, moving with practiced ease throughout the different barrels and boxes. Behind him, he could feel Tanguish's eyes boring into his back. He did not move from the couch. He didn't even move from the position Welsknight had dropped him in, except to curl his tail protectively around his injured ankle.

Finally, Welsknight's guilt and irritation got the better of him and he snapped. "Calm down, jeeze! If I was going to kill you, I would've done it in the cave."

Tanguish didn't move. He whispered a very obvious lie, in a voice that, rather valiantly, only just barely shook. "I'm calm."

"Then stop staring at me like that."

"When you change your mind," Tanguish whispered again, "I think I would... Rather see it coming."

"Change my mind?" Welsknight turned to face him, scowling. "What in hels is that supposed to mean?"

Tanguish didn't answer. He only watched Welsknight with that lamplight stare. It was deeply distrustful, and deeply unsettling. For a long moment, neither of them moved, or made any sound. Only the birdsong outside and the rolling bubble of the brewing stand reminded them that, while they both froze and watched, the world kept moving. Welsknight had to force himself not to fidget.

Eventually, Welsknight had to give up... Whatever weird little battle of wills they were doing. The imp was clearly better at his terror-stricken statue impression than Welsknight was at abiding it. He turned to his brewing stand, now finished, and quietly corked a bottle. He tossed it -- it was a bad throw -- and far nimbler than Welsknight expected, Tanguish caught it out of the air. He clutched the little vial to his chest, but didn't drink it.

Welsknight gave a scornful snort. "You know what a health potion is, I assume?"

Slowly, Tanguish nodded.

Agitation bolted through Welsknight like the liquid heat of a redstone charge. "Then take it."

Tanguish looked down at the potion in his hands. His eyes narrowed at it just slightly, the very first hint since this whole escapade started that the helsmet was calculating something.

"It's not poison," Welsknight said. "You watched me brew it. You'd know."

Tanguish glanced up at him again, cunning glinting in his gaze somewhere. It was striking. Glimpsing it sent a titter of unease through Welsknight. All the pathetic groveling had made him underestimate what he was dealing with, apparently. Tanguish was still a helsmet, after all. Though Welsknight couldn't imagine just what anyone would plot with a health potion of all things. He straightened slowly from where he leaned against the counter.

"What?" Welsknight demanded, when the silence grew long and uncomfortable, and the little beast still didn't move.

Tanguish watched him for another long second, braced himself, and said, "I am trying to figure out what happens when I drink this."

Welsknight frowned, pure, untarnished confusion pulling a snort from him. "Your ankle heals. It's a health potion."

"Then what?"

{... Then what?}

"Then you go home." Welsknight sniffed. "Wasn't that what all your dramatics were about?"

Tanguish, for the briefest of moments, managed to look insulted. But he was evidently still too scared of Welsknight to argue about whether those were just 'dramatics' or real fear for his life. Welsknight was quietly thankful for that. He didn't need to be convinced the panic was genuine. That look on the little beast's face would... Probably stick with him for awhile.

"Give me your word," Tanguish said very quietly, apologetically breaking the silence, "that when I drink this, you won't find a reason to kill me."

"I don't need to find a reason."

Tanguish's expression got just a little bit tenser around the eyes. He leaned over the side of the couch and gently deposited the health potion on the floor. Welsknight felt another flicker of irritation.

"Are you serious right now?"

Tanguish blinked at him.

"Just take the stupid potion, and scamper back to hels," Welsknight snapped in explanation, when all Tanguish did was stare.

"Not until I have your word," Tanguish insisted, not looking at him.

"Why do you need my word? If I was going to kill you I would've done it by now!"

"You stayed your hand out of guilt and pity," Tanguish murmured. Welsknight had to marvel at how well his voice made space for itself when it stayed so small and contained. "If I'm healed, there's nothing stopping you from deciding I'm a threat that needs dealing with again."

"Coward."

"Obviously."

That took Welsknight off guard, set his mind a little off-balance. He wanted to argue about that, needle at the comment and make the little pest angry. You admit it so easily. And then he had to remind himself that Tanguish was a helsmet, but, again, he wasn't Helsknight.

"I am not a knight," Tanguish murmured, apparently doing his best impression of a mind reader. "I'm allowed to fear for my life."

Welsknight tried a different tactic.

"You would seriously rather sit there with a broken ankle?"

"I can survive a broken ankle," Tanguish informed him. "I c-can't survive a knight."

"You survived Helsknight just fine." It wasn't supposed to be an accusation. It definitely, definitely sounded like one.

Tanguish squinted at him and said with equal, accusatory venom, "You're not Helsknight."

"You're right," Welsknight snapped indignantly. "Helsknight would've killed you. And probably told you all the reasons you deserved it while he did."

"He would have spared me," Tanguish said with a galling amount of conviction.

"No he wouldn't," Welsknight snapped. "If the tables were turned, and it were one of us Hermits caught wandering around hels--"

"He would have spared me then, too," Tanguish stated, with all the faith of someone dedicating themselves to a god. "He wouldn't have liked it. I'm sure he would get big and loud, and pace like an angry tiger, but he would find a line and would not cross it. He would make sure I knew he wouldn't hurt me. If I was truly lost and scared in hels, he would even try to help me. If I was being attacked, he would intervene. And he-- he d-definitely wouldn't come s-so close to killing me, that only his l-last m-minute guilt made him flinch. And I wouldn't have t-to cry and b-beg for that mercy. He-- h-he would g-give it f-freely."

As Tanguish spoke, his eyes narrowed and his frown tightened. His hunched shoulders squared themselves into something a little stronger. It was the look of someone committing to some great bravery. Someone who knew what they said or stood for might get them killed, but who believed it so whole-heartedly, they accepted whatever grim consequence came from it. It was a startling difference from the cringing helsmet on the floor of the cave, shaking and begging. So different, Wels was half convinced it had all been an act, that he'd been made a fool of, his emotions manipulated for some unforseen end.

{The other half of him looked on that conviction, that ride-or-die belief, and felt no small amount of envy. Welsknight wouldn't fool himself into thinking he was friendless. Even on his darkest days, he knew he was loved. But he didn't think any of his friends, when faced with what they believed to be imminent, unpleasant death or torture, would speak about him with such obvious adoration and conviction. He had no doubt, if he drew his sword right now and aimed it at Tanguish's throat like he had in the cave, and demanded the little devil take what he said back, Tanguish, cowering and crying the whole while, would stubbornly refuse.}

{That kind of faith and belief in anyone was awe-inspiring. That kind of faith and belief in Helsknight specifically was unthinkable. Helsknight, the most perfectly black-hearted knight Welsknight had ever met. He almost couldn't believe they were talking about the same person, if he hadn't seen the two helmets together before.}

When Welsknight finally managed to puzzle through the mire of his own thoughts, he said, "You have so much faith in him."

The helmet moved minutely, folding his hands in his lap. One of those dagger-sharp claws dug into his knuckle, drawing blood.

"I do."

"Why?"

It had not been the question Welsknight intended to ask. In fact, he hadn't intended to ask anything. But the question slipped past his teeth unbidden, driven by envy and curiosity, and the surrealness of the situation.

Tanguish blinked at him, that mask of grin determination slipping off into something markedly more nervous. The claw he had sank into his knuckle removed itself, found a spot slightly above the knuckle, and started scratching at an old scab. He did it without flinching -- nearly unconsciously. Welsknight had to wonder how Tanguish didn't spend his days finding inventive ways to get bloody fingerprints out of everything he touched.

"If it's because of some misguided sense of duty, don't bother," Welsknight prompted coldly, fishing for more of that conviction. Tanguish watched him warily, stiffening just slightly. "He was made to be a perfect knight. If he's protected you, it's because he has to. If it's because he's risked his life for you, he has no choice. He can't even swear he'll die for you -- he'll die for anyone his tenets demand he make a sacrifice for. It's how we-- it's how knights are."

Tanguish frowned at him as he spoke, the kind of grimace that implied he'd eaten something bitter. His claw made quick work of the scab, and he glanced down at his hands long enough to find a new scab on another finger to pick. Tanguish sat like that for a long time, studying Welsknight, bloodying his knuckles, lost in meditative self-harm, thinking. Watching him turned Welsknight's stomach. He wanted nothing more than to cross to the other side of the room and grab his wrists, force him to stop hurting himself. Maybe he could find some oven mitts to tie on the helsmet's hands to discourage the habit.

{Gloves. He would benefit from a very thick pair of gloves. The kind Keralis wore when he gardened maybe, with the rubber pads on the fingertips.}

"Do you love the sun?" Tanguish asked.

Welsknight blinked, perplexed. "What?"

"If the sun disappeared today," Tanguish said, "blinked out for no reason. No other consequences. The grass still grew. The seasons still changed. You could still see. But the day and night cycle, the sun on your skin. That bit stopped. Would you be sad?"

"That's a stupid question."

"You're probably right," Tanguish hummed thoughtfully. "Something less important to you then." Tanguish looked around the room. His gaze settled on a picture frame hanging on the wall, a sketch BDubs had made of all the hermits together near the end of the last season. "Have any of your friends ever died for you?"

Welsknight scowled. He didn't like the implication that he had more emotional attachment to the sun than his friends. He answered regardless. "No."

"Do you want them to?"

"No."

"When you first made friends with them, did they imply they would only like you if you were willing to die for them?"

"I would be."

"But would they ask you to?" Tanguish pressed, fixing him with a severe sort of glare.

Welsknight hesitated. "I don't know."

"Would you ask them to."

"No."

"You're certain?"

"I get it."

Tanguish had the audacity to raise an eyebrow at him.

"I get your point."

"You don't."

"You're making a stupid point about how obligation and duty don't matter--"

"Have you ever wanted to die?"

Welsknight stiffened. His stomach did a complicated cartwheel, something that knocked uncomfortably at the bottom of his ribs and asked his heart if it was home. Asked if it was listening.

"That might be hard for you to answer," Tanguish admitted for him, his gaze sliding back to the picture on the wall. "Or maybe, you don't want to answer it in front of me. I'm. Uhm. A helsmet, after all. I might use it against you. Right? But. Humor me." Tanguish started picking at his knuckle again, bloodying a new spot away from any other scabs. "Hels is... a hard place to live. I don't expect you to understand why. Uhm. S-suffice it to say that, a lot of people living under the shadow of greatness, all striking out at each other to prove their existence is worth the space it takes up in the universe... it is very, very hard. Between hels, and, between people like you, who think we are only obstacles to overcome... finding a single bright spot is... so, so important. You know, there are helsmets who can't leave hels? There are people alive out there who, outside of a very lucky, almost unattainable set of circumstances, can never see the sun?"

Tanguish swallowed. His voice was getting hoarse, a symptom of someone, normally quiet, forced to speak too long.

"You make your own light in hels. You try to do it without m-making anyone else's life worse. Or, most people do. Some people don't care, as long as they can capture some light but. But. You have to have something. The universe hates us too much. Without it, living is..."

Tanguish's brow creased, the kind of inward scowl that involved picking apart complex emotions, attempting to lay them to order in the most succinct and useful way.

"When I found Helsknight, I was in a very dark place. I was lonely. My world was becoming dark, and isolated, and cruel. I was cut off from light and heat and warmth. I thought I had lost everything. I thought, if I could die to set things right, I would. And I knew the universe wouldn't let me."

"Death is a temporary inconvenience," Welsknight said quietly.

Tanguish's expression twitched, something like irony.

"When Helsknight found me, I think he was defeated. He had given up on a lot of things that made him... him. He was holding onto the only thing he had left, spitefully, and angrily, and violently. And yes. He was terrifying. And yes. He was hard to like."

Tanguish swallowed.

"When we found each other, I was a bright living thing that wanted to die, and he was a defeated, dying thing that wanted to live. We were not good or kind. Not in any way either of us could recognize. I thought he was dragging me around hels, forcing me to solve my problems. He thought I was a coward wasting precious time. Time I should be grateful to have. We were incompatible. We hurt each other. But we needed each other. The spaces we carved for ourselves into each other's skin, we fit into like puzzle pieces."

Tanguish's claw felt along his knuckle, found a sore spot he'd already worried, and only then did he wince. He looked down at his hands. When he refolded them in his lap again, his hands were balled into fists, an attempt to keep the bitter habit at bay.

"You're right. Helsknight probably doesn't have a choice about who he dies for. He's a knight. You get weird and stupid and noble about things like that. I hate it. I've grown... fond of the space he takes up. I would be incomplete if he left -- all open wounds. And I do not want to know if, or how, they would heal." Tanguish took a breath. Then another. "But when I was at my darkest and most desperate, I hurt him as hard as I could, and still, he helped me. And when he was at his darkest, and he hurt me back, he remade himself to be more harmless. Let him have his duty. Let him be a perfect, insufferable knight. But I think, if his every tenet demanded sacrifice, and I stood in front of him and demanded he live instead... I think he would."

Tanguish offered Welsknight a thin smile. "And what is faith, if it isn't first trust, and trial and error?"

They sat in silence for a moment.

Eventually, Tanguish shrugged. "I don't know. The sun is a lot of things. It burns. It brings life. But I think, most importantly, it has yet to suffer a sunset, and refused to rise again."

Welsknight's chest was a complicated tangle. It occurred to him he should say something. Argue. Maybe point out Helsknight's many flaws. He found he didn't have the heart to. There was something withering about that much faith. He found himself wanting to believe, for the briefest moment, that Tanguish was right. That Welsknight's terrible other half was worth something -- worth living for, for someone at least. He thought, on a fundamental level that had nothing to do with Good or Evil, or his own grudges, that everyone deserved that.

Everyone deserved the sun.

Not knowing what to say or do, Welsknight found himself moving. Tanguish tensed on the couch, convinced, for a moment, he might be moving to violence. Welsknight made sure to keep his hand far away from his sword as he passed.

"Heal yourself," Welsknight said, "and be gone by the time I get back."

He left.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Midnight Blades

Aemond Targaryen x princess!reader (Dark!themes) Summary: Your father's kingdom had always been enemies with the Targaryen's and so you were trained from childhood to be prepared to defend yourself. This skill is needed when the second born son of King Viserys comes to assassinate you one night. This is a Dark!fic with slightish dub con to some sexual acts. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, dagger fighting, violence, blood play, rough sex, anal. WC: 2587

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Part Nine || Part Ten || Part Eleven || Part Twelve || Part Thirteen || Part Fourteen || Part Fifteen || Part Sixteen || Part Seventeen || Part Eighteen || Part Nineteen || Part Twenty ||

The room was dim, not a single candle burning on the autumn night. It was only the soft moonlight through the open window that allowed Aemond to weave his way silently through the furniture to where you slept. Not a sound was made from his careful steps nor did a cricket chirp, it was as if the entire world held its breath.

Cold Valyrian steel pressed to your throat and your lips twitched at the touch of the sharp blade. One clean slice and your life was forfeit, one prick in the right spot and your sheets would soak up your life blood as it spurted from your throat. It would bring the Targaryen prince infamy to kill the princess of his family’s enemy.

“Unless you wish to lose your manhood, you should sheath your blade, Aemond One-Eye,” you said as you opened your eyes to see his silhouette above you.

“You are in no position to give orders, princess.”

“Is that so, prince?” You pressed the blade that you never slept without up from your hip, the sharp tip piercing the sheets and the leather trousers at the juncture of his thighs.

The moon broke the clouds and his hair caught the light enough that you could see his features, and the hint of amusement on them.

“Even if I die, I can promise you that your life would certainly lack the finer pleasures in it.”

His lips curled up in a dark smile before he traced his blade down the valley of your breasts, taking the cover of your sheets down with it. “What does a protected, innocent little princess know of such things?”

Your back arched into the kiss of metal and your nipples were bared to the night air, quickly pebbling at the loss of warmth. “I’m not as protected as you might think, nor am I innocent. It is just as easy for me to evade the guards leaving as you did coming here. So, there are a great many pleasures I know, none of which I have found within these walls.”

“That is quite the secret to tell your enemy,” Aemond murmured as his eye traced the shape of your lips before drifting back to your breasts. “You should really keep such things to yourself.”

You chuckled and dragged the flat edge of your blade over the hard length tightening his trousers, watching his lips part with a sharp intake of breath. “You can shout it to the world, tell everyone you meet how I thoroughly enjoy mounting a man and riding his cock until the sun breaks the horizon. Tell them all how I love to see their teeth marks left on my skin and feel the ache in my cunt for days when they are finished fucking me.”

Even in the dim light you could see his pupil explode with dark desire and his blade drew a thin line of blood above your heart with a trembling hand, as if it was taking all his strength to fight the urge to carve it from your chest. He bared his teeth at the sight of the red welling on your skin and growled into your ear, “No one would believe the word of your enemy.”

“I know,” you said with a smirk that taunted him more than your dirty words. Your warm blood rolled over your skin to drip on the white sheets and you ran a lazy finger through the thin cut, hissing at the sweet sting it elicited. “You stained my sheets.”

Aemond scoffed and threw your blankets from your body to see the thin blade that had threatened him. “I have stained many ladies’ sheets.”

“Of that I have no doubt, but I do owe you now.” You leapt from the bed and he was quick to react, but not quick enough. Your bare feet met the cold, stone floor at the same time you struck. The blade was more like an extension of your arm than a separate weapon for all the years you had trained with it and like most men, Aemond underestimated you. 

The prince laughed as you stepped back and licked your blade, tasting the dragon blood on your tongue as more of it seeped into his black tunic. The scar would match yours perfectly and you grinned as he tore the ruined clothing from his body to bare the wound to you. “Now we are even.”

His eye trailed over your body, leaving flames in its wake as he finally seemed to notice your lack of dress extended past your breasts. That intense stare lingered at the juncture of your thighs where you stood with your legs parted hoping to cool the needy throb in your core. Finally he managed to drag his eye back to your face, the promise of violence in that blue orb. “There is no even, someone must always win.”

You twirled your dagger and let the familiar weight of the handle fill your palm again. “Oh, I intend to.”

Your feet were swift and silent as the dance began, your partner prepared this time and ready to prove his adept skills as he parried your attack. To and fro, you made ground and ceded it. His offensive attack was as strong as his defence and you had to hand it to whoever trained the prince, they did a damn good job. 

“Give it up, princess, this is a battle you won’t win,” Aemond goaded you as he dropped his dagger to his side. 

“I have the finest history tutors in the land,” you purred as you lowered your own knife and circled him, small knicks bleeding from both of your bodies. “You are awfully confident for a man who himself has not yet seen a battle.”

His eye followed your graceful steps until you were in the blind spot left by the carved sapphire set between a thick scar. Self preservation had him turning to follow you, the eyebrow above his deep blue gem cocking up as he spoke, “You studied me.”

“Don’t feel special, I research all of my enemies.” 

His steps mirrored yours and the tension built as the heavy silence seemed to vibrate the charged air. This time Aemond attacked first, closing the distance with one step of his long legs and feigned a stab at your shoulder only to drop to his knees as you lifted your arm to parry. He had the opening he needed. 

The pain was instant, a burn that flashed up your inner thigh and told you that it was not a deep wound. You didn’t even bother to check it as you felt rivulets of blood rolling down your leg, adding to the droplets that already littered the stone floor. 

“What did your research surmise?” Aemond asked as he fingered his blade, playing with your blood and smearing it between his thumb and forefinger. 

“You are arrogant.”

“I am a prince, it is our prerogative.”

“And stubborn,” you added, pointing your dagger at his scarred eye. “You have a chip on your shoulder for the scar you wear but even if you were to carve your nephew’s eye out and eat it, the rage will never be sated. Unforgiving Aemond, that is what they should call you, for you never forget a wrong against you, no matter how slight. Tell me, when was the last time you ate a juicy roast pig?”

His sapphire eye caught the moonlight and reflected in the many facets of the gem as his teeth ground together. The cold fury evaporated in an instant and a carefree smile once again spread across his lips. “I must commend you and your spies for the thorough research, princess. But, you forgot to mention how handsome I am, scar and all.”

You smirked and rolled your eyes. “I knew there was one starting with H, of course, it couldn’t be humble.”

A roar of laughter filled the room and before you could think better, you dropped your dagger and closed the distance to press your hands to his lips. The clatter of metal on stone rang out and you froze against his body, an ear tilted towards the door as you listened out for the guards. 

A moment passed, then two. All was silent in the palace, no alarms were raised.

Aemond made no effort to move, not even taking the opportunity to end your life while you were unarmed. It was only when the fear of the guards arriving wore off that you realised your entire body was pressed against his, his bare chest warm against your and his cock hard beneath his pants.

You slowly lowered your hands from his lips and let them fall to his blood smeared chest before dragging your nails across the defined muscles and down his navel. His chest rose with a deep breath as your hand dipped under his waistband and palmed his erection, a soft groan teasing your ear and sending a throb straight to your core.

“You will still be my enemy in the morning,” you murmured as his teeth grazed over your racing pulse and his own dagger fell to the floor.

“You are still my enemy now,” he replied as his fingers dipped between your legs and felt the slick arousal at your entrance. 

You shoved him back towards your bed, instantly missing the touch of his fingers but in need of something far larger. Patience was not a strength of yours as you tried and failed to quickly unlace the cords that kept the leather trousers between you and your release. Reaching under your pillow, you grabbed the spare knife hidden there and cut the ties from him. 

You shoved the short blade back where it belonged under the watchful eye of Aemond before dropping the trousers beside his ruined tunic. Every muscle was honed to perfection and scars littered his pale skin, adding to the image you already had of the warrior swordsman. You traced the larger scars on his chest with your tongue and nipped at another across his nipple until he hissed and his cock twitched where it rested against your stomach.

With a growl, he turned and threw you onto your bed, pinning you beneath his body and shoving your legs wide open with his knees. Two digits curled into your dripping cunt and your head tipped back with a silent cry as he roughly fucked you with his fingers, palming your clit with each roll of his wrist until you came hard enough to bite through your lip to keep quiet. 

“Fuck, I need more, I need you to fuck me,” you begged as he kept his fast paced fingers riding through your pulsing walls.

The wet sounds filled your room and you felt your cum leaking down your slit and to the bed. 

“I’ll fuck you, princess.” He chuckled darkly and your core clenched in anticipation. “Consider this my first battle won.” 

Before you could question him, you felt his thick head pressing against your ass and gasped as it stretched you open. White hot pain flashed before the sudden fullness drew a heady moan and his fingers began to move in time to his thrusts. Your breath came in fast grunts as his long strokes felt like they could reach your lungs and knock the air right from them, each one louder than the last.

“Shhhh, don’t want to get caught now…” he whispered before he withdrew his fingers from you and pushed them into your mouth to silence you.

The taste of your arousal on his fingers had your eyes fluttering shut and you swirled your tongue around each finger, cleaning it until he gave a satisfied growl of approval. 

“So. Fucking. Filthy.” Each word was defined with a hard thrust that rocked your bed against the wall and left your legs shaking around his narrow waist. “On your knees.”

You felt incredibly empty without him and quickly obeyed, needing him buried deep inside once again. There was nothing gentle about Aemond and gentle was not what you wanted. You wanted rough, you wanted hard, and you wanted pain.

A sharp slap sent flames across your ass and the moan that was about to erupt was silenced when Aemond shoved your face into the sheets and slammed his cock back in your ass. The air was thin through the sheets but it only added to the experience of feeling high with the room spinning around you.

“If only the King knew what a whore he had for a daughter,” Aemond growled in your ear as he pulled your back flush against his chest and curled his long fingers around your throat. “Taking a Targaryen cock in your pretty ass. I might just conquer your kingdom and keep you as my personal fuckhole.”

Your lips parted with a wordless cry and your body trembled as his words stoked the fire warming your belly, the muscles tensing as another orgasm spread like a wave from your core. It grew and grew, cresting with each harsh thrust that you pushed your hips back to meet until it crashed. His fingers tightened as his pace faltered and he shuddered his release, his cock pulsing inside you and filling you with warmth before letting you gasp for air. 

He pushed you back to the bed as he withdrew himself leaving you empty and your limbs weak and heavy from the release. With a feline smile you rolled to your back and stretched to feel the sweet tenderness in your muscles before curling up to watch him dress. 

“Is that all you Targaryen men have got?” You propped up on your elbow and rested your chin on your hand as he swiped his dagger from the floor, tucking it into the sheath at his hip. “The men in my realm can fuck all night before they are spent. But, I guess that is why we battle like we fuck - outlasting the House of the Dragon and such.”

Aemond stalked across the floor and grabbed your chin in his hands as he bent at the waist. “Still that tongue before you find yourself without it.”

“I think you would rather like what my tongue can do,” you purred as you laid back on your pillow and blinked up innocently at the prince. “Maybe another night when you have bathed and rested.”

“There will be no other nights,” he sneered but his eye betrayed him as he drank in the sight of your body sticky with blood and his cum leaking from your abused hole.

He turned away and you caught his wrist before he was beyond your reach. “One last thing before you go, Unforgiving Aemond.” You drew the short knife from under your pillow and slashed through the leather covering his thigh. “I owed you one.”

The prince hissed at the shallow cut to match the one gave you before he smiled and gave a small regal bow out of your reach. “Well played, princess. I’ll remember that when our paths cross again.”

You closed your eyes with a yawn and patted around blindly for your blanket as the adrenaline faded and sleep called. “I’ll be ready.”

A breeze danced over your body a moment before your blanket drifted over your skin but when you opened your eyes to catch him, the prince was already gone. The scent of sex and drying blood the only sign he was ever there at all.

Click here for part two.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWOis here PART THREEis here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here PART EIGHT is here PART NINE is here PART TEN is here PART ELEVEN is here PART TWELVE is here and this is part thirteen??? Hello??

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off...

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

…Bart doesn’t really do patience.

He doesn’t have to, so he doesn’t. Growing up in a world that wasn’t exactly real didn’t make for a real strong understanding of reality, or timing, or estimating how long something takes, or how long it would take a garden-variety human to complete a task.

He sits in the chair. He kicks his legs.

So. Bart doesn’t really do patience. When he wants to make his way through a book, it takes a few seconds to read through the whole thing at his standard pace. It’s great! Finishing the Troy Dodson series had taken ten minutes. He watched the full set of movies on quadruple-fast mode in about half an hour, and then still had the time to show up to the tower for trivia with the team that afternoon. It had been Crash!

And when—when Bart had wanted to learn how to cook, he went through half the recipes in Ma Kent’s copy of The Delights of Cooking in two days flat. And that was with missions. He even taught himself how to prepare squirrel from the back of the book! It tasted…uh, weird, sure, but that might have been his substitution of Caribbean jerk seasoning for garlic powder.

Patience is… Well, when Bart is on a mission and he has to wait for everyone to go at a human-comprehensible speed when laying out the plan of action, that’s patience. Sometimes he jumps the gun a little, maybe—but usually it all works out!

And when Bart has to wait for Barry and Wally to be free and off work for their day jobs, because they’re adults with real world things they have to do and Bart’s just—well, he’s—he tries to be patient! And he distracts himself with other things, and he takes the time to explore the world and get in new experiences he couldn’t have before in his own little virtual world, and he tries new things, and he eats new foods, and then Wally or Barry shoot him a text or ring him up and then he’s back in town in seconds anyway!

…But there isn’t a way to speed this along.

The doctor with the cute cat lanyard and Wonder Woman both have been trying to explain to Bart how bad the damage is. But Bart can tell. He has eyes.

His friend is physical now, but he’s not…right. His face is caved in, like someone hit him really really hard, or someone gouged out the whole front face of his skull—Bart can’t see any red matter, but that’s because of the pulsing green sheath that’s covered all of his friend’s open injuries.

And there’s a lot of green.

That means he’s super injured. Bart can see most of his glowing green not-face through the window of the metal tube his friend is sleeping in.

It’s not just his missing face, his crooked jaw, or his barely-moving chest, or his green-soaked fingers anyway; there’s open pits in his chest, slathered in green goo that shifts when he breathes and glows just a little in the odd light of the medical wing, lumpy and half-scarred from stitches that were sloppily applied. Utilitarian.

Tim told Bart that the sutures were probably meant more to prevent extra clean-up in a lab setting than to keep Bart’s friend alive.

…Bart doesn’t really want to think about that.

There are lime-tinged scrapes and scars across and around his friend's hands and up his arms, verdant-veined legs that aren’t exactly the right shape and orientation legs should be, crevasses in his stomach, his chest, against his collarbone, and the clawed-out pit where a face should be.

All green. So green. Like grass… Like the Earth, when Bart comes home from space.

It’s scary. It’s frightening.

Wonder Woman gave Bart a hug and said it would be okay when the Medical team started to apply white-swathed casts around misaligned legs, and Bart almost cried. The medical team thinks the green is his friend’s body working on healing him. That Bart’s friend will be okay.

Bart lets everyone say comforting things, because it’s kind when everybody’s kind. But Bart’s been an experiment in healing the unhealable and he knows as much as anyone else does that there’s simply no way to know if his friend will be okay.

But his friend isn’t alone like he was. Bart makes sure of it.

So he sits at his friend’s bedside, eats a granola bar, kicks his feet in the stiff chair Medical had to offer him, and Bart practices his patience.

By the end of this, he might even be good at it.

[portablebones]

Up to You.

astarion x gn!tav

sfw, fluff with a little internal angst on astarion's end

a re-imagining of astarion's scene with the gur monster hunter, but it's really just a short & sweet exploration of how he deals with being given a choice.

wc: ~500. might make it more detailed later.

"Astarion, please don't."

The elf stopped dead in his tracks. “Please?” he thought, turning back towards his companion.

"My dear, if you're trying to beg for this man's life, you'll need to do better than that." Despite his taunting, he remained where he stood. "That wasn't exactly...forceful."

"It was more of a request. I can't make you do anything. You've made that pretty clear," Tav chuckled darkly as they looked away. "Besides, that's not really my style." A moment of silence. Then they sucked in a breath, and met his gaze. "Look, I really don't think he needs to die-- but it's up to you."

Astarion only stared back. Then he sheathed his dagger, and walked away without another word, a strange mixture of lightness and anger pooling in his soul. He was sure he wanted to kill the Gur, to feel the man's warm blood pour over his hands. This was all it took to stop him? One measly, pathetic, "please?"

He had been so sure that now, he was unstoppable. He had escaped from Cazador, from mind flayers, from the Nine Hells themselves. For gods' sakes, he was a vampire who could walk in the sun! He shouldn't care what Tav thinks, he could have overpowered them easily! But despite assuring himself of these truths, he remained face to face with a chance at revenge he was given, but did not take. A choice he alone made.

A choice he made.

His reverie was interrupted by heavy footfalls behind him.

"How...do you walk...so fast?" Tav could scarcely breathe, and already they were asking questions. Astarion rolled his eyes.

"I think you're just slow, darling. Besides, perhaps I wanted a moment alone to think about all the ways I could have had my vengeance..." The vampire sighed dramatically, looking pointedly at a now red-faced Tav. He was only teasing, but their wide eyes betrayed their worry.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-- I'll leave you alone," they sputtered. "I didn't mean to make you upset, I just-- I didn't want him to die and I didn't think you'd actually listen to me..."

Astarion stopped walking. "Darling, I'm hurt! Of course I listened to you." He raised his hand to his heart in mock offense. Then, he shifted side to side. "But, just out of curiosity... what was your plan if I hadn't?"

Tav just looked at him.

"I... I dunno. To go through his pockets after you killed him?"

Astarion blinked, then blinked again. Slowly, a wry smile cracked his porcelain features, before he broke into laughter. Tav wasn't far behind, and soon the two of them were quite a sight, doubled over and wheezing on the side of the road.

Astarion didn't exactly need to breathe, but he still felt winded from his laughter after it subsided. As he straightened his posture, he turned to look at Tav, their smile bright as they wiped tears from their face; and he silently thanked them for a grace he still wasn't sure he wanted.

[whencyclopedia]

Eastman's Biography of Red Cloud

Eastman's biography of Red Cloud (l. 1822-1909) is the first narrative of his Indian Heroes and Great Chieftains (1916), and it sets the tone for those that follow, including the pieces on Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, in explaining the motivation of the Plains Indians in their response to the US government's genocidal policies of expansion.

The piece is of particular interest historically because the Sioux physician and author, Charles A. Eastman (also known as Ohiyesa, l. 1858-1939), was able to interview the warrior and statesman Red Cloud in person, as he was unable to do with many others, such as Crazy Horse, and was also able to receive the story in Red Cloud's native language, unlike the narrative Black Elk Speaks (1932), which was given by the Lakota Sioux medicine man Black Elk (l. 1863-1950) to the American poet and writer John G. Neihardt (l. 1881-1973) through an interpreter. Eastman then translated Red Cloud's account into English for his book. The result is a firsthand account of the life of one of the greatest Sioux chiefs of the 19th century.

Text

The following text has been abridged for space considerations, but the online version of Eastman's book will be found below in the External Links section. The version presented here is taken from Indian Heroes and Great Chieftains, 1939 edition, republished in 2016:

…Red Cloud was born about 1820 near the forks of the Platte River. He was one of a family of nine children whose father, an able and respected warrior, reared his son under the old Spartan regime. The young Red Cloud is said to have been a fine horseman, able to swim across the Missouri and Yellowstone rivers, of high bearing and unquestionable courage, yet invariably gentle and courteous in everyday life. This last trait, together with a singularly musical and agreeable voice, has always been characteristic of the man…

…The future leader was still a very young man when he joined a war party against the Utes. Having pushed eagerly forward on the trail, he found himself far in advance of his companions as night came on, and at the same time rain began to fall heavily. Among the scattered scrub pines, the lone warrior found a natural cave, and after a hasty examination, he decided to shelter there for the night.

Scarcely had he rolled himself in his blanket when he heard a slight rustling at the entrance, as if some creature were preparing to share his retreat. It was pitch dark. He could see nothing, but judged that it must be either a man or a grizzly. There was not room to draw a bow. It must be between knife and knife, or between knife and claws, he said to himself.

The intruder made no search but quietly lay down in the opposite corner of the cave. Red Cloud remained perfectly still, scarcely breathing, his hand upon his knife. Hour after hour he lay broad awake, while many thoughts passed through his brain. Suddenly, without warning, he sneezed, and instantly a strong man sprang to a sitting posture opposite. The first gray of morning was creeping into their rocky den and – behold! – a Ute hunter sat before him.

Desperate as the situation appeared, it was not without a grim humor. Neither could afford to take his eyes from the other's; the tension was great, till at last a smile wavered over the expressionless face of the Ute. Red Cloud answered the smile, and in that instant a treaty of peace was born between them.

"Put your knife in its sheath. I shall do so also, and we will smoke together," signed Red Cloud. The other assented gladly, and they ratified thus the truce which assured to each a safe return to his friends. Having finished their smoke, they shook hands and separated. Neither had given the other any information. Red Cloud returned to his party and told his story, adding that he had divulged nothing and had nothing to report. Some were inclined to censure him for not fighting, but he was sustained by a majority of the warriors, who commended his self-restraint. In a day or two they discovered the main camp of the enemy and fought a remarkable battle, in which Red Cloud especially distinguished himself

The Sioux were now entering upon the most stormy period of their history. The old things were fast giving place to new. The young men, for the first time engaging in serious and destructive warfare with the neighboring tribes, armed with the deadly weapons furnished by the white man, began to realize that they must soon enter upon a desperate struggle for their ancestral hunting grounds. The old men had been innocently cultivating the friendship of the stranger, saying among themselves, "Surely there is land enough for all!"

Red Cloud was a modest and little-known man of about twenty-eight years, when General Harney called all the western bands of Sioux together at Fort Laramie, Wyoming, for the purpose of securing an agreement and right of way through their territory. The Ogallala held aloof from this proposal, but Bear Bull, an Ogallala chief, after having been plied with whisky, undertook to dictate submission to the rest of the clan. Enraged by failure, he fired upon a group of his own tribesmen, and Red Cloud's father and brother fell dead. According to Indian custom, it fell to him to avenge the deed. Calmly, without uttering a word, he faced old Bear Bull and his son, who attempted to defend his father, and shot them both. He did what he believed to be his duty, and the whole band sustained him. Indeed, the tragedy gave the young man at once a certain standing, as one who not only defended his people against enemies from without, but against injustice and aggression within the tribe. From this time on he was a recognized leader.

Man-Afraid-of-His-Horses, then head chief of the Ogallala, took council with Red Cloud in all important matters, and the young warrior rapidly advanced in authority and influence. In 1854, when he was barely thirty-five years old, the various bands were again encamped near Fort Laramie. A Mormon emigrant train, moving westward, left a footsore cow behind, and the young men killed her for food. The next day, to their astonishment, an officer with thirty men appeared at the Indian camp and demanded of old Conquering Bear that they be given up. The chief in vain protested that it was all a mistake and offered to make reparation. It would seem that either the officer was under the influence of liquor, or else had a mind to bully the Indians, for he would accept neither explanation nor payment, but demanded point-blank that the young men who had killed the cow be delivered up to summary punishment. The old chief refused to be intimidated and was shot dead on the spot. Not one soldier ever reached the gate of Fort Laramie! Here Red Cloud led the young Ogallala, and so intense was the feeling that they even killed the half-breed interpreter.

Curiously enough, there was no attempt at retaliation on the part of the army, and no serious break until 1860, when the Sioux were involved in troubles with the Cheyennes and Arapahoe. In 1862, a grave outbreak was precipitated by the eastern Sioux in Minnesota under Little Crow, in which the western bands took no part. Yet this event ushered in a new period for their race. The surveyors of the Union Pacific were laying out the proposed road through the heart of the southern buffalo country, the rendezvous of Ogallala, Brule, Arapahoe, Comanche, and Pawnee, who followed the buffalo as a means of livelihood. To be sure, most of these tribes were at war with one another, yet during the summer months they met often to proclaim a truce and hold joint councils and festivities, which were now largely turned into discussions of the common enemy. It became evident, however, that some of the smaller and weaker tribes were inclined to welcome the new order of things, recognizing that it was the policy of the government to put an end to tribal warfare.

Red Cloud's position was uncompromisingly against submission. He made some noted speeches in this line, one of which was repeated to me by an old man who had heard and remembered it with the remarkable verbal memory of an Indian.

"Friends," said Red Cloud, "it has been our misfortune to welcome the white man. We have been deceived. He brought with him some shining things that pleased our eyes; he brought weapons more effective than our own: above all, he brought the spirit water that makes one forget for a time old age, weakness, and sorrow. But I wish to say to you that if you would possess these things for yourselves, you must begin anew and put away the wisdom of your fathers. You must lay up food, and forget the hungry. When your house is built, your storeroom filled, then look around for a neighbor whom you can take at a disadvantage and seize all that he has! Give away only what you do not want; or rather, do not part with any of your possessions unless in exchange for another's.

"My countrymen, shall the glittering trinkets of this rich man, his deceitful drink that overcomes the mind, shall these things tempt us to give up our homes, our hunting grounds, and the honorable teaching of our old men? Shall we permit ourselves to be driven to and fro—to be herded like the cattle of the white man?"

His next speech that has been remembered was made in 1866, just before the attack on Fort Phil Kearny. The tension of feeling against the invaders had now reached its height. There was no dissenting voice in the council upon the Powder River when it was decided to oppose to the uttermost the evident purpose of the government. Red Cloud was not altogether ignorant of the numerical strength and the resourcefulness of the white man, but he was determined to face any odds rather than submit.

"Hear ye, Dakotas!" he exclaimed. "When the Great Father at Washington sent us his chief soldier to ask for a path through our hunting grounds, a way for his iron road to the mountains and the western sea, we were told that they wished merely to pass through our country, not to tarry among us, but to seek for gold in the far west. Our old chiefs thought to show their friendship and good will, when they allowed this dangerous snake in our midst. They promised to protect the wayfarers.

"Yet before the ashes of the council fire are cold, the Great Father is building his forts among us. You have heard the sound of the white soldier's ax upon the Little Piney. His presence here is an insult and a threat. It is an insult to the spirits of our ancestors. Are we then to give up their sacred graves to be plowed for corn? Dakotas, I am for war!"

In less than a week after this speech, the Sioux advanced upon Fort Phil Kearny, the new sentinel that had just taken her place upon the farthest frontier, guarding the Oregon Trail. Every detail of the attack had been planned with care, though not without heated discussion, and nearly every well-known Sioux chief had agreed in striking the blow. The brilliant young war leader, Crazy Horse, was appointed to lead the charge. His lieutenants were Sword, Hump, and Dull Knife, with Little Chief of the Cheyennes, while the older men acted as councilors. Their success was instantaneous. In less than half an hour, they had cut down nearly a hundred men under Captain Fetterman, whom they drew out of the fort by a ruse and then annihilated.

Instead of sending troops to punish, the government sent a commission to treat with the Sioux. The result was the famous treaty of 1868, which Red Cloud was the last to sign, having refused to do so until all of the forts within their territory should be vacated. All of his demands were acceded to, the new road abandoned, the garrisons withdrawn, and in the new treaty it was distinctly stated that the Black Hills and the Big Horn were Indian country, set apart for their perpetual occupancy, and that no white man should enter that region without the consent of the Sioux.

Scarcely was this treaty signed, however, when gold was discovered in the Black Hills, and the popular cry was: "Remove the Indians!" This was easier said than done. That very territory had just been solemnly guaranteed to them forever: yet how stem the irresistible rush for gold? The government, at first, entered some small protest, just enough to "save its face" as the saying is; but there was no serious attempt to prevent the wholesale violation of the treaty. It was this state of affairs that led to the last great speech made by Red Cloud, at a gathering upon the Little Rosebud River. It is brief, and touches upon the hopelessness of their future as a race. He seems at about this time to have reached the conclusion that resistance could not last much longer; in fact, the greater part of the Sioux nation was already under government control.

"We are told," said he, "that Spotted Tail has consented to be the Beggars' Chief. Those Indians who go over to the white man can be nothing but beggars, for he respects only riches, and how can an Indian be a rich man? He cannot without ceasing to be an Indian. As for me, I have listened patiently to the promises of the Great Father, but his memory is short. I am now done with him. This is all I have to say."

The wilder bands separated soon after this council, to follow the drift of the buffalo, some in the vicinity of the Black Hills and others in the Big Horn region. Small war parties came down from time to time upon stray travelers, who received no mercy at their hands, or made dashes upon neighboring forts. Red Cloud claimed the right to guard and hold by force, if need be, all this territory which had been conceded to his people by the treaty of 1868. The land became a very nest of outlawry. Aside from organized parties of prospectors, there were bands of white horse thieves and desperadoes who took advantage of the situation to plunder immigrants and Indians alike.

An attempt was made by means of military camps to establish control and force all the Indians upon reservations, and another commission was sent to negotiate their removal to Indian Territory, but met with an absolute refusal. After much guerrilla warfare, an important military campaign against the Sioux was set on foot in 1876, ending in Custer's signal defeat upon the Little Big Horn.

In this notable battle, Red Cloud did not participate in person, nor in the earlier one with Crook upon the Little Rosebud, but he had a son in both fights. He was now a councilor rather than a warrior, but his young men were constantly in the field, while Spotted Tail had definitely surrendered and was in close touch with representatives of the government.

But the inevitable end was near. One morning in the fall of 1876 Red Cloud was surrounded by United States troops under the command of Colonel McKenzie, who disarmed his people and brought them into Fort Robinson, Nebraska. Thence they were removed to the Pine Ridge agency, where he lived for more than thirty years as a "reservation Indian." In order to humiliate him further, government authorities proclaimed the more tractable Spotted Tail head chief of the Sioux. Of course, Red Cloud's own people never recognized any other chief.

In 1880 he appealed to Professor Marsh, of Yale, head of a scientific expedition to the Bad Lands, charging certain frauds at the agency and apparently proving his case; at any rate the matter was considered worthy of official investigation. In 1890-1891, during the "Ghost Dance craze" and the difficulties that followed, he was suspected of collusion with the hostiles, but he did not join them openly, and nothing could be proved against him. He was already an old man and became almost entirely blind before his death in 1909 in his ninetieth year.

His private life was exemplary. He was faithful to one wife all his days and was a devoted father to his children. He was ambitious for his only son, known as Jack Red Cloud, and much desired him to be a great warrior. He started him on the warpath at the age of fifteen, not then realizing that the days of Indian warfare were well-nigh at an end.

Among latter-day chiefs, Red Cloud was notable as a quiet man, simple and direct in speech, courageous in action, an ardent lover of his country, and possessed in a marked degree of the manly qualities characteristic of the American Indian in his best days.

Continue reading...

[kyuubinosennin]

return to the mists

It had been three years since Uzumaki Naruto left for training with Jiraiya. Three years had passed since the power of the villages had begun to shift. There were a series of events over three years that occurred following Naruto's appearance before Konohagakure's Hokage and his former teammates. One of the events was the public outing of Uzumaki Naruto by some unknown source. Now the world knew that the Kyuubi Jinchuriki still lived and that he was the son of a village's heroes. The ripple effects of that left Konoha side-eyed and regarded warily, but it also alerted others that the Uzumaki Clan was not as dead as it was thought to be. Another was the start to attacks on the jinchuriki. A nearly fatal assault on Sunagakure left its jinchuriki, Gaara, wounded and in hiding while he recovered. This assault had been stopped by a timely intervention from two fellow jinchuriki - Roshi and Han of Iwagakure. Yet, it introduced the world to a rising threat: The group called the Akatsuki. A band of mercenaries with a darker plan that had yet to be figured out. Yet another event was more tragic than anything. Miraomoi Akawarai had died in his sleep to old age and his waning health. A death that put Kiri in mourning for a while. Akawarai had been a pillar of the village and had moved mountains to better the village. He had inspired others and thus his loss was felt. Yet, he had set up things to continue on past his death - including the reborn Seven Swordsmen of the Mist. It was now time for the son of the seas to return home. Kiri was experiencing a quiet transition into the evening - the moon starting to lurch into the sky. Stars filled the vast sky above while the light mist settled down across the village. It was as the evening began that the Mizukage, Mei, would be tipped off to a very powerful presence now entering her village. A familiar presence of chakra that was now at Kiri's cemetery.

There, standing before the grave of Akawarai, was a familiar head of curly red hair. A "crown" of flames that befit a prince like he was. The young man with whisker marks on his face and his patterned scars. His body was covered by a tattered red cloak - tattered and "styled" to look like nine red and black tails. Two sheathed swords peeked out from his cloak. The scabbards looked to be simple in design - a dark brown leather holding for the swords. His head tilts when he feels her approaching. "I was going to come surprise you, but I suppose I should have suppressed my chakra first." remarked Naruto with a small smile crossing his face. He turned to face Mei - having done what he came to do by the time she arrived. A bouquet of flowers laid on Akawarai's grave.

[ramsayxme]

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / AO3 Link

TW - reader has paranoia, postpartum rape, murder, violence, manipulation, emotional abuse, sexual abuse, physical abuse, ramsay bolton.

Chapter Nine: The Night Is Dark

Life without Ramsay seemed too far away to remember, and a future without him seemed unbearable and impossible; you would miss him too much. Your son was born in the dead of night during a harsh winter storm only 3 short weeks ago. Maester Wolken was positioned on one side of you, Ramsay loyally guarding you on the other. He was careful with you that night, gently stroking your hair as you pushed out his heir, his eyes twinkled with obsession as he examined your face. Your son had his fathers eyes, blue and piercing. Ramsay decided to call the child Ramses, obviously after his own name.

One afternoon, you were holding your son in your arms as you walked through the Dreadfort alone. Ramsay had been out on a hunt with the dogs for a few days, searching for yet another traitor of your house. Snow fell heavily as you strode through the courtyard, you inhaled deeply, the freezing air felt good in your lungs. You didn't flinch in the cold as much as you used to, now it felt somewhat comforting. The women and men of the Dreadfort nodded their heads at you as you walked past, recognizing their Lady and future Lord.

You reached your chambers just as Ramses was falling asleep in your arms. You entered your chambers and set your child in his bed, fluffing the blankets around his body so he could feel secure. You stretched when standing up, feeling grateful that he had fallen asleep. You went to the table to grab a cup of wine to loosen yourself up, but you found your wine jug empty. You tapped your foot in annoyance as you huffed, realizing this meant you'd have to go fetch your own from the barrels near the dining hall.

You disappeared through the door, your luxurious cloak swinging gracefully behind you, flashing your own flaying knife that you carried in a sheath at the small of your back; it was a gift from Ramsay after you assisted him with Reek. You reached the barrels down the hallway and dunked your jug into the deep red, filling it with the bitter wine. You allowed the drips to stop after a few moments, not wanting to soil your outfit or leave a mess in the hallway. You walked back to your chambers, eager to pour yourself a cup and sink into a chair by the fire and perhaps even read a book. You smiled at the idea.

You noticed your chamber door was ajar slightly, which was absolutely not how you left it. You quickly pushed the door open and saw one of your servants holding your son who was now awake, cooing in her arms. You felt your jaw clench as you slowly set the wine jug down. The servant smiled at you, but her smile quickly faded when she saw your facial expression. "My Lady, I apologize, he was squalling as I walked past your room. I wasn't sure when you'd return, so I thought I should comfort the little Lord."

She wore rags that stunk of sweat and spilled blood. They hung off her tiny frame, making her look even more scrawny and pathetic than she really was. Her filthy hands wrapped around your son in a way that was much more possessive than you liked. She clung to him, pressing him firmly against her chest. You felt a boiling in your gut; a bubbling heartburn fueled by anger, jealousy, insecurity, and fear. Your jaw tensed stiffly as you wandered towards the servant.

"I did not give you permission to touch my son." You hissed through your clenched jaw. A wild wrath rose even higher as you felt your cheeks flush red with rage. "Put him down. Now." You raised your eyebrows at her. She grasped Ramses even tighter against her shoulder, adjusting her grip around his little back. You couldn't handle seeing another woman hold him this way, and you hurried forward to grab your child. She winced, pulling him closer to her.

"Give. Me. My. Son." You breathed, moving even closer to her. Her back was against the stone wall now, and she had nowhere to go. You swiftly reached behind your back, your grip finding your flaying knife. In one flowing motion, you stepped forward and plunged the knife into her side, directly underneath her ribcage. It slid in rather easily, your hand feeling the warmth of her blood as she gasped and loosened her grip on your infant.

You twisted the knife that was hidden inside her flesh as you pulled it out and quickly put it back in its holder behind your back. You reached out, taking Ramses from her grasp. She pressed both of her hands on her wound in desperation, blood gushing from her side. You felt no remorse, as she had just proven herself to be an enemy by disobeying your orders. It was only in this moment that you realized Ramses was screaming and wailing. You quickly soothed your infant son as you began to breastfeed him as you stood over the woman, her life slipping away from her. You brushed your fingers over his wisps of dark hair as you watched his pale eyes flicker shut.

Just then, you heard a rather guttural chuckle break out from behind you. You turned around and prepared yourself to take on another enemy, but instead you saw Ramsay standing in the doorway. He was grinning wildly. You blinked, letting your anger die down inside yourself. You held Ramses pressed to your breast as you walked over to your husband. Ramsay held his strong arms out to embrace his family. "I see you have been busy protecting my son." He said, pressing his warm lips to your forehead. You hummed in response. "Yes. She was a threat... and was your hunt successful, my love?" He pulled his lips from your skin. "Yes. It was. And the hounds are quite full." He smiled, wrapping his arm around your son. "Let me hold my boy."

You slowly unlatched your infant from your breast and passed him to Ramsay and he smiled at his small child. You tucked your exposed chest back into your dress, but noticed Ramsay's eyes scanning your bare skin before it was hidden away. The white glow from the sun reflecting off the snow illuminated Ramsay's pale skin and you drank in the sight. His hair loosely drooping over his eyebrows as he lovingly stared at his heir. His ears peeking out through his dark curls, and the fur from his cloak cushioning his cheek as he tilted his head and admired his son. Ramsay was the only person in all the seven kingdoms that you trusted without a doubt when it came to the safety of your child.

Ramsay walked to the fireplace, sitting down on the chair with Ramses and began cooing him to sleep. You allowed your mind and body to return to you following the adrenaline high, the realization you had just murdered a woman in your own chambers began seeping into your consciousness. You pulled the knife out from your holster and walked over to the woman, kneeling down to wipe her blood off your blade with her own filthy rags.

"You did the right thing." Ramsay's voice interrupted your thoughts. You looked over at him, you were still knelt down next to the fallen woman. He nodded at you, his eyebrows raised as he cradled your son. He spoke softly to you. "She was a threat. It was the right thing to do." He turned his gaze back to the child. You realized that you hadn't even hesitated to kill her. You didn't try to take your son from her with your own hands, you instead decided to drain her of life. You furrowed your brows, reaching down and brushing the woman's hair from her lifeless face. You gingerly tucked her hair behind her ear and shut her eyelids for her. You were slammed with a sudden fear that sent a wave of goosebumps through your body.

Am I becoming a monster, just like Ramsay?

You shook the thought away, almost beating yourself up for thinking such a thing. You scolded yourself. Even if you were becoming just like your husband, it would be a good thing. The more time you spent with Ramsay, the more you realized that he was the smartest man you had ever met. Yes, he hurt people for fun, but it was deeper than that to him. You felt sick at the idea that you thought your husband was a monster; you had spent countless weeks training yourself to believe that he wasn't. He couldn't be. You loved him. You wouldn't love a monster, would you?

His claws are in your brain, My Lady. There is no turning back.

Reek's passive and recognizable voice echoed through your head. You looked around the room, startled and assuming you'd see the ragged boy standing somewhere. Impossible. You killed him. He was eaten alive. You swallowed hard as you convinced yourself that you were just very tired, possibly having some sort of hallucinations from being up all night these past few days with the baby while Ramsay was gone. It was nothing but sleep depravation.

You got up, deciding to ignore the uninvited thoughts that had just appeared in your mind. You swayed over to Ramsay and placed your hands on his shoulders. He looked up at you, a soft smile spread across his lips. "He's sleeping." He mouthed to you, your gaze shifting to Ramses. He looked so angelic, his soft cheeks were fat and his lips gently suckled as he slept. Ramsay exhaled as he stared at the baby. He slowly stood up and walked the sleeping infant to the bed that he was snatched from and laid him down. Then he turned back around and sat on the chair again. He patted his thighs and raised his eyebrows, a request for you to come sit on his lap.

You unclasped your heavy cloak and let it fall to the floor as you straddled your husband's lap. He groaned as you sat down on him, pressing against his body. He unlaced the top of your dress, your enlarged breasts falling out. They were larger than usual and Ramsay liked to admire them. While he kissed and suckled at your chest, his hands slid underneath your dress. Ramsay had thankfully not yet touched you since you gave birth, but it had only been 3 weeks. Maester Wolken suggested to wait at least 6 weeks or longer. You remember Ramsay chuckled at the request but you had foolishly assumed he would follow the directions of the Maester.

You were still swollen, sore, and bleeding frequently. You grabbed his arms as his fingers climbed up your thigh. "I don't think I am ready yet." You whispered. Ramsay looked confused. "My love... Forgive me, but I don't remember asking if you were ready?" Your stomach churned in a familiar way when you realized the dark determination in your husband's eyes. "Take off your clothes and lie on the bed. Now." Ramsay grinned, as he kissed your breasts and squeezed your hips, pushing you off of his lap. You took a deep breath, knowing that you couldn't argue with him.

You let your dress fall to the floor and pool at your feet before crawling in the bed. You were still somewhat insecure about your body since having the baby changed you so much. Ramsay didn't seem to mind as he pulled his trousers off and revealed his hard erection. You rolled over to lie down on your back, waiting for Ramsay to join you. There was no use in arguing, although you were very concerned for the pain that was certainly incoming. You had trained your mind and body to enjoy Ramsay's usual antics, but this was something much different and new. You were still horribly sore and the idea of Ramsay fucking you relentlessly was quite a painful thought.

Ramsay purred as he crawled on top of you, kissing your stomach and his hands caressing your swollen breasts. You were embarrassed about breastmilk leaking from your nipples, but Ramsay clearly could care less as he moved up to suck on your nipples. You braced yourself as he leaned back on his heels and began to stroke himself while positioned between your legs. He reached down to pet your cunt with his two fingers, and the pressure of those two fingers alone made you cry out in pain. "I don't know if I can do this..." You winced as he pressed them inside you. Ramsay snorted an exhale through his nose. "Shall I go find some other woman to please me, hm? I am sure it wouldn't be too hard for me to do..." he raised his eyebrows at you, testing your possessiveness.

"No!" You hissed as your envy bubbled over, leaning forward and pulling his body down closer to you with your fingernails. You were a very jealous woman, you didn't want Ramsay fucking any other women while he was your husband. He was yours and you were his. "Good. Then I don't want to hear you complain." He whispered as he pressed the tip of his cock against your sore and throbbing cunt. You let out a whining objection as he slowly pressed himself inside you. It felt like a fire was tearing through your lower abdomen, your body screaming at him to stop. You let out another cry and Ramsay harshly clamped his hand over your mouth.

He raised his eyebrows, shifting his eyes over towards the sleeping infant before bringing his gaze back to your face and darting from each of your eyes. "You don't want to wake him up, do you?" He leaned down and began kissing your neck as he started pumping in and out of you. It felt nearly intolerable, you knew you had torn during birth and it felt like he was just ripping you open all over again. Your pain was extreme, your eyes filling with tears. "It feels so good," Ramsay groaned between forceful thrusts. "You are swollen and warm. I have missed being inside you." Your eyes fluttered at your husband's words although your body was begging to reject him. You squirmed underneath him but found no success. He was always stronger than you and always would be.

Your eyes overflowed with tears as you screamed internally, Ramsay's hand still clamped to your jaw and mouth as he fucked you into the bed. Tears began to stream down your cheeks. Your hands were digging into his arm as an attempt to dull the pain, you noticed you started to draw blood on his forearm. "It really hurts, doesn't it?" He cooed, not slowing his pace as he leaned forward to press his forehead against yours. "Good." He grunted. You didn't want to admit that you were pleased to be abused by him. You wanted to be special.

He came quickly, thank the Gods. It had been 3 weeks of abstinence for Ramsay which is longer than he had ever had to wait with you before. He came hard inside you, his breath catching in his throat. He let go of your face so he could kiss you while he filled you with his seed, his sweat dripping on your forehead. After he finished, he smiled as he pulled himself from you, fresh blood covering his now soft cock.

He rolled over and promptly fell asleep, you assumed he was exhausted from the hunt. You curled up next to him, your body pulsating with pain, your lips quivering as you silently sobbed. Your cunt bled on the bed, even more sore and swollen than before. You winced as you tried to wipe off the blood before giving up and just letting your body attempt to heal itself before Ramsay could destroy it again. You felt broken and used but no matter what he did to you, you forgave him. You'd always forgive him. That's what love meant to you and Ramsay.

Final Chapter

[knives-in-the-dishwater]

I've been meaning to do an "everyday carry" post for a while, but I've only recently had time to lay everything out. Details below the fold.

items pictured here (starting in the top left, going down roughly in columns):

sketch wallet clutch

20 oz water bottle (usually used for coffee, kombucha, or Gatorade)

64 oz water bottle (exclusively used for water)

earbud case

pocket mirror

UAG phone case (phone, which is being used to take this picture, is a Motorola moto-G power)

rope dart

Bluetooth multimedia controls (mounted on an armband)

notebook

paracord (550lb, approx. 12 feet)

stamps

Mantis Con Brillo fixed edge tanto (with paracord handle)

alumina ceramic sharpening rod (handle broke off, but it's still usable)

two emery boards

Burt's Bees lip balm

small tools roll

sharpie

pilot g-2 pen

6 inch steel needle (used as hair pin)

small diamond rake (in small tools roll)

large diamond rake (in small tools roll)

small hook rake (in small tools roll)

large hook rake (in small tools roll)

three tension tools (in small tools roll)

angled tweezers (in small tools roll)

small-tip screwdriver (in small tools roll)

ring sizer (in small tools roll; I don't really need to carry this but it's in the roll so it doesn't get lost)

large-tip screwdriver (in small tools roll)

needle-tip tweezers (in small tools roll)

keyring

karambit

three nine-inch throwing spikes (with sheath)

sunblock

sunglasses

glasses case (with microfiber cleaning cloth)

Bradley Kimura XI balisong with G10 scales and paracord latch (scales made by Squid Industries before they were a company; just one person with a cnc mill on reddit)

contents of Sketch Wallet:

1.0 mm Ohuhu drawing pen

0.05 mm Ohuhu drawing pen

brush-tip Ohuhu drawing pen

0.5 mm Kuru Toga mechanical pencil w/ red lead

three blank playing cards

sketch book

close-up of earbuds. Moondrop Arias with FiiO UTWS3 drivers and memory-foam tips. minor damage to the left side has been mitigated with a small elastic band used as a spacer.

lmk if y'all have any questions or wanna see anything in better detail.

[thecampjuicebox]

Could I ask for Raphael reacting to another fiend, for one reason or another, striking Tav during negotiations (in relation to Raphael's campaign for rulership of the nine circles). Assuming Raphael shuts that down immediately, how would he react to Tav requesting that he let them deal with the transgressor themself (but Raphael can tell they are planning something)?

If this request is agreed to, Tav immediately challenges the offender to a duel (after the fiend is fully healed if Raphael injured the aggressor) in front of everyone else present - right here, right now.

Tav then proceeds to absolutely dominate the battle, leaving the offending devil within an inch of life and then forcing the fiend to grovel at Raphael's feet for forgiveness for the unsightly behavior during a negotiation, stating that Raphael's mercy is the only thing that will spare the transgressor from a death by their blade.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS IDEA, IT IS INCREDIBLE. Here's a lil sum sum to satisfy the palate.

Raphael pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger in frustration. Negotiations always do his head in, and this round is especially mentally taxing. Clearly campaigning for Ruler of the Nine Circles wasn't supposed to be easy, but gods damn does he wish he thought this through a little more. Tav stands faithfully at his side, a hand resting on the small of his back in reassurance. The cambion before him reads over the parchment that Tav had presented, words laid out neatly in Infernal. He scoffs, tossing the scroll to the floor.

"You expect me to accept these terms? You've lost your mind, Raphael."

Tav's ears burn red with irritation. The disrespectful display leaves a horrendous taste in their mouth and they step to the cambion, fists clenched at their sides. Their face scrunches up with disdain.

"You'll show Raphael some respect, you wretch."

Without hesitation, the back of the cambions hand swings forward and connects with Tav's cheekbone with a loud crack. Tav stumbles to the side and their hand flies up to cup the red hot handprint burned into their skin. The room falls silent around them. All eyes focus on the display. Raphael seethes and grabs at the Cambion's ruffled collar, yanking him close enough to feel his hot breath against his face.

"How dare you, you contemptuous creature. You insufferable ingrate. I should smite you where you stand."

His words are venomous. The cambion's eyes widen in surprise at the grip Raphael has on his collar, his hands coming up in an act of submission. Pleas for forgiveness are strewn about in a weak attempt to get Raphael to let go. Tav collects themselves and places a loving hand on Raphael's shoulder to prompt him to release the blabbering fool.

"Darling, allow me to deal with this.. miscreant."

Raphael quirks an eyebrow down at them. Surely they aren't serious. They blink up at him sweetly and gods - how could he so no to that? He releases the cambion with a shove and he stumbles backward, barely catching his footing. Tav slides their hand to the hilt of their sword, drawing it from its sheath and holding the tip of the blade to the throat of the aggressor. He gulps harshly and Raphael crosses his arms over his chest in amusement. This could be fun.

"I challenge thee to a duel. Right here, right now. If I win, you must beg on your hands and knees for forgiveness. AND sign the agreement. If you win, well.. You get to leave here with your life and your wings still intact. Deal?"

"Deal."

The cambion stands with confidence, quickly unsheathing his sword to attempt to land a quick strike on Tav. They dart out of the way and swing, their sword making fast contact with one of his horns with a loud clink. The cambion wails in pain and swings his sword again, missing Tav completely. They chuckle. Pathetic. Skillful swings back the cambion into a corner, sword bumping against his shoulder, knee, and hip. Each hit harder than the last. The final move brings the cambion to his knees - a swift strike to the calf. Blood pools through his light colored pants and he stares up at Tav in disbelief. They'd taken him down. Raphael claps slowly, chest filled with pride for his little mouse.

"Seems as if you've lost. Now beg. Raphael's mercy will be the only thing to spare you from death by my blade. You're a disgrace."

[acim-ed-ortsac]

Time on the Oro Jackson: 2

You blocked a swing from Rayleigh before parrying a jab of his blade, your feet moving around the swordsman as you blocked and attacked your mentor. The training sessions started when you were practicing your stances on the deck, focused on your form and swings and you didn’t notice anyone watching you until Rayleigh shouted tips on improving. You supposed that was how you found yourself being trained by the Dark King himself. You gritted your teeth when an attack from the man had you skid your feet.

“You’re getting better, kid,” Rayleigh said with a grin as he clashed swords with you.

You didn’t say anything but let a small smile on your lips as you twisted your wrist to push the blade away from you. You dodged a jab and blacked a thrust. Your observation haki lets you know the next few moves in the next few seconds, allowing you prepare and counter these attacks. It’s been a good while since you joined the Roger Pirates and you’ve learned a lot from them.

First of all, they’re very jolly. And loud.

But you should’ve expected that from a captain known to have smiled at his execution and started the new generation of pirates.

At times you found yourself wincing at the volume, but it was easy to get accustomed to them. Shanks likes to cling to you, demanding a spar despite your refusal, yet is not deterred or angry at your dismissal. If anything, he seemed to cling on to you more. When you’re practicing your stances, he’s there, practicing beside you or watching you instead. You take it as childish admiration.

Buggy, on the other hand, is more weary of you. Anytime you’re around him, you would notice a bead of sweat and his nervous glances at you before skedaddling out of your sight. You take no offense to this. Scared children are nothing new to you.

However, Buggy seemed to have gained courage from Shanks.

As you were wiping the sweat off your brow with a towel handed to you by Gaban, now you remember his name, Buggy approached you nervously. He approached you like you were a predator. You were amused and slightly confused as he stopped in front of you. “What is it?”

The clown sweat, eyes averting before mustering to look into your own. “Could…could you teach me how to use a knife?”

You raised a brow, “You want to learn how to wield a dagger?”

Buggy nodded, uncertain.

Hmm, if I remember correctly, the clown primarily uses daggers with his devil fruit. But he doesn’t have it yet, and he’s still too young to be holding weapons…Although, if I were to help him in the near future, perhaps he would make an interesting pirate. And maybe I’ll respect him more when Cross Guild is formed, which won’t be a good while.

After your internal debate, you sheathe your sword. “When you’re older, you can’t hold one without cutting yourself.”

“But Shanks is already learning!”

“I’m not teaching him, he’s learning by watching me. Also, he’s using a stick, not a real blade.”

Buggy pouted in anger, face turning almost as red as his nose. You rolled your eyes before ruffling his head, messing his hat much to his protest. “You have time so don’t rush, there are other ways to fight without full-on confrontation.”

“Con-frantotion?” Buggy scrunched his face at trying to pronounce the word. You forgot he’s six.  You combed your hair with your fingers, “Never mind.” you dismissed before walking away.

“Hey! Tell me what that means!”

“When you know more words.”

“I can read!”

“That’s not what I asked.”

_*_

This would be the third marine base you would enter. The third marine base you would destroy. Perhaps a normal nine year old wouldn’t be able to, but you were armed with knowledge of haki, the swords skills that you learned from your previous masters, and a bloodthirst that rivalled the devil.

The sand under your shoes crunched as yout rugged through the desert, sheathe and sword on your back, and sweat poured down your forehead like a river. Even with your light clothes and shorts, it was unbearably hot under the scorching heat of the sun. The knife in your pocket and the satchel over your shoulder were reminders on why you’re trekking this damned desert.

Up ahead, a desert city where water filled the rivers and canals, people of Alabasta descent milled around as marine soldiers march for patrol. The cloth you used as a blindfold and headwrap covered your hair and eyes while the loose long sleeve shirt hid your skin from the sun. With the observation haki you have, you walked through the city with no interruption, heading straight to the base. You hear the fearful chatter as marine soldiers marched past, you hear the pleading of citizens as a marine taunts and ppose his authority over them, you hear the bugging from a man as he’s dragged away for something he hadn’t done.

Corrupt. It’s a coincidence that you’re about to destroy the marines here when the city needed it. 

Later, you learned that marines here were all talk; all bark and no bite. They fell way to a mere nine year old with a sword, not standing a chance. You wonder if this what it meant to find it boring when other can’t challenge you anymore…

You destroyed crates and raided chests in hopes to find any resources you could use. At one point you found a devil fruit in a chest, it’s texture sandy. You regarded it with half-lidded eyes before putting it in your satchel. You then headed down in the dungeon, where the admiral might be. When you entered the admiral’s office, it was empty sans the guards there.

Your footsteps echoed throughout the dark and dry dungeon, the door creaking as you moved it. And with your knife, you blocked bullet that was shot your way. Its other half grazed your head yet you remained composed. You then moved–in the dark with only torches that almost dimmed, you dodged frantic bullets and with a lunge, you embbededth knife deep into his chest, right where his heart is. You pulled back and heard him fall to the ground with a thud.

Seeing as you have no need for the clothe, you undid the knot at the back and it fell away letting light shine on your eyes. Your hair came free, curls running wild as you ran a hand through your strands. You then scoured the cells, landing on civilians who were either poor or orphaned kids. 

You were then reminded of your island before the buster call…

You rummaged through the man’s clothes before finding the key to the cells. You hummed in satisfaction before going to free the people here, one by one. All shouted joyously at their freedom, kids clinging to your clothes as they say their thanks and cried while the adults expressed their gratitude to you. You say nothing to this.

The last cell held a boy  bit older than you. His hair was shoulder-length and eyes were narrow, a scar that bled across his nose, and ragged clothes not unlike your own. He was the only one who glared at you even as you unlocked his cell. 

A tingle at the back of your skull, a feeling of recognition yet it was vague. You ignored it before turning to leave–

“Wait.”

You paused glancing back at the boy in the cell.

“Have you seen a devil fruit in this shithole?”

Suddenly, it clicked for you.

Wordlessly, you took out the devil fruit in your satchel and threw it in the hands of Crocodile. “Take it, I have no use of it.”

You leave before the soon to be Sand-man could reply.

_*_

You felt a large hand ruffle your hair, making you glare at the old man for the umpteenth time. “Stop that.”

Rayleigh smiles back at you, “Oh, why not?”

“It’s annoying.”

“Well I can’t help it, your curls are so cute!”

You kicked his shins. “Old man.”

“Respect your elders, kid.”

“Old man.”

“Brat.”

< > Masterlist

[imsososolesbian]

The best trio in the world

Transmasc!VanNat and fem!reader

Part two of: The Break

Platonic

No warnings

Summary: The three of you go to a party

Word Count: 1870

Nat was at your stove, as Van was at your kitchen island. There was chatter from both as they bantered back and forth and you sat at the island reading a book, you three did this a lot now that you guys had made up. 

Nat was making tamales as Van was putting the finishing touches on your costumes. The three of you were going to a party that night, and had decided to meet up at your place for some food before going to the party together. It also worked out that one of you had finally managed to scrape together enough money to buy a car, or in Van’s case a truck; which was now sitting outside in your driveway. 

Van put down his paintbrush and looked over to you, “You still have that shitty cheap hair dryer right? The one with paint all over it?” Van had gotten out of his seat and walked around the island to stand behind you and rest his chin on your shoulder, taking a peak at what was written in the book. 

You nod your head slightly, too engrossed in your book to even put it down or look away for a second. “In my room, where it always is,” you mumbled out, and flipped your page. You feel Van’s lips on your cheek before he is running off in the direction of your room to get the dryer. 

Nat was mixing masa up on the counter next to the stove as he soaked corn husks. You finally put your bookmark in and set your book down before leaning back in your chair stretching. “How much longer Nat? I’m hungry,” you complain.

“They’ll be done when they are done,” Nat said, turning his head to look at you. “Patience is a virtue, you know right?”

You roll your eyes at Nat, and are about to stand up to go help Van find the hair dryer as he runs back into the kitchen holding it in his hand. He quickly plugs it in and trunks it on pointing it at the not yet dry paint. 

Two hours later, the three of you had eaten and now were splitting up in your house to get changed into your costumes. You knew the three of you were going as Batman, Wonder Woman and Superman. You were under the impression that Nat would be Batman and Van would be Superman but you were wrong.

From your bag you pulled out a blue suit and red cape. You unfolded the suit, a big red and yellow triangle with an S in the middle was what you were met with. You were surprised that you would be dressing as Superman. Yet you still got into the outfit, and put your wig on, before checking your bag because you knew there was still stuff in there and pulling out jeans, a button up and a pair of glasses with no lenses. You had a good feeling on where this night was going. 

You were sitting on your couch, dressed as Clark Kent when Nat came out in a black suit, a little bat emblem on his lapel, and a batman helmet under his arm, he also had a wig on, a little grey was mixed into the black of the wig unlike yours. “Van’s being Diana?” 

“Yeah. Said he thought it would be hilarious. He said he’s going all out. Wig, makeup the whole nine yards,” Nat says, putting his helmet on the coffee table and sitting down next to you.

Nat leans his head back on your shoulder and lets out a sigh, “He’s going to take foreverrrrr,” Nat drags out. You laugh and wrap your arm around his shoulder, and pats his shoulder.

The two of you sit on the couch side by side for an hour before Van struts out of the bathroom. He was wearing a floor length dress, the top was red and the bottom was blue with stars, he had drag like makeup on his face and a black long wig on. On his left hip was held a gold rope, and in his left hand he had a sword, “Nat, your batarangs should be in the left pocket in your pants,” he said, putting his sword away in a sheath that was attached to his back. 

The three of you put your shoes on a few minutes later and were out of the door in no time. Van was driving the three of you tonight, and you had been chosen to sit in the middle of the truck because there were no back seats. 

As Van drove you noticed that he even had replicas of the Bracelets of Submission on his wrists. You found it amazing how in depth Van had gone with these costumes. You knew he loved films and comics but you didn’t know he would take such care. You knew you should have seen it coming but you didn’t thinking making costumes was really Van’s thing but he proved you totally wrong with what he had made. 

Usually parties would be held out in the forest but tonight it was Jackie’s place. It was also just the soccer team, plus you, Misty and Taissa’s girlfriend Simone. The three of you were only allowed to come because you were dating people on the team and no other reason other than that. So you knew it was going to be a fun night. 

Van pulled up in front of Jackie’s house and parked the truck. “Alright, out let’s go,” he pulled his key out and opened his door, making sure to grab his sword from you when you shuffled out the driver side because Nat was taking too long to get out. 

You walked up with the two to Jackie’s door and waited for it to open. There wasn’t loud music coming from the house. Even when the door opened you couldn’t hear anything. That was till Jackie led you through her house and out into her backyard, where the rest of the YellowJackets were. They were sat around her fire pit and surprisingly no one was drinking. 

You spotted Misty sitting beside Crystal, Misty painted green with a black pointy hat on, and a pin straight black wig on, while Crystal had a blonde wig on and was wearing a pink dress. You could tell the two were dressed like the main characters from Wicked (after you had become friends with Van and Nat again, you started going to practice and games where you started talking to Misty, when she wasn’t busy, waiting for them to be over, and now knew more about musicals then you ever had before). Shauna was sitting on a camping chair with a can of ginger ale in her hands as she waited for Jackie to come back. Shauna was decked out in a blue blazer, a white button down and some blue jeans, you couldn’t place your finger on who she was until you looked at Jackie who was in a red blazer and a white button up, and instead of jeans she wore a red skirt, they were dressed as Veronica Sawyer and Heather Chandler. 

Van and Nat sat down and you joined them, Van waved to Taissa a huge smile on his face, and Taissa laughed before waving back. You had learned that Van and Taissa made up and Van explained more into what his gender was and you could tell that Taissa still had the hots for him and it was possible that Simone also did because she had a smirk on her face as she waved at him. The two girls were dressed as Tiana and Prince Naveen or should you say Princess Naveen because they both were wearing stunning dresses.

You once again look around, seeing Mari and Akilah sitting in the grass dressed as Edward and Bella from Twilight, and Gen and Melissa sitting next to them as Spider Man and Gwen. You kept over hearing the words “hold on tight spider monkey” every so often from the four of them. The four of them would join the main conversation after a race was conducted to see who could run the fastest with their date on their back.

Laura Lee and Lottie came late with pizza, ten boxes of it at that. The two were dressed up as Princess Bubblegum and Marceline. Lottie brought boxes from her car, while Laura Lee came in with a few cases of pop, and even some juice boxes. 

When the food and drinks were finally on the table you got up and got the three of you food. Nat got a meat lover's slice and a vegetarian one, Van got three slices of hawaiian pizza, you made sure to get ones with loads of pineapples. You grabbed a few slices of your favourtie type, along with a pop of your choosing, and Nat got a 7up and Van a root beer. 

The rest of the night was the group sitting around eating and drinking, playing games and goofing off like you were all young again. At one point you had all moved downstairs in the house, which had a huge tv and Jackie had thought beforehand to sit out things for a makeshift bed, for all of you to crash on, along with some clothes too, which would be more comfortable for sleeping in. 

Yet that didn’t stop you, Van and Nat, along with Melissa all leaning into your costumes and acting out little battles rather than turning on the tv and watching a movie. You ended up in just the superman suit, Nat was down to just his suit pants and his Batman suit, and Van had rolled up his skirt and taken out his sword and kept a hand on his lasso. Melissa had put her Spiderman hood up. 

The four of you went back and forth ‘landing’ hits on each other to the point of one winner. Yet when there was one winner you four would start back up again. It took hours for you four to stop but the others kept cheering you on as well as the others. 

You thankfully were able to remember to change before going to sleep, your costume wasn’t really the most comfortable to sleep in. The next morning was even more intense and insane. You woke up laying in a corner curled up, and when you sat up you saw Nat in the middle of Lottie and Laura Lee. Laura Lee was pretty much laying fully on top of him, Lottie had an arm around the two as they slept. 

On the other side of the room, Van was sleeping behind Simone, an arm around her waist and his hand intertwined with Taissas, like the three didn’t have a care in the world for anything other than the three of them. 

Pancakes, french toast, eggs and waffles are what you guys all ate for breakfast that morning when you all officially woke up. After that you, Simone and Misty watched all the others play soccer in Jackie’s backyard, after you all had helped clean up from the party the night before. 

[shift-shaping]

nine arrows

enaste meets the duke of wycome.

rating: m

pairing: solavellan

warnings: still pretty bad latin, blood

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Enaste and her companions followed Lady Volant's directions to the room where she'd last seen the Duke. She took a moment to heal her finger before they went on; something about facing a blood mage with an open wound concerned her. 

Much of the manor was dark, its long hallways lit only by the glow of Enaste's staff and the occasional lantern. She could see beyond the light, the shadows full of depth and detail until their darkest points, but the blackness was still somehow suffocating.

They approached a large room off one of the main corridors. She could hear the rain outside, pounding against glass windows. Something prickled along her skin, and though she scratched at her arms through her clothes, the itch remained.

She looked back at her companions. Jester was directly behind her, bow drawn, a sheathed dagger at each hip and a series of small grenades attached to a sturdy leather belt around their waist. Beside Jester was Elion, as quiet and confident as Enaste had ever seen him with their clan, wielding a larger and more powerful bow than Jester that bore intricate carvings from their clan's craftsmen. Instead of grenades, he bore several flasks of poison on his belt. Cole took up the rear, his daggers glinting in the dark.

All four of them were still dressed in the clothing they'd left Clan Lavellan wearing, all black and deep brown and green as dark as winter pines. They'd chosen colors that would blend in well with the night and make them harder to spot, but now that she eyed her party, she saw that they looked very much like assassins.

As she crossed the threshold, she dropped her hood. Before her was a large room just as lavishly decorated as the others she'd seen in the manor. Several dark red couches and armchairs filled the center, and towering bookshelves occupied the walls. Above them was a balcony that wrapped around the room, supported by several thick columns of black-veined marble. Eyes gleamed in the darkness above them, watching her entrance in tight silence.

A massive fireplace roared against the far wall. Before it stood a stout human man in expensive, yet disheveled clothing. He had a thick silver beard and a mostly bald head. Red armchairs sat on either side of him.

Enaste stepped carefully into the room, feeling the floor first on the balls of her feet, then her heels. "Are you Duke Antoine of Wycome?" Her voice was louder than she expected it to be in the tall, echo-y room.

The Duke nodded. "Are you who I suspect you are?"

Her companions followed behind her. She remained tense. "That depends who you're expecting."

He eyed them with a slight smile. "A Dalish mage with raven-black hair and a glowing green hand? I have seen many elves tonight, but none so striking as yourself, Lady Inquisitor." His voice was gentle and friendly, and rumbled with age. He gestured to one of the armchairs. "Come, please, sit. I would enjoy some conversation, if it pleases you."

She did not move. "My ambassador told me you were under the control of a blood mage in the service of a Tevinter magister. Is that true?"

He looked down at the floor --dark hardwood panels polished to a glossy sheen. He closed his eyes for a long moment, then shook his head. "It was, but I am under no compulsion now. However, I understand if you do not believe me."

Enaste glanced over her shoulder. "Cole? Is he telling the truth?"

Cole frowned, staring at the Duke. "I... Think so. You are you. But you weren't always completely you. Before, at the party, on the walls, you were someone who isn't you, your skin a cloak for someone else. It hurt, you and them, but --you didn't push them away." He shook his head. "There is magic here, but you are not under the blood mage's control." He looked up at the balcony, at the eyes shining in the darkness. "They are."

Enaste stared into the shadows, and with focus came the outlines of at least nine archers, all elven, all completely still. Their arrows were drawn: within less than a second, the most skilled of them could pull back their bowstring and fire.

She reached for her staff, and the Duke held up his hands. "Wait." Her fingers wrapped around the grip of her weapon, but she otherwise stilled. "You have nothing to fear, my lady. The mage, the one who commands them, would not see you harmed. And neither would I."

She narrowed her eyes. "I have already been harmed here, as have my allies."

"And I sincerely apologize for that." His voice teetered between nervousness and earnestness. "It was a terrible error, a miscalculation on the part of Magister Malchus."

"And you expect me to believe you?" She shook her head, but dropped her hand from her staff. "My allies have seen what you did to the wells. You use red lyrium on your own people."

He sighed. Regret drew heavy on the lines of his face, cast in shadow by the fire at his back. "I realize it is all very confusing. Please, Inquisitor, allow me to explain." He gestured to the armchair again.

She looked at her companions. Jester shook their head quickly. Elion stared up at the balcony of archers. She turned back to the Duke. "I was advised to kill you on sight. Why shouldn't I follow that advice now?"

"Because I have information you would likely wish to hear."

She hesitated. The Duke sat down in one of the armchairs and waited for her to join him. Her mouth was dry, her body heavy. So long as she was in this room at all, she was in danger. She could kill him and leave, risking death from above, or she could figure out some way for them both to escape alive.

And admittedly, that chair looked pretty comfortable.

"Fine," she said finally. She took her staff from her back and drew a barrier around herself for protection. "My allies will be safe as well?"

"Of course."

She stared at him a moment longer, then joined him in one of the large armchairs by the fire. The seat gave in easily beneath her, the cushion soft and pliant. Still she sat near its edge, her back straight, one hand holding her staff in front of her.

"Thank you," he said as he sat back. He closed his eyes for a moment, and his relaxation was at odds with the nine arrows poised to turn them both into pincushions.

She lowered her voice. "Do you even know what red lyrium is? It turns people who come into contact with it mad. It drove the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall insane and led to countless abuses in the city's Circle. It is a tool of Corypheus, and of Tevinter."

The Duke opened his eyes just enough for her to see their gleam in the firelight. "And you are a tool of the Chantry, and of the Orlesian Empire."

She shook her head, exhausted, frustrated, the absurdity of what he said enough to make her head ache. "No, I am not. I know the magister has filled your head with lies about what the Inquisition does, but look at me," she gestured to her companions. "And look at my allies. How could a bunch of elves and apostates be tools of the Chantry?"

He glanced at her party, then sat forward in his seat. "Inquisitor, I would ask that you try to see this from the perspective of the city of Wycome." She sighed, but he went on. "We are a small city on the edge of the world, surrounded by greater nations that would happily swallow us whole. For ages, through Blight and famine and conspiracy and plague, we have scraped out our independence--"

"And you throw it away at the first offer of power."

"Power?" He asked, frowning. He shook his head, bushy white eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "The sky is broken and demons are running about and you think we grasp at power?"

"You wouldn't be the first," she said wearily. She sat back from him, one hand on her staff and the other balled into a fist on the armrest.

He glanced at the fire, then at his feet, then at her. "Your Inquisition. What is its goal?"

She frowned, annoyed that he had been so thoroughly fooled that he even felt the need to ask. "Could you not have asked my ambassador this?"

"I want to hear it from you," he replied evenly.

Something snarled inside her and she rolled her eyes. He was drawing this out, asking inane questions just to test her patience and buy himself a few more minutes of life. "I am very tired, and I'm not here for you to waste my time."

"I understand that." He leaned forward. The firelight danced in his eyes. "Is it not an easy question?"

"It is an easy question." Annoyance bubbled in her chest like acid. "The Inquisition exists to stop Corypheus from destroying the world." Her voice came out clipped, obviously irritated, yet laced with exhaustion. "You could have heard that from my ambassador, or from a pamphlet, or from a child begging on your streets."

He considered this, then asked her another question: "and what then, when Corypheus is defeated?"

"We won't have any reason to exist." Obviously. "There will be no more Inquisition."

"Is that what happened to the old Inquisition?"

"Yes."

He shook his head, but his gentle expression remained. "No. The Inquisition of old became the Seekers and Templars, the strongest arm of the Orlesian Chantry."

"But they did stop being the Inquisition," she cut in quickly, her words short and cold. "That's what I meant."

"Of course." He conceded. He was mocking her. "So you understand then, that the Inquisition became a weapon of Orlais?"

"That's not true, you're twisting the facts," she spit back.

"And the modern Inquisition, with its Orlesian castle and Orlesian leaders and Orlesian priests, it is different from that?"

"Our leaders aren't Orlesian. I'm the Inquisitor, and I'm not Orlesian. I just told you we aren't a tool of the Chantry, I-- I barely know the language."

"But your founders are the former left and right hands of the Orlesian divine?" He spoke faster now, his voice more certain. "And your territories are spread throughout the empire? And you seek the support of the Orlesian empress?"

"I'm not --I didn't choose any of those things." She hadn't wanted any of this. She only came here to protect her clan --she didn't even care what happened to his nobles and their wells. This conversation was pointless and she was falling for his trap but she couldn't see its purpose –and she couldn't find a way out. "Why are you asking me this as if it's my decision?"

He was quiet for a time then, looking away from her and up to the balcony where the archers stood in tense, heavy silence. Enaste's cheeks burned. She stared at the fire.

"Inquisitor," he spoke softly, but she kept her eyes on the flames. "I am asking you these questions so that you understand what I mean when I tell you that a choice between two empires is hardly a choice at all. I allowed Malchus to stay in Wycome because he and his Venatori promised this city its independence, and their protection."

He was stupid, and naive, and cowardly; that was explanation enough for her. Her upper lip curled in disgust. "Did we not promise you independence as well? But you didn't trust us, so instead of taking our word, you betrayed the Inquisition and let an agent of Corypheus experiment on your human population --leaving the elves to clean up your mess." She glanced at the balcony. "Though I suppose you're used to that."

"You are an elven prophet in the Orlesian Chantry." She grit her teeth. "If we fully allied with you, we would be giving our support to an organization that threatens everything about our way of life." He shook his head and leaned towards her.

She looked at him with narrowed eyes, suddenly recalling why Bran had wanted him dead in the first place. "Your way of life. How often does it involve cutting off servants' hands?"

He looked confused for a moment, frowning, then his expression fell to one of deep regret. He shook his head and directed his gaze elsewhere. "Only once. It was a terrible and complicated situation."

"How complicated could it possibly be?" She scoffed. "Your kind call mine savage, but not even the worst of my people would resort to such brutality."

He looked up at the balcony again. Did the archers above them understand their conversation? Did they bristle, somewhere inside, at the reminder of the 'terrible and complicated situation' that led to the destruction of their Vhenadahl?

"I understand why the story you likely heard would be upsetting, Inquisitor." He shifted in his seat. "It was not a decision made lightly."

"Given your other decisions, I find that difficult to believe."

"It was a compromise. The servant you speak of stole from both myself and my guests." The floor creaked underneath them. Rain pounded at the windows. "We learned he took something from one guest that she could not replace: a pendant passed down from her mother, who had passed away long ago. She was devastated. Her husband demanded the servant's head." He paused, looking at the fire. "I recommended we exile him instead. It was not enough." He exhaled slowly. "She said if she couldn't have his head, she would have his hands." He shrugged --tired, hopeless. "I agreed."

Even if she saw logically why he'd done what he did, it was still cruel and unnecessary. In a place like this, where the only work left to elves was hard, grueling, menial labor, such a thorough disfigurement was hardly better than killing him outright. She tried to imagine it, opened and closed her hands and tried to imagine what she would do if even one were gone.

And to think that was the lesser of the Duke's cruelties. "You sent him back to the alienage like that. And you were surprised when the elves were angry."

"Anger, I understood," he said quietly. "Even hatred. So long as they knew who to be angry with." He swallowed. "I was foolish to think they would save their rage for myself."

"The leader of the alienage said you called a few petitioners a riot."

He hummed. A dark, aching heaviness weighed on his voice as he spoke. "It was not a riot. It was an assault." He cleared his throat and looked up at her from under his eyelashes. "Inquisitor, in all your time in this castle, in all your ambassador's time, have you or your allies seen any members of my household besides myself and my servants?"

She watched him. Something tightened in her chest. "No. I have not." She should have noticed that earlier. A man of his age and wealth, with no family to speak of, would be extremely unusual.

He nodded. "The elves took out their rage on them." The wind howled outside, and in its strange, hollow moan lent his words an undercurrent of painful, haunting grief. "What happened that night left my son unable to care for himself. His wife feeds him from a spoon. My grandson suffers severe headaches and can scarcely leave a dark room. My granddaughter--" he stopped and shook his head. "Has yet to remember what was done to her. I sent them far away, to a place I hope none will follow."

Enaste didn't want to believe him. This version of the story could easily have been invented to sow mistrust between herself and her allies. It felt wrong to doubt him when his eyes looked so hollow and the lines of his face were wrought with so much guilt and pain, but she knew an expert could wear any mask convincingly. Regardless, she still saw the destruction of the Vhenadahl as a step too far: why punish the entire alienage for the actions of a few monsters?

"What I ordered my men to do was unjust and unworthy. It was a decision made in grief and anger." He finally looked at her. "I wanted them to feel the hurt I did. I wanted to send a message. But what I did was cruel, and unnecessary." He glanced up at the balcony. "And I am deeply, unspeakably sorry."

She sucked in a slow, shaky breath and closed her eyes. "If you're so sorry, why did you use elves as the scapegoat when your red lyrium started making people sick?"

He was quiet then, brows furrowed, apparently considering his answer, before he frowned at her in confusion. "Inquisitor, I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to."

She sighed, frustrated again now that he was back to wasting her time. "You hired mercenaries to attack my clan so you could convince your nobles you were doing something about the 'elven plague.'"

For the first time in their conversation, the Duke looked genuinely lost. Even when she had pushed back at him or been outright annoyed, he'd remained poised and confident. Now he was taken aback. "I... I'm sorry, Inquisitor, I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

She threw up her hands. "How do you expect me to trust anything you say if you won't admit to the one thing I know you were responsible for?"

"He's trying to confuse you," Elion said quietly, and Enaste looked at him. He stood stoically a few feet away, bow still in his hands. His eyes shined like a cat's in the dark.

The Duke glanced at him, then brought his attention back to Enaste. "How are you so confident in my involvement?"

"Because I found your mercenaries and talked to them myself," she replied, exasperated. "They told me you hired them to harass my clan."

He blinked in confusion and shook his head. "Inquisitor, with all due respect, the only information I know about your clan is that it is your clan. The only reason to attack your people would be to draw you, personally, to Wycome. If I wanted to do that, I would send a letter." He ran his hand over his beard. "Deliberately invoking the wrath of the Inquisition by attacking the family of its leader would be suicidal."

"You are a very good liar," she spat.

"No," Cole said suddenly. Both Enaste and the Duke turned to look at him. "He's not lying. He really doesn't know."

She frowned, not understanding. Perhaps the magister hired them then. Or another noble on behalf of the Duke. What did it matter anyway? She knew it was done on his behalf, whether he knew about it or not. "Cole." He stared at her, unmoving. "Is the blood mage still here?"

He looked up at the balcony and squinted at the dark. "Yes."

Enaste stood slowly. Tension strummed tight and thick around her. She turned in a circle, taking in the archers, glaring into the dark, looking for anyone out of place. "What do you want?" She called out. Her voice echoed amongst the towering vaults of the ceiling. "I know you are loyal to the magister. I also know you are an extraordinarily gifted mage." She took a deep breath. "I don't want to fight you. I just want to talk."

Silence met her words. She peered at the blinking eyes of the elven archers, their bodies painfully, almost unnaturally still, like statues atop a castle wall. Then she heard a quiet shuffling, and the floor above groaned amidst the ghostly wind.

She turned around and looked up at the balcony. A thin young man with short, dark hair and shining eyes leaned into the railing, arms crossed, watching her. Blood dripped from his hand to the hardwood floor below.

"You're an elf," she said softly.

He looked down at his bleeding hand, his expression distant, and drew some of the blood up and swirled it around his fingers. Then it vanished into the air, likely to feed the spell he used on the archers.

"Do you know who hired the mercenaries that attacked my clan?"

"I'm afraid he speaks precious little common, Inquisitor," the Duke said gently.

She looked at him over her shoulder. He had stood up as well. "What does he speak?"

"Tevene alone, as far as I'm aware."

"Dirthas elven?" She asked the blood mage. He said nothing, and she took that as a 'no.' "Tell him I just want to talk."

The Duke cleared his throat, then repeated her words in a different tongue. The blood mage raised his chin, as though appraising them all, then spoke to her in heavily-accented common. "I do not wish for you to save me."

Her brows furrowed. "When did I offer to save you?"

He paused, reflective eyes flicking over her, then shook his head. "You put me back in chains."

"No," she said clearly. "I have no interest in that. I told you, I just want to talk."

"I do not want to talk to you." He stepped back from the balcony, towards the shadows behind him.

"Wait. Just wait." She didn't understand any of this. What did he know about the mercenaries? Why was he so loyal to the magister? Why did he think she would put him in chains? Who was he?

The Duke called out to him then, in swift, shaky Tevene. "Si non manseris, indicabo ei quod de te scio."

The sudden volume and confidence of the blood mage's voice surprised her. "Tu nescis quid mihi nocere posset."

"Nullum?" The Duke called back. "Quid de nomine tuo?"

The blood mage gave a disinterested shrug. "Multa nomina habeo."

For a brief moment, she heard only the rain, the fire, the breathing of the many people in the room. Then the Duke shifted his weight, and gave the blood mage a pitying look. "At nemo tam magnus est quam ille Malchus in cubiculo suo te vocat."

The blood mage's eyes widened. He stepped towards the railing again, and Enaste saw his eyes glow white with power. "Quae utilitas vestra superstite?" He hissed.

Cole jolted forward and grabbed Enaste by the shoulder. She whipped around to look at him, and in that instant nine arrows sliced through the air. Pain erupted on the side of her face. Jester called out to her. Warmth covered her cheek as she stumbled past Cole, ignoring his pleas.

The arrows weren't meant for her, or for her allies. Each one had sunk deep into the Duke's head and chest, every shot lethal. His knees collapsed and he fell heavily to the floor. His eyes were wide and searching, stuck in a permanent state of shock. Enaste wiped moisture from the side of her face, and earned herself a bright, stinging pain that sent shockwaves across her right eye.

"Inquisitor!" Jester gasped. The amount of blood in Enaste's eye was so rapidly overwhelming her periphery that she could barely see them. "You're hurt, here, let me help you." They started pressing a bandage to Enaste's face, but she pushed them away.

"The blood mage--" Enaste started, but no matter where she looked she saw only blurry shadows.

"He's already gone," Cole said softly.

"How is that possible?" Enaste asked. The pain blooming over the side of her face made speaking difficult.

"He knew the way out," Cole replied.

She looked over at the body of the Duke, at the arrows jutting from his body. They were obviously elven arrows. Someone must have taught the elves of the alienage how to craft them like her people did.

She closed her eyes and grit her teeth. Even if they removed every arrow, the assumption was obvious –a group of elves had killed the Duke of Wycome. There would be no going back now: the coup Bran had wanted so badly had begun.

translation notes — "si non manseris, indicabo ei quod de te scio." - if you do not stay, I will tell her what I know of you.  "tu nescis quid mihi nocere posset." - nothing you know can hurt me. "nullum? quid de nomine tuo?" - nothing? what about your name? "multa nomina habeo." - I have many names. "at nemo tam magnus est quam ille Malchus in cubiculo suo te vocat." – but none so important as what Malchus calls you in his bedroom. "quae utilitas vestra superstite?" - to what end are you still alive?

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[rosenicarus]

“You have to say it back.” Scott’s voice strained. Forcing any emotion down to keep the smug expression across his scaled face..

But Jimmy knew better, knew Scott better than that. He knew he was breaking and there was nothing he could do.

“You have 30 seconds. Before I hunt you down for sport.” The threat was empty, Jimmy knew it was. He prayed Scott knew him as well. Prayed that he wouldn’t have to make on it.

29.

“I gave you a pufferish, Jimmy!” Scott stared, Jimmys heart shattered at the break in them.

28.

“I lost it.” Jimmy lied, the bucket sitting safe in his inventory.

27.

“You… lost it.?” Scott parroted, the fins on his ears sinking slightly. His face now matching, Jimmys hand remained rested against the hilt of his sword.

26

“Someone must have stolen it. I don’t have it anymore.”

Another lie.

25

Another heartbreak.

24

Blue met a shaded brown and there was a fire burning under the seas Jimmy once felt so safe in.

And yet Jimmy can feel the storm brewing

23

Jimmy heard the search parties voices getting closer. He knew Scott did too by the way he flinched when the shouts started. The faint tick of Jimmys heart echoing in his ears.

¨The others will be here soon¨ Jimmy said, trying so hard to urge Scott to leave. To run.

22

¨Im well aware of that,¨Scott stared at Jimmy, once upon a time Jimmy would be running into his arms. But instead the two stood on the roof of the mansion, the wind ruffling through Scotts hair, Jimmy forced his heart to stop racing.

21…. 20

19

18

17

16

15…

¨Jimmy!¨ Grians voice called, Jimmy peered over the side of the ledge, heart stopping as he looked between Scott and Grian. Grian stood on the grass nearly 50 feet below.

14

¨Are you coming?!¨ The avian shouted, making a waving motion.

¨Yeah! Give me a moment to get down there!¨ Jimmy felt his hand insitictually tighten around the hilt of the blade that still remained sheathed. He flashed a pleading look to scott, silently begging him to run. Before he remembered the glasses that covered his eyes.

13

But scott was stubborn.. It was a part of him that Jimmy loved with his entire heart.

12.

… 11

¨Ten.¨ Jimmy´s voice shocked himself, it was quiet and unexpected as he straightened his posture.

¨Nine.¨ The canary took a step forward. Carefully pulling the blade from the sheth. He had a role to play, He was a bad boy. Emotions cant get in the way.

¨If youre serious about it just go on with it.¨

¨Eight.¨ Scott.. Move. Please. ¨Seven.¨

Creatures of Sea and sky. How could they ever mix. That realization made his heart ache more than the look of a sea sea storm that Scott gave him.

¨You left off on six.¨ Scott glared, Jimmy hadnt realized he´d paused. Scott takes a step forward towards him.

¨Five.¨

¨Four.¨

¨Three.¨

Jimmy raises the blade as the sound of a bird take off echoed. Grian was coming.

¨Two..¨

¨One.¨ The two said in unison, Scott stepped forward, hissing against the shaking blade. Crimson blooming across his chest. The merling lifted a hand carefully removing the shades that blocked part of his face.

¨Theres the eyes that haunt my dreams..¨ He coughed, a small trickle of red streamed from the corner of his mouth.

¨I love you..¨ Jimmy whispers,carefully leaning into Scotts touch.

¨I know…I know..¨

Smajor1995 was Slain By SolidarityGaming.

[cryssyd]

A Love Beyond Hell

Previous: Chapter 3

It is an adaption to "Always and Forever" by ChaoticDoll (MadamMimic505) at Quotev.com.

Pairings: Alastor x Reader (Julia) Female

Summary: While resting after a long day, Julia's thoughts are interrupted by a loud knock at her door. Only to find that a vengeful intruder invades her home. As she desperately fights for survival, someone comes along to the rescue.

Warnings: 18+ Content, Established Relationship, Violence, Death, Graphic Details, Pregnancy and Birth, Smut, Minors DNI

Chapter 4

Raindrops danced on the windows of the charming house nestled in the misty forest. Julia cozied up by the fireplace, wrapped in a cozy blanket from the bed. Leaning over the arm of the sofa, she held a colouring crayon in her hand, meticulously filling in the final details of her beloved buck. The radio softly played a love song, causing her to sway gently from side to side as if she had a dance partner. Humming along with a soft smile, she reached for a red coloured pencil to give the buck's sturdy hooves a faded ombré effect.

¯ You’re mine, and we belong together, yes, we belong together for eternity. You’re mine. Your kiss belongs to me, yes. It belongs to only me. Oh, for eternity. ¯

¯ You’re mine, mine, mine, baby. And you’ll always be. I love you so much. I love you so much my darlin’ I’ll always love you ¯

Julia's cheeks tinged with a soft pink hue; Alastor's charm was undeniable. He always seemed to know exactly how to bring a warm smile to her face. Despite loving the beautiful music he played, Julia longed to catch a glimpse of him. Just once, she would give anything to gaze into those loving chestnut eyes again. Letting out a wistful sigh, she reached for her 'Oh Deer' mug filled with hot chocolate. After taking a sip and relishing the sweet taste, Julia hummed contently and placed the mug back on the table. As she sat up, a sudden unfamiliar creak caught her attention. The house had always made noises, but this one felt different. Much heavier.

"Alastor?" She hesitated, her voice echoing through the silence. Against her better judgment, she couldn't resist the flicker of hope that ignited within her. Startled, she nearly broke the pencil in half as a knock resonated from the door. Her heart raced, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Visitors were a rarity in these secluded woods where both she and Alastor resided. Her parents occasionally made the journey, but they always gave prior notice. With trembling hands, she reached for the knife concealed beneath the coffee table, a precautionary measure Alastor had taken. The weight of the blade reassured her, its gleaming silver tainted by a faint crimson hue.

She cautiously gripped the knife, tiptoeing towards the door, her heart racing in her chest. Another knock echoed, louder and quicker than before. The radio had abruptly fallen silent, enveloping the room in an eerie stillness. Inhaling deeply to steady herself, she unlocked the door and cracked it open slightly to peek outside. Who could be visiting at this late hour, not even nine-thirty yet? Standing there was a young man, likely in his late twenties. Tall, with messy blonde hair and a hint of stubble, she couldn't shake off the uneasy feeling he gave her. He sported an orange hunting vest, a knife in its sheath at his waist, and a rifle slung across his back.

Julia inquired if she could be of assistance, turning her head to find him standing there by himself. His piercing green eyes scanned her up and down, a hint of disdain in his expression. "Are you Mrs. Altruist?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow. "Excuse me? Why is that relevant? Look, if you're here to hunt, just know that nothing on this land is open for that. I kindly request that you depart before my husband steps in." She gave him a stern look.

The man's mischievous grin accompanied his question, "Nah, I'm not interested in hunting anything, but do enlighten me, how does your husband manage to come when he's already stone-cold dead?" Julia's face drained of colour as a chill ran down her spine. "How on earth did you find out?"

“I've noticed you around town, and it seems like you've been flying solo for quite some time now. And let's face it, your man isn't exactly in a position to do much after my brother took care of him.” The blonde let out a chuckle as she watched the shock register in her eyes. Julia's grip tightened on the knife hidden behind her back. "What?!" she growled. "What is it that you're after?"

He hissed. "You're the reason my brother ended up behind bars for doing everyone a favour! Did you ever consider why he pulled the trigger in the first place?"

She clenched her jaw, seething with rage. "Leave immediately! Your despicable brother is responsible for taking away the person I cherished the most in this world - my husband! Get off my property before I do something I'll regret!"

The man pressed his fist against the door, keeping it ajar. "You won't be seeing your husband anytime soon, not after I'm through with you," he sneered. With a forceful shove, he pushed the door open, his dirty hand seizing her neck as she fought back, slicing his arm with a knife. Despite the pain, he held on tightly. So, you're a fighter, huh? I must admit, I had you pegged as a naive girl. But hey, I'm pleasantly surprised!

He lifted her once again, feeling her resistance as she clawed at his wrists in an attempt to break free from his grip. With a forceful shove, he pushed her against the table, causing her to let out a pained groan as the radio toppled over beside her, along with Alastor's shattered glasses. The blonde approached her with a cruel smirk, revelling in the sight of her defeated form on the floor. Among the debris on the table, her knife lay discarded, a symbol of her failed attempt to defend herself. Julia's eyes narrowed with determination, tears streaming down her face as she prepared to stand her ground against the looming threat.

The room was suddenly filled with static, the radio screen flashing from yellow to bright red. The air grew heavier with static, making Julia cover her ears in discomfort as the pitch increased. Annoyed, the man reached for the radio as the paintings and pictures on the walls began to shake and rattle. The house seemed to come alive with loud cracking and knocking sounds echoing against the walls, expressing the anger of its lone owner towards the intruder. The fire in the fireplace roared, flames licking up the chimney and casting monstrous shadows around the living room. The flames grew higher, hinting at impending doom.

“If you're searching for blood and bones, I recommend checking behind you.”

The radio wailed relentlessly amidst the crackling static, its voice resonating with a bone-chilling menace that Julia could only associate with her darkest nightmares. "What on earth?!" The young man instinctively recoiled as the rattling and trembling intensified, only to collide with an unexpected obstacle - or rather, someone. A towering, shadowy figure emerged from the very floor behind him, causing Julia's eyes to widen in sheer disbelief. The shadow possessed what appeared to be antlers, growing larger and more imposing with each passing moment. Gradually, the shadows dissipated, revealing an incredibly tall and gaunt figure, adorned solely in a vibrant red pinstripe suit paired with black trousers. The static intensified, causing her temples to throb relentlessly. With its elongated claws piercing into the man's shoulders, eliciting a pained grimace, he turned to meet the gaze of the Radio Demon's malevolent eyes.

“Who do you think you are, touching my beloved Julia with your dirty hands?”

The man's horrified shriek pierced the air as he was violently propelled upwards. From the floorboards emerged sinister shadow-like creatures, viciously tearing into him with their razor-sharp claws and gnashing teeth. Blood and entrails splattered across the living room, drenching the furniture, walls, and ceiling in a macabre shade of red. Paralyzed with terror, she watched as the man was mercilessly dismembered, his life essence pooling into the fiery abyss of the fireplace, while the shadow creatures dragged him away, his screams echoing in terror. Suddenly, his cries were abruptly silenced, and the deafening static ceased. The living room fell into an eerie silence, with only her paralyzed form and the sound of her breath. It was as if the man had never existed, leaving no trace behind, despite the gruesome aftermath left by the shadows. Slowly, she mustered the strength to rise, her tear-filled eyes fixated on the figure before her - a man in a crimson pin-striped suit and black trousers, kneeling with his hand extended.

"Are you okay, my dear?" he inquired, his crimson eyes fixated on Julia with concern. She couldn't comprehend why this peculiar being, who had just moments ago condemned a man to a dreadful fate, was now extending a helping hand towards her. However, as her fear-ridden mind started to process the situation, a sudden realization struck her, causing her eyes to widen in disbelief. "Did he just say her name?!" As she carefully observed the towering figure, she began to identify those eyes, although his appearance seemed drastically altered.

Julia couldn't believe her eyes as she uttered, "A-Alastor?" Doubt lingered in her voice, unsure if her grief had driven her to madness. But there he stood, with a smile that radiated warmth, just like the one he used to give her. "The one and only, my dearest," he replied, confirming her wildest dreams.

His words were filled with a mix of regret and protectiveness as he muttered, "I didn't mean to scare you. I just couldn't bear the thought of that filth touching you." At that moment, Alastor stood before her, and her mind struggled to comprehend his presence. Without hesitation, she lunged forward, enveloping him in a tight embrace. Tears of joy streamed down her face as she sobbed into his chest. Alastor's arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer to him. Julia's voice trembled with emotion as she whispered amidst her tears, "I thought you were gone forever, Alastor. I never thought I'd see you again."

"Do you remember when I promised to be with you until death separates us?" He inquired, his hand gently caressing her back, providing solace and reminding her of his unwavering support. "Of course," she replied. Alastor chuckled, shifting his position to allow her to meet his gaze. "Well, my love, I must confess that I deceived you. I could never bear to be apart from you," he whispered affectionately, delicately tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "That's why I've always been by your side."

With a hint of surprise in her eyes, she gazed at him, knowing that his presence had always been unmistakable. "I had a feeling," she said, calming down enough to lean in and kiss his toothy grin. He eagerly returned the kiss, and after enduring so much, they were finally reunited, even if it was under dangerous circumstances. He was back home, safe and sound, but most importantly, he was by her side once more.

Next: Chapter 5