#had a (prop) knife that i held by the blade instead of the handle the entire day bcus i didnt want it to be in the way of ppl walking

[princeofcyberpunk]

eepy guy eepy guy

uh anyway heres all the stuff i acquired from the con

i can nawt recall any artist names rn i apologize im just showing my silly things

that picture is horrid!!!!! my god

fun shiny raincode print. genuinely shrieked when i saw someone selling shit of this game and bought it on the spot. wonderful 11/10!!!

highlight of the entire con (besides the person who ran up to me cuz i was cosplaying Alice from American McGee's Alice and took a picture w/ me ;w; /vvvpos) was this Pokemon Legends: Arceus protagonist print. hoooolyyyy shit dude i cannot even begin to tell you how much i adore pla but its a lot !!! (a lot!! a lot of concussions!! /ref) and this art is gorgeous and i love it and AAAAAAAA

xiao print (feat. a usb cord lmao) i got cuz one of my besties bought two and got a third free so they chose xiao and gave it to me cuz hes my favorite genshin lad. hes so pretty !!!!!!!

i cannot begin to recreate the unholy noise i made when i noticed someone selling FUCKING KAGEROU PROJECT SHIT WHATTTTTTT /VVVVVPOSSS. in case u dont know what that is its this rlly complicated vocaloid album/manga/anime thats hard to explain but it goes hard. and by hard to explain i mean im a huge fan and i genuinely have no idea whats going on. anyway!! the character is Ayano Tateyama :3c and the print is gorgeous omg (i wanted to get either/both the momo and kano charms too but i banned myself from buying charms cuz im afraid im gonna lose them D:)

gorgeous p5 print that i cannot believe i didnt notice until the third day lmao???? i love everyones expressions so much dude theyre all so silly!!!!!!!!!! i apologize to the artist having to hold up their square reader over their display as i blanked on what my fucking email was for the receipt. call me the fool arcana cuz im a fuckin dumbass /j

[lost-between-letters]

It's Not Your Fault

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Reader (she/her)

Requested by: anon

Word Count: 1,555

Warnings: canon typical violence, blood, injury, Dean Winchester typical self hate

Summary: a hunt went not quite as planned and left Y/N captured and hurting. Dean just wished she would be okay

Y/N had sworn that she would never beg for her life. So far, she had been pretty good at keeping that oath but the rope tearing at her wrists and the knife running her through made her determination waiver.

Another wave of pain rolled through her blood stream as the demon sliced from her collar bone down to her belly button. Her shirt tore open, immediately soaking through with her blood and white agony.

Y/N screamed, her voice hoarse and hurting.

She would not beg.

"Do you really think he'll come?" The demon taunted, her eyebrows scrunched up in a mockery of concern, "your knight in shining armour? Ready to abandon his pesky little plan and save you from the big bad demon?"

Before Y/N had any opportunity to react (she had just gathered enough saliva to spit her in the face), the demon dragged her finger through the fresh cut.

Her nerves were set on fire the second the demonic hand touched her skin and the cackling laughter became a muffled background noise as Y/N's mind zeroed in on the all consuming pain.

The last thing she felt was the cold blade sinking into her side.

White sheets, white walls, white floors, fucking white noise. Dean felt like clawing at his skin just to see something, hear something aside from this sheer nothingness.

Y/N was lying in a hospital bed, propped up on a dozen pillows that he himself had arranged and rearranged far too often. The only real smidge of colour were the bruises on her face and body and Dean hated every single one with a passion.

Not so much as he hated himself though. Hated how naive he had been to think that a hunt really could be that easy and straight forward as it looked from the beginning. Hated that Sam hadn't offered backup more insistently, hated that Y/N had had just to huff indignantly at the careful question whether she could handle a ghost on her own.

But the ghost wasn't a ghost and rather a trap Lucifer's demons had laid for them and Dean had been stupid enough to stumble into it head first.

And now Y/N was paying the price for his selfishness. Broken ribs, stitches from her collar bone to nearly her hips, a stab wound just shy of her kidneys and so much blood loss that the doctors had stopped talking around him altogether.

Dean should be used to the looks he got every time he carried a bloody Y/N into the ER, eyes blazing with fury but he was not. The sheer implication of him being the one causing her pain hurt so much more now that he was sure that he deserved them. It was his fault, and his alone that she still wasn't awake. Had he been faster, smarter, had thought this more through, she would be scolding him now. And not lying lifelessly under the sheets of a hospital bed.

All he had wanted was an easy hunt and some quality time with Y/N.

Look where that got them.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N," he mumbled, voice choked up with tears Dean refused to let fall, even with no one around.

Gingerly, he grabbed her hand, wrapped his larger fingers around it and held it carefully. He couldn't stand the thought that his touch would inflict even more pain on Y/N so Dean restrained from squeezing it. Even though he wanted to. He wanted to feel her squeeze back, feel the reassuring strength of her touch.

But he didn't. Instead, Dean bowed his head over their hands, not unlike a prayer. "I know it's my fault that you're like this but please be okay. Damn it, I'm supposed to be in this stupid hospital bed and all torn up and not you. At least, I deserve it."

The pressure behind his eyes built up to an almost unbearable level but Dean fought it down immediately. He had no right to cry. Not when this was all due to his own recklessness.

"Bullshit."

Her voice was just above a whisper and broke on the second syllable. Dean turned his head around fast enough to feel his neck cracking.

He came level with tired eyes and a frown that was enough to startle him out of his momentary stupor and scramble upwards to cup her cheek. Dean's body was moving on instinct as he touched the injured skin and by the time he realised what he was doing, it was too late to pull back.

Y/N was leaning into the touch but the frown remained. Just as Dean opened his mouth to tell her to take it easy, she beat him to it. "This is not your fault, Dean."

"Of course it is!" He protested, louder than he had wanted to.

The flinch that passed over Y/N's face made him even angrier with himself - the apology already forming - until he realised just how tight he had been gripping her hand. Immediately, Dean pulled away but she didn't let him. Instead, her grip tightened, even though he was pretty sure that he was applying pressure to at least one bruise.

"Stop Dean." Her voice was much calmer than he would have expected her to be.

In fact, it was the polar opposite to what Dean thought was right to happen. Y/N was supposed to shout at him, blame him like he blamed himself and shoo him out; he wasn't worth her time. But she seemed to be intent on doing nothing of that.

Y/N's eyes were so full of trust and compassion that it hurt. But Dean couldn't look away, couldn't even move, aside from swallowing around the lump in his throat. "I'm so sorry."

"Why?" She all but demanded and attempted to sit up.

Dean was on his feet in a heartbeat, his hands under her back and the back of her head to stop her from tearing the stitches. Small suppressed whimpers fell from her lips as they maneuvered her into a sitting position but her face was scrunched up with determination.

Just when Dean was sure that Y/N was relatively comfortable again, he answered. "Because, I was too stupid-"

"Nope," she interrupted him once again and Dean felt a little like a kid being scolded with the expression she bestowed him with, "don't you dare try pinning this on yourself, Winchester. It was a trap, plain and simple and we stepped into it."

"And I should've known," the all familiar anger laced with frustration edged back into his voice, "I should've been prepared but I let Sam stay back because I wanted..."

Dean couldn't say it. Not when Y/N was sitting there in front of him with bruises all over.

But she was not having it. "Because you wanted what, Dean?"

Her eyes were demanding answers just as much as her words did, only that they seemed to have the ability to slice the truth right out of his heart.

Worse, now Y/N was pushing closer, leaning her body towards him and he had to stop her before her cuts started bleeding again. That special colour of red was something he never wanted to see again.

So Dean let the words spill over.

"Because I wanted to have you for myself for just the few days of the hunt."

At least, the words had the effect he had intended with them. Y/N was frozen and in consequence didn't put pressure on her injuries.

Or so he thought. With a somewhat hysterical giggle, Y/N dropped back into the pillows. "Are you fucking serious?"

While Y/N was shaking with laughter that couldn't be good for the stitches, Dean felt his heart crumble a little more. Maybe not exactly how he had pictured her to react but it did feel like he had had it coming.

Once again, Dean's head dropped, unable to face her anymore and he made to get up. Only that Y/N didn't let him.

"Wait. That was- sorry, the painkillers I guess," she apologized, a grin still stretching her lips, his hand tight in her grip.

Dean had never been able to deny Y/N anything, so he waited for the final rejection.

But it did come. The grin transformed into something softer as her eyes locked his again, willing him to listen. "Dean, all you had to do was ask."

"What?" Dean didn't dare hope that she was implying what he thought she was implying.

The exasperated eye roll told him just how much she thought of that. The sudden strength with which Y/N pulled at his hand sent him tumbling towards the bed. A brief surge of terror caught hold of Dean in the second that he thought he wouldn't be able to catch himself on time and simply crush her underneath him.

Then, his hands found support left and right to her hips on the mattress and their faces were impossibly close. Even better, now Y/N reached up to cup his cheek while her eyes rested on him, full of trust and affection. "I like you, you dumbass."

A sarcastic comment was dying to escape but Dean didn't have the time to decide whether he should swallow it or not. Y/N's lips on his did quite a good job at stopping any form of thinking in the foreseeable future.

Part two

General Taglist: @immrbrightsideeee , @fandomfoodiedancer , @lovesfandoms , @nyotamalfoy , @akshi8278 , @stixnstripesworld , @foxyjwls007

Dean Taglist: @tiggytaylor

If you want to be tagged as well, click here or drop an ask/DM

[drabbles-mc]

“Get It Out!”

Angel Reyes x Reader (Guest appearance from EZ)

Warnings: language, mentions of blood/injuries

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: We love a little Injured!Angel having to get taken care of by his girl and his brother. This was technically a Whumptober prompt but I have fallen behind on posting those in order so here’s a little one-shot. 😁 Feel free to make requests!

When you had told Angel that you wanted him to be more honest with you, to let you in on what was going on with the club, this is not the direction that you saw it going in. You just wanted to know why he was gone for days at a time and couldn’t communicate with you. You did not expect to have him turning up on your doorstep, half-draped onto his brother, bleeding.

“What the fuck,” you opened the door all the way and helped EZ pull him inside.

“He got stabbed,” EZ didn’t really know how much he should elaborate—he didn’t know how much you knew.

You scoffed, “Yea I can fucking see that, Ezekiel, the blade is still stuck in his leg.”

The two of you carefully lowered Angel onto the floor. You had so many questions but from the look on EZ’s face you weren’t confident that either of them were going to give you many answers. Blood was trickling down Angel’s leg and it was almost too distracting. It was hard to think about what to do when all you could think about was the fact that your boyfriend was one wrong decision away from bleeding out on your floor.

“What do you want me to do?” you finally managed to ask.

“I don’t know,” EZ replied honestly, “He insisted that we come here because you would know what to do.”

You huffed, “Fucking hell. Alright, um, go grab some towels out of the closet. I’m gonna grab some gauze and other stuff. I’ll see if I can get him patched up enough to take him to a real doctor.”

“No doctor,” it was the first time Angel had spoken.

“Angel,” your voice was firm, “this isn’t a debate. I’m gonna get rid of the evidence of whatever crime was involved here,” you gestured broadly to his whole body, “and then I’m gonna come up with a fake story and get you to an emergency room.”

“But—”

“It wasn’t a question,” you cut him off before he could argue.

You flew up the stairs, heading to the bedroom that you and Angel shared. You looked through his drawers, finally finding an old belt that would do exactly what you needed. You gripped it tight in your hand as you also dug around for an old pair of shorts and a clean shirt for him to wear instead of his now-bloody jeans and his kutte.

Once you found everything that you needed in the bedroom, you made your way to the bathroom. You called out to EZ to put the towels underneath Angel’s leg so he wouldn’t bleed all over the floor. You could hear Angel’s voice but it was muffled and you couldn’t make out what he was saying. Surely is was some sort of sarcastic remark. It was probably better that you didn’t hear it.

You rooted through the cabinet in the bathroom until you found some peroxide and gauze. You also grabbed a wash cloth before making your way back downstairs. You dropped all of your treasures on the couch before proceeding to the kitchen. You grabbed a pot and filled it with warm water. You also got your fabric scissors out of the junk drawer, chuckling to yourself that your random crafting phase a few years ago was paying off in the strangest ways now. You brought them out to the living room and set it on the ground next to where EZ had positioned Angel.

You looked over at EZ, handing him the scissors, “Help him get his pants off while I get all of this set up.”

Angel groaned, “C’mon, Y/N, we don’t gotta do all this.”

“You came to me for help, Angel.”

“Just get it out,” he gestured to the blade jutting out of his leg, “Get it out and slap a band-aid on that shit, Querida. I’ll be fine.”

“I say this with all the love in the world, Angel: shut the fuck up,” you gave a pointed look to EZ, “Scissors, jeans, now.”

Angel might be up for arguing with you but EZ knew better. He had yet to piss you off and today certainly wasn’t going to be the day that he changed that trend. He pulled off his brother’s shoes and set about carefully cutting the fabric above and below the blade that was in Angel’s leg, peeling off the piece that was below. The cut off his leg with no issues.

“What do you want me to do with the fabric that’s cut by the knife?”

“Leave it for now,” you were getting the gauze ready, “that’ll be the last piece we take care of.

EZ helped brace Angel off the ground just enough so that he could push the waistband of his jeans down off his hips. It felt foreign to him to try and get his pants off when there was only full leg left of them. EZ carefully maneuvered the cut piece around the blade without touching it too much, but it still made Angel wince and curse under his breath as he wriggled his other leg out of the fabric.

Once his jeans were off and tossed to the side, you started telling EZ your plan. It wasn’t an elegant plan, and honestly if the blade had gotten one of Angel’s arteries there wasn’t going to be all that much you could do for him anyway. So this was your best shot, you just had to pray that it would work as well as you hoped.

“I’m gonna pull the blade out,” your breath shook just saying it, “Then you’re gonna press the gauze hard against the wound to try and slow the bleeding. Then I’m gonna use this,” you held up the belt, “to wrap around it to try and get some good, consistent pressure on it. Hopefully that’ll all work and then we can get fresh clothes on him and get him to the hospital.”

“What about me?” Angel piped up, “What do I do?”

You looked down at him. His face was pretty neutral given the circumstances, but you could see the fear in his eyes. You placed your hand gently on his cheek, “Try to sit as still as possible. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

You looked over at EZ again to make sure that he was ready. He gave you a small nod and you gently wrapped your fingers around the handle of the knife. It wasn’t your typical little pocket-knife, and you were glad they someone had had the foresight to not just yank it out right away. You let out as steady of a breath as you could manage.

“Just get it out, Y/N,” Angel’s voice was harsh but you couldn’t blame him.

“Sorry,” your voice was soft as you pulled it out in one smooth motion.

“Fuck!” Angel screamed and clenched his fists, fighting the urge to squirm from the pain.

You pulled the last small piece of fabric down away from the cut and EZ immediately placed the gauze onto the wound, stifling the bleeding slightly. You took a breath and tried to reassess for your next step. You were going to have to clean out the cut—god only knows where that knife had been before it got jammed into Angel’s leg.

“This is gonna sting, Angel, I’m sorry,” you couldn’t meet his eyes. You lifted EZ’s hands and poured the peroxide onto the cut, immediately pushing EZ’s hands back down again.

Angel’s eyes were shut tight, fighting the urge to let out another scream. He had the towel balled up in his fists, knuckles white. You tried not to think about that as you grabbed the belt, propping his leg up just enough so that you would be able to loop the belt underneath it. He didn’t have scrawny thighs, so it didn’t loop around as many times as you had originally thought it might, but it seemed like so far your plan was working about as well as could be expected. There was no blood spraying everywhere, and it seemed like you would be able to clean him up a little bit and get him to the hospital without him passing out from blood loss. All of those things were huge wins in your book.

You took a deep breath and looked over to Angel, who was a little paler than usual. You gently ran your thumb across his cheekbone before setting about to clean off his leg. You soaked the wash cloth in the warm water and wiped down his entire leg, trying your best to get as much of the dried blood off as possible.

“EZ,” you looked over at him with pleading eyes, “Can you help him stand up so I can pull on his shorts?”

“I can pull on my own shorts. I’m injured, not unconscious,” he sounded bitter.

“You shouldn’t be bending that leg, Angel, that’s all. I know you’re capable of dressing yourself. Don’t start being a baby about all of this now.”

EZ stifled a laugh as he helped his brother to his feet. Angel leaned more of his weight onto EZ than necessary just to make him pay for finding any humor in this situation. Angel did as he was told, though, and allowed you to pull his shorts up. Changing his shirt went much smoother and soon enough he was ready to be taken to the hospital.

They helped him hobble out of the house. EZ was about to guide him back to the pickup but you steered them towards your car. “Back seat is bigger,” you stated matter-of-factly. You and EZ helped ease Angel into the back seat. You hopped in the driver’s seat and EZ sat shotgun.

“What’re you even gonna tell the doctors?” Angel piped up from the back seat.

You looked at him through the rearview mirror, “You work at a scrapyard, can’t you just tell them it was a workplace accident?”

“I mean,” he huffed, “I guess.”

You chuckled, shaking your head and returning your eyes to the road. EZ looked over at you with a smirk, “Not bad for not a doctor, Y/N.”

“You boys and your praise. It’s a wonder I can stay so humble.”

[zintranslations]

Kaleidoscope of Death, Ch. 68

Kaleidoscope of Death by Xi Zixu Link to Chinese / Link to ongoing Taida Translations

Chapter 68: The Butterfly’s Death

Going to the dean's office now was actually quite risky. But sometimes, without taking any risks, it was hard to earn the hints.

Lin Qiushi and Ruan Nanzhu meandered up the staircases, quickly coming to the floor where the dean's office was located.

It was nearing 12AM. The entire sanitarium was steeped in darkness, with only the room on the top floor emanating a spot of light, grabbing all attention.

The sounds of the nurse jumping had continued in sporadic thumps of a great weight hitting the ground. It was really quite haunting.

Lin Qiushi and Ruan Nanzhu didn't go straight for the dean's office. Instead, they found a hidden spot first to observe.

The lock on the dean's office had been broken off, so anyone who wanted to could get in. Watching the window, Lin Qiushi could vaguely see a silhouette moving inside the office.

"It's a person, right?" Lin Qiushi spoke quietly to Ruan Nanzhu.

"Probably," Ruan Nanzhu responded.

If it wasn't a person, it likely wouldn't have a shadow.

Since it was a person, what were they doing so late in the dean's office? Lin Qiushi was just thinking this when he saw the office door push open.

A person he'd never anticipated came out from within. It was the girl they'd met once during the day, Hu Die. Her expression was cool, and her skin, under the white lights, appeared even more devastatingly pale. In her arms was a parcel, with something seemingly placed inside…

Before Lin Qiushi could respond, Ruan Nanzhu, who'd been behind him up until this point, took a sudden step forward, calling out: "Hu Die."

Hu Die's steps halted. When she heard the call for her, Lin Qiushi could clearly see her expression turn to horror.

"What did you bring out?" Ruan Nanzhu asked softly.

Peering once at them, Hu Die immediately turned and ran. Fortunately, Ruan Nanzhu was prepared, striding forward the few steps to stop Hu Die on the run, taking her by an arm with a firm grip.

Lin Qiushi followed quickly, watching as Ruan Nanzhu smiled coolly in Hu Die's face.

"Why are you running?"

Hu Die didn't respond, staring at Ruan Nanzhu with fear and resentment as she said, "it's none of your business. What I'm doing has nothing to do with you—"

Ruan Nanzhu completely ignored her and made a grab for her bag.

Hu Die held on with her life, but in the end, she was a woman—her strength couldn't be compared to a man's. The package in her arms ended up in Ruan Nanzhu's possession.

When Ruan Nanzhu opened the bag and saw what was inside, his brows furrowed, expression going sour.

Lin Qiushi got close as well—and saw that the bag was, in fact, a piece of cloth wrapped around the baby's corpse. It had obviously been fetched fresh from the dean's office. He glanced at Hu Die, and found her shaking all over.

"Let me go—" Hu Die said. "Let me go, she's coming back, and when she sees the child missing, we're all dead!!"

Ruan Nanzhu watched Hu Die, tone icy: "She? You're talking about the nurse? So why did you steal her baby?"

Hu Die replied, "I wasn't stealing, I just thought this thing was important! Maybe the key is inside… So I was just taking it back to have a look." Or so she claimed

It was obvious that Hu Die wanted them to trust her, but her excuse simply had too many holes. Even Lin Qiushi had a hard time believing it.

"This thing can only be taken out at night…" Hu Die was getting more and more frantic, like she was scared of something. "If it's moved during the day, it cries!"

Ruan Nanzhu quirked a brow. "Alright, we'll go back first."

Hu Die reacted like she’d gotten a pardon from death itself.

But Ruan Nanzhu wasn't planning on letting her go. He kept Hu Die in his grip, and let Lin Qiushi take the bag beside him.

The three began creeping downstairs.

Just before they got to the stairs, Lin Qiushi heard another noise, one that made all his hair stand up on end—high heels striking against floorboards. That building-jumping nurse had returned!

The situation was dire enough that Lin Qiushi couldn't care about exposing his identity, and so spoke lowly to Ruan Nanzhu: "She's coming!"

When she heard a man's voice, Hu Die looked on in shock, so surprised that her mouth gaped open: "You're— You're a man??"

Ruan Nanzhu ignored her, speaking only to Lin Qiushi: "From where?"

Lin Qiushi closely scrutinized the sound. "From the fourth floor." He glanced up, and pointed at a flight of stairs that led to the roof. "I think it's coming from there!"

"Come on, we'll head back from here," Ruan Nanzhu said.

Hu Die's expression seemed lost, like the fact that Lin Qiushi was a man had left a great impact on her. Lin Qiushi thought this was quite strange. He didn't know Hu Die, after all; even if he were a man, why should Hu Die look so disoriented? It didn't matter that much, did it? Whether he was male or female?

Just as they got to the sixth floor, they heard a woman's chilling wail from the dean's office. That cry was ear-piercing, and sent shivers all up and down the body.

Lin Qiushi felt, oddly, that the dead baby in his hold had gotten harder to handle.

But it was at this moment that Hu Die's gaze fell on Lin Qiushi. She spoke softly: "I'll hold the corpse. That thing is dangerous."

At this, Ruan Nanzhu shot her a look, but took instead the bag from Lin Qiushi's arms himself. "No, I got it."

Hu Die looked awfully pale, and like she wanted to say something more, but Ruan Nanzhu ignored her, speeding up his steps instead.

Descending from the sixth floor, they didn't dare dawdle on the floors in between, sprinting in one breath to the fourth floor. But as they cleared the stairwell and caught a glimpse of the hallway's end, the air stopped in their lungs.

The nurse stood right at the end of the hall. More than half of the bones had broken in her body, and she was propped up, twisted, on the other side of the walkway. In her hand was a bloody knife, and that terrifying face was smiling queerly at them.

The three turned immediately and raced up the stairs.

But the nurse was faster, taking only a moment to appear in front of them.

Lin Qiushi didn't have enough time to react before the nurse raised the long blade in her hands. An overripe scent filled his nostrils—and in this moment, it smelled an awful lot like death.

The blade fell. The nurse, surprisingly, attacked Hu Die first.

Ruan Nanzhu's expression was odd. He seemed to be waiting for something. Lin Qiushi clasped his sleeve, pulling at him to leave—but instead, Ruan Nanzhu flipped their grips and took him by the wrist.

Ruan Nanzhu lifted a finger, making a gesture to shush.

Lin Qiushi paused, and glanced at Hu Die, who was being attacked.

Hu Die had been knifed in the stomach. Her expression, however, was peculiar. It was like she wasn't scared of her incoming death at all, and instead was watching Lin Qiushi and Ruan Nanzhu.

It was the sort of gaze that held malice, like an audience beneath the stage awaiting a good show.

With plunge after plunge, the nurse knifed Hu Die into veritable pulp.

Hu Die's body collapsed stiffly to the floor. Eyes closing, she died just like that.

The nurse looked up, and saw Lin Qiushi and Ruan Nanzhu in the corner. The blade in her hand was still dripping with blood.

Ruan Nanzhu pulled the two leftover Russian nesting dolls from his pocket, picking out the innermost doll and tossing it before the nurse.

"We found him."

The nurse's steps stalled.

Ruan Nanzhu said, "he's right behind you."

The nurse didn't move anymore, seemingly contemplating Ruan Nanzhu's words.

Ruan Nanzhu said, "we can get rid of him the final time for you. He ought to have died anyhow." He delivered the dead baby parcel in his hands over to the nurse.

After he said this, the nurse took what was offered, turned, and genuinely left.

Lin Qiushi was shocked beyond words. Ruan Nanzhu beside him let out a long sigh of relief, laughing humorlessly, "good thing it worked."

Lin Qiushi, "you could communicate with her?" This was the most shocking thing to him.

Ruan Nanzhu shook his head and spoke nothing else, skipping ahead like he wanted to discuss the matter no further.

Hu Die's corpse was right before them, hacked to messy pieces by the nurse. It was difficult to tell if it was even human still.

Lin Qiushi said, "shall we go back?"

Ruan Nanzhu replied, "no, we'll stand watch here."

"What are we watching for?" Lin Qiushi was a bit confused.

Ruan Nanzhu pointed at Hu Die's corpse.

"For him to come out, of course," he laughed. "Didn't we promise the nurse?"

Lin Qiushi blinked.

So the two stood where they were, as time ticked on bit by bit. Around three in the morning, the corpse before them began a strange transformation. Lin Qiushi heard the sound of something writhing. He glanced at Hu Die's corpse, but found the body twisting about. The eyes that had once been closed were now open.

Lin Qiushi was just about to back up, when Ruan Nanzhu caught him by the waist and said, "don't be scared."

And it was like Lin Qiushi really wasn't scared anymore. To be honest, whenever Ruan Nanzhu was beside him, Lin Qiushi felt a sense of security and safety, like everything they did was within control, and nothing would go wrong.

Of course, Lin Qiushi knew this feeling was wrong. He couldn't be overly dependent on Ruan Nanzhu. They would have to separate someday.

At this, Lin Qiushi felt, for some reason, a sense of loss.

But this minor sort of emotion was quickly smothered, because the scene before them was getting more and more frightening. Hu Die had gotten up off the ground; the lethal wounds had seemingly no effect on her, and she'd revived. It was just that her body was in pieces, prone to collapse with every couple of steps. And in the pair of eyes that had opened again, there was a thicket of gluttony, watching Ruan Nanzhu before her.

"Help…" Hu Die spoke, at first slowly, but very quickly reverting to a normal cadence. She pleaded directly with Lin Qiushi and Ruan Nanzhu, "help… Please come, help me out, I'm not dead yet…"

Both Lin Qiushi and Ruan Nanzhu stood unmoved—on Lin Qiushi's face was an expression of consideration, while Ruan Nanzhu didn't have any expression on at all.

Hu Die came more and more conscious, and seemed to remember something. Her expression went twisted, as she spoke, in a low, poisoned tone, "why?? Why aren't you dead?!"

Ruan Nanzhu answered, "did you think we'd die like Xue Zhiyun and them?"

Hu Die didn't reply.

"What a shame," Ruan Nanzhu said. "She let us go, because we can help her get rid of you." Here he began to laugh. "As long as we don't let you find a new body. Isn't that right, Jiang Yingrui?"

Hu Die's breath stared coming short and fast, as she said, "I don't know what you're talking about—"

"No matter." Watching the person before him, Ruan Nanzhu took on a more piteous tone. "Hey, take a guess why she attacked you first."

Hu Die startled.

"What an idiot," Ruan Nanzhu began to laugh. "Of course it's because I put the 502 room tag in your pocket."

Hu Die was so angry that she shook all over. She reached down, and as expected, pulled out the 502 card from her pocket. Most likely, Ruan Nanzhu had tossed it into her pocket when he’d caught hold of her before. Hu Die had thought that when she woke at dawn, she'd find their corpses hacked to pieces. Unexpected, Ruan Nanzhu and Lin Qiushi appeared before her, perfectly fine—that bitch had let them be![1]

Hu Die's expression was filled with vitriol. She threw the door tag to the ground, shaking from sheer rage. Lin Qiushi, who stood watching from the side, was absolutely certain that if Hu Die had any sort of weapon in hand at this moment, she would swing it their way without any care in the world.

Holding onto the wall, Hu Die turned and made to leave.

Ruan Nanzhu said, "where are you going?"

"None of your business—" Hu Die replied coolly.

"Of course it's my business." Ruan Nanzhu approached Hu Die, and with a kick, socked Hu Die back onto the ground. He didn’t go easy on her at all, and when Hu Die was once again on the floor, he held her down with a foot on her back. "You really think I'd let you go to find some other body?"

Panic shot across Hu Die's expression. She said, "What the hell are you talking about…"

But Ruan Nanzhu didn't speak, instead gestured at Lin Qiushi. "What time is it?"

Lin Qiushi glanced at his phone: "Three-forty."

It was almost dawn. And right before dawn, was the darkest hour.

There weren't any lights where they were, just the faintest moonlight that barely illuminated the view before them.

Hu Die, beneath Ruan Nanzhu's foot, began to struggle. Hard. She screamed, trying to get up off the floor.

Ruan Nanzhu was ruthless, aiming another kick at Hu Die, almost knocking her right out.

Lin Qiushi had picked out what was happening from Ruan Nanzhu's words: Hu Die wasn't Hu Die. Or rather, she who'd used to be Hu Die was no longer.

The three remained in stalemate.

When six o'clock came, dawnlight flooded the sky.

People started trickling out of the living quarters, headed for breakfast in the cafeteria. Hu Die, collapsed on the ground, seemed to have given up.

Ruan Nanzhu kept watching her. Never once did his gaze let up.

His vigilance paid off, because just as the sun was rising, Hu Die, who'd seemed on her last breath, began another violent bout of struggling, lunging for Lin Qiushi standing in the corner.

Lin Qiushi was caught off-guard. Luckily, Ruan Nanzhu had been prepared, catching Hu Die by the hand and throwing her backward, to slam her body back against the wall—

BAM. Hu Die's body hit the wall hard, with a loud noise. Hu Die seemed to finally understand that she didn't stand a chance, and began to wail.

Normally, Lin Qiushi might've pitied the girl before him. But after knowing Hu Die's true identity, there was only calm in his heart.

Had Ruan Nanzhu not been so clever, they might've already croaked, thanks to Hu Die. Going easy on the enemy wasn't a smart move at all. Lin Qiushi didn't speak, just silently watched. His expression in the moment was quite like Ruan Nanzhu's.

"Let me go, I don't want to die—" Hu Die was sobbing. "I haven't done anything! I don't want to die…"

Ruan Nanzhu's expression was strange, like he couldn't comprehend what Hu Die was saying.

"You haven't done anything? Are you sure about that?"

Hu Die went silent.

Ruan Nanzhu, "do you not know what you've done?"

Slowly turning her head, Hu Die glanced at Ruan Nanzhu before she said, "I don't know anything."

And then her body began to mutate. Her stomach slowly started to bloat, looking like she was a few months pregnant. Hu Die twisted, and struggled, as if she’d become one large pupa.

Then came the sound of tearing flesh. Lin Qiushi could clearly see something ripping apart Hu Die's abdomen, crawling out from within. At first Lin Qiushi thought it would be a kid or something—but when the thing finally came out, he saw a face that really wasn't all that unfamiliar.

He'd seen this face before in the dean's office, with its mop of pretty, golden hair and handsome face—it was the dean of medicine himself.

In that moment, every one of Ruan Nanzhu's suppositions was proven true.

The dean indeed hadn't been in the sanitarium, but resided instead in other people's bodies. The bodies of others was the medium through which he escaped nightly from the nurse who plotted to kill him.

But what Lin Qiushi wanted to know most was, those whose bodies he occupied—where they people from inside the door, or outside? Jiang Yingrui and Hu Die, did they actually exist?

Because of Ruan Nanzhu's sabotage, the dean had lost his opportunity to find a new body. He seemed quite weak, collapsing on the floor and unmoving for the longest time.

Ruan Nanzhu didn't get closer, instead watched from afar this strange and truly quite absurd scene.

Lin Qiushi asked, "what else do we have to do?"

Ruan Nanzhu, "nothing else, I don't think. We just have to wait until evening." Without the protection of other bodies, the dean would be easily killed by the nurse.

It was likely that, from their background research, the dead baby that this person had attempted to remove was the nurse's aborted infant. And the blond man before them was the baby's father.

The blond man began to curse at them. In his curses was a tone of self-defeat. Lin Qiushi simply pretended like he'd heard nothing at all.

Ruan Nanzhu said, "come on. Feng Yongle's waited up for us the whole night."

Lin Qiushi nodded.

And so they completely ignored the blond man, and turned to leave.

Lin Qiushi followed behind Ruan Nanzhu, steps a bit slow. He said, "Hu Die and Jiang Yingrui—are they from outside or inside the door?"

Ruan Nanzhu replied, "likely from outside."

Lin Qiushi, "…" So they were from the outside, huh.

Ruan Nanzhu, "there were only two matryoshka dolls left, so he should've only been able to switch bodies one more time. Unfortunately, he bumped into us." Coolly, he continued, "nah. There wasn't even a single switch left for him."

The thing had resided in Jiang Yingrui's body, then switched over to Hu Die's body. Lin Qiushi was still a bit wary: "But why did Jiang Yingrui try to keep it a secret for him?"

"Why wouldn't he keep it a secret?" Ruan Nanzhu said. "If he told, it's another matter altogether who'd believe him. And even if they did believe him, there's no benefit for Jiang Yingrui at all. They'd just avoid him."

Lin Qiushi, "…"

"As for that dean," Ruan Nanzhu said, "he hides in the bodies of outsiders. If the nurse wants to kill him, she's got to follow the rules; she can't just kill whenever she wants."

And as for that dean, he clearly wanted everybody else dead as soon as possible, because with everyone else dead, the odds of Jiang Yingrui being the last survivor went up drastically.

But it wasn't to be; Jiang Yingrui couldn't outplay Ruan Nanzhu in the end. Of course, had it been anybody else, the outcome wouldn't be so certain.

The two came to their room door, opening it to find Feng Yongle anxiously pacing circles inside. When he saw them, he let out a loud sigh of relief, exclaiming, "you're finally back! Hell, I was so scared! I thought something had happened to you two!"

Ruan Nanzhu gave a nod. "Nothing happened."

"So what is it, did you find the tunnel?" Feng Yongle asked.

"We found it. The key will likely appear tonight," Ruan Nanzhu said.

"Wow, and you two found the key?" Feng Yongle was quite excited, his pacing turning to excited circling. "Excellent. So we'll be out soon then?"

Ruan Nanzhu, "if nothing unexpected happens."

The dean, without the protection of someone else's flesh, was utterly at the nurse's mercy. If she wanted to kill him, she only had to wait until evening of the next day.

The empty frame in the dean's office could finally be filled.

But Lin Qiushi remembered something else. He typed: Oh yeah, I just remembered. Why did Hu Die steal the dead baby last night? Could the corpse have some kind of use?

Ruan Nanzhu gave the matter some thought, before shaking his head and going silent.

But this was certainly a possibility. They couldn't prove it though, could only hypothesize.

Feng Yongle didn't know what had happened, and asked, mystified, "what? Hu Die stole a dead baby? What the hell happened last night?"

The questions were starting up again. After Feng Yongle started speaking, Ruan Nanzhu just shot him a look, but didn't bother answering a single word.

Feng Yongle felt a bit wronged by Ruan Nanzhu's look: "I'm just a normie…"

Ruan Nanzhu, "so I'm not normal?"

Feng Yongle, "of course you're not normal. It's like damn sign language, the way you talk—can't you just speak plainly for me to understand?"

Ruan Nanzhu, "no."

Feng Yongle, "…" How come you can reject me so firmly.

Lin Qiushi giddily played the mute on the side.

And so in the end, Feng Yongle still didn't know what happened last night, and so gave up on finding out the truth.

During the day, the three of them checked out the tunnel they'd found last night, and confirmed it did indeed lead outside. The tunnel was packed full of those black body bags on the inside. It was chilling just to look in; had it not been an exit, nobody would dare enter.

After getting a look in, Feng Yongle rubbed at his own arms, chanting for Buddha.

Ruan Nanzhu frowned, and said, "this is a Western world. What use will Buddha be?"

Feng Yongle, "should I say hallelujah then?"

Ruan Nanzhu, "…"

Lin Qiushi, "…” He thought that it'd be a hundred times more reliable to chant Ruan Nanzhu banzai! After all, this was a god right at their sides; he could come any moment, and was truly quite useful.

Ruan Nanzhu peered at Lin Qiushi, looking as if he knew exactly what Lin Qiushi was thinking.

With an awkward smile, Lin Qiushi rushed to pretend nothing had happened. He was honestly still wondering if Ruan Nanzhu could read minds—or else how could it be that at any given moment, Ruan Nanzhu could guess exactly what he was thinking?

Author's Note:

/head scratches, I don't understand everybody's scary points. I don't think this world is very scary at all… Why has everyone's reactions been so huge… /puzzled

Translator’s Note:

I can’t seem to find a Chinese version that didn’t have the two words in this sentence missing... So I went with vibes, please let me know if you know the original

Multi-meaning title again!

Translator doesn’t endorse the gender essentialist views expressed in the text...

[Ch. 67] | [Ch. 69]

[stacispratt]

wip wednesday

VERY EXCITED I WAS TAGGED bc yesterday i wanted an excuse to post a wip i’m working on but couldn’t think of one HEGKEHG so um,,, take 800 words of my developing apocalypse au!! p.s. i’m not cool enough to come up with these monsters, i’ve taken liberally from the cute little game overland!

thank u to @consumedkings @adelaidedrubman and @scungilliwoman for tagging me in ur lovely wips!! i’ve seen most folks tagged already BUT I WANNA TAG U TOO DAMNIT so @oorah22 @desertvvitch @gamerpurgatory @ohfaiths @shallow-gravy and anyone else cos i’m really just wanna see ur wips if u have any <3

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

“Hey, hey, hey!” Someone blurts, and John jerks his head over to watch as a man comes scrambling down the collapsed wall toward him, pinned and panicked under the bug looming over him— one of the spindly, agile ones with orange tentacles where a face should be. "Over here! Over here, ugly!" the man hollers, and yanks his machete from its holster on his back.

The bug trills and turns toward the newcomer in rapid, skittering steps. John draws his legs in and scrambles back to avoid getting stepped on, but otherwise stays where he is. 

"Even uglier up close," the man taunts, a cock-sure grin on his face, and when the bug lurches toward him, he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he dives low like he's sliding to home base. He slashes the machete into the bug's knee until it separates— sends the thing crashing to the ground with one less leg. 

With it grounded, the man gets to his feet and adjusts his grip on his machete. It's not going to be down for long, despite the loss of his leg. He obviously knows this, and works fast. He positions the blade over a chink in its defense, puts his left palm at the butt of the handle, and jams the entire blade into its exoskeleton. If bugs had blood, John imagines arterial spray would have decorated the man's face— misted over his light brown skin, brought out the depth of his eyes, heightened the white of his teeth. 

As it is, there's just satisfaction there, and a chunk of exoskeleton caught in one of his black curls.

All of John's breath leaves his body and he slumps back to the earth. "Fuck," he wheezes. "Thank you."

"No problem," the man says, less breathless than John, somehow. God, John's trying not to stare, but he's gorgeous. Wiry, with a rugged beard. He looks like he should be the lead actor from some apocalypse movie, not trapped in the gruesome, ugly reality.

John blinks and notices that the man has a hand extended toward him, palm up, to help him stand. "Oh." He hesitates a second longer, then clasps their hands together and allows him to pull John up. "Thanks."

"Don't worry about it." God, his grin is so disarming. "Name's Wes. You are?"

"John."

"Hey, John." Wes looks him over then, briefly, from his shoulders to his feet. "I don't- I don't mean to sound judgmental here, but where's your weapon?" John laughs sheepishly and rubs the back of his head. Wes smiles just as big at his reaction. "'Cause, ah– you're not gonna last so long out here without one."

John huffs. "I can usually take care of myself. I got separated from my group. Lost my gun."

Wes's eyebrows scrunch. John cringes. "Gun?"

"Yeah. We– yeah."

Just like that, Wes has gone closed off, face tight, machete no longer held limp but clutched tight. "Right," he says, clipped. "Probably time we go our separate ways."

"It's not so bad to use guns," John says defensively. "So long as you have the supplies to fight off the other bugs it attracts, there's no harm in it."

"Not everyone has those supplies!" Wes snaps. He jerks a step forward and jabs his finger into John's chest— John swallows hard. He's got his machete held in the same hand, all his fingers but the one poked into John's chest wrapped tight around it. He flickers his eyes down to the machete, then back up to Wes's eyes, squinted and furious. "And the only reason groups like yours have those supplies is 'cause you don't care what you have to do to get them. Who you have to hurt!"

John's lip curls. "Survival isn't always fair."

"Neither am I," Wes spits.

John opens his mouth. Before he can speak, Jacob's voice calls, "Put the knife away or I blow your head in."

John looks to the side. Jacob stands at the top of the hill with his shotgun brandished, the barrel propped on his shoulder. Joseph is behind him, face passive as he examines the scene, and Faith is at his side, looking as huffy as a child. John's chest loosens in relief. "What're you doin' having so much fun without us, Johnny?" Faith calls. She looks meaningfully at the bug's corpse, and Wes standing over it. "With such misguided, handsome company."

Wes jerks a step back and sheaths his machete reluctantly. "Don't shoot," he says, calm despite the disgust marring his pretty face. "My group isn't far. We've got a pregnant woman with us."

"Then you better scurry home," Jacob replies. His jaw is set hard, eyes unkind.

John's family is not fond of people who threaten him.

Wes's own jaw tenses in turn. He cuts his eyes from Jacob to John, just for a moment. "I'm going," he says, with a quiet but easily understood disdain.

[amethystpath-writes]

Okay so this isn’t my original idea but remember that one post where it was like one soulmate is killing their other soulmate to stay immortal but their soulmate keeps on being reborn or just doesn’t stay dead for long??

If that’s too confusing basically can you do a continuation of your own prompt there the villain is the immortal, not the hero. (Prompt 41?44? I don’t remember oops)

I don't think I know that post, but if you still want me to write it and you can find it, feel free to send another ask! For now, I'll just fill the prompt!

******

“But- but I killed you.” Hero swore he couldn’t breathe. Villain wasn’t supposed to be in front of him right now. He- he was supposed to be in the morgue or wherever they kept and processed dead bodies. He was supposed to be dead. This had to be some kind of trick. Maybe there was a part of Hero’s mind that felt guilty for killing Villain, and now he was hallucinating. “I watched you die. I- I checked your pulse. You’re dead.”

Villain huffed and rolled his eyes. “Why is this always such a surprise to everyone?” He took two steps forward, watching with boredom as Hero flinched back, shielding his eyes. “You need me to pinch you? Convince you I’m right in front of you?”

“Not real,” Hero muttered. “Not real, not real, not. real. It’s in my head. It’s just in my head.”

Tossing his head back, Villain sighed. “Most of your little crew in the past at least tried to swing at me, finish the job. Some of them actually achieved killing me for a second time. I was impressed! Much more exciting than what you’re doing right now.” Hero kept muttering. Villain asked, “You really think you’re imagining me still? What’s it gonna take? Do I need to jab you in the gut? Would that help?”

Maybe I’d deserve that, Hero thought, continuing to consider the concept of guilt. What Hero was really curious about right now was, How is this so real? He acknowledged it was all fake, but he didn’t think his brain was capable of creating such a realistic version of Villain. The look, the voice, the condescending tone, everything was drawn up to a T. It shouldn’t have been possible, especially after a whole week of Villain’s death.

“Alright, this is getting old. I want to try something new since I haven’t had this reaction before. You really shouldn’t be a hero if you go into shock this easily.”

The image in front of Hero was moving closer. Villain was pulling something out from behind him. Hero already knew what it would be; Villain always kept handheld weapons back there in case his powers- whatever those were, Hero never knew- were unsuccessful. Usually it was throwing knives. This time it- Hero swallowed.

“You remember this. Good.” Villain nodded. “I figured you would, given how you stabbed me with it- rude.”

Now Hero had the sense to stand from his seated and shaking position. As a change, he was now in a standing and shaking position. This was becoming real to him- too real.

“Okay. What I’m thinking is that I clean this blade- a very pretty one by the way; love the chromatic look…I’m going to go over to that sink, and I’m going to clean this.” Villain made his way to Hero’s kitchen, turning on the sink like he said he would. He began scrubbing with the pad of his thumb. “I have two reasons for this: one, there are other victims’ blood on it now- from the morgue; they were about to cremate me if you can believe it. Props to you; that was my first time ever being in one of those places. And, two, because I want this to play out for you as it did for me- it was clean before you stabbed me with it; it should be clean before I stab you with it.” Villain turned with the blade now clear of any blood.

Hero couldn’t move, but he didn’t need to, did he? Because this was all his imagination, all his guilty conscious. Nothing else.

“You aren’t going to do anything to protect yourself,” Villain observed aloud. “You’re just going to stand there shaking like a rotting leaf stuck in a tree during October. Fine, then. Might as well take this to my advantage.”

**

Unable to move or think for himself, Hero was easily taken by Villain. All the while, Hero continued to believe this was a hallucination. Villain absolutely could not be alive because that meant- that meant he could…No. Villain can’t- can’t come back to life.

Hero knew for a fact he killed Villain. When he bled out, Hero listened to the silence of his opponent’s chest, watched its stillness. He. Was. Dead. It was that solidity in Hero’s mind that made him deny the obvious fact in front of him. Because it was impossible to become…undead. It just wasn’t possible. And since it was impossible, the person standing in front of Hero, talking to someone or something else in the room was fake- was a ghost in Hero’s head.

“-tired of this game. It’s becoming boring, but I found some entertainment for myself, and I think it can become a lesson to you. See…”

A red light was in front of Hero’s face. He looked, blinking slowly, beyond the red light to Villain. Hero didn’t quite understand where he was, or what his mind was conjuring up at the moment. He felt so tired because of his current insanity, and so it didn’t matter much what his location was.

“I think this can serve as a lesson to you- not that I care to help you, but it gives me an excuse to torture a poor soul.”

Hero blinked again. The red light belonged to a camera, he realized. Villain- or Ghost Villain- was recording him and talking to whoever was watching on the camera. In all reality, Hero figured it was he who was recording himself. Maybe he was even talking- he didn’t know. He was likely telling his base leader about how he was losing his mind and thought he was in a cellar-like room with Villain.

“I’m going to screw this back on the tripod, and then, I’ll show you what happens when you guys keep sending your men to kill me. It doesn’t work, alright? And I’m tired of dying.”

The chromatic knife was lowered in front of Hero’s eyes. He didn’t startle at it, but, as it was lowered out of his vision and Villain’s amused grin replaced it, he felt worry. Worry turned to searing pain in Hero’s leg and he let out a blood-curdling scream, grasping at the cold ground, fingers curling into fists that grasped onto nothing. The same pain magnified again as the knife came into sight once again- this time half coloured with red.

It’s real, it dawned on Hero as he finally looked down to find a hole in his leg. “A-augh!” It was throbbing and he swore he could feel his blood pulsing out of the wound. His stomach twisted with his pain and he turned to his right as to not throw up on himself.

What made the pain in Hero’s leg worse was the fact that his muscles were clenched. He couldn’t relax them no matter how hard he tried and that only meant the throb was everlasting.

The knife made its strike again- this time down the arm opposite of Hero’s now-injured leg. He hollered again, writhing and crying in anguish. “Stop! Stop it!” Quieter, he repeated to himself, “It hurts. It hurts, it hurts.”

For once his body protested as he eyed Villain in front of him. His good leg twitched like it was ready to assist in springing on and tackling Villain to the ground. But the controlled side of Hero’s mind told him it’d only make him hurt worse. Not to mention, he might land on the blade and therefore kill himself. Wait. “You’re- you’re going t-to kill…kill me.”

Villain paused, tilting his head almost curiously at Hero. “That was the plan originally, but then you fell to cowardice, and that was boring.” As he spoke, Hero could feel his limbs jumping, spasming. “So, now we’re doing something else. Kinda like it, actually. Centuries have gone by, and I never actually took my time with any of you. For once, I am seeing the true and utter fear I felt when I died for my first time.” Villain continued, “I could have been such a great person, you know? I would have been a perfect good guy, unable to die and all. But instead of seeing that vision, I was seen as a threat to humanity. They began hunting me, trying to figure out how to put me down for good. I decided to fit their little role, though.”

What Villain did and said next shocked Hero. “Go on, try it.” Villain held the blade handle out to Hero on the ground. “Take it. I’ll let you kill me again, and then you can leave.”

“You’re lying. That’s- that’s a stupid th-thing to- to offer. Why would you l-let me kuh-kill you, then let- let me go?”

Villain shrugged. “Something new. I want to live something different this time. I told you many times that few have killed me twice- and the ones who did it were killed as soon as I could find them. I want to see how far you can go if I give you a month’s head start.”

“You- you want to hunt me.”

“I do. Seeing as you did it to me, I think it’s fair.” He jutted the handle out to Hero again as an offer. When Hero took it, Villain said, “I know I took out your dominant arm out, but- well, I have confidence you’ll do just fine if it means you get to kill me again.” Villain tapped at his chest, right where his heart was located. “Go on. I know you want to.”

Hero considered this for a moment, staring at the knife- at the knife with his blood on it now instead of Villain’s. Did he ever question why his organization was going after Villain? Not really. He just knew Villain murdered every single man Leader sent out. Maybe it was self-defence, in which case Hero shouldn’t have been going after Villain like he was, shouldn’t have killed him like he already did once and was being given the opportunity to once again.

But now was different. Now, Villain really was sadistic- assuming he wasn’t before. Villain, if he was any sort of a healthy and sane man, would have had Hero jailed for trying, and succeeding, in killing him. Or, if he was afraid of the authorities taking him in for being- ahem- unkillable, then he would have only kept Hero locked up. Villain wouldn’t have had Hero in a cellar room, stabbing and slashing at him while a camera recorded it all. If Villain ever was good, that morality was stripped from him now, and that meant Hero needed to take this chance at life. Maybe he could go back to his base and demand answers. Because based off what Villain told, they knew he was immortal, and they never told Hero- or Hero’s previous teammates, who were now ‘mysteriously’ dead.

Without another word, or even a warning glance, Hero weighed the knife in his left hand, gripped the handle, and slashed at Villain’s throat. As he laid dying, Hero searched for the key on Villain’s person, and left.

[a-singleboat]

Serious

Word Count: 3.3k

Request: can you do emily prentiss x fem!reader with some angst? Thanks! - anon

Warning(s): Reader gets kidnapped, blood, stabbing, general gore

When you first started dating Emily Prentiss, you knew the risks. It wasn’t easy dating a high-profile government employee, especially when you were roughly six years younger than her. If anything, it made it even harder especially when your lives didn’t seem to line up at all. While she was Unit Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit in the FBI, you were working toward your first pHd out of, hopefully, two. 

So while she was out catching serial killers and the rest of the mortal evil in the world, you were attending classes and conducting research on “The effectiveness of rehabilitation in prisons and the criminal justice system.” It was riveting stuff, really. A pHd in forensic psychology would put you on the path to becoming a criminal researcher like you’d always dream of. 

Well, technically you wanted to be a criminal profiler but you weren’t all too athletic and based on knowing what your girlfriend did, decided on a career change shortly after gaining your bachelors. What Emily did seemed exhausting, quite frankly, and you could make just as much of a change as she did out in the field by sitting in a lab. 

But what made things really hard between the two of you was the fact that due to who you were as a person and what Emily did for a living, you have attracted a very adamant stalker who was twice as likely to turn violent than the rest of them simply because he’d known you earlier on in life.

Unfortunately, your oh-so-loving stalker was a man by the name of James Carlton, who’d felt slighted in the way you’d rejected him several times over the course of your high school career. Yeah, you didn’t really pick up the sentiment of “Treat People with Kindness,” until about midway through your sophomore year of college. Some could say you’d brought this on yourself. 

“I’m okay,” you assured your girlfriend through the phone, crossing your arm over your torso and leaning against the wall. It reeked of cigarette smoke despite the huge sign on the wall stating that smoking was prohibited within fifty feet of the establishment. You peered through the gauze-like curtains, searching the motel parking lot for the tell-tale sign of the FBI’s arrival. “I’m just a bit shaken up. Though, I think he might have my psychology paper. I can just reprint that though.”

“Of course out of everything you’re worried about, it's your goddamn paper. You shouldn’t be worried about your grades when your life is in danger,” Emily advised, the sirens blaring in the background. 

“But my grades are all I have right now, well, except for you.” You risked another glance out the window. “How long until you guys get here?” 

“Five minutes, tops,” Emily assured her. “We’ve already passed the library.” 

A shadow passed in front of the window as you took a step back in shock, the frightening electric blue eyes of the very man you were running from staring straight at you. He pressed a sheet of paper against the window, a sadistic grin spread over his features as he leaned into the musty glass. 

In crude sharpie, the words YOU CAN’T HIDE FOREVER had been scrawled over the careful ink of your psychology paper. You really couldn’t pass that in for a grade now. 

Smoke started to creep into your room through the vents, forcing you into the center of the room as you covered your mouth and did everything you could not to breathe in. You just had to last four more minutes. 

You whimpered as you saw the door handle jiggle, James having disappeared from the window to attempt breaking down the shoddy motel room door. You could barely hear Emily asking what was going on over the thumping of your own heart as your vision blurred. It was either you stopped breathing and passed out or took a breath in and passed out anyways. 

You managed to whisper, “He’s here,” into the receiver before you collapsed, gasping for air. Not even a moment later, you felt a hand at your waist as someone heaved you over their shoulder. Unfortunately for you, it probably wasn’t Emily. 

By the time you came to, you were already thoroughly scared. Your dreams had been anything but pleasant, flashes of torture blinding you even before you were awake. But still, you kept your eyes closed and your breathing even as you tried to figure out where you were.

It felt dark. With nothing covering your eyes, you could tell that it was as well. The air smelled damp, like an old towel that had been left sitting for too long. It was cold as well and as far as you could tell, you were underground. You were willing to bet you were in a cellar of some sort. 

Slowly, you moved your left foot only to realize your ankles had been shackled to the extremely uncomfortable bed. It felt like you were laying on hay, which was completely possible. The prickly sensation at your back was either that or hair, which would have been extremely unfortunate. 

A door opened on the other side of the room, causing you to stiffen. You choked back a sob as you struggled to keep your breathing under control. 

“Oh, Y/n,” James cooed, running a finger down the side of your face. You heard more footsteps before the door slammed shut, causing you to tense up once more. “You’re awake, aren’t you, baby?”

You figured there was no reason to hide anymore, flinching away from him and his use of the pet name. Emily called you baby all the time, something you’d grown to like in your relationship. You never liked the name before her. 

“What?” he asked, pulling down your blindfold. “You don’t like it when I call you baby?”

Instead of focusing on him, you turned your head so you could analyze where you were. You were right, it was dark. There was a dim floor lamp in the far corner, weakly emitting an eerie glow over the room. By the lamp, barely within reach of the light, was another man. He had a gun on his hip and stood protectively in front of the door, as if he were waiting for something.87

James was a lot more prepared for your abduction than you originally thought. This would make it difficult for your rescue but to be honest, you were doubtful that you would make it to the next day. 

He grabbed your face, forcing you to look up at him. You tried to sink further into the scratchy mattress but he followed you, a sadistic smile on his face as he just got closer the more you tried to shrink away. “You thought you were safe?” He got closer, chuckling. His rancid breath washed over your face and you held your breath until it subsided. “You’ll never be safe. Not as long as I’m alive. You know why?”

You really didn’t want to know why. 

“Because I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, darling.” He traced a finger down the side of your face. “You’re never getting away from me again. You’re mine.”

“You’re delusional,” you managed through gritted teeth. “I’ll never be yours. I wasn’t in high school and I sure as hell am not now.”

James scoffed. “You popular girls were always the same. Always thinking you’re better than everyone just because you were well liked.” He slapped you, causing your head to whip to the side. The sting from his palm meeting your cheek hurt more than it normally would. You could already tell that it was already reddening even without the help of a mirror. “Though, I have to give you props. Ashlynn didn’t last this long before she was sobbing for her life. You really surprised me.”

“Ashlynn?” This was news to you. In high school, you’d surrounded yourself with like-minded individuals all more self-conscious than the last. Ashlynn was the “head bitch” as others put it. She was like the Regina George of your friend group. “So after me you’ll go for Georgia and Penny, is that it?” 

“You always were the smart one, weren’t you?” James said, backing off. He walked over to a table just out of sight, picking up a knife and running it over a whetstone a few times. You winced at every stroke, watching as he sharpened his weapon with glee. 

“You really should have saved me for last,” you said, choking down any fear. James raised the blade into the air, admiring the sharp edge before strolling back over to you. He pressed the knife against your collarbone, barely applying any pressure. 

“And why’s that?” 

“Because my girlfriend’s going to come for me,” you said, gasping as he forced the blade into your skin. You felt the trickle of blood slide down the side of your neck until it dripped off onto the mattress. “She’s an FBI agent, you know.”

James rolled his eyes. “And Ashlynn’s husband was a cop. She still died.” He pulled the knife back, resting the tip on your arm. “They still haven’t found her body, you know. It really shouldn’t have been too hard to find though. It’s where you and the rest of them used to hang out everyday after school.”

“Why are you telling me this?” You stiffened your arm, pushing into the mattress to escape the knife. There were two outcomes that you could see. Either Emily dramatically bursted into the cellar and managed to save you just in time or you got marked up and eventually bled out. You crossed your fingers and sent out a mental prayer that Emily would get to you in time. 

The tip of the knife dragged over your arm, splitting your skin like the Red Sea. Strangely, it didn’t hurt. The knife was so sharp that you couldn’t feel anything. You didn’t know if that was a good thing or not but at least it saved you from the pain. 

“Why am I telling you this…?” James brought the knife up and cut down the middle of your shirt, leaving you exposed. He traced a few letters over your stomach with his finger before turning the knife over in his hand, pressing the weapon blade-side down. It cut into your skin, the beginnings of an “M” blossoming on the right side of your stomach. “Because you’ll be dead by morning. If you refuse to be mine then there’s no point in keeping you alive. You think your idiot of an FBI agent can save you in time?” He finished carving his word into your stomach, pain blossoming across your entire midsection causing your sight to go blurry. He’d pressed harder that time which meant you actually felt each excruciating cut he made. 

James took a step back, taking the moment to admire his handy work before thrusting the knife hilt-deep into your stomach. 

You felt the pain, a searing white-hot pain right underneath where your belly button was. If you breathed wrong, you could feel the knife move, which was horrifying in many ways. You tried to make your breaths more shallow on purpose, not wanting to disturb the weapon jutting out from your stomach. 

And, just like a movie, the door burst open a moment later. Shouts of “FBI!” and “Hands up!” could be heard. You watched through blurred vision as James put his hands up, laughing maniacally as the blood left your body. Not only could you feel the blood drip down your collarbone and arm, but you could tell that your stomach was doing a good job of acting as a waterfall, watering the mattress below you. 

Unfortunately for you, your stomach’s waterfall performance was not beneficial to the cause of keeping you alive. The last thing you saw before succumbing to the darkness was your girlfriend’s extremely worried face and the muffled sounds of her beautiful voice. Too bad you didn’t stay awake long enough to hear any more. 

Emily was struggling between acting as the Unit Chief her team needed her to be and playing the understandably worried girlfriend to the woman that was bleeding out in front of her not even four hours ago. Thankfully they’d gotten to you in time. You hadn’t been bleeding for too long and the knife hadn’t been taken out which improved your chances of survival by a good amount. Emily wasn’t really paying attention when Reid was prattling off your survivability rate. She was more focused on making sure you actually survived. 

You’d lost a lot of blood. That wasn’t arguable. By the time they reached you, your neck was drenched as well as your arm. The pool of blood in your stomach wasn’t comforting either and the second she saw what had been carved into your skin, Emily had to excuse herself for a moment to go throw up in the bushes. 

And the worst part… the worst part was that you looked dead. You looked exactly like a victim in one of the many photos she’d see in a day. Your hair was wet--from what, she didn’t know, and you looked awful. After years of looking at the photos and consoling grieving families, she never even imagined that she’d be the one to be consoled. 

“The doctors are hopeful, but she lost a lot of blood,” JJ said, resting a hand on her shoulder. Emily didn’t react. She had your scarf clenched in her hands. It was the same scarf you’d given her after it started snowing on your fifth date together and you had to escape into your apartment that was nearby. You’d said that it looked better on her and smiled. God, she’d give anything to see you smile again. 

It was crazy how five years of love could be erased in just a day. Five years of morning phone calls when Emily was away, five years of at-home dinners after a long case, five years of just existence with you… it hurt to think about how quickly it could all just be gone. 

“This is all my fault,” Emily muttered, twisting your scarf through her hands. She let the fabric slip through her fingers, watching as it fell into a heap on her lap. “I should’ve never left her alone.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Reid was standing in front of her on her left side, his arms crossed across his chest. As much as he tried to make it seem like he hadn’t been crying, he didn’t really do a good job with hiding it. His eyes were red and his cheeks blotchy. The fact that he was sniffling didn’t help either. 

Reid and Y/n were best friends for years before Emily came along. The two of you actually met through Reid. You’d brought him lunch one day and it took about five weeks of seeing you around before Emily got the guts to ask if you were single--to which Reid had smiled wide at and answered that yes, you were single. 

“I was the last person to see her,” he said. “If anything, it was my fault.”

Rossi scoffed. He didn’t know you as well as Reid or Emily but after years of having you as Emily’s plus one for dinners at his mansion, he’s gotten to know you better than most. You saw him as a father figure and he saw you as one of his own. “Neither of you should be blaming yourself. Y/n is here and she’s safe, that’s all the matters now. We can’t change the past.”

Says the man who obsessed over an unsolved case from his prime, Emily wanted to say. But she held back. Arguing wouldn’t get them anywhere and as much as she hated it, Rossi was right. You were safe with six government agents plus one technical analyst and one retired government agent sitting outside the room where you were receiving surgery. 

“Y/n’s tough,” Morgan said, resting his own hand on Reid’s shoulder. He’d been there a lot toward the beginning of your relationship, quickly becoming the older brother type that you never get to experience as an only child. “You both know that. She’ll pull through.”

The night passed into its eighth hour when the doctors finally emerged. Emily was the first to stand, slapping Reid’s shoulder until he woke up and stood with her. The rest of the team had either passed out or left. Alvez had gone home, as had Lewis. The only other people that remained were JJ, Morgan, Garcia and Rossi. 

“Most of the injuries she’d sustained were superficial. They should heal within a week or so,” the doctor, Dr. Smith, informed them. “She’ll be in pain for a few good weeks as she heals. The stab wound to her stomach will take longer to heal, the knife having gone deep enough to penetrate her uterus. We expect she’ll make a full recovery.”

Emily frowned. “And the carving?”

“Wasn’t deep enough to scar,” Dr. Smith assured her. “In fact, most of the knife injuries should heal without scarring. Just the stab to her abdomen should scar.” 

Reid nodded, thanking the doctor before turning to Emily. He looked more relieved than worried, which was a good thing. Y/n would be okay. 

“I thought I was going to lose her,” Emily said. Your scarf had become a bracelet of sorts, securly tied around her wrist. It still smelled like you, though it had faded since you’d given it to her. 

“Do you want to go in and see her first?” Reid offered, looking over at the Intensive Care Unit you’d been moved into. They could see you through the glass now. You were asleep, most likely exhausted, and rightfully so. You looked peaceful asleep, a familiar and welcome sight, though she usually saw you like this when she came home late from cases. 

“Shouldn’t we let her sleep?” Emily asked, eyes not moving from your still frame.

Reid looked over his shoulder. “Well, I don’t think anyone’s going to go home until she’s awake. You could go sit with her until she does.” 

Emily nodded but she didn’t move. She was torn between wanting to be by your side and wanting to just leave you be. Reid pushed her toward you, motioning for her to get along with it. 

She crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her. Immediately, the silence was apparent. Compared to the occasional sound of chatter in the hallways, your room was completely silent. It was a welcome change, though Emily would have much rather preferred the space be filled with your laughter. 

Emily pulled a chair from the wall over to where you laid, sinking into the uncomfortable faux leather. She reached for your hand, taking it in hers. Your skin was still as soft as ever thanks to the hand cream you use nearly every chance you get. The dumb little habit had things slipping from your fingers more often than not but Emily was always there to catch the occasional glass. 

You had a few paper cuts from the speed at which you read, and though you were nowhere near Reid’s 20,000 WPM, Emily swore that you consumed material faster than he did. For a brief moment, Emily thought about leaving you. The world was dangerous enough as is without a constant target on your back because of her occupation. Maybe you’d fare better with someone who wasn’t as high profile. 

But then she thought about what you would say--you’d reprimand her for being an absolute dumbass before telling her that dinner was ready with a smile. Emily leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your palm before settling back into the seat. She refused to let go of your hand, bringing the chair as close as possible.

Emily would wait a thousand years if it meant you’d wake up and be in her arms once again. She drifted off to sleep with your hand still firmly intertwined with her own, a reminder that you were safe and that she would never let go of you again. 

TAGLIST

PERMANENT

@beautiful-holland​ @toms-order​ @starlightfound​ @grandmascottlang​ @positiveparker​ @bippity-boppity-boopa​ @caswinchester2000​ @andreasworlsboring101​ @imladylunaticbitch​

[mable-stitchpunk]

A Fool’s Endeavor: Sparring

Still at the beginning of their travels, Jester Lure and his companions have stopped at a small village to rest. During the night, Lure cannot sleep, so he goes to find a distraction. Little does he know but he is not to be alone long.

-

  The night was cool and the jester caught the scent of smoke from a nearby bonfire or chimney. He grimaced at the familiar smell and turned to the edge of the inn, stepping into a small alley and into the patch of empty space between the inn and the house behind it. It wasn’t much room, but it was enough for what he was intending on doing. The cover was more than enough to keep him from embarrassing himself and somewhat protect him from less than savory watchers. He looked over the spear, weighed it in his grasp, and lightly began to sway it back and forth. He jabbed it forward into nothing, as though stabbing a snake through the scales. It felt like it would be easy to wield it. Perhaps this would be a better choice than playing around with a short knife with a slippery grip.     Just when he was starting to become familiar with his invisible enemies, he heard the sound of low footsteps from behind. Paranoia kicked in and he braced himself, clutching the spear close to his chest as he waited to see if they were passing by or watching. Another soft footstep. It could’ve been that man that was watching back in the inn. Lure held his breath and pointed the spear ahead, hiding the opposite end between his arm and torso. He took ahold of spear tighter and waited for the footsteps to get closer. Once they did, he shoved the bamboo spear back, striking whoever it was with the blunt side of the weapon. It made contact, but then the intruder grabbed ahold of the spear and yanked at it. Lure spun himself around and used his weight to try and yank the pole out of the man’s grasp.     There was Morrick. Looking tired and as sober as ever, he yanked the spear easily from Lure’s hands. Though the jester wasn’t exactly fighting to keep ahold of it.     “If you had a proper grip, you wouldn’t have lost this,” Morrick spoke as he lifted the spear for emphasis. Lure didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or not, but he had run out of words for a moment or two. “…I expected Balsam to ask me how to use this, but he isn’t interested in fighting. He’s made that clear.” Morrick continued, “but you are, and if that means you need to learn then so be it.”     “I think I know what you’re suggesting, but you’re trying too hard to be vague,” Lure pointed out. Then the amusement returned, “And you scolded me for my wordplay earlier.”     “Do you want to learn?” Morrick asked directly.     “Are you willing to teach a jester?” Lure challenged back. “Even though I’m such an untrustworthy fool, would you risk your time?” He then remembered that it was not the knight who had said those words- mostly because Morrick got a confused look. “You can’t stand me.”     “More the reason to get you in a battle,” Morrick retorted. The corner of his mouth turned upwards in a small smirk. Something was weird about it. Or, more accurately, something about seeing the smirk made the jester feel a lot smaller. “If you agree to it, then I’ll help you. If you won’t, I won’t offer again.”     “Then we have the night!” Lure jovially remarked. He took the spear back and put immediate distance between them. He needed at least a foot of space to regain his bearings. “Teach me, dear knight. Teach this humble fool the art of your trade.” He planted the spear into the dirt and gave a dramatic bow.     “Don’t go too far. We’re starting with something close.” With a few steps, Morrick was back to looming over the jester, who stared upwards at him. “This is the easiest thing I can teach you and probably the most important thing that you can learn. Since you don’t have much formal training and are weaker in the arms, this will be the key to stopping your enemies.” He took the spear right back. Then in a subtle swoop, he caught the pole behind one of Lure’s feet and knocked it out from under him. The jester teetered a moment before regaining balance.     “For someone made for jester work- hopping around and moving too much- something like this doesn’t seem effective, but the bigger they are the harder they fall. If it’s a knight wearing armor and they go down,” Morrick smirked. “They stay down.”     “That’s clever, but it seems a little…”     “It’s basic,” Morrick finished. “You need these basics to keep you afloat. You can’t just wield a spear for one day and think you can handle anything above the simple rules.” His smugness then returned once more. “Now let’s see how many times I can get you on your back.”     Morrick showed him the exact same motion as before, but slower. After that one time he began to make due on his promise; he began attempting to outright knock the jester down. Lure was quick, he learned fast, and he nearly danced his way out of every motion.     Then Morrick’s eyes shifted upwards. “There’s someone watching,” he forewarned. Lure blinked and looked back into the night.     “Probably just that guy eyeing us- Ugh!” This was the first time that Lure hit the ground. He immediately felt his ribs seize as the muscles in his back protested. There was a wave of pain that he wasn’t expecting. After a moment, he choked in air, “That- Very clever.” He coughed and made no attempt to stand. “…If you just broke my ribs, I’m making you carry me back upstairs.”     “That was barely a stumble,” Morrick scrutinized. Not that the jester was surprised; not only had he probably seen worse, but he knew absolutely nothing about the wounds he was recovering from. “More of a reason not to get knocked down. Make sure to focus on your enemy.”     “You were so much more fun earlier,” Lure lamented as he rolled onto his side. “Just need a second.” Sweat caused his already tight costume to cling uncomfortably and everything felt too stuffy. Especially his mask, which he regretted not being able to just take off. Being on the ground only made it all feel so much more uncomfortable.     The knight wandered over to a stack of firewood propped behind the inn and sat himself down. He briefly checked over the tethering on the spear before setting it beside him and staring out. He had brought his new weapon with him as well but saw no reason to unsheathe it. It wasn’t the weapon being taught; it would just leave the lesson confused.     Then Lure pushed himself upwards and stared across the grass at Morrick. The mask seemed to almost glow in the scarce moonlight, giving it a haunting appearance. His voice was direct, “Why don’t you like jesters?”     The knight remarked with a dry chuckle. “You’re taking that fall harder that you are supposed to. You’re supposed to get back up, brush yourself off, and fight back.”     “No, not the training. How dull do you think I am?” Lure corrected. He crossed his arms defiantly, still sitting on the ground. “Let’s do this now so that we don’t have to do it later when Balsam is watching. You clearly have trouble being in a group with a jester.”     “I don’t trust people who I know for only a day and almost manage to get me killed,” Morrick agreed, “but you manage to still stand out on your own… Ever hear of the tale of Mince the Martyr?” Lure perked at this question.     “Of course! Mince the martyr monk leaves the monastery- with a jester, of course- to find a dragon’s tooth so that he may impress the king of the lands. Who hasn’t heard that one?” He tapped his gloved fingers on the ground. “Mince then lets it go to his head, takes all the credit, and becomes the king’s right-hand man. All the while, the jester-.”     “Stabs him in the back with a silver blade,” Morrick broke in. “The jester is jealous and gets his revenge… But you’re not the type for revenge.”     “And that means?” Lure’s voice lost any forced interest. It now was stuck on a low tone, prepared to snap back. “You can’t assume that all jesters would kill for revenge.”     “I don’t,” Morrick clarified. “I could see you as more like Mince. I could see you abandoning us if there was a better path.” Lure’s hands tightened in the grass. This wasn’t what he expected to hear and it was surprisingly upsetting him. He sort of would’ve preferred being compared to the jester in the scenario. He closed his eyes and forced himself to stand.     “That’s really a shame,” Lure answered. He stared Morrick down with coldness that wouldn’t make it through his mask. He spat out, “because I didn’t get these bruises on my body protecting myself.”     With that, he turned and headed off. He couldn’t roll with it, he couldn’t stay in character, and he angrily went to leave.  By time he stepped back inside Balsam and his shared room, he was a mess of frustration. He stormed over to his bed and tore off his mask, throwing it down on the bed. Then he started to go for his cowl-.     The door started to open and anger turned to alarm. Lure let out a choke and fumbled to reach for his mask. He couldn’t tie it on in time, so he was stuck holding it against his face as he turned back towards none other than Morrick. Morrick sent a glance to Balsam’s bed, seeing him still asleep, and crossed to the jester. He handed over the spear and the jester stiffly accepted it. He then expected the knight to leave, but he didn’t. Instead, Morrick quietly spoke.     “I apologize,” he started. “You took care of the princess, you protected her… And my suggestion that you would turn against her or any other is out of line. I think I am above judging someone over their profession…” Morrick took a moment to pause and Lure crossed his arm over his chest. It was supposed to make him look more unwavering, but he doubted it was working. “…But we’ve antagonizing each other since we met and this partnership isn’t going to work unless we can get past this.”     “It’s just part of the act,” Lure defended. He clutched himself a bit tighter. “I’m not actively trying to disrespect you, I’m just doing what I’ve done for years. Eventually you become the mask.” He tapped onto his mask for emphasis to this claim. Then he shuffled around on his feet.     “I know. I can’t afford to take it hard, not when we’ve got more important things to worry about.” Tiredness passed Morrick’s face and he suddenly looked more human than knight. It was a baffling transformation and more potent than his confession at the campfire. “We need to pull together for the sake of the journey and the sake of the princess.”     “If we don’t kill each other first,” Lure muttered softly. Yet while he said this, he couldn’t help but be in a state of shock. Nobody ever apologized, let alone acknowledged that something they suggested upset him. Especially considering that it was a nobleman currently admitting that he was at fault, when in actuality it was them both. “But… You’re right. Maybe I have been antagonizing you a little too much. Balsam seemed to think that…” He let his voice trail off. Before Morrick could add in, Lure continued. “I apologize as well and I agree that we need to try and work together. This… General bitterness- whatever this is, we’ll have to work around it.”     “I agree.”     “As do I.”     “And I would be honored to teach you. You’re willing to learn from a knight who failed in his golden hour; that is much more respect than I have shown you,” Morrick offered.     “And I would be honored to learn,” Lure responded. “To even get the offer is more than most would give.”     Unfortunately, this led to a long period of uncomfortable silence. With Lure still holding his mask and Morrick looking towards Balsam, neither seemed like they knew how to end this conversation. Then the knight took charge by turning and heading to the door to return to his room. The jester set the spear aside and followed him to the door and considered how he would end this.     “One more thing…” Lure quietly alerted as Morrick stepped out into the corridor. “You’re much more fun when ale’s involved,” he playfully quipped. He awaited a response, wanting to see if everything was really back to being alright.     “Maybe,” the knight agreed. Then a small smile came back with a slight smugness added. “At least I can handle it.” A joke at the jester’s expense, but certainly not malicious. Instead of offense, Lure felt relieved.     “That stuff tasted like lamp oil and you know it,” Lure denied right back. “But if you ever get anything worth a damn, let me know. Preferably something that had to be aged.”     “I don’t think you’re ready for something that strong. Might put you on your back,” Morrick pointed out, “and I can do that without wine.”     “I don’t exactly like the way this conversation is turning,” Lure pointed out with a small chortle. “So, I bid you good night, my good knight.” Then he shut the door. It was over and maybe this time the recovery would stick.     His pulse started to quicken in giddiness. A knight- of noble blood- had spoken to him as an equal, even after treating him like something much lesser. There was a funny anecdote here, but it was too late and he was too tired to work it out.

-

This is the turning point in Lure and Morrick’s relationship, for after this moment the two work to become civil and the animosity wanes. Though they began travelling together before this, this truly is the moment where they become companions.  And the beginning of the temptations that come with it.

- - -

A Fool’s Endeavor: https://www.amazon.com/Fools-Endeavor-Janetje-Amabilis/dp/1719844909

[into-crazy]

More to the Madness Pt. 8

Ledger!Joker x Female Reader series

Summary: You and J throw some knives after your sex sesh. With the night off, you engage in a twistingly fun time together.

Warnings- Cursing, self-conscious thoughts, brief harassment(not from you or J), violence, murder

You can find the other parts RIGHT HERE and through the “More to the Madness” tag lovelies💞💞

Redressed in your red attire and shoes, you glanced at your discarded underwear. Torn completely to shreds. Collecting the fabric pieces, you couldn't help but giggle at the fact that you will now have to go commando the rest of the night. Which is quite comfortable. The only downside being you'll have no breast support. Poor girls. You stuck the futile garments into your boots. You'll dispose them later.

No traces left behind.

As for your bodily fluids in the mattress, grimy as it sounds, you have no choice but to risk leaving them to dry up and hopefully be forgotten with the building. Not like you have a sponge and a bucket of bleach on hand. You excused yourself from the bedroom to freshen up in the bathroom. Luckily the water that still ran in the desolate complex was clean. Actually, you're just lucky there's running water to begin with.

Enclosed in the private enclosure, you quietly observe your post sex state. Facial features blotched out with various colors, much like a paint bomb went off in your face. Murky water fell into the sink when you rinsed your face clean. There was no hope for your tangled hair, you redid the buns best as you could. You weren't sure how long you stood staring at your reflection in silence.

Mere seconds, a few minutes..

Solidarity time to process what happened. Try and calm those bothersome questions running rampant through your head. It wasn't until you heard the hasty knock at the door.

"Hope you're not up to anything sketchy in there." Joker's voice came from the other side, an obvious hint of annoyance in his tone.

You blink back into reality. That's when panic set in. Shit, oh shit! Your makeup is in your car. What are you supposed to put on to cover your face? "N-no," you give a half-assed answer. There's a shuffling noise then the door's barged open.

"Then what's the hold u-" J's words were abruptly cut off at the sight of your face, "-p." Utterly uncovered to him, for the very first time. His eyes scan every single feature, as if he were burning you deep into his memory. He's fully gathered, with a fresh coat of greasepaint. Which no doubt he slathered over the last layer.

You had no choice but to stare back, wide eyed and waiting. Why is he looking at me like that? Is he repulsed, disappointed?

Shooting his glance to meet yours, he smiles before finally speaking. "What's with the ah, shocked expression doll?"

You struggle finding the right response, "I, uh, I don't have any makeup on me." Turning away to peer disapprovingly at your reflection.

J huffs, "you don't need it." He leans against the door frame, closely watching you through the mirror.

Shaking your head, you scoff, "believe me, I really do." It was in the way you said it that made him figure you weren't only referring to confining your identity. Purposely avoiding his gaze. The distaste in how you're looking at yourself, almost embarrassed of your appearance.

Sure. When you're wearing the disguise, you feel like the sexiest, most confident woman alive. Because everything which defines your face, is hidden. Take that off, remove the cover, and all the insecurities flood in. Pinpointing each and every detail to find a flaw in. No matter the times you were told differently. By that sweet old woman at the entrance of your complex who calls you a "beautiful young girl." Or when random citizens heartily complimented your smile. Though it was appreciated, you just couldn't see what they apparently seen.

Joker couldn't grasp the way you viewed yourself. Staring with strong resentment and disgust. And you didn't have to say what you thought- he saw it through you. It didn't make sense to him, he's the one with the scars. The permanent mangled marks embedded in his flesh- protruding from his face, visible even under layers of paint. Yet, not once have you looked at him the way you are right now towards your own reflection. He sees no reason for it, he doesn't like it, and he wants it to stop. Right now.

"Y/n," he sighs heavily, stepping into the small space. The use of your name getting you to turn and meet him as he props both hands on the counter either side of you. "And you should listen to me when I say You. Don't. Need. It." He sternly punctuates every word. "Anyone ah, thinks otherwise can deal with me."

Alas, you manage a half smile, "I think otherwise."

"Well bunny, I guess you'll have to ah, take it up with me. Besides, no one else is gonna have the luxury of seeing my dolls pretty face tonight. Just me." His tongue grazes his lips with the statement. Which earned a genuine laugh from you. No other words needed to be said on the matter, your eyes spoke gratitude for you.

Thanks J.

With that, he left you to finish up. To him, it was becoming awkward, since he's not one for emotional stuff. He thinks it's pointless, there's no room for any of that in his world. He hardly(HUGE emphasize on the hardly) ever addresses his own. Therefore he didn't know how to help you cope with yours. He tried to the best of his abilities, despite how uncomfortable it might have been. Nevertheless, you were grateful.

Joker took the liberty of plucking your harness off the floor. Intending to hand it to you when you came out the bathroom. But instead stopped to marvel at the few selected weapons secured on the piece. He was especially intrigued by the throwing knives. Pulling a blade from it's secure compartment, his gloved fingers traced the smooth finish on both the blade and handle. Crossing your arms, you watch as he examines the item.

"These are something," he notes tussling the blade in his hand, "little small, but they have weight. I adore a girl with ah, unique tastes.. how come I never see ya use 'em?"

Dropping your arms, you sneer, "one, I haven't gotten around to it." Reaching out, you pluck it from his grasp. Positioning it between your thumb and middle finger, index grazing the back. "And secondly," you turn in a stance to throw, flashing him a cheeky glance, "you never ask." With a quick motion, you whip your arm towards the wall releasing the knife. The force sending the blade to pierce into the drywall. A good ole classic no-spin.

He cocks a brow at you, "not bad doll. Not bad." You reach into the next compartment for the other. Since the blades are on the heavier side, you only carry two on you. Which is really all you ever need. Lose or break one, you have replacements. Flipping it over, you wave the handle out for J to attempt.

"Your turn."

"Me?" He staggers, palming his chest in a dramatic manner. You nod, further beckoning the blade, trading it for the harness he still held. He squints at the diminishing look on your face. As though you're eagerly waiting for him to throw a bad toss. "Y'know," he acknowledges, "if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were ah, underestimating my knife throwing abilities."

"What?" You scoff, a playful expression spreading your cheeks, "what makes you think that? I didn't even say anything." Oh, how true was he. Falsely deny it all you want, you're certain he read it just by the indication across your face. Yeah, he's good with his knives, but how is he when it comes to throwing these bad boys?

Joker let out a sharp sigh, "ya didn't have to say it. Doesn't take much to throw a knife." In a lightning fast action, he launches the segment at the same surface. The sight of the blade actually gouged into the wall struck wonder in you. "Although, we could both agree that some skill would be quite beneficial." There goes that cocky grin again.

"Alright, that was good," you credit him, advancing to collect the pieces. Yanking them from the spots they landed. "Though moving targets are trickier," you tease passing him a second throw, "shame we don't have any of those around." You launch another flawless toss, reveling in the satisfactory form of it sticking into the old apartment wall.

Joker let out a breathy chuckle, "who says we don't," he hurls the blade, it lands inches shy of yours, "how about we go out and fetch us a couple?" A mischievous gleam in his blackened eyes as his tongue grazed past his lips.

You shake your head nonchalantly at his offer, which he was seriously considering. Pity the poor saps who'd fall into that category. "Tempting as that sounds," you return, "wouldn't you prefer letting me in on the next move?" Referring to the upcoming step in his plan, walking to collect for another toss. This time, it required extra effort to extract the blades you nearly flung yourself backwards. Cringing as your still sore from your previous activity.

"Later," J speaks before your throw, which wounds a slightly louder thud. "It can wait, the next job isn't til tomorrow. So we uh, got the rest a the night off." He chucks the blade using an underhand throw, it sticks the mark. Now, he's just showing off. No biggie. You've got a couple tricks up your sleeve.

"Oh do we?" You question as you recollect, "what did you have in mind?" There was a printed copy of a Harvey Dent propaganda poster taped on the wall to the side. A picture of Dent's face with the virtuous "I BELIEVE IN HARVEY DENT" slogan big and bold across the bottom. You tore the flyer from it's place, instead placing it in use as a target.

"Well," J states, "before you came in, I was in the process of ah, relocating." He launches the blade, it lands centimeters from the edge of the paper. Letting out a dissatisfied grunt upon missing the mark.

You hum, "Yeah, I seen that. Anything that involves getting some fresh air, I'm game. Because it's really hot in here." Fanning your warmed cheeks and neck with your free hand.

"Then," he replies, "take your shot so we can go." Motioning his hand impatiently for you to throw a toss.

You flash him a coy smirk, positioning the knife where the blade is between your fingers. Handle pointed away from your frame. A quick flick, you hurl the blade. Sticking the target, the blade piercing the eye of the man on the paper. The strike surprising even you.

"Hm," J sneers, "lucky shot." The low growl a clear indication he's irritated you struck it before he did.

"Yeah," you humbly gloat, a bounce in your shoulders, "was aiming for the neck or chest area, but I'll settle for that one."

~~

To Joker's dismay, his crew failed to leave him a vehicle. So you insisted on taking your car since it was parked only a block away. You left him to finish gathering what he's bringing to the new hideout.

You'll admit, you were a bit wary on letting Joker into your car. Partly because he's not exactly a neat person, nor careful to say the least. In addition, he's bound to draw attention in some sort of way. In the loud and chaotic manner that he can. And you're not in the mood to be chased by Gotham P.D. or the Batman tonight. To say your concern grew when you brought the car around, and he carelessly tossed three large duffel bags into the trunk. Two of which containing nothing but vast weapons, ammo, and explosives.

In the car, you wait. Fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel. Scanning the area to make sure no one caught either of you or identifies your vehicle.

J was quick with it, slamming the trunk to walk over to the driver's side where you sat. Knocking twice on the window to get your attention. You roll the window down a crack, and he tries the handle. It's locked. He tries again, "Let me drive, I wanna drive."

Shaking your head, you huff, "nu-uh, not a chance. I'm driving."

His gaze narrows as he leans in to speak through the small opening, "I know where the location is." Spoken on the verge of threatening. Like if you don't open that door and comply, you'll pay for it.

"The point of me driving is so that we don't draw attention," you explain.

He waves a finger at you, "fair point."

Joker didn't give you an exact address. He gave directions as you drove, telling you which streets to take and where to turn. This frustrated you because he mistakenly led you down the wrong street at least three times.

"Take a right here.. wait, that was uh, you were actually supposed to turn left."

You sigh, "seriously J?"

Reclining back in his seat, he grins slyly, "had you just let me drive, we wouldn't ah, have this issue." The little shit. Surely this is his way of punishing you for not letting him drive.

Apparently nothing in your car was off limits to him. The components of your glove compartment and console- he messily rummaged through them out of curiosity. He found the black eye shadow and lipstick you use. "So this is what you use for your eyes." He laughs waving the cosmetic in your view, "Hey ah, quick question, you didn't get your inspiration from me did ya?" He motions at the black paint around his eyes.

"No, I did not," you acknowledge, "before we even met I considered wearing an eye mask, but I decided makeup's more fitting. It actually allows me to see."

The street you were currently traveling was eerily quiet. Passing through the sketchier parts of the city, it's to be expected at this late hour. Only sellers and prostitutes occupying the corners. The few that there are anyways, they're in for a long night.

Coming up on a red light, your vehicle slows to a halt. J turns to glance at you, "ya could've ran that."

"Would've, could've, should've," you roll your eyes, "but I didn't."

He nudges your arm, "geez doll, lighten up. I know we're uh, layin' low and all. But have a little fun." Casually listing out, "run a red light, go thirty over the speed limit, hit a pedestrian, something."

See, THIS is why you're behind the wheel.

You were about to respond when a vehicle pulls up by your side. The light is still red, therefore it wasn't suspicious. Joker leaned back, obscuring behind the barrier of your seat to examine the car. You also turn to take a look. Three guys inside- windows rolled down, speakers blasting a tune. Appears they're out for a cruise, possibly up to no good.

Wandering eyes peek into your car and land right on you. You heard their voices as they talk obnoxiously amongst each other, a bottle in each their hands. They're drinking.. great.

"There's a chick in there!"

"Is there?"

"Yeah, yeah, there is!"

Your fingers grip the steering wheel in dread with what's coming next. Though nervous, you keep your cool, you've dealt with it plenty of times before. Just face forward and ignore them, they'll lose interest.

"Hey mami, how's it going?" A man calls. Another whistles at you like one would a dog, "look over here baby!"

You continue to stare forward, you're not concerned about them. The only thing worrying you to the max is having it happen with J sitting beside you. His jaw clenches and his hands ball into tight fists. So hard you could hear the pained squelching from the leather of his gloves. Growing angrier by the second, he reaches into his trench, pulling out his glock.

He goes for the door handle to get out. But your quick hand on his thigh stops him. As he looked back at you, you caught his blistering fury, ready to snap. You whisper, "no J- please- it'll draw attention."

He contemplated between staying in and getting out to handle the situation. His hand on the verge of opening the door as the men continue on catcalling. Words slurred from the alcohol in their systems.

This is the longest red light ever. Turn green dammit! You thought. Since they wouldn't get the hint, you retort to flipping them off. A clearer answer- I'm not interested, leave me alone. That only seemed to spur them on even more.

The man sitting shotgun shouts, "aye, come on baby. Don't be like that." The one in the back blurts, "Yeah, don't be a stuck up bitch! The three of us could give you a good night fuck." He then launches a beer bottle at the floor by your door, the glass shattering, a few shards scraping your car. They retort to laughing amid their own stupidity, going completely over the edge. You were nice enough to let it slide once, had they just stopped. However they chose not to, crossing the line into harassment.

Putting the car in park, you look at J. He's not going to let that slide, and neither are you. Pulling your gun from your thigh, you flash him a smile, "okay, I'm ready for that fun now." In return he grins back, wide and Cheshire-like, knowing exactly what you meant. Forget being subtle, you're gonna correct these disrespectful assholes- together. With a flick, the windows on your side of the car roll down.

Whistling and cheering, the men take it that you're giving in. You smirk darkly at them, cocking your head to the side. How wrong they were. You lean back in your seat, revealing J's presence next to you. If you could pinpoint the exact moment their souls left their bodies, you'd get it spot on. Eyes widening in fear as they see the Joker, you both holding the same spine-chilling expression. Confusion and panic wash over them.

"Ah shit! Hey man, that's the Joker!"

"The fuck is he doing with her!?"

Before they had time to react, you push your seat far back to aim your gun out the back window. J pointed his out the front above you. Savoring the sheer regret in their faces. A couple clicks are heard in the muted air, then you light up the car. The deafening gunshots ringing the street, echoing down the block.

When their movements stopped, you threw your shift back in drive. Flooring it the hell out of there before anybody could make you. Not to mention, the light was still red. The twisted mix of your shared laughter the last thing heard on the street as you drive away.

"Pull over," J instructs once you're a far enough distance from the scene. You comply, swiftly parking by the curb. Heated blood still rushing through your bodies, he grabs your face and kisses you greedily. You grab his wrists, kissing him back. It wasn't until you both needed air when you pulled way, staying close in your embrace.

The light from the lamp posts glows into the dimly lit space. Granting him the bewitching sight of his red spread across your lips panting against his own. It looks good on you. In fact, it'd probably please him if you'd sport his paint remains on your gorgeous lips. Perhaps maybe a lip shade identical to his, because red suits you perfectly. Especially his. He hums as the thought crosses his mind.

"You're mine." He breathes heavily on your lips, thumb swiping your flushed cheek. You trace his wrists in unspoken agreement. "Now scooch over hm, it's ah, my turn to drive." This time you didn't protest. When he got out and walked to the driver's side, you went over the middle counsel to plop onto the passenger seat.

It didn't take long to reach the destination. Within minutes, you arrived. To an enormous warehouse on the outskirts of the city. There are plenty warehouses that harbor the area. Many which currently remain in use, and some that are abandoned. The depot Joker, along with his crew, moved into was definitely one of the relinquished buildings. At least until now.

He parked a good distance from the entrance to the warehouse. Neither exiting the car just yet. "Did you ah," J starts, "did ya wanna come inside? I'll give ya a grand tour."

You take a moment to contemplate. "No, it's late. I better head home. Rest and come back for tomorrow's job- I mean if that's okay with you."

"Geez doll," he scoffs, "it's not like I gotta leash on ya- though we could uh, arrange that for another time if you're into it." His tongue clicking at the suggestive statement. "No- no, I won't hold ya. Ya wanna go home, go. Get some shut eye and be here early."

Joker grabs his bags from your truck while you take your place back in the drivers seat. Arms propped on the frame, you watch him drag the duffels onto the sidewalk near you. Chin lazily resting atop your arms.

"Now I better not find any trackers in my car." You jokingly mock.

"I look like the Bat to ya?" He throws back sarcastically, "don't push your luck sweetheart, you just keep givin' me great ideas."

"Some of which I might consider letting you take me up on." You can do this all night, the playful banter. Constant back and forth with snarky remarks. It's a strong, lively connection thriving between you two that somehow works. You like to poke him, he likes to poke back- harder. And vice versa. It never gets old. Alas, your body is exhausted and in need of sleep. It's quite noticeable, he can read the exhaustion on you. You smile warmly him, "night J."

Spoken so soft and calm, you're unsure whether he heard it or not. He did. Two light taps from his hand on the car's door proved to be. Thus ended your time together, and he stood there to watch your tail lights fade into the darkness before he finally deemed necessary to go about his own way inside the warehouse.

Man, what a night.

End of part 8. I hope this part wasn't too boring. I needed a good break from the smut- having written AND read😅 Anyways there's more to come!

[turning-dreams-into-chaos]

Banished (Part 31)

*Not My Gif*

Summary: When the 100 was sent to the ground, Y/N Y/L/N was one of them. Having been locked up for almost 8 years, how will she react to surviving on Earth? Especially when she gets banished…

Post Date: 1-11-20

Paring: Bellamy Blake x Reader

Word Count: 4.3K

~Master~

~Banished Master~

Previously...

“Clarke?” She was propped against a tree with a gag over her mouth and her hands tied together. She was screaming at you through the gag, but you couldn’t hear what she was saying as you moved to take a step towards her, and her eyes widened.

You could feel the blade of a knife on your neck as you froze, watching Clarke apologize with her eyes. “Drop the bow.” A gruff voice said in your ear, but you didn’t move. “Drop the bow.” He repeated, putting a little more pressure on the knife and making you pick your head up more and drop the bow to the ground. You could hear the man chuckle behind you as he looked between you and Clarke with a smirk. “Welcome, Skaikiler.” He said as you took a deep breath despite the sharp pain on your neck. Your eyes locked onto Clarkes and there was no doubt that you two needed to figure a way out of this together.

————

The knife continued to press into your neck, getting quite close to cutting you as you closed your eyes. You knew you could get out of this, you just needed to get your sword which sat upon your hip. You glanced down, seeing the handle poking out as you stared straight ahead and reached for your weapon fast.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man said as he grabbed your wrist with his other hand, keeping you from making the final distance. Your hand shook as you tried to pull it out of his grasp, but the second he let go he took your sword away, throwing it a few feet away from the three of you as you watched.

You didn’t know what to do at this point. You couldn’t quite move or he’d slit your throat, but by the looks of it he might just do that anyway. “So what now? Huh? What are you gonna do with the great Wanheda and Skaikiler?” You said, trying to get a reaction out of him but he didn’t answer you, instead he reached into his pocket to pull out more rope and began to tie your hands together in the front. You finally got a good look at the man holding you captive. His brown hair was long and frayed, dragging past his shoulders as it twisted in knots. His face was hard to see in the dark but as you kept glaring at him he pulled tighter on your wrists, making you wince before gagging your mouth.

He pulled Clarke off the ground, standing her next to you as he looked forward. “Walk.” He commanded as you and Clarke shared a look before following after the grounder.

Bellamy, Kane, Indra, and Monty day in the rover, waiting for whoever trapped to show themselves in the daylight. “It’s been 3 hours. What are they waiting for?” Bellamy asked, tapping his foot. He hated waiting for what ever is about to happen to happen. He just wanted to find you and Clarke. He was fine, sort of, knowing you were in Polis but knowing that you left drives him crazy.

“I say we make a run for it.” Kane shook his head at Monty’s comment, telling him that it’s what they want.

“The boy’s right.” Indra spoke. “They can wait longer than we can.” Kane nodded his head, coming up with a plan. Bellamy was to run to the turret with everyone covering him and then they would run to the ridge as Bellamy covered. Bellamy agreed to the plan, standing up out of the rover’s roof and almost instantly a knife was pressed to his throat.

“They’re here.” Bellamy sighed as he put his hands up in surrender, passing the gun to the man behind him.

“Get out or the boy dies.” The man pulled Bellamy out of the rover completely as Kane pointed his gun at the opening.

“Okay! Okay! We’re coming! Don’t hurt him!” Kane argued as he opened the door, everyone filling out of the rover before getting pinned down by the men and women trapping them. One of the man searched them, checking their coats and clothes before finding the tracker on Monty as he was pulled to his feet.

“It’s mine! Give it back!” Monty shouted, trying to grab the tracker from him. Bellamy watched Monty struggled.

“Monty! Let it go!” He shouted as one of the attackers froze, turning towards the struggling boy and removing her mask.

“Monty?” Everyone stopped, watching Monty’s eyes widen.

“Mom?” Monty and Hannah, his mom, embraced, thankful beyond the stars that the other wasn’t dead as Kane, Bellamy, and Indra got off the ground.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you.” Pike, the man who pulled Bellamy out of the rover, told Kane as they hugged and shook hands.

“We didn’t think you made it.” Kane said as Monty looked to his mom, asking where his dad was. Everyone turned to them, Farm Station’s attitude dropping tremendously as Hannah shook her head.

“He didn’t make it.” They tearfully hugged again as Bellamy’s head dropped, ignoring the pain in his chest as he focused on the less sad reunion.

Kane was asking Pike how many people they had left and Pike stood proud. “63. The rest are camped in the mountains north of here. Grounder killers one and all, am I right?” Everyone cheered at his words but Kane, Bellamy, and Monty were cautious, but Indra was disgusted as she listen and stared at Pike. Bellamy cleared his throat, trying to ease the uncomfortable situation.

“Hate to end this, but we have to find Y/N and Clarke.” He pointed out as Kane nodded,

But Pike just furrowed his brows.

“Clarke Griffin? If only all my earth skill students were as good as her. And Y/N...” He looked towards Kane who’s eyes fell to the ground, unable to bring them up. Pike didn’t need to think hard to realize Kane’s position. “I never had her.”Pike told them as Bellamy looked towards Kane.

“You wouldn’t have. She wasn’t old enough before being locked up then she wasn’t allowed to go after.” Bellamy frown as he thought about that but he couldn’t help but smile at Pike. “Good to see you Sir.” Pike and him shook hands.

“Okay, move the tree.” Kane said pointing to the tree as people helped move it. Bellamy joined as well, but then Monty came over, still distressed from his father.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked Monty who just stiffly nodded.

“I have to be.” They shared a look before they pushed the tree over with the help of Farm Station. Kane and Pike caught up, talking about Farm Station and being able to trust the grounders. They warned Pike about the Ice Nation, telling him that he could trust Indra but Pike wasn’t so sure. They told Monty to give Farm Station Arkadia’s coordinates before planning to head out for you and Clarke.

“We have reports that put them North of here. We could use your expertise.” Pike agreed to go with them, Hannah refusing to leave her son as the others sent off to Arkadia.

Your mouth was dry as your wrists were pulled in front of you, hours of walking talking the toll on you as Clarke looked at you. She was falling behind a little as you came upon a stream. Your wrists were pulled one last time before Clarke fell to the ground. Your eyes went wide as you looked at her.

“On your feet!” The man said as you tried to figure out what to do. You didn’t let him see your worries though as he came over, pushing Clarke unto her back and looking at her. “Looks as if Wanheda is human after all.” You just stood there until he grabbed your rope, leaving Clarke on the ground and pulling you over the water. He bent down to fill up his canteen as you took another look at Clarke. Much to your surprise, she was getting to her feet. You tried to keep quiet, not letting your kidnapper see your change before Clarke was on him, wrapping her bonds around his neck. He grabbed onto them, trying to keep from choking as they fought, your rope dropping in the process. You pulled the gag out of your mouth, joining Clarke on your knees on the water as the man stopped moving. You both froze, sharing a look before Clarke pulled her ropes off his neck, removing her own gag.

“Is he dead?” You asked but seconds later you got your answer as his elbow smashed into your nose, sending you backwards while clutching your bloodied nose as you were buried in the water. Clarke went down after you, having been thrown over his back next to you. You barely had enough time to breathe as you shot your head up out of the water before his leg landed on your neck. The man held Clarke’s neck as his knee held you down, both of you not able to breathe under the layer of freezing cold water around you.

You could feel yourself start to lose your fight as you clawed at his leg less and less. After what seemed like forever, you could breathe, your head above the water as you sat up, coughing out water. Clarke was in the same boat as you, both of you huffing and breathing deeply. The water washed out the berries Clarke used on her hair revealing her blonde hair once again but you weren’t focused that. Instead your eyes were locked on the branding on the side of the man’s face.

“You’re Ice Nation.” You whispered breathlessly as he locked eyes with you. He said nothing as Clarke and you stared at the scars. The Azgeda Grounder slowly reached over to you, pulling your gag up and into your mouth as you sat there terrified.

You had no idea how many Ice Nation grounders you had killed. And the reputation they hold on following rules don’t stand very well. You didn’t know if they would honor coalition, the one that protects your and Clarke’s life.

You were being pulled again only this time you were more determined to get away. You hoped that you would come across someone but no one was seen until you entered a field of grain. 3 grounders stood in the field as you and Clarke were thrusted onto the ground. “Quiet.” He whispered into your faces before you looked over to the other men. “Ice Nation scouts. We’ll backtrack and go around.” You know this was your chance at freedom as you looked at Clarke, seeing her looking at you before you screamed through the gag, Clarke joining in seconds later. When the scouts pulled out their weapons you knew your planned worked.

“Their deaths are on your hands.” You were told. There was no way he could take them, right? You began to realize what you had done exactly when you realized he took on both you and Clark at the same time and came out unscathed.

He put a sack over your heads, blocking your vision and took you to the scouts. The leashes pulling tighter as you slowed down to a stop and your kidnapper and scouts spoke in Trig. “Easy. I don’t want any trouble.”

The man revealed his brand as the scouts exchanged glances. “He’s ice nation. Who are they?” The first scout asked, pointing towards you and Clarke.

“Wanheda and Skaikiler. Prisoners for our Queen. I said I didn’t want trouble.” There was a few beats of silence before the sack was ripped off your head as you blinked the light away, seeing Clarke already un-bagged as the men got a good look at you. The four men began talking again as Clarke nudged you and you looked at her trying not to get caught. She motioned behind her, but you furrowed your brows. She motioned again, glancing at the men as you caught on and you both started running off as your leashes were dropped to the ground. You could hear two pairs of feet running behind you as you and Clarke split up. Two scouts chasing after you and Clarke as one stayed. One of the scouts kept up with you, his hand landing on your shoulder as you stopped, grabbing his wrist and pulling him in front of you. He staggered, allowing you time to knock him on his knees. You thought you had the upper hand until he pulled out his machete and your eyes widened. He swung at you, stabbing your thigh as your leg buckled, sending you to the ground as well and clutching your leg. You didn’t see it but soon the grounder next to you was dead, an arrow sticking out of his back from the man who supposedly wanted to take you to his queen.

The other scout landed on top of Clarke, a knife spilling out of his pocket and onto the grass as she grabbed it and hid it. The moment your ‘savior’ came upon her she stabbed him in the stomach before they tussled, Clarke ending with a knife to the throat at the end.

“If you’re going to kill me, you’d of done it already.” She told him as he smirked.

“There’s still time.”

You reached over to the dead man next to you, ripping off a strip of his clothes to tie around your leg. It was bleeding but the stab wasn’t as bad as some others you’ve had. As soon as your leg was settled you laid in the grass, trying to forget what you got into before the sun was blocked from your eyes.

“Get up.” The man’s gruff voice said as you groaned trying to get yourself off the ground. “Get up.” He said again.

“I am!” You barely got the words out of your gagged mouth before you were pulled to your feet, landing on your feet and both you and the man made noises of pain and you found the stab wound in his stomach. You figured it came from Clarke as your leash was fixed and you kept moving past the field, much slower with your limp.

Bellamy and his group left Niylah’s Trading Post, following the tracks they found on foot. They used the time to talk about what happened, everyone avoiding the truth regarding Monty’s father and the attacks on the grounders. They approached the wheat field as a faint sound of war drums caught Indra’s attention and she told everyone to listen.

She begun to look around before landing on two bodies not far from each other. “Azgeda.” She informs everyone while Pike looked at her skeptically.

“You can tell by sound?” She shook her head, telling them no but by the bodies as everyone finally saw them. Kane and Bellamy exchanged glances, nerves for you skyrocketing as they assumed the worst for you and for Clarke. They knew they had to get the bodies off the field before anyone else came along.

“Wait. Three people. Two o’clock.” Bellamy said as he looked through the scope of his rifle. He gasped as he saw your face, the gag in your mouth as you limped after some man who pulled you by the rope, Clarke’s blonde hair coming into view moments later. “It’s Clarke.” He pulled the scope from his eyes, locking on with Kane. “And Y/N.” Kane felt immense relief.

Bellamy took off, eyes locked on you but Pike got in the way, blocking him from running after the two of you. “You’ll never make it in time.” Pike told him but he looked right past him, seeing you disappear into the woods as he sighed.

“Guys, look.” Monty said behind Bellamy who clenched his jaw and brought his scope back up. An army of Ice Nation was passing through the field and Monty pointed out they wouldn’t be able to make it across without being seen. They agreed to wait out the army and hide in a cave but Indra refused to follow.

“Ice nation has crossed the border. They’re marching on the commander and I must warn her.” She told Kane who nodded, assuring her that they would get you and Clarke. “You better. If Azgeda gets them, they’ll be dead and we’ll be at war.” She left towards Lexa, leaving everyone to head towards the cave.

You made it into an abandoned subway, broken down, dark, and still secluded.

“Scream again and we’ll be dead.” The man flared at you as you shot him a fake grin, completely worn out and just in need of a rest. He tied Clarke and you to a beam and lit a fire, placing two blades in it. He pulled off his shirt, getting a good look at his stab wound as you moved your leg, relieving some of your own pain. “One more inch and I’d be dead. Maybe you’re not the commander of death.” He was looking at Clarke but she didn’t say anything, looking at you as you remained stoic, thinking of anyway to get out of this but nothing was coming to mind.

“Why are you hiding from your own people?” You asked, knowing that if you can get him to talk then he might tell you his plans.

Instead he just quirked his brow. “Why are you two running from yours?” That shut you up as you he was hitting the nail on the head exactly.

One knife was taken out of the fire, the tip a bright orange as he pressed it to his stomach, holding back a moan as he flinches and cauterized his wound. He reached to the other knife and walked over to you. You gulped, a little intimidated as he squatted down, ripping your pants by your wound before pressing the heated blade directly to your wound. You brought a fist up to your mouth, biting down and yelling into the limb as he finished doing your wound. It hurt so much more than you were expecting and the second it was done the area went numb. You didn’t realize he was speaking to Clarke about his loyalty to Azgeda, too caught up with the pain in your leg until Clarke got defensive.

“Like you’re so different. You’re in disguise, same as me. On the run, same as me. And in the wilderness, same as me.” Clarke pointed out as the man turned around, looking at her with narrow eyes.

“I was banished. Nothing like you. You had a choice.” He said as your jaw dropped, a slight scoff coming from your lips as he looked at you.

“So you’re like me.” Clarke’s head shot to you, seeing the similarities between you and this man as you licked your lips and shook your head. “Not everyone had a choice to leave their people. I might’ve chose to leave this time but I was banished twice.” You barely glanced Clarke but he caught it, looking between the two of you.

“And you still stay by her side.” You didn’t have a counter to that. He was right, Clarke and everyone banished you, threw you away without a second thought and yet you ran back to them. “I can’t take you home to your people because you’re the way back home to mine.”

Bellamy made his way out of the cave alone, the clothes of the grounder now upon him as he followed your steps. He walked through the Azgeda army, trying not to draw attention to himself but he was headed the wrong way. One of the soldiers stopped him and Bellamy thought he was screwed but instead he just fixed Bellamy’s direction, believing him to have confused. As soon as the coast was clear he took off again, followed the path he saw you and Clarke head off too. He got to the entrance of the subway, seeing spots of blood on the ground as he took a deep breath and made his way down with his sword out. He hid against the wall, looking into the room and seeing two bodies tied up against beams.

Your head was learnt against the metal beam your body aching from pain and stress as Clarke sat next to you, her head dropped as her eyes closed. A small scuffle of footsteps behind you caught your attention as you stood on alert. But once the sound of the scuffle stood in front of you, you thought you were hallucinating again. “Bellamy?” He reached out to you, brushing the hair out of your face, not at all believing you were really in front of him.

“I’ll get you out of here.” He promised you both but his eyes lingered on you and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was feeling. You gave him a smile as he started to pull the gag out of your mouth but movement next to you caught your attentions.

“Look out!” You shouted as Bellamy stood up with his sword but it didn’t matter as the Azgeda grounder got the jump on Bellamy and he was on his back with a knife to his throat.

“No!” Clarke shouted as you stared at Bellamy with wide eyes.

“Don’t! Please don’t!” You plead to the man as he listened to you and Clarke. “Please, we’ll stop fighting, just please don’t kill him!” You didn’t know if your words were getting through until Bellamy was pushed free and you felt like the weight was lifted off your chest as Bellamy looked up at you.

“Thank you.” Clarke whispered softly right before Bellamy was stabbed in the leg and you felt his safety slip through your fingers as you screamed along with him.

“Don’t follow us.” He told Bellamy before kicking his face and knocking him out. You couldn’t pull your eyes off Bellamy as your lip quivered.

This was not how you envisioned this reunion at all.

Bellamy didn’t know how long he was out, but when he woke up you were gone and Clarke along with you. He pushed himself up with the beams help and made his way out of the underground station.

Monty, Kane, Hannah and Pike all searches for the woods, finally coming upon a stumbling Bellamy. “I almost got her.” He told them as they checked up on his condition as they discussed what to do. Bellamy pushed on, trying to figure out a way to find you as Kane stopped him from walking on his limp.

“Hey, you can’t walk.” Kane remind him but Bellamy just shook his head.

“So What? We give up and let them kill her? Kill both of them?” Bellamy questioned as Kane disagreed.

“I want to find her too Bellamy but we have no trail. Look at your leg, you could die out here.”

Bellamy ignored the pain in his leg. “We can’t lose Clarke. I can’t lose Y/N. I can’t lose her.”

Monty approached the situation, assuring Bellamy that you both would be found and perfectly fine. Bellamy didn’t want to give up but he knew Monty was right so reluctantly he threw his arm over Monty’s shoulder and headed out.

A sack was placed on your head again and you could hear voices around you as you walked past people, not at all able to see them. You were led inside a room you assumed to be in Azgeda camp but once your bag was removed you froze, staring right at Lexa in front of you. She sat up straighter as you were uncovered.

“Wanheda. As promised.” The Azgeda grounder told Lexa before pulling Clarke’s bag off. Indra pulled you off to the side, leaving Clarke in the middle of the room.

Lexa spoke to the grounder, discussing a Clarke’s harmed condition before he jumped to his point. “I’ve done my part, now lift my banishment.” He told her.

“I’m told your mother’s army marches on Polis.” You weren’t sure if they could hear your gasp as looked at the man. His mother? “ I’ll honor our deal when your Queen honors my coalition. Lock Prince Roan of Azgeda away.”

Lexa ordered everyone out of the room and Indra led you out of the room. As soon as you were on the clear she untied your hands.

“I thought I told you to stay in Polis.” She said as you smirked.

“Come on Indra. When do I ever follow the rules?” She shared a smile with you, grabbing your hand before giving you a hug, a new action between the two of you that developed with in the late months. She walked you back to your room and you couldn’t help but ask questions. “Prince Roan. He was banished from Azgeda?” Indra couldn’t look you in the eye as she nodded.

“Part of the deal to allow Azgeda into the coalition.” She told you but you didn’t quite get it, asking her why he needed to leave. Indra didn’t answer just continuing on walking to your room. “Would Lexa truly let him back in?” You couldn’t help but feel bad for Roan. You were in the same boat many months ago. Indra could see the fight behind your eyes as she told you to leave it be and left. You watched the woman go before falling onto your bed and staring into the ceiling. Your brain might’ve wanted to break down Prince Roan’s story but you couldn’t focus on it because for the first time in three months you saw him. For the first time in thee months you saw Bellamy Blake.

A/N: Let me know what you think! Taglist is closed, thank you for everyone who supports this series! I love you all so much! ❤️

Edit: Okay, so i queued this and it never uploaded, sorry everyone.

Also I’m sorry for the “the man” and the “the kidnapper” parts in here cause in the episode you don’t know Roans’ name until the end and so Y/N wouldn’t know it and it became very hard to write and not sound repetitive and still have you able to tell who I’m talking about.

Permanent: @literal-fand0m-trash @just4muggles @saturn-aka-six @nathaliabakes @whyamihere-bro @colored-confetti @wiseeggspickleslime @sadn0va @btsiguess-kpop @galacticstxrdust @independentgirl @wellhellotherelovey @hollymac79 @delicately-important-trash @emcchi @rauwz @herondalescecilys

Bellamy: @jodiereedus22 @nyxxxwtp @danielabetancourth

[katymacsupernatural]

Love is the Only Gold

Dean Winchester x Reader

2000 Words

Written For: @heavenandhellbingo​

Squares Filled: Indra

Warnings: A little angst

The paper between your fingers was brittle and yellow with age. The words were hard to follow, written in beautiful penmanship long forgotten. Your brow was furrowed as you tried to understand the old English but it was nearly impossible.

“Find anything?” Sam asked, leaning back in his seat, closing the large book in front of him.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. This book is so hard to read that the answer could be right in front of me and I wouldn’t know.”

Sam chuckled just as Dean came striding into the small hotel room, his arms full of takeout. “How’s research going?”

“How do you always seem to finagle your way out of research?” Sam teased, taking on the paper bags from his brother, pulling out a couple of tacos.

“He does do that, doesn’t he?” You agreed with Sam just as Dean handed you your food. Rolling his eyes, he pressed a kiss to your cheek before he sank down in the empty chair beside you.

“I’m not stupid,” he chuckled. “But I still did research.”

“How?” You and Sam both asked, your mouth full of fast-food Mexican food. You had turned your chair, propping your feet on Dean’s lap, watching as he took a huge bite out of his burrito.

Talking with his mouth full, Dean answered. “At the restaurant, they were talking about the disappearings. How each woman had been at this bar the night before. The Golden Elephant. Who the hell names a bar the Golden Elephant?”

“And?” You prodded Dean on, wanting him to get to the point.

Rolling his eyes, he set his burrito down. “They all talked to the same man. He was tall and medium build with black hair and dark brown eyes.”

“So we’re thinking this normal looking man tore these women to shreds. With his bare hands?”

Sam had finished eating by this time, and he leaned forward. “Just because he’s normal looking doesn’t mean he’s actually normal. Each of the women has scorch marks on their skin. Almost as if they were burned by lightning.”

You slipped your feet from Dean’s lap, sighing in frustration. “So we know that these women were at this weird bar and met a normal looking man who could have then electrocuted them and ripped them to shreds. What type of monster does that anyways?”

“No clue,” Dean shrugged. “But I thought we could go to the bar tonight, see if he shows up. He has a type.” Dean was staring straight at you, and you immediately knew what he meant.

“Me? I fit the bill?”

He nodded, reaching out and grasping your hand. “You know I hate using you as bait. But you fit the description of the other women that have been taken. And Sam and I will be at the bar the whole time. And you’re a badass hunter who can take care of herself.”

You hated when Dean through your words right back in your face. But you knew he was right. Five women were dead, torn to bits and you wanted it stopped. Even if it meant putting yourself in harm's way. “Fine. Do I have to dress a certain way?”

“Nope, you always look good,” Dean assured you, pulling you to your feet. “Got your knife?”

You nodded, tapping the knife holster on your side. You refused to go anywhere without the special knife that Dean had given you for your birthday. It was coated in silver, with an iron handle. Enochian was etched along the blade. “Good,” he answered. “Let’s get this party on the road!”

Within the hour you were perched at the counter of the gaudy bar, sipping on a glass of whiskey. Your eyes hurt at all the gold decorations shining in the lighted lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Gold trim and paint-filled almost every available space. A large golden elephant was perched behind the bar, it’s trunk lifted proudly in the air. The entire place smelled of incense, tickling your nose.

It was not your usual type of bar, and you couldn’t wait until you could get out of there. Until you could go back and crash for the night with Dean’s arm safely around you. Instead, you kept your eye out for the man in question, wondering exactly what he could be.

You didn’t have to wait long before a man sat down beside you. He smelled slightly of jasmine and orange blossom, with a hint of musk. He had thick wavy black hair, his skin smooth, the color of an almond. His dark chocolate eyes looked you over, a hint of something almost other worldly catching you off guard. “Hi,” he spoke, his voice thick with an accent. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I’m new in town,” you answered, wondering how he could affect you so much so quickly. You could feel your heart rate picking up, your mouth dry as his gaze stared right through you.

“I’m Indra,” he announced. “And you are?”

Your mind worked fast, trying to figure out where you had heard that name before. “Y/N,” you mumbled, your eyes widening when he reached out, taking your hand in his.

“Beautiful, absolutely beautiful,” he spoke, his voice captivating. “Listen, I know you’re probably not the type of girl, and I’m not normally the type of guy, but do you want to get out of here? Find somewhere a little more...private?”

You could see Sam and Dean watching you from the shadows of the back of the bar. Dean’s face was twisted in jealousy, and you didn’t blame him. This guy was smooth and captivating, and you had to remind yourself this was a job. That Dean was the man for you.

Your knife was a reminder that you could handle yourself, so you shook your head, forcing yourself to smile.

“Perfect!” He gushed, standing up, keeping your hand in his, tugging until you were standing up. The lights flickered, energy crackling from his hand, slightly stinging your hand, and you glance down at it in surprise. “You’re in for such a treat,” he assured you, his eyes flashing blue.

You glanced over your shoulder, to where Dean stood with his hand clenched. Sam was already gone, no doubt stationed outside. “Indra.” You mouthed, hoping that Dean understood you.

Expecting Indra to take you out of the front door, he pulled you down the hallway. “This is my bar,” he exclaimed. “Do you like it?”

“It’s really...gold,” you muttered as you walked by a gaudy golden mirror.

He pushed through the privacy door, into a long hallway. The kitchen was off to the left, cooks and staff bustling to keep up with the crowd. Indra pushed through the door on the right, marked private and you stepped into another world.

Bright, bold colors filled the large space. Deep red and gold curtains covered the walls. Emerald and sapphire rugs were plush, piled with pillows of the same colors. A round gold bed was perched in the middle of the room, the cover a rich brocade.

Indra finally released your hand, going over to the wooden cabinet, pouring two glasses of a deep red wine. Handing you one, he peered at the room with pride. “Isn’t this place majestic?”

“It certainly is,” you agreed, wondering if Sam and Dean would be able to find you know. Feeling completely overwhelmed.

You remembered who Indra was now. He was a deity, a god. One that used the weather as his own weapon. You didn’t remember much more than that, but knowing you were dealing with a God? It had you trembling in your boots.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Indra spoke softly, noticing how pale you had become. He took the glass, setting it back down before pulling you into his arms. “I know this is fast, but you can feel the attraction, can’t you?”

You nodded, even though the feel of his arms around you had your skin crawling with unease. “I’m going to take care of you,” he assured you, his lips ghosting against your neck. Electricity ran from his lips, traveling up and down your side and you shivered. “This will be a night you never forget.”

With his lips against your skin and his hand brushing the bare skin of your hip, you slid your hand down, reaching for your knife. You had no idea if it would work against a deity, but you had to try.

His hand moved around, cupping your butt, pulling you tight enough against him you could feel his excitement through his linen pants. Squeezing your eyes closed, you swung the knife as hard as you could, slamming it into his back.

His grip tightened on you to the point of pain, and you opened your eyes to see his flashing blue. The lights flickered in the room, thunder cracked outside. “How dare you!” He exclaimed. He pushed on you hard enough that you went flying across the room, landing on the bed with a bounce.

His eyes continued to flash blue, electricity sparking from his hands. “You dare try to kill me with that knife?” He screamed, his voice making the walls shake. You could barely hear Dean’s voice through the door as he tried to get through to you.

Indra stalked towards you, lightning shooting from his fingertips, catching the curtains on fire. You struggled to move away from him, trying to get your footing on the plush bed, but he reached down, grasping your ankle.

His hand scorched your skin and you cried out in pain, kicking out and connecting with his stomach. Growling, he flipped you over, straddling your waist. “I was going to make you feel so good before sacrificing you. But now, I just want you to suffer!”

He raised one hand, the electricity still flickering from his skin, pressing it against your shoulder. Screaming in pain, you wanted to blackout, but you knew you couldn’t. It would mean certain death for sure.

Taking both of your hands, you wrapped them around his wrist, pushing with all of your might. Your fight surprised him, and you had the upper hand for just a second. But that’s all you needed. Turning his hand, the electricity he was going to shoot you with went straight into his heart.

His eyes widened in surprise before he slumped over you. Breathing heavily, you pushed against him, and he fell off the bed, his eyes wide open and glassy. Just then the door busted open and Dean came rushing inside, his gun held high in front of him. “Y/N?” He exclaimed, rushing over to you as Sam came in behind.

“I think he’s dead,” you whispered, your shoulder and ankle throbbing with pain. “I killed a God.”

“How?” Sam asked, bending down to make sure Indra was in fact, dead.

“With his own power,” you answered, letting Dean pull you into his embrace. “He was going to burn me with lightning, and I shot it into his heart instead.”

“That’s my girl,” Dean said proudly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Now let’s get out of here and pray to Cas to come to fix you up.”

The embers of the burning curtains hit the rugs, starting the fire all over again, and you knew within seconds the whole place would be up in flames. Dean picked you up in his arms, carrying you out into the hallway. You pulled the fire alarm before the three of you raced down the hallway, exiting through the back into the clear night sky.

“Wow, who would have thought that a God would be interested in me,” you chuckled.

Dean frowned, his mouth moving silently as he prayed for Cas. “Not that I was interested in him, of course.”

“Damn straight,” Dean agreed, setting you carefully down on the backseat of the Impala as Cas showed up. “It’s you and me, sweetheart. No sparkling fingertips or gaudy gold to get in the way.”

“Amen,” you agreed, pulling him down for a kiss.

Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82​ @acreativelydifferentlove​ @adoptdontshoppets​ @a-girl-who-loves-disney​ @akshi8278​  @bebravekeeponfighting  @bi-danvers0​ @brindz30​@cap-just-said-language @colette2537​   @deansgirl215​  @flamencodiva​ @hamiltrash1411​ @its-not-a-tulpa​ @jerkbitchidjitassbutt​ @justanotherwinchester​ @just-another-winchester​ @karouwinchester​ @keikoraventeller​  @krys198478​ @librarygeekery​ @magssteenkamp​ @misspygmypie​ @mlovesstories​ @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk​  @mrspeacem1nusone​ @nothinbuttrouble2​ @ria132love​ @ruprecht0420​     @sortaathief​ @superseejay721517​ @squirrelnotsam​ @team-free-will-you-idjiot​ @thing-you-do-with-that-thing​ @torn-and-frayed​ @tricksterdean​ @wonderfulworldofwinchester​ @woodworthti666​

Forever Tags: @aditimukul​ @alexwinchester23​ @algud​ @amanda-teaches​ @andreaaalove​   @artisticpoet​ @atc74​ @be-amaziing​ @camelotandastronauts​ @caswinchester2000​ @cpag7​ @chelsea072498​  @closetspngirl​   @docharleythegeekqueen​ @emoryhemsworth​ @ericaprice2008​  @esoltis280​   @foxyjwls007​ @gh0stgurl​ @goldenolaf25​ @growningupgeek​  @heyitscam99​ @hobby27​ @horsegirly99​ @imsuperawkward​ @internationalmusicteacher​ @iwriteaboutdean​  @jayankles​ @jensen-gal​ @just-another-busyfangirl @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son​ @lifelovelaughangell123 @li-ssu​ @linki-locks11​ @littleblue5mcdork​  @lowlyapprentice​   @maui137 @mersuperwholocked-lowlife​ @mogaruke​ @monkeymcpoopoo​ @musiclovinchic93​  @nanie5​   @percussiongirl2017​ @plaid-lover-bay25​   @roonyxx​ @ronja-uebrick​ @roxyspearing​ @samanthaharper2018 @samanddeanmyheroes​ @sandlee44​ @shamelesslydean​ @simonsbluee​ @sillesworldofwriting​ @sgarrett49​ @spnbaby-67​ @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester​ @spnwoman​   @superbadassnatural​ @thatcrazybookwormgeek​   @thewinchesterchronicles​ @vvinch3st3r​ @wecantgiggleitsafandom​ @whimsicalrobots​ @winchester-writes​ @zombiewerewolfqueen​

[prince-cally]

A little thing I wrote for Team Same Voice based off a Headcanon I have with @helixed-inferno about how Jack was the one who gave the Vagabond his jacket. Please enjoy!

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

Jack  knew that Geoff was desperate for a crew. It had been the two of them for some time. Old friends committing basic crimes. She knew Geoff craved more, so did she. However , she wasn’t sure about the man when Geoff dragged off the streets. She had heard of some rouge kid with a bad attitude on the streets causing chaos. She knew Geoff wanted to meet him and offer him a job. He already had a kill count, and the first time Jack saw him. She could see why. He was large but well covered. He was silent and barely spoke. He could easily sneak up on someone in an alleyway. She was surprised when Geoff announced he had taken the job. Now there were three of them. Jack decided she needed to do her best to welcome him into their small crew.

 Geoff had been working with him , helping him build his skills and trying to discipline the other. He had a bit of a temper in  him when he wanted. A few holes in the wall and bloody knuckles after fights had shown that. Jack did her best to get him to open up. She would chat with him - or to him whenever he was around.  A month went by before she heard him speak. He had a deep voice and soft southern accent. She found out his alias was The Vagabond , he was a year older than her and he was from Georgia. 

It wasn’t long before Geoff brought home two more kids , Michael and Gavin. The Vagabond fell back into his quiet self. Only responding in soft grunts and growls when the Jersey boy or Brit tried to speak to him. Jack felt like she was back a square on with him. She wasn't about to give up though. Training continued for them , and Jack found herself being paired with The Vagabond while Geoff handled the pair of best friends. Jack would talk about her experiences during cool down , The Vagabond sat and listened. Offering nods , grunts, and the occasional snort or chuckle. 

Finally, Geoff felt comfortable enough letting The Vagabond out on his first job. Geoff would be sending him out on a simple stake out.He would be sending Jack with him. The Vagabond grumbled in response and wasn’t seen again until it was time to leave. The Vagabond had his face painted the same the day Jack had met him. However, instead of being smudged from sweat and rain , it was clean and sharp. It scared the shit outta Gavin when he saw it. 

Jack was waiting by the car for Ryan. She leaned up against reading over the notes Geoff had given them. She looked up and offered the other a smile as he made his way through the garage. 

  “ Ready to go?” She asked , reaching to open the drivers door , his hand caught her wrist. 

   “ I’ll drive. “ He simply said, sliding around her. 

Shrugging she climbed into the passenger side. It was the first time he'd spoken to her in weeks.

 “ Seatbelt. “ The Vagabond growled , clicking his own into place. She obeyed silently. There was no reason to fight him on it. 

The first few minutes of the drive was in  awkward silence. The Vagabond reached forward and turned on the radio , turning to dial. He found a classic rock station and settled back into his seat. Jack almost swore she saw him smile. The drive was about an hour, they rode in comfortable silence the rest of  the way. The Vagabond pulled into the motels parking lot with a huff. 

“ Wanna grab the gear ? I’ll go check in.” Jack offered. He responded with a nod and another huff. 

She wandered to the front desk, using cash and the fake ID Geoff gave her, she grabbed the key and returned to the car. 

“ Looks like we’re in room 106. Right across from the appartement we’re supposed to be watching.” 

The Vagabond said nothing. This was going to be a fun few days , Jack thought with a frustrated sigh. Once in the room and set up , Jack dropped onto the bed. “ At least this is a nice room for a motel.” She said, mostly to herself. 

“ Geoff really went out of his way for us, huh?” The Vagabond chuckled a bit. 

The voice startled Jack, but she laughed a bit herself. “ I suppose so.” The rest of the night passed with nothing but the T.V and  passing traffic for noise. The Vagabond laid on his bed , back propped against the headboard. He was cleaning his knives, every once in a while there was a hum of approval or a sigh of annoyance from him. Jack had been reading details , for about the third time that evening. Wanting to be sure she had every detail, she sat the papers down.  “ I’m hungry. I think I’m gonna grab some food. Want anything?” 

“ Honestly, I could go for a burger.” 

Oh, so the fearsome Vagabond did eat fast food. She couldn’t help but smile to herself.

“ Alright , I’ll be back.” She ran down the street to a burger joint. She returned with food not much later.

“ One burger meal , and a surprise chocolate milkshake.” She hummed dropping his bag by his side. She glanced down , taking a look at his knives. “ Got enough of those? “

“ No.” He said, pulling out a fry. “ You never have enough weapons.” This time he was smiling. 

They ate their meals , flipping between the News and Jeopardy reruns. Jack caught herself glancing over at the other person. She had never spent this much time with him outside of training.Usually , The Vagabond stuck to his room, during dinner he’d grab his food and return with little notice to anyone. He’d give Jack a quick nod in thanks and be gone. Now she felt she could get a decent look at him. She could tell his black hair was dyed, his blonde roots starting to show from neglect. His jeans were worn and faded in places. He wore a plain black hoodie , she never saw him without it on. Now he had the sleeves pushed up around his elbows. She could see the tone muscles and  scars from knife fights that littered his arms. Looking closer Jack could see where the jacket had been sewon several times. The hoodie itself seemed thin too. Granted Los Santos was warm most of the time - It could still get cold during the winter. She suddenly felt for him. Wondering just what kind of live he lived before having a place at the Penthouse. 

“ Can I help you?” She nearly jumped at the sound of his voice. “ You’ve been staring at me.” When she looked at him, she wasn’t able to read his expression. 

“ No. Just never seen you with your sleeves rolled up.” She said. 

“ Ah, well there's a reason for that. “ He held up an arm, showing off the scars again.

“ I assume those are from fights ?” She asked.

“ Something like that.” There was a bit of smugness in his voice. She rolled her eyes as he pushed down his sleeves. She wasn’t going to pry into that.

“ Who's taking the first watch?” Jack asked. Moving off the bed and to the window. 

" I will. I don't sleep anyways. " He said plainly. Jack raised a brow, not sure if that was supposed to be a joke. She assumed it was not.

" Suit yourself." She finished her milkshake and tossed it into the trash bin. 

She looked at the time. It wasn't too late , about 12:30. However, if they were going to do this job right she'd need to be rested and ready. While she hot herself ready for bed , The Vagabond made himself comfortable by the window. He closed the blinds leaving just enough open that he could see the apartment across the way. The lights were still on. Hopefully he'd catch something tonight. Jack killed the lights and slid into her bed. She pulled out her phone, sending Geoff a quick text letting him know they were settled. 

" You won't sleep if you're on your phone." 

" Okay, Geoff." 

That got a snort out of The Vagabond. Jack couldn't help but smile to herself. She was surprised with how much more talkative he was when they were alone. Something in her chest lit up. After months was he finally opening up? She hoped so.

Jack wasn't sure when she fell asleep or how long she had been out-  but she woke up to The Vagabond standing over her. 

" Our guy is on the move. " Was all he said in a hushed voice. 

She sat up reaching for the light when he stopped her. 

" No. It could give us away. Apparently we weren't the only ones watching out for someone." He sat his gun in her lap. A dagger was in his hand and a tri-dagger on his hip. The Vagabond moved back to the window, peaking out of it. "No time for you to get ready. Now's our chance. "

 He quickly moved through the door. Jack sighed , a tank top and shorts wasn't ideal to fight in, but at least he let her have his gun. She followed him out the door and took cover between cars.  Their target was going in and out of the building in a frantic manner. He was throwing bags into the trunk of his car , he was on the phone with someone.

" Ramsey isn't going to get his fucking money. This much dough ? I'm not letting this go. I think he has someone watching me though. I gotta get out of here." The other man shoved the phone into his pocket. Using the man's panicked nature to go unseen The Vagabond moved across the street. A purr left the Male as he came up behind the other. He was so much bigger than the other man. Jack had never noticed how large The Vagabond was.

" I don't think my boss will be too happy to hear that you're taking his money." He purred out in a low voice." Also, if you think you're being watched. Maybe you shouldn't announce what you're doing while standing outside, dumbass."  

The man spun pulling out his own blade. " Who the fuck are you? " He shouted , swinging his knife wielding arm at him. " Ramsey sent you? Get lost asshole ! " 

Jack took this chance to move across the street , gun drawn and ready to fire. The Vagabond had the other man occupied. He effortlessly dodged the attacks of the other man. A hysterical laugh left his throat. 

" Oh, this will be easy ! But fun." The Vagabond laughed.

Jack took this chance to search the car.Looking for any sort of information on the guy, who he was talking to or where he could be going. She didn't expect this to happen the first night of the stake out , but hey , what could she do. She listened to the two men fight it out behind her. In case The Vagabond needed her for back up. He didn't seem like the type who would ask for it. And she wasn't sure he'd even need it . She let out a soft gasp as she was grabbed and pulled from the car. Apparently their man wasn't alone. Jack was able to get away from his grip, easily throwing him to the side. She felt for the gun which had been left in the front seat. She swore under her breath. It was a rookie mistake. Nonetheless, she stood in a fighting stance, ready to go. The guy picked himself up and pulled a switch blade from his pocket. At least it wasn't a gun , she thought. Jack and the man struggled for a moment, she had gained a few shallow cuts and a bloody nose. They pulled apart briefly and he lunged at her before she could react. In a split second Vagabond was in between them. The man's knife caught his hoodie and tore it open, it then caught his arm , leaving a deep stab wound. That sent a fire Through the Vagabond and his dagger found the other man's throat. He dropped the lifeless body like it was nothing. 

" Grab the cash. And let's go." Jack was picking herself up , glancing between the body and the Vagabond. Who had a crazy , pleased look in his eye. " We need to go before the cops show up. Someone was bound to see or hear that. Where's the other one?" 

" Dead." He said ,pleased and smiling. He already had his arms filled with bags.

She didn't say anything else, grabbing what was left. Jack packed the car as the Vagabond sweeped the hotel room for items that could give them away. Once it was clear they retreated into their car and left. 

Jack was driving this time. Taking back roads and detours to avoid any main roads just in case. After about thirty minutes of driving she pulled over. 

" What?" The Vagabond asked. He was still hyped up from the altercation.

" I need to fix up your arm. That looks nasty." 

" It's fine. Don't worry about it." 

" No." She said , reaching for the first aid kit. She got out and went to his side. 

" I don't need your fucking help." He snapped suddenly. " Touch me and I swear to God-" 

" You'll do what?" She snapped back. " You'll do what Vagabond? Kill me ?" 

He fell silent, eyes wide for a brief moment. Then he looked forward and stripped off the torn and blood soaked jacket. Jack tossed it in back and went to work on his arm. 

" Have you ever stitched yourself up before ?" She asked, trying to break the tense mood. " Vagabond-"

" Ryan." 

" What?" 

" My name is Ryan." 

" Why are you telling me?" She asked, genuinely curious. 

" You aren't afraid of me. I think that deserves you knowing my first name."

She snorted. " Why would I be afraid of you?" 

" I killed two men less than an hour ago. Threatened you - and yet you stood your ground." 

" Well, yeah. I don't fuck with punks." 

" Yet you put up with Michael?" 

They both laughed then. Once she was done, they rode back in comfortable silence.

Once back at the Penthouse, they unloaded the car , getting ready to take the bags to Geoff. Michael greeted them right of the elevator. 

" You assholes are on the news. Geoff isn't happy." He glanced down. " Maybe he will be once he sees all that cash of his that had gone missing though." Michael smirked. 

When they entered the living room,  a picture of their fake IDs was displayed on the screen. 

" Shit. We missed those." Jack sighed. " At least they were fakes." 

The screen displayed a news woman now. Way to dolled up for it to be covering a double murder. 

" The authorities are calling these two criminals "The Fakes" since all that can be found is their fake IDs. Whoever these criminals are - They are intelligent and dangerous -" Geoff switched off the TV.

" The Fakes. I like it." He said , turning to them. " Oh, you both look like shit. Put my money in the office and get cleaned up." They both simply smiled and did as they were told. 

Geoff ended up cutting them in a good chunk of money. He said it was for " all the troubles" they had to deal with. They weren't complaining though. It had been a few weeks and Jack decided that she had been laying low long enough. She went out to do some basic shopping and to just have some fun. When she returned she found Ryan at the kitchen table. She made her way to him and dropped a bag in his lap.

" What's this?" He asked.

" A gift? You've never gotten one before?" 

" Haha. Fuck you." He said playfully. He opened the bag and pulled out a leather jacket. It was black and blue with white strips on the arms. 

" What's this for ?" 

" I feel bad that your hoodie got destroyed. " She admitted and he rolled his eyes. " Plus you need something better to keep you warm when it gets cold.. and you seem like a leather guy ." She winked at him. 

That got her a true laugh. 

" I hope you like it and I hope it fits. I guessed your size."

" I like it a lot. Thank you, Jack."

" No problem, Ryan." 

[hiddendreamer67]

Borrower Analogical (2)

Chapter Summary: November 14th, 2019. Virgil goes borrowing and attempts to free Logan a second time.

(Check my reblog for links to previous chapters)

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

It was torture for Virgil to just sit inside the walls, twiddling his thumbs. He felt so useless. But there was nothing he could do except keep an eye on Logan. And even that was the extent of his power. If anything were to happen to Logan, all Virgil could do was sit by and watch it happen.

Viril groaned, putting his head in his hands as he sat behind the ceiling vent, the closest entrance to the human world from his and Logan’s home. At least the humans seemed to be leaving Logan alone for now. Virgil had heard Patton talking about how they wouldn’t want to frighten Logan and that it would be best to allow him time to adjust. Virgil couldn’t help but worry how short of a break Logan would actually get. And it was hardly a break at all, considering he was still trapped in that ridiculous cage.

Hearing the familiar click of the front door as the second human left for class, Virgil knew he had to take advantage of this time when the house was empty. Virgil propped the spool of thread against the bars, unraveling the length so that it reached the floor below. He could see Logan’s eyes on him as he maneuvered into the human world, sliding down to the floor below. Virgil was forced to leave the thread hanging out in the open, as it would serve as his escape route.

Virgil scampered across the living room floor, making sure to pace himself as he picked up his legs to keep his feet from catching in the long fibers. He longed to get Logan home right this instant, but without his hook Virgil couldn’t even make it up onto the coffee table. The legs were far too slick to provide grip to even the nimblest borrower.

“Get some paper clips.” Logan called out, tracking Virgil’s progress from above. Logan felt just as useless as Virgil had moments ago, knowing he could do nothing but give advice as Virgil did all the work. Because of Logan’s own ignorance, no less. Logan took comfort in the fact that at least he was the one behind bars and Virgil had not had to pay for his mistakes.

Virgil gave Logan a brief thumbs up, not even sure if the other borrower saw it as he dashed into the first bedroom. Virgil scoured along the floor, hoping he would get lucky and find the supplies he needed scattered along the ground. Unfortunately he had no such luck; it seemed Roman had finally cleaned his room after years of clutter.

“You just have to make things difficult, don’t ya princey?” Virgil groaned, leaning back to peer up the leg of the desk. Here the wood was old, with nicks and grooves that would make decent footholds. It was a dangerous climb, but Virgil could manage. He didn’t have many options.

With great difficulty Virgil pulled himself up the large wooden pillar, stopping only briefly to take a breath every now and again. Thankfully Virgil was quite skilled when it came to feats of agility, and it was only a matter of minutes before Virgil was clambering onto the top. He ran over, gathering up a few paper clips and tossing them to the ground. He turned to climb back down, when a glint of something on the other end of the desk caught his eye.

Was that…? Virgil dashed over, grabbing it up with a large grin. He had already made his peace with never being able to see it again. Thankfully, this wasn't the case. After all, a paper clip would do in a pinch, but they bent far too easily to make reliable climbing gear. This abandoned fish hook, on the other end, had saved Virgil’s life on multiple occasions from a nasty tumble.

Virgil hooked the device into the table edge with practiced ease, grappling down to the ground. With a flick of his wrist the hook became unlodged before Virgil caught it in his palm. After wrapping it around his belt, Virgil gathered up the paper clips in his arms and ran back to the living room.

Virgil threw his hook up onto the coffee table, putting the paper clips on like oversized bracelets to free his arms for climbing. He grunted, forcing himself to hurry. College classes only last so long.

“Ah, wonderful.” Logan praised, noticing all that Virgil had acquired.

“Yeah yeah, I’m amazing.” Virgil smirked, approaching the bars. He frowned at the padlock, the newest addition to Logan’s prison.

“Hand me a clip.” Logan instructed, and Virgil handed it over. Logan began to bend the metal, twisting it around to try and fit it into the lock. Virgil watched as his friend tried a variety of various positions, none of which seemed to have any effect on the mechanism.

“..Let me try.” Virgil offered, getting a bit anxious when Logan failed. Logan begrudgingly let go, allowing Virgil to take a stab at it. His attempts yielded the same results.

“It’s no use.” Logan declared after several minutes. “It’s too soft, it’s bending around instead of providing a steady base.”

Virgil released the wire, feeling his anxiety heighten as he realized their time was running out. He yanked the wire out, instead trying to stab the lock with a spare thumbtack he kept on hand. The handle made it impossible for the blade to reach far enough into the lock to actually do anything.

“That’s not going to work-” Logan was cut off by a frustrated Virgil.

“Well what is gonna work, huh?” Virgil felt rage and despair boiling inside him simultaneously. “You wanna just stay in there, at the mercy of those humans?”

“Of course not.” Logan’s answer was immediate, and the accompanying shudder Logan gave made Virgil’s heart ache with sympathy. Logan must have been terrified these last two days, especially when he had to face this all alone. Virgil knew he wouldn’t be nearly as brave in Logan's place.

“Then what do we do?” Virgil turned pleadingly to his friend, looking into his eyes for some form of guidance. Logan was always the smarter one. The clever one. Logan was the one who always had a plan. He had plans for his backup plans. He had schedules and ideas that Virgil could never hope to comprehend.

But today, Logan’s eyes held none of their usual spark. They were soft, unfocused. He resembled a lost child, and after a moment Virgil realized that while he was looking to Logan for guidance, Logan was doing the same back at him.

“...you should go.” Logan broke eye contact first, looking down. He rubbed gently at his sides. “You don’t have much time.”

“We have enough time.” Virgil insisted, but the constant clicking of the clock on the wall behind him said otherwise. “We can figure this out.”

“Virgil, please.” Logan pinched his eyes shut, as if this pained him more than the bruises from earlier. “I’ll.. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that!” Virgil’s retort came out with a bit of a hysterical laugh, and Virgil vaguely realized he was downright panicking. Logan’s self-righteous demeanor was freaking him out a little.

“Is that what you want to hear?” Logan’s eyes snapped up, glaring at Virgil. “Fine, you’re right. I don’t know I’ll be fine. You’re right, I’m wrong. And you were right yesterday, too. I should-” Logan’s voice cracked slightly. “...I wish I had listened to you. You warned me. I shouldn’t have gone.”

“For the same reason, please listen to me now.” Logan’s gaze turned to one of pleading. “Virgil, I cannot bear to have you stuck in here with me. At least when you’re out there I know you’re alright, and I can hold onto hope that you will find a way to get me out of here.” Logan grabbed Virgil’s hand through the bars, giving it a comforting squeeze. Whether it was to comfort himself or Virgil was unclear.

“I’ll get you out of here, Lo.” Virgil said with more determination than he felt. He grasped onto Logan’s arm like a desperate child. “I promise.”

“You are smarter than I ever give you credit for, Virgil.” Logan insisted. “It’s why I should have listened, and it’s also why I know you’ll succeed. You can do this.”

“At least one of us believes that.” Virgil gave a dark chuckle. Reluctantly Virgil pulled his hands back, pulling out his knife and putting it in his bag. He slung the paper clip wires over his shoulder, giving Logan one last look before grappling down. He ran over to the thread awaiting him from earlier, beginning the arduous task of climbing the entire length up to the ceiling vent.

When Virgil reached the top, he put his hands on his knees and allowed himself a few panting breaths before beginning to roll up the thread. Halfway through this task Virgil heard the sound of the front door. Heart pounding, Virgil’s hands flew to roll it up at twice the usual speed. The last inch of the thread disappeared between the bars just as the human bean entered the threshold.

[paellaplease]

Firebird | Chap.1

pairing: Revali/Original Female Character genre/warnings: adventure, romance, slow-burn. graphic descriptions of pain. later depictions of self-injury. scarring. burning. swearing. canon-typical violence chapter word-count: 2,847

author note: Props to revali’s VA for bringing such an interesting and compelling character to life, especially with the limited screen-time etc. I knew I wanted to write about him the moment he rocked up and started talking.

Hope y’all enjoy the ride. 

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter 1: Dagger and Arrow

If there was anything she was completely positive about, it was that death wasn’t painless and enchanting hurt even worse. 

*

She had felt death before.

It was a white, hot pain. Racing through her veins and making her muscles stiffen and squeeze as if she’d been struck by lightning instead of stabbed by a sword. Sometimes in her dreams it starts in the tips of her fingers, others it begins as a heavy weight on her chest. 

All times it hurts and it lingers. Swirling in her abdomen, making her feel sick as she briefly registers that her head was spinning, and the world felt very, very far away. Slowly, the edges of her vision would creep in. The commotion and screaming around her fading away till it was nothing but dull chatter.

Eventually, there would be silence and darkness. The pain ended just about then.

Yes, she’d felt death before. Or at least the worst parts of it. However now, standing in the middle of the Akkala Forge and staring at the lone dagger that sat on its pedestal in the centre of the black marble table…

She realised that on days like these, enchanting sometimes felt worse than dying.

The task was simple enough. The same she was given each month after weeks spent in study and preparation, training both her mind and body before her mentor deemed her ready to perform the procedure. 

Enchant the blade, make it work.

Gently, she exhaled a long, tired breath, glancing at the rune in disdain. There it was, marring the surface of her hand like it always did. An ancient pattern carved deep into her skin like a raised scar. The shape that looked almost like an eye at its middle seemed to stare back at her. What are you waiting for? It seemed to say. 

The rune had been there for as long as she could remember. It was the one thing she had left of her past, and also the main thing that reminded her of what her purpose was right now. 

Every attempt she’d made on enchanting a weapon had ended in failure, some more spectacularly terrible than the last. However today, on the eve of her twenty-fourth birthday, she was determined. She’d studied even harder this year, dedicating much of her free time to observing the smiths, and the rest to visualising the procedure. Today was the day she was to complete what was set out for her.

Gritting her teeth, she focused on the target and fanned her palm open.

The weather in the forge immediately shifted, transitioning from a stagnant cold, to a thick blanket of humidity. It was stifling, heavy in the same way the air would feel in the moments before a storm. 

The energy lying dormant in her veins ignited like a spark, low pitched and buzzing, singing loud and clear in her ears.

Bracing herself, a familiar burning sensation raced from her outstretched palm to the rest of her body, making her bite her lip as she focused on not calling out from how much it hurt.

The feeling worsened with every minute, the magical energy in her left hand pulsing to the beat of her racing heart. Carefully, she bent her ring finger inward, watching the rune illuminate in a blazing flash of blue light.

In an instant, jets of fire crawled up from the edges of the rune and into her five fingers, casting an eerie, orange glow on her pained face and making the air smell of charcoal. She pushed the fire further, the pain in turn worsening and making her head spin. 

Lines of fire raced out from her fingertips, wrapping themselves around the hilt of the dagger first and embedding themselves into the detail. The silver metal, now hot and red, began to melt and warp as the fire travelled up, searing a blazing trail into the metal of the knife.

Then came the worst part. Grimacing in anticipation, she grabbed the blade. 

The first time she had attempted the sealing stage, she had passed out in the workshop. It was the middle of winter then, five years ago. 

(She woke up the next day to the sterile chill of the village infirmary, sore as hell and smelling like a campfire.)

With time, she eventually learned to look past the spots that formed in her vision, fighting through the dull ache in her body and willing herself to stay awake. However, even with years of practice, her body wasn’t fully immune to the procedure’s effects.

She eventually discovered that at her level, her enchanting had a time limit:

Five minutes.

One. She closed her eyes and focused deeply on the blade, imagining the fire as she coaxed it to slither its way into the molecular structure of the dagger, willing it to wrap itself around the rapidly vibrating atoms like a snake in a birds nest. 

Two. With a shaking hand, she lifted the mallet she held in her other palm high into the sky, aligning it with the red star she had painted on the ceiling as a guide. Exhaling a gust of air, warm as oven smoke, she brought the mallet down, letting go of the blade in the same instant. 

Three. The black stone table she worked on shook lightly from the force. In contrast, the dagger she had just struck went immediately still. Steam began to lift from it, small flames licking its edges and casting the room in shadows. 

Four. She felt her focus waver, clutching her hand and falling to her knees-

Not yet! Not done yet! 

A bead of sweat dripped from her forehead, seeming to evaporate before it hit the ground below. 

Five. She dropped the mallet, shakily rising to her feet and swiping the thick cream coloured cloth at the edge of the table, quickly wrapping the burning blade in the material and extinguishing the rising flames.

Release! She ordered it, and the fire and burning in her veins were no more.

For a while, she stood there panting, clutching her shoulder as residual phantom pains echoed in her left hand. 

Swallowing her nausea, her right hand lifted the dagger to the dusty light filtering from the forge’s window. She marvelled at how heavy it suddenly felt, the metal, whilst still hot, laying cold in her hands as if never kissed by flame in the first place. 

She had done it. Her first successful attempt amongst so many. 

“Congratulations, Maiya.”

Maiya jumped, quickly whipping around to face the person standing behind her, still clutching the dagger. 

It was a tall woman, almost seven feet in height. She was wrapped in a dark cloak with light blue intricate designs laced into its sleeves and hood. Her bright, silver locks stood out amongst the darkness, cropped short and slicked back, her wrinkled face clear of distractions just as she likes it.

Seeing who it was, Maiya’s face broke out in a large grin. “Teacher! How long were you standing there for? I did it! I finally did it!”

If she wasn’t paying attention, she wouldn’t have caught the brief, small smile that flashed across her mentor’s face before it was replaced by her ever customary frown.

“I was here for long enough. You did well, my dear.“ 

Her mentor took a step forward, reaching out for the dagger with a black gloved hand. She peeled back the cloth slowly, revealing the enchanted blade underneath.

It was red. Bright red. With orange light glowing and racing its way from the hilt to the sharpened tip, embedding itself into the dagger’s swirling detail and setting the dimly lit room alight. 

"It’s time you find a master for this dagger.”

Maiya opened her mouth, questions bubbling to the surface as her mentor continued. 

“Rito Village, in the upper north western corner of Hyrule, is where you will go.”

“But why-”

“The land is filled to the brim with monsters made of ice and snow. The people there will benefit greatly from a warrior skilled in handling an enchanted blade of fire, no?”

At that, Maiya’s mouth ran dry of complaints, her words evaporating in the heat of the workshop’s air. It was no use arguing with her mentor at this point. But a lingering thought still hovered in her mind like a dark cloud.

“The land is quite far, teacher,” she whispered, looking everywhere but the woman in front of her. She braced for a sharp reprimand for her obvious sign of childish weakness, and was surprised when none came.

“I understand, child. However, I believe it’s time that you venture beyond the borders of this town and see for yourself the riches and diversity of the world around you." 

Her piercing grey eyes seemed to cut into Maiya’s darker ones, distant and glassy. Seeing something she couldn’t.

"An evil is building, my dear. And we must be ready. You learn nothing if you allow fear to dictate your freedom.”

Maiya dropped her gaze to her hands. The rune, ugly and deep, cut through the tan skin on the surface of her left. It stood out, angry and red, contrasting greatly with the smooth, unmarked skin of her right. 

“What of my other element, Teacher? The one that I will carve into my right hand when I am ready?”

“It is ice, is it not?”

Maiya nodded.

“We will begin preparations once you return.” Her wrinkled face twitched into a smirk. “Perhaps the environment will give you some ideas.”

With that, her mentor put both hands on her student’s shoulders, steering her away from the stone bench and leading her to the exit.

“You will be fine, Maiya. Now prepare, I will arrange a space for you in the next merchant trip to the region. Pack warm, you leave in three days.”

———————

Thud. The arrow embedded itself into the center of the target. Thud, thud, thud! Three more, dead centre again, each piercing through the previous arrows with deadly accuracy. 

Thud! Another, still in the centre of the target but slightly askew by a millimeter.

Revali frowned, wiping his brow and nocking another arrow onto his bow. Not good enough.

The forest outskirts a few hours from Rito Village was not his usual training spot. The wind was still fair, and the targets numerous (with hundreds of trees to choose from), but it still didn’t pack the same challenge, the same dramatic drop, the same chilling and powerful air of his beloved Flight Range in the Hebra Mountains. 

However, today marked the culmination of months of training for several of their new aerial recruits, and said Flight Range was therefore currently swamped by excitable Rito’s raring to get a few targets in before the sun set on the horizon. 

And as much as he would love to provide them with a generous demonstration on the highest level one can reach as a skilled archer such as himself, he didn’t believe he had the patience to deal with any novices today.

So…the forests will have to do.

Thud! The arrow went, embedding itself again in the middle of the target and cutting through the three previous others with a bit more force than usual.

The blue-feathered Rito reached into his quiver, picking out and nocking three arrows in one fluid motion. The world around him sharpened, then blurred. Three painted trees for three arrows, his vision hyper fixating on the first, second, then the third.

One breath, another. Now. 

The first arrow sang through the forest, embedding itself into a target hanging from a tree to his left. The second, whizzed past a bit further, passing through the leaves and piercing the hidden bullseye that he had placed underneath the foliage.

The third arrow travelled the furthest. Revali aimed to hit one of the more difficult targets he had planted several meters away. The tree was an ancient oak with leaves mostly orange, swaying lightly in the chill autumn breeze. 

Revali’s gaze sharpened. The arrow dipped and flew, dancing with the movement of the wind, quickly approaching the woman with dark hair that had just stepped in the way.

Wait.

What?

“Watch out!”

It all unfolded instantly. The Rito, in shock, slinging his bow over his shoulder and sprinting towards her, stopping to shield his eyes from the flash of a bright blue light. The woman, in a bizarre twist of luck and fate, hearing his voice and turning at the last minute, the arrow missing her head by an inch and cutting a diagonal line through her long, braided hair.

Silence reigned through the forest for a second. Then:

“WHAT THE FU-”

“YOU NEARLY KILL-”

The Rito stepped forward, pointing an accusing wing at the stranger. “Don’t you dare voice a stupid accusation such as that, I had no intentions of harming you.” He narrowed his eyes, suddenly feeling suspicious. It was rare to see Hylians frequenting this side of the woods, especially with the recent increase of monster activity and abundance of natural predators hiding in the thickets. 

Furthermore, although he doubted her involvement with the troublesome Yiga Clan, whose members have often been known to terrorize the odd lone traveler, he didn’t want to take any chances. “What are you doing wandering the middle of the Tabantha wild? The next Hylian-managed town is more than an hour away.”

He was surprised at the fury in her tone as she tilted her head up to snarl at him. “First of all, birdie, this forest is open to the public. No one owns these trees.” He opened his mouth to bite out a seething retort, but she stepped forward, pushing a finger underneath his beak to snap it shut. He spluttered. 

“Second of all, I’m taking a shortcut. I’ve been travelling west for three bloody weeks and it has been absolute hell. I’m sleep deprived, hungry, and tired. And I’m in a hurry! So unless you know anything about a place called ree-too Village, I’ll be on my way." 

Revali glared. At least that clears a few things up. Were all Hylians this demanding and foolish, or was it just the ones Valoo above was adamant in acquainting him with?

He pushed away the offending finger and rolled his eyes.

"Firstly it’s pronounced ree-toe. Secondly,” he said, mocking her manner of speech, “No. I don’t know anything about the village of which I was hatched and spent most of my life and waking hours. Whatever led you to such a ridiculous notion?”

He raised an eyebrow, watching- bemused, as a dust of pink crept its way onto the haggard woman’s cheeks. It was adorable, really. If only he wasn’t so pissed.

He took her silence as his cue to continue. 

“I wasn’t hatched yesterday. You’re obviously lost. However, to avoid you waltzing into another unsuspecting warrior’s weapon range, I suggest that you continue eastwards that way." 

His bow gleamed in the afternoon sunlight as he used it to point towards a structure which towered and peaked over the top of the trees. "See that stone pillar over there? That’s Valoo’s Spire, follow it and you will eventually reach the shore of Lake Totori. You will meet the Great Hylian Highway once again, and if you manage to follow it this time, the bridge to the village will be made apparent to you.”

He smirked, crossing his wings and tilting his head. Amusingly, she was about a head shorter than him, and she had to lift her dark eyes to the sky to glare at him. “Got all that? Because if not, good luck as I am not the type to repeat myself to idiots who ignore my knowledgeable advice.”

“Alright thanks, whatever,” she sighed, grabbing an elastic from her pocket and pulling her now asymmetrical hair into a haphazard ponytail. She turned “Try not to kill anyone with that bow, Fly Boy,” she called over her shoulder. 

A few strands of uneven, dark hair came free as she walked away. He couldn’t help it. “A very creative haircut, Strange Hylian!”

“Oh shut up!” A shrill yell replied, echoing from the other end of the forest and scaring several birds from their perches. 

He squawked out a sharp laugh at that.

A few seconds passed and she was finally out of his line of vision. Revali of the Rito was happily alone once again. 

“What an unusual and infuriating woman,” he muttered. He had been distracted and decided that now was a good time as any to take a few minutes to collect his discarded arrows and reset his targets.

Revali trudged towards the oak tree where the troublesome arrow was embedded, feeling slightly amused at the trail of shorn dark hair a few steps away.

He reached out towards the arrow, eyes widening in surprise as he stepped closer.

The once brown wood of the arrow shaft was an ashy, crumbling black. The bird feathers of its fletching emitted an unpleasant sulphurous odour, and the metal of its arrowhead was warped and melted like silver molten clay.

It was completely burnt. 

A strong wind blew through the trees, rustling through his feathers as he took a careful step back.

How odd.

[turtle-steverogers]

Fugitives- chap 10

AAAAAAND WE’RE BACK! WELCOME TO ‘SHIT GOES DOWN’ THE CHAPTER.  THIS is major fucking plot so bare the fuck with me, chiefs.  IT GETS INTENSE heres chapter nine if you need a refresher

most of the chaps are on #masterlist and ALL of them are somewhere under #fugitives lol,,, its also now on ao3 if that’s easier

thank you as always to my fugitive ;) in crime @technically-whizzy for helping me raise this fucking awful baby of ours

OKAY LETS GET ON WITH IT ship: eventual ralbert

warnings: gunshots, blood, violence, drugging, cursing, the fucking works, death, yeah its not pretty now and it will never ne

word count: 6792 OHMYGOD

editing: a little bit, actually.  i gave it some lov

He pulled his hood up further, bowing his head to the cold Winter air.  His hand grasped the rubber handle of his crutch tightly, palm slipping as it shifted under him.  He watched his feet, waiting until the road slanted upward, a familiar bridge slipping into view.

Another hooded figure was waiting by the railing at the start of the bridge, the bold tattoo that was brandished on his bicep glinting in the moonlight.  Crutchie’s eyes scanned the familiar symbol, the sharp lines of the tattooed bridge almost exactly replicating the real thing behind them.  

The other figure looked up, hood falling off his head as he stepped forward, beckoning for Crutchie to join him.

Crutchie reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.  He silently handed one to the shorter man, offering his lighter as well.  They leaned against the railing, watching the view of Brooklyn in the distance.  The city at night was an eerie kind of beautiful.  The sky was still bright from light reflecting off the buildings, the water underneath the bridge flowed ominously, the black, inky waves threatening to engulf one’s mind.  The sounds of the city could still be heard at full volume, only barely masking the horrifying secrets it also held.

“Did you hurt him bad?” Crutchie asked, smoke blowing out of his mouth and getting caught in the cold, Winter air.

“Mmm, only as much as necessary.” The other man said.

“What should we do about it?”

The man twitched the cigarette between his fingers, “I think we need to do it.  Tonight.”

Crutchie nodded, “Okay.  I’m on it,” He stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, tossing it over the side and watching as it was drowned in the darkness.  He pushed off the railing, adjusting his crutch back underneath his armpit, “Take care of yourself, Conlon.”

Spot saluted, placing the cigarette back into his mouth, “M’counting on you, Charlie.”

Earlier

“I want in.”

Albert forced himself not to look away from Spot’s intense glare.  He could feel the handle of his switchblade pressing against the small of his back and his arms ached to reach back and grab it- arm himself in some way.  But it didn’t seem like any sudden movement from him would work in his favor as far as Spot went.

Spot hadn’t moved, his eyes trained solely on Albert’s.  Albert resisted the urge to shrink in on himself.  He had to maintain his act.  He couldn’t crack now, but Spot looked like he was reading him like a book.

Could he see through him?  Did he know?

Suddenly, Spot took a step forward into Albert’s space, eyes squinting further as his gaze flicked to Albert’s hair.  Albert clenched his jaw, trying not to shiver as Spot observed him.

“Higgins.” Spot muttered, only barely audible.

Albert’s eyes widened for a moment as cold fear shot through his entire body, “What?”

His answer was a fist to the temple.  The world seemed to silence for a moment and he was barely able to recover before he was hit again.  Then, everything went black.

XXX

Sounds returned first.  Voices echoed somewhere close to him, making his head throb more intensely than it had before.

He lifted his head, wincing as a stinging pain traveled through his temple to the rest of his head.  It felt like someone was poking his nerves with a white hot rod.  He groaned, fighting the urge to be sick as pain moved through him in waves, making his muscles ache.

He was definitely concussed.  Brilliant.

He cracked open his eyes, only to find it didn’t make a difference.  It was pitch fucking black.  He assessed himself, taking note that his hands were bound behind him and his ankles were tied together.

His back was against a wall.  Or what he assumed was a wall.  He couldn’t really tell what anything was.

His face felt sticky and he licked his lips, blood seeping onto his tongue.  He gagged and spit aimlessly, trying to rid his mouth of the metallic taste.  Apparently, his nose was bleeding.  What the fuck happened?

Light flooded whatever room he was in and he flinched, turning his head away from the source.  Footsteps approached him and he folded in on himself as his arms started to tremor.  He was going to die.  He was literally going to die.

The person crouched in front of him and Albert could feel their eyes boring into his being.  He whimpered involuntarily as cold fingers made contact with his jaw, turning his head to face his captor.

“Open your eyes, bitch.”  Spot’s unmistakable Brooklyn accent sent shockwaves of pain through his head.

Albert shook his head, “Fuck you.”

His cheek stung as Spot slapped him and he cried out, his headache intensifying almost impossibly.

“Do as I say.” Spot growled, tugging the hair on the back of Albert’s head sharply, making him hiss in pain.

Albert forced a chuckle, gritting his teeth, “Getting kinky on me, huh, Conlon?” he managed, his voice sounding strained.

His neck cricked as he was jolted forward, the cool metal of what Albert presumed was a gun handle pressed to the back of his head.  He fought the urge to vomit as waves of excruciating nausea rolled through his body.  

“Who are you.” It was a demand, not a question, whispered close to his ear.  Spot’s breath was hot and smelled distinctly like cigarettes and Albert winced, scrunching his nose involuntarily.  

“Mmmm, your mom,” Albert said, his words looping together groggily.

There was no reply for a moment, then Albert heard Spot growl, the noise sending chills up his spine.  He tried to maintain eye contact as Spot forced him to his feet, watching him with a wolflike stare briefly, before sticking his gun between his teeth and placing his hands on Albert’s biceps.  Albert held his breath, not daring to move as Spot began to pat him down.  He felt down his arms, then moved his hands to Albert’s chest, patting vigorously.  Albert bit his tongue, refraining from making a crude, biting comment about their current closeness.  He had a feeling it wouldn’t be well received.

Spot turned him around slowly, starting the process over at his shoulder-blades.  With a jolt, the presence of his switchblade at the small of his back returned to his cognizance and he fought the urge to tense up.  Spot was going to find it and take it and then he’d have lost his last bit of security.  The one thing linking him to safety.

Spot’s hand landed on the handle of the blade and he let out a small, triumphant, ‘aha’.  Albert squeezed his eyes shut as Spot lifted his shirt and took the blade out, his cold hands ghosting horribly against his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” Spot muttered and Albert couldn’t help but turn around.  Instead of pocketing the knife as Albert had expected, Spot was squinting at the blade where Albert’s name was engraved.  He held it closer to his face, recognition flitting through his eyes.  Albert watched him, confused.

“Where’d you get this,” Spot demanded, suddenly, “Who made this?”

Albert shook his head, “I-I-”

“Nevermind,” Spot spat, “I know what I need to know.”

A moment later, a crack echoed through his brain as Spot slammed the hilt of the gun into his head and once again, the world darkened.  

Time passed at an indiscernable pace.  Albert felt himself shifting unsteadily in and out of consciousness.  People were discussing him nearby and he could make out bits and pieces of hushed conversation, but none of it made much sense.  

At one point, he found himself able to stay awake for longer than a few harried seconds.  He kept his eyes closed, the pain from his evident concussion making it difficult to do much besides sit solemnly and pray for his rescue.  Oh well, at least he wasn’t dead.  

People were speaking hurriedly now- desperately.  Albert could make out Spot’s angry voice, rising above the rest.  It sounded as if he were organizing something, spitting demands from person to person and only being answered by mumbles of ‘yes, boss’ or ‘you got it’.  

But the most gut clenching, perhaps, was a command, hissed in a harsh, yet loud whisper sending jolts of cold fear through Albert’s body.

“Get Crutchie over here, I need to speak with him.”

Albert swallowed, trying not to panic as the possibilities of what Crutchie had to do with this wormed into his brain and seized hold of his lungs.  He had to warn someone, he had to-

Ow.

He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay awake and think of an escape.  But it seemed as if fate had other plans as he was pulled under once more.

12 hours later

Jack sat with his legs propped up, absentmindedly cleaning his gun as he sat in the rec room, watching the local news.  Davey was upstairs, taking a nap and Race had gone out to meet Albert to discuss any further Prospect information he might have gained, so Jack found himself alone in his relaxation.  A luxury that was rare to find in Empire.

“Mind if I join you?” Jack looked up to see Les stroll in and take a seat in one of the chairs next to him, propping his legs up to mirror him.

Jack chuckled, “I guess not,” he said, placing his gun down on the table in front of him and picking up a pack of cards that lay nearby, “Gin rummy?”

Les shrugged, “Sure.”

Jack dealt out the cards, mentally preparing to be beaten by Les, who was scarily good at most card games.  He’d gone on a rampage a few years back, claiming that he was going to beat Race in every card game known to man at least once, and in his endeavors, he’d gained great skill.

“How’s Albert?” Les asked, accepting his pile of cards and looking up at Jack.

Jack took his own pile and hummed noncommittally, “dunno, Racer’s out checking on him right now.”

“You think he got into Prospect alright?”

Jack sighed, making a questioning gesture with his hands, “We can hope so.”

“Jack, I need to talk to you,” Jack and Les glanced over to see a breathless Race, standing in the doorway to the rec room, bouncing nervously on his toes, “Now.”

Jack pursed, setting down his cards, “What’s wrong?”

Race’s gaze passed over Les briefly, “Alone.”

Jack twitched his nose and placed down his cards, standing, “Alright, one sec squirt,” he said, ruffling Les’ hair.

Les squawked indignantly, “Stop calling me squirt!”

Race led him out of the room and a couple paces down the hallway until they were right in front of the drug storage room.  He turned towards Jack, the worry in his eyes evident up close.

“Something didn’t go right with Al,” he said, the words coming out rushed.

Jack’s stomach dropped, “What? What do you mean? How do you know?”

Race ran an anxious hand through his hair, blowing out a breath.  It was obvious that he was fighting the urge to work himself up.

“I, uh, I went to where me and Al planned to meet up, over on Frankfort Street by the bridge and he wasn’t there-”

“Okay, don’t panic yet, maybe-”

“Let me finish,” Race continued, “he wasn’t there, so I decided to wait for a bit, because, you know, sometimes shit takes time, but it was getting a lot later than when we had planned so I decided to look around a bit and I found another one.”

Jack cocked his head, “Another one what?”

Race let out a frustrated noise, “Another ‘Less is More’ thing! It was fresh, too.”

Jack’s eyes widened, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Race grimaced, “Seemed a little too coincidental that a new one popped up right where I was supposed to see him.”

Jack leaned against the wall, overwhelmed, “We gotta tell Davey,” he said after a moment.

Race nodded, breathing out a sigh, “I’m scared for him, I-” he clicked his tongue, looking at Jack, “Prospect can get real bad...Spot can get real bad,” he averted his gaze, trailing off.

Jack examined him for a moment, concern pooling in his stomach, “Hey, we’ll get Al out, okay?” Race didn’t answer, haunted eyes trained on the ground.  Jack reached forward, tapping his chin.

“Okay?” He repeated once Race met his gaze.

Race shifted his jaw, “Okay.”

XXX

Albert stared at his feet, scuffing his shoes across the carpet underneath him.  Sometime in his unconsciousness, he had been moved to what appeared to be Spot’s office.  His wrists, ankles, and torso were bound tightly, holding him to a small wooden chair.  Upon waking, he’d tried for a few feeble minutes to free himself, but to no avail.  Whoever had tied the rope knew what they were doing.

The office was small and neat and somehow nothing and exactly like what Albert had expected.  There was a singular mahogany table in the middle of the room, a tall, leather office chair pushed neatly in behind it.

Everything in the room was carefully placed, as though Spot had put a lot of thought into the layout of his room.  Nothing was out of line.  Pencils were pristinely sharpened and placed eraser-up in a shiny, glass pencil holder.  The rug was dust free and perfectly centered.  The two bookshelves that stood opposite each other at one end of the room were stacked end to end with books, which seemed to fit almost too well on the shelves themselves.

The meticulousness of the room seemed almost out of character for Spot, not that Albert would know.  But he wouldn’t have pegged him for a neat-freak kind of guy.  The obvious attention to detail sent a shiver down Albert’s spine.

He scanned the room, unsure exactly what he was searching for.  Something out of order, perhaps.  Something to clue him into the enigma that was Spot and Prospect.

However, nothing caught his eye.  The room was too damn cookie-cutter to hold any glaring secrets.  Which, admittedly, was a clever strategy.  Anything that could be of importance was hiding in plain sight.

But Albert was in too much pain to look too hard.  He sighed loudly, allowing his head to drop lazily to the side, pain surging through his temples once more.  

He was about to close his eyes briefly when a small glint of polished wood on Spot’s desk perked his attention.

A wave of cold washed down his legs as he realized that it was his switchblade, perfectly unbroken.  Something was propped haphazardly next to it, the only visible attribute of the unknown object being a large crack in its glossy, dark green exterior.   

He squinted, trying to get a better look.  He could see something etched into the side of the other item, but its distance from him made it impossible to make out.

He blew out a breath, steeling himself for a moment before bracing his feet on the floor.  With a grunt, he shifted his body weight forward, using the momentum to move the chair a few inches towards the desk.  The wooden legs scraped the ground loudly and Albert winced, holding still

for a moment before heading another few inches forward onto the carpet.

Albert hummed triumphantly, pleased with himself.  His view of the desk was unobscured now and he leaned forward, curiosity peaking when he realized that the object next to his knife was a lighter.  As his eyes focused, Albert realized that the etching on the handle was a faded ‘R’.  The curve of the lettering was oddly familiar and as his gaze shifted sideways onto his knife, a small gasp left him.

The lettering style was the exact same.

He frowned, his bottom lip worrying its way between his teeth as he tried to work out why that was unsettling.  He blinked a few times, lips parted slightly as he continued to inspect the lighter.  The damage was clearer up close, showing that the crack on the handle stemmed from a large chip out of the metal where the green plastic met the metal lighting mechanism.  It looked like someone had hit the lighter against something hard.  Or thrown the damn thing.  

A pair of footsteps echoed outside the door and Albert tore his gaze away from the lighter, wishing for a moment that his hands were free so that he could grab his knife.  Briefly, he considered hopping his chair back to where he’d been left in case Spot grew suspicious as to why he’d moved, but the thought left him as the door to Spot’s office opened.

Albert winced, bracing himself.  Though, he was unsure as to what exactly he was bracing himself for.  Spot soaking him again, probably.

“Ah, so you’re the brat who tried ta trick us.”

A voice Albert didn’t recognize rang out and he opened his eyes.  Across the room from him stood two men, both sporting sleeveless henleys.  The Prospect branding was visible on each of their biceps, tattooed non-discreetly into the skin facing outwards.  The one on the right looked to be around Albert’s height with longer, brown hair that curved at the nape of his neck.  He had a wide face, a permanent scowl set on his features.  Albert wrinkled his nose, feeling slightly intimidated by his piercing stare.  The other guy stood a fair few inches taller than the first, muscles bulging through his shirt.  He had tan skin, his beady eyes glaring at Albert.  His hair was jet black and looked a good bit greasier than the other guy’s, giving him a rat-like composure.

Albert’s gaze traveled from the first guy to the second, hesitating a moment before flashing a smile, “Hey there, gents.”

Neither looked amused.

“I can’t fuckin’- ugh, why’d Boss nail us with the annoyin’ one?” The first guy complained.

“Dunno Bumlets, but I already wanna punch him,” The second guy said, eyes shifting between Albert’s, “Whatever, he’ll be outta commission soon.”

Albert’s smile faltered, uneasiness leaving a vile taste in his mouth.  He vaguely recognized his voice and with a jolt he realized that this was the guy Spot had been with when he and Race had gone to Queens.  He didn’t look anything like Albert had expected.

Bumlets strode over to him, pulling a knife from his boot and bending down.  Albert sucked in a breath as the ropes that previously bound him down were swiftly cut away, allowing blood to flow normally through his body.  He wiggled his fingers, willing the tingling feeling to go away.

Bumlets grasped the back of his collar, yanking him to his feet, “Got the cuffs, Hotshot?”

Hotshot grunted, producing a rusty pair of handcuffs from the inside of his jacket.

“Right ‘ere,” He said as Bumlets pushed Albert forward.  

Hotshot grabbed hold of Albert’s bicep easily, keeping one hand firmly on his arm as he secured the handcuffs around his wrists, locking them tightly.  Albert tried to jerk away, hissing when the sharp metal cut into his skin.

“No use in fightin’ too hard,” Bumlets sneered, pushing past Albert and Hotshot towards the door, “You’re outnumbered.”

Albert swallowed, jaw shifting as he was lead out of the room, Hotshot still holding him firmly, “Is there any point in asking where you’re taking me?”

Both men ignored him, pushing him through the dark building and down several flights of stairs.  As they ventured on, Albert looked around, noting the dinginess of the place.  It was significantly grimier than the Bowery, the damp, cool air giving it a dirty feel.  The ground was coated in dust and grit, and there were several places in which Albert swore he saw bloodstains.  It smelled of mildew, causing Albert to gag if he breathed in too deep.  As they ventured to the main level, the corridors seemed to darken even more and Albert ground his teeth, trying in vain to remain calm.

“Did boss leave the truck ‘round back?” Hotshot asked, coming to an abrupt halt near a door.

Bumlets nodded, fishing what looked to be a car key out of his pocket, “All parked an’ ready for us to ride.”

Hotshot hummed, jerking open the door and thrusting Albert into the night.  For a moment, the grip on Albert’s arm vanished, but before he could make a move, a bag was being placed over his head.  He tried to duck away, only for his hair to be yanked harshly underneath the bag.

“Behave,” Bumlets snarled, knotting the bag in the back to keep it in place.

“Mmm, but that’s boring,” Albert said, aiming for a cocky tone, but wincing when his voice cracked slightly.  Why couldn’t he have Race’s poker face?  

His heart twanged briefly as he thought of the other boy.  It had only been a day, but already the plan was going to complete shit.  His fingers itched for his switchblade, the one thing meant to ground him to some semblance of security.  A vague part of him longed for the night previous, when he and Race had shared that moment on his cot- when things were still safe and calm.  

He felt himself being dragged again, trying his best not to trip as they descended down a small slope.  Albert felt the ground under him turn to pavement and a moment later, the sound of a car door opening came from beside him.  He tensed his shoulders, sensing what was about to happen.

“Behave.” Bumlets repeated, roughly shoving him against the car.  

Albert grunted as his shin made hard contact with the metal step that led to the backseat.  He stayed still, knowing that he wasn’t going to get out of this, but still refusing to make it easy on his captors.

“Climb in the goddamn car,” Hotshot snapped, stomping harshly on his heels.

Albert grimaced, “Can’t climb anywhere while my hands are cuffed behind me.  Is everyone in Prospect so damn kinky?  Ya know earlier, Spot-”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Bumlets cursed, gripping him by the elbow and boosting him upwards.

Albert smirked to himself as he settled into the backseat.  As screwed as he was, he was getting a rise out of them.  And that felt pretty damn good.

He heard the door slam next to him and he rested his head against the headrest behind him, trying not to let the claustrophobic feeling of the bag suffocating him consume him.  He stretched his neck, wincing when he felt the joints crack.

The car started and Albert frowned, “Y’all better be buckled up there.  Someone in this car has got to conform to the New York safety measures and I sure ain’t.”

Hotshot sighed, “Why can’t we shoot him now again?”

“Because Conlon’ll kill us if we get his car bloody,” Bumlets grumbled, “Usin’ his car at all has got us on thin ice.”

The rest of the drive was spent in silence, save for the staticky hum of the radio playing old rock music.  They drove for what could have been hours and as time stretched on, Albert grew more anxious.  He’d known their intentions from the start, but the reality of the situation seemed to settle on him in sickening waves.  He wasn’t going to make it out of this alive.  

Last time ever driving through New York and I can’t even enjoy the view, he thought cynically, huffing a laugh, although his heart was in his throat.

The truck screeched to a halt and Albert held his breath as Hotshot and Bumlets exited.  Cold, night air gusted at him as his door was opened and he was pulled out.  He was guided on numb legs for a few minutes, only noting the change in the ground underneath his feet when his shoes began to echo on concrete.  They walked for a few more feet before he was shoved downwards, knees hitting the ground roughly. The bag was yanked off his head and he involuntarily whimpered as his eyes crossed, focusing on the barrel of a gun that hovered directly in front of him.  Out of his peripheral, he could see mass amounts of scaffolding that seemed to climb to a high ceiling.  Machines protruded from the wall in front of him, but they looked worn and broken.  It was unclear exactly what kind of establishment he’d been brought to, but it seemed to be out of use.

The smell was awful, as if something were rotting in the walls and Albert shivered, feeling strangely uncleansed.

“So, we’re gonna kill ya obviously,” Hotshot said, his voice low and unnerving, “But there’s shit we gotta know from you first.”

XXX

Race sat on the floor of the rec room, leaning against a leg of one of the card tables.  His arms were draped lazily around his knees as he tilted his head back, allowing it to thud into the cheap plastic tabletop.  

He was mad at himself, angry that he’d allow someone else to slip from between his fingers.  Guilt pooled in his stomach, threatening to choke him.  Every time he had something good, it fucked him in the face, usually resulting in people getting hurt or killed.  Or both.  Usually both.  

He blew out a breath, head rolling to the side to look towards the ratty book cabinet placed awkwardly in the corner.  On the bottom shelf, stacks of old, dusty newspapers lay unceremoniously, rarely to be touched by anyone in the gang.  

It had been awhile since he’d sifted through it, only venturing to that dark corner when he needed a reminder of...who he was, but now seemed good a time as any.

He scooted out from the card table, standing on sluggish limbs and crossing blindly to the bookshelf.  He knelt down, tremoring hands reaching forward to extract a worn, obviously used newspaper article from the bottom of one of the piles.

Swallowing, he unfolded it, blinking a few times as he scanned over the head of the article.

Bombing at the Rockefeller Center Leaves 12 Dead.  Culprit Still Unidentified.

He breezed through the article, eventually focusing his gaze on the blurry picture on the bottom of the page, showcasing the damage.  His eyes bore into the image, lips parting slightly as shouts echoed through his memories.  

He stayed frozen, losing himself in the picture until the shaking in his hands became too much and he closed his eyes, anxiety rising in his throat and slowly morphing to panic.  He jerked, anticipation shooting through his arms as he crumpled the newspaper in both fists, feeling the wrinkled paper rip underneath his fingers.

“Antonio?” Race opened his eyes, becoming acutely aware of himself once more, but failing to drop his tense position, “Are you alright?”

Race rolled his shoulders, taking a measured breath before calmly dropping his arms to his sides, tossing the newspaper in a nearby trash can.  He turned around, putting on a tight smile as he faced Davey.

“M’great,” He said, knowing full well that neither of them were convinced.

Davey eyed him warily, “Well, I’m ready to go when you are,” he busied himself in unbuttoning his his dress shirt sleeve and expertly folding it up, “Romeo is going to join us.”

Race nodded, “Perfect, yeah, okay.”

Davey studied him for another moment before briskly turning, “I’ll be by the stagedoor, be hasty.”

Race watched him leave, taking another moment to compose himself before hurrying out of the room.  He froze in the hallway, running a mental checklist of things he might need while retrieving Albert from whatever hot shit he was in.  His knife was in his boot and his gun was resting snugly against the small of his back, held in place by the waistband of his jeans.  His jacket was in the entrance hall and he’d stuck an extra pack of cigarettes in the inside pocket of that earlier.  He was set.

He nodded once to himself, erasing the last holds of unsteadiness from his mind as he crossed to the stage door, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on along the way.

Davey, as promised, was standing just beside it, hands clasped behind his back.  Romeo stood adjacent to him, fingers curled gingerly around his vape.

He perked up when Race walked in, “Heya Higgins, want a hit?” He held up his vape, wiggling it in front of Race’s face.

Race flinched, rearing back a little, “Mm, don’t do that and no, I’m good.”

Romeo shrugged, “More for me,” he took a long drag, looking expectantly from Race to Davey, “Soooo, where’re we headed, boys?”

“Excellent question,” He said, looking towards Race, “Race?”

Race mulled it over for a moment, realizing that he hadn’t given this any actual thought.  The prospects of Albert still being at The Refuge were slim, but that didn’t mean it was entirely off the table.  He could still be in one of the holding rooms, but Spot never allowed the dirty work to be done directly in the building.  It was his policy: never spill blood where you sleep.  That didn’t lead to any clear answers, however.  Spot had three designated execution spots, but they were well spread out between Queens and Brooklyn.  If they tried to check all of them, it would be impossible to reach Albert in time.  If there was even time left.  Albert could already be dead.

He shook his head, not allowing himself to go there yet.  He had to stay focused.

“Antonio…” Davey sounded like he was going to get impatient and Race shushed him.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” he ran his tongue over his lower lip, trying to think of each of the locations of each spot.  

There was the Bergen Street platform, although Race doubted Spot’d chosen that spot.  It was hard to access most of the time and he saved that area for more intense matters, ones that involved several people.

The New York State Pavilion was the closest to The Refuge in relation to the others, but it was the most open of all of them.  It was mainly used when someone needed to be taken care of quickly and Race doubted that they’d let Albert off without questioning.

That left the Jumping Jack Powerplant.  It was well secluded and a healthy distance from The Refuge- the perfect candidate for their predicted intentions with Albert.  

“I, uh,” Race ran a hand through his curls, “I think I have an idea, but it’s a bit of a drive,” he continued when Davey and Romeo raised their eyebrows, “It’s called the Jumping Jack Power Plant?  I think that’s probably where Spot would want to take him.”

Davey nodded slowly, no doubt trying to map out where that was in his head, “I think I know where you speak of.  We can take the van,” he opened the door, ushering the other two out first, “Quickly, quickly.”

“Shotgun!” Romeo called, hurrying towards where the van was parked in the back of the alley.

Race glanced towards the skyscrapers in the distance, his heart thudding with anticipation, “M’coming Al.  M’not gonna letcha down, too.”

XXX

Albert allowed a whine to escape his throat, “Is there, like, a world record or something for the most times a guy has had a gun pointed at his face in a short amount of time?  ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I could qualify.”

Bumlets growled, rolling his eyes as he pressed the muzzle of his gun to his forehead, “Do ya ever shut up?”

“Ya know?  I get that a lot,” Albert said, tilting his head as he feigned deep thought, “I wonder if that’s, like, a social cue or something to reassess myself and change my ways.”

Bumlets expression turned somehow more exasperated, “Can I please blow his brains out now?”

“I fuckin’ wish,” Hotshot sighed, “But no.”

“Mmm sadly,” Bumlets said, “Alright,” he dropped the gun momentarily and stepped behind Albert, pressing it to his neck instead, “I’ll start with the easy questions.  What’s your name?”

“Jennifer, Jen for short,” Albert said, keeping his tone light, “Though if we’re really close, or like, fucking or something, I’ll let you call me Jenny.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hotshot groaned, stepping forward and slapping Albert across the face, “Your real name, smartass.”

“Eat my ass,” Albert said lowly, squinting his eyes.

Accepting the fact that they weren’t going to get a proper name out of him, Bumlets pressed on, raising the next question, “Are you associated at all with Empire?”

Albert worked to keep the recognition from his eyes, “Your fuckin’ rival gang or whatever? No, my balls haven’t dropped enough for that yet.”

Hotshot held eye contact for a moment before directing his stare at Bumlets.  He suddenly looked down at Albert, something mischievous glinting in his eyes, like a kid who knew he was about to win Monopoly.

“How about Antonio Higgins?”

The gasp that left Albert’s lips was nearly inaudible, but Hotshot caught it.  He leaned down, levelling himself with Albert.

“Gotcha,” He grinned, hot breath blowing into Albert’s face, making him wince.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it was rude to talk about people behind their backs?”

Albert could have started crying as a familiar voice rang across the room.  Hotshot’s face contorted into one of confusion and his head snapped to the side.  The gun that had still been pressed to the back of Albert’s neck was removed and Albert managed to duck out of the way as the first round of shots were fired.

He rolled backwards, eventually steadying himself and crawling on his hands and knees until he reached the far wall.  Once he was out of the line of fire, he peered backwards, heart leaping into his chest as he watched Romeo shoot a bullet at Bumlets, hitting him square in the forehead.  He recoiled and shut his eyes tight, covering his ears with his hands until the sounds of gunshots stopped.

He opened his eyes again, avoiding looking at where Bumlets now lay and instead fixating on where Race was shoving Hotshot into the ground, knocking him out.

“Motherfucker,” Race spat, “Never liked you.”

He directed his attention towards Albert, chest heaving as the adrenaline drained from the room.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Albert panted, “That was the most badass thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Race grinned, jogging over to him and helping him up.  Before Albert could say anything else, he was being pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

“Whoa, hey,” Albert floundered for a moment before wrapping his arms around Race’s torso, “Hey, buddy.”

“Thank fuck you’re alive,” Race mumbled into his neck, “I don’t know what I woulda….just, thank fuck.”

“Thank god you should up when you did,” Albert said, the reality of what almost happened hitting him full-force, “My god, I- wow.”

“This is all very touching,” they broke apart at Davey’s voice, “But we really must get back to Empire.”

“Right, right of course.”

Race and Albert pulled away from one another, readjusting themselves and following Romeo and Davey out of the warehouse.

XXX

Jack ventured into the kitchen, crossing to the fridge and humming when nothing worthwhile sparked his appetite.  

“Hiya Jackie, you hungry?”

Jack startled, turning on his heel, “Crutchie!” He exclaimed, taking in the sight of his best friend seated at the kitchen counter, mug in hand, “I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” Crutchie scoffed, gesturing to the seat next to him, “Care for tea?”

Jack considered, “Yeah, actually, tea sounds good.”

He padded around the counter, grabbing a spare mug along the way and perching himself next to Crutchie, gratefully accepting the tea he offered to pour for him.

“So, where have you been?” Jack asked, warming his hands on the sides of the mug while he waited for his drink to cool down, “I haven’t seen you, like, all day.”

Crutchie shrugged, “I’ve been out,” he reached out, grabbing the sugar bowl and offering it to Jack, “Sugar?” Jack shrugged, “Sure,” he agreed, spooning a fair amount into his tea and stirring.

They sat in silence as Jack blew on his drink, taking a small sip and grimacing at it’s oddly bitter taste.  He wrinkled his nose and took another sip before reaching for the sugar again.

“Does this tea taste weird to you?” He asked, spooning a little more sugar into his mug.  He became acutely away of the sluggishness of his movements as he reached for another spoonful.  All at once, his eyes turned foggy and suddenly, he couldn’t focus past the heaviness in his head.

Crutchie gently reached out, coaxing the sugar spoon away from Jack’s grip, “Don’t take too much sugar, Jackie-boy.” Jack turned a horrified eye towards him, fighting to stay conscious.

Crutchie’s face contorted into a cheshire-like grin, “After all, less is more.”

Then, everything went black.

XXX

The drive back to The Bowery was spent in relieved silence, save for the pleasant thrum of Race’s ‘Relaxation n’ Stuff’ playlist.  The city was oddly quiet, making the ride quick and painless.  They pulled into the alleyway next to the theatre, parking the van towards the back.  It was a bit tight climbing out of the car, but eventually, they were all trekking back towards the stage door.

“Holy shit,” Romeo stopped abruptly, fixated on something on the wall opposite the stage door.  

Albert turned as well, gaze landing on a freshly spray painted message, scrawled largely across the brick.

Les is More

“What the fuck,” Race said, voice frantic, “Why is it missing an S, what?”

“My lord,” Davey had gone a sickly shade of pale, mouth slightly agape as he swayed on the spot.

All at once, the puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place and Romeo cursed, “Davey, where was Les before we went to get Albert?”

“Asleep,” Davey said, looking at them dazedly, “In his cot.”

There was a moment’s hesitation where the air seemed to gain several pounds.  Then, Davey cursed, turning to run inside.

The others were on his heels as they hurdled up the stairs, rushing onto the stage.  Other gang members were sitting up in their cots, watching the four of them in sleepy confusion.

Albert made it to Les’ section first, blood draining from his face as he took in the scene.  The sheets from Les’ cot were strewn across the floor, tangled in a way that indicated a struggle.  His pillows were chucked aimlessly around the room, small stains of what looked like blood dotting them.

Davey pushed past Albert, skidding to his knees in front of one of the pillows, shoving it aside as if Les would materialize from under it.  

He let out a colorful stream of curses and stood again, “Jack!” He called madly, rushing to his own section.  Jack’s bed was vacant as well, although it didn’t look like it had been slept in at all.  

They all stood still, completely at a loss of what to do- shock coursing through each of their veins.  

“Wait, the kitchen light’s on,” Race said, already speeding towards the doorway that led to it.  He disappeared for a moment before they heard a curse sound from the other room.

Race peeked his head back out, eyes wide, “I found Jack.”

By now, the other gang members were out of their beds, murmuring to one another.  A small crowd moved towards the kitchen and Albert pushed through to the front, sick fear pooling in his stomach as he took in Jack, unconscious on the kitchen counter.

Race bit down harshly on his lip, shaking Jack vigorously to no avail.  He was completely out.  Race huffed out a breath, bracing himself before hoisting Jack out of his chair and lowering him to the ground.  He carefully lifted his legs, resting them on the chair above them to kickstart his blood-flow again.

“He was drugged I think,” He said distractedly, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Move,” Davey demanded, “Finch, get the counter-shot.”

Finch nodded once, sprinting out of the room towards the drug inventory.  A tense minute later, he returned, long needle in hand.  He carefully passed it to Davey, who lifted Jack’s arm, feeling around for a vein before injecting the medicine with a surprisingly steady hand.

“That should get his blood pressure up,” Davey muttered, propping back onto his heels and taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, “Give it a minute.”

With an overcompensating gasp, Jack awoke several minutes later, dazed eyes blinking towards the ceiling.

“Jack,” Race said immediately, “Les is gone.”

Jack shook his head, defeat and something deeper dancing across his face, “Shit,” he said, sitting up, lowering his legs from the chair.  

He looked directly at Davey, “So’s Crutchie.”

-

it’s 1 am i have no excuse

who hates me for making crutchie how i did? 

ANYWAY YEAH HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH WE OUT HERE AT MILESTONES

fuck ok ok

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

TAG LIST: @bencookisagod @we-dont-sell-papes @suddenly-im-respecsable

@aw-jus-let-em-try @well-the-kids-do-too @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @felix-loves-albert-and-ralbert @technically-whizzy

@andthewoildwillknow @the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog @sunshine-e-cigarettes @have-we-got-news-for-you @musical-shitposts @thebroadwayaesthetic

@thomasbeingthomas

@irondad-spiderson-duo

@snakesarenonexistent

@i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing

@kpop-kk

@mentallytiredgoat

@yxseminx

@be-more-chill-evan-hansen

@stopthe-presses

@elmers-half-a-cup

@and-i-lostmy-shoe

@spot-me50-papes

@honeynutpoptarts

@newsies-ensemble

@bennie-badeend

@auspicioustarantula

@faithmil

@hopefully-not-the-ghostbusters

@bxnesof92

@backgroundnewsies

@sure-as-a-star

@skybert-daherty

@eveningpaper

@malex-13

@albert-eats-cookie-cake

@heart-a-n-o-n

@bitching-newsboys

@orollyitsracetrackhiggins

@joshuaburrageenthusiast

@random-superhero-stuff

@awkwardstranger98

@falling-out-trees-101

@modern-race-owns-airpods

@asphodelnerd

@i-dont-do-sadness

@rockyroad236

@sirgrahamcracker

@godhatesjordan

@thats-our-que-boys

@bastille-smedry

@nerdsies

@toss-me-a-pape

[artistic-writer]

Forged in Ireland

Title: Forged in Ireland by @artistic-writer Rating: P for penis innuendo and T for its real rating. Summary: Humourous Forged in Fire AU. Four novice bladesmiths, three of them Irish, compete in one of the toughest competitions of its type, Forged in Fire. Killian Jones, his brother Liam Jones, Graham Humbert and David Nolan. Who will win? Who has the skills to best the other men? A/N: Thank you to my kickass beta, @hollyethecurious - I’m posting this for @kmomof4 who i promised a fic to yesterday, but them posted a whump fic instead.  No one dies in this one ;)

Taglist: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin @deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells @doodlelolly0910 @darkcolinodonorgasm

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

"Great men are forged in fire. It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame."- John Hurt

They had never met until now, apart from Killian and Liam, who were brothers. Graham, a tall, curly haired, blue-eyed bulk of a man, was also from Ireland. The three of them had made it through to round two of one of the toughest competitions currently aired on American television. Forged in Fire. Four bladesmiths competing against the clock for the grand prize, which, as they had all learned when the fourth competitor, David, had been eliminated, was much tougher than they had anticipated.

“We’re sorry, David, but your blade did not make the cut.”

Red-faced and in slight shock, David had gathered his tools and left the studio, or the forge as it was known. He hung his head as he walked out of the room, metal tools rattling in his tool bag, lifting it again as he had been instructed by the production team. They were going to put a slow motion shot of him leaving and they wanted him looking tall and proud, his own opinion on getting eliminated voicing over the sequence.

“It’s tougher than you think, and I respect the judges. It was the right choice. I just didn’t make the best knife today and that’s okay because I’ve learned a lot.”

“David’s knife was good,” Graham whispered to Liam, their forges right next to each other back in the studio. “I thought I was going for sure.”

“Aye,” Liam muttered under his breath with a nod, setting his footing into a wider stance behind his anvil.

“This is tough,” Killian whispered to both of them, tucking his chin to his chest to hide his words.

“Bladesmiths!” Wil Willis bellowed out over the forge, making all three men turn to face him. “Round two,” he grinned devilishly. Killian gulped. “You have three hours in which to attach handles to your weapons using the items offered to you,” he motioned to the well-dirtied metal racking in the corner of the room, stacked with offcuts of all kinds of materials, “turning them into fully functioning weapons for our judges tests, which include a rope slice and sleeper chop.” Liam, Killian, and Graham all followed the motion of his arm, eyes scanning the pieces of odd materials. “But,” he added dramatically, and they all returned their gaze to him. “They must include a guard and an element from this.”

They all held their breath as the host reached for the silky red sheet covering an oddly shaped object. With a flick of his wrist, the material fell away to reveal a huge, brass ship propeller sitting neatly on the table in front of them.

“Oh, Jesus,” Graham uttered, his words lost on a chuckle.

Killian looked over to his brother, both ex-naval men, and smirked. It was ironic, in a strange way, that the thing that had carried them across oceans would now, potentially, sink them.

“Bladesmiths, your three hours begins...now!” Willis yelled and all three men scurried to the pantry.

“I have no idea what I am going to do,” Graham mumbled to himself. His blade had received the most attention from the judges because of a slight warp in his tang. He could fix this easily by hiding his tang in a cylinder of material as a through tang, but which to choose? His eye scanned the shelves, flitting back and forth before he fixed his gaze on some deer antler. It was big enough to drill and shape into a comfortable handle, so he grabbed it before either Jones brother had a chance to.

Killian went to the top shelf immediately, spying some Micarta. It was one of the strongest materials and would stand up to the tests set out by the judges, but as he reached for it, so did Liam. They both looked at each other with a smirk, fingers holding the grey material tight.

“Age before beauty, brother,” Killian quipped with a wry grin, releasing his hold on the scale.

“No, no, I insist,” Liam said with a nod, offering Killian the piece. “Shit before the shovel, little brother.” He’d uttered the words under his breath, and they would probably be edited out of the final cut of the show, but it was mostly lost in Killian’s laugh. “Here, take it. For your little knife,” he smiled.

“I assure you, brother,” Killian began, pushing the Micarta back into Liam’s hand. “My knife, much like other things, will be much bigger than yours.”

Liam took the Micarta with a smirk, heading back to his workbench, whilst Killian grabbed some African Blackwood. It was strong and would fit his blade well, the rustic, camp knife style with a Celtic twist. Traditionally, Celtic knives were shorter, more like a small dagger, with a single loop handle and leather wrapped handle, but the shows specifications meant he had to go bigger. Killian had made a Viking Seax, a single edged blade with, traditionally, a handle made of natural materials, a knife style that had a reputation as a great chopper.

“I’ve made a Seax. It’s strong, and it’s a great chopping blade that will knock my brother right out of the competition. I’m going to cut off a piece of the prop, flatten it out and slide it between the scales and my tang, giving my handle a third layer.”

Killian ran to the tool bench, eyes searching over the dusty surface until he found what he was looking for. The grinder, fitted with a diamond cutting disc, was in his grasp before he could blink, and he then ran to the propeller in the front of the forge.

“Looks like Killian is taking a huge chunk of that flat edge side of the prop,” said David Baker, historic weapons expert and advisor to Hollywood.

“He is most likely going to flatten it out and use it somewhere in his handle,” J. Nielsen, another of the judges, pointed out, watching Killian whizz across the room with the section of propeller he had ground off.

Killian was at his anvil in a second, gripping the brass in his tongs and whacking it flat with his blacksmith’s hammer. The sound of metal on metal rang out, a bead of sweat on Killian’s brow falling to his anvil. The forge was hot, heat from the four propane forges still lingering in the air, and with each collision to his anvil, Killian felt the ricochet in his wrist and his forearm.

“Hitting that brass a little hard there, brother?” Liam teased, brushing past Killian with his own part of the propeller. He had popped off the boss cap, unscrewing the bolt that held the shaft in place, testing the weight in his hands. “When are you going to learn that hitting something harder doesn’t always yield the best results.”

“And when are you going to learn, brother,” Killian began, grinning from ear to ear with a filthy smirk. “The force from a hammer is proportional to the size of the tool. I cannot be held accountable if my tool is bigger than yours.”

“So you say,” Liam sniggered, shaking his head at his brother’s cockiness.

“Have you ever heard a complaint?” Killian raised an eyebrow at his brother who met his comment with silence. “I didn’t think so.”

“Layers will add integrity as well as a sleekness to my blade. I’m going to slip the brass under the scales to give my knife a really sexy look, kind of like a brass vest under a wooden jacket.”

Once he had the brass as flat as he could get it, Killian got back to his table and set about tracing the holes of his tang so he could drill out the brass and African Blackwood. Killian knew Liam’s plan. He had already watched him put a thread on the end of his tang so he could just screw the brass bolt in place and shape it on the belt sander. It was ingenious, really, but Killian liked the challenge of creating the perfect handle for his blade.

Glancing to his right, Killian spotted a frown on Graham’s face.

“Uh oh,” Willis thought out loud, spying Graham’s mistake instantly. All three of the judges followed his nod of direction, sucking in mouthfuls of air through their teeth in a triple wince. “Looks like Graham has messed up his material.”

Graham, in his haste to repair his warped tang, had misjudged the size and angle of the hole needed in his deer antler and had managed to drill right through the side of it. He sighed audibly, shaking his head from side to side before swiping his hand over his brow. Antler dust stuck to his sweaty forehead and the muscles in his jaw ticked.

“You can fix it,” Killian encouraged, his voice shaking Graham from his self directed rage. “Get some dust and epoxy,” he instructed selflessly.

It was like a lightbulb went off in Graham’s brain and he rushed to the saw, gathering what dust he could so he could mix it with some epoxy resin and steel dust. His handle would be off colour, but it would be functional, and that was the most important part of the competition.

“Thanks, mate,” he called to Killian who simply gave him a nod of assurance.

“Did you see that?” Willis asked the judges, directing his question at Doug Marcaida, an edged weapons specialist. “Killian just helped his fellow competitor.”

“He’s a source of inspiration,” Doug nodded humbly. “Great men are forged in fire,” he began, pointing out Killian who continued to work on his blade handle with a stern focus. “It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame.”

“Did you just quote Doctor Who?” David Baker asked his colleague, aghast the man had delivered such a poetic quote from a TV show character.

“John Hurt,” Doug laughed. “As Doctor Who.”

All three men were at the same stage. The materials they had collected had been sized and cut into a rough shape using the huge bandsaw, and they are all currently hunched over their workbenches mixing epoxy. Two syringes full of the two resins were squeezed into each other on a flat surface, mixed with a flat spatula made of wood, the chemical reaction happening almost instantly. Graham added his dust to the epoxy, turning it into a lump consistency that wasn’t as easily spread over his tang as the glue Liam and Killian were using. They all rushed to get their handle scales in place, tapping them gently with a hammer.

“No, no, no!” Liam cursed, turning from his bench dramatically and running his steel greyed hands through his curled hair.

“Tap, tap, tap, crack. I’m done. Now my blasted brother is going to win.”

“Oh no,” one of the judges said. “Looks like Liam has broken one of his scales.”

Liam ground his jaw in frustration. He had hit the handle material too hard at just the wrong angle and it had snapped the top corner of his scale. He stared at his knife, shoulders tensed, fists balled in anger. In his anticipation to get his handle fixed he had lost his patience with tapping the delicate material with the hammer, chipping of a corner. It was a little too much to cover with some strategic sanding, so he had no choice but to start again.

“It’s going to be tricky getting those scales off now,” judge J. Nielsen told host Wil Willis. “His epoxy is already set.”

“Fuck!” Liam grunted, sure his outburst would most certainly not make a final cut.

Killian looked up from his own project, his brother’s cheeks pink with a mixture of heat and fury. He looked at Liam’s faux pas, sitting in front of his brother like a mockery of his skills, and his lips turned up into a smug grin.

“Problem, brother?” Killian taunted, looking back to his own work. His epoxy had set, fusing two brass plates between his tang and his outer wooden scales. It was perfect. All he had to do was sand it to shape.

Liam didn’t answer, punting his toe into the edge of his table.

“Shorten it,” Killian barked over the sound of Graham grinding his handle behind him. Liam looked over to him, raising an eyebrow in Jones brother fashion. “It’s only a tad, Liam,” Killian added, leaving his bench to pick up his brother’s knife. He pointed at the end, rubbing his grease covered thumbnail over the butt of Liam’s handle. “You can cut a smidge off, add an extra layer of new material and then thread your bolt on the end.”

Liam looked up at his brother, astounded by his commanding nature. He barely had time to respond before Killian thrust his knife back into his hands and Willis was announcing a time frame.

“Bladesmiths! You have thirty minutes remaining!”

Graham began humming a tune to himself as he pushed his knife handle against the sanding belt. Dust flew towards the floor and into his face, the mask he was wearing shielding his most from most of the splinters of antler. He was rushing, grinding in the wrong direction when all of a sudden the knife slipped from his grasp and his fingers were pushed against the coarse sanding belt, his knife point stabbing into his palm.

“Jesus, fuck!” He screeched, his Irish accent much thicker than it had been all day.

“Maybe, my reaction was bit drastic, but at least now I can say that literally my blood, sweat and tears are in that blade.”

“Oh, we got blood!” David Baker announced, tapping J.Nielsen’s arm in excitement.

“Is Graham going to need a medic?” Willis frowned, arching his neck to see more clearly.

“Are you alright, mate?” Killian asked Graham, his voice muffled behind his own face mask. He lifted his head, shutting off his machine to silence the screech of the belt, placing his knife on the bench beside it. “Is it bad?”

Graham hissed, clutching his hand to his chest. Killian motioned him closer and encouraged him to show him his hand, dark crimson flowing from his palm as soon as Graham opened it. Killian shook his head, looking up to catch the eye of Wil Willis, motioning with his arm.

“Can we get a medic in there?” Willis said, concern etched on his face.

Paramedics rushed to Graham’s aid. Liam downed his tools and for the first time ever, in the history of the entire show, the clock was stopped. Graham had sat on the floor under a medic’s instruction, and his leg was shaking, knee tapping the floor to distract from the pain throbbing through his hand.

“Is he going to be able to continue?” Baker thought out loud.

Graham was lost in a huddle of men, Killian pushed out by the circle by the medics. He looked over to Liam, his face pale, absolutely no colour in his cheeks, a solemn look on his face.

“When I reached Graham, I saw that his palm was sliced nearly to the back of his hand. His little pinkie finger was almost cut clean off, and the first thing I think is, he can’t possibly continue. The second thing is, that means it’s down to me and Liam. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad disappointed to be entering the final round because of an injury, but that won’t make besting my brother during the final any less satisfying.”

After the drama had cleared and Graham was on his way to the hospital, the forge fell silent once more. Liam and Killian stood before the judges table, part finished blades wrapped in protective blue cloth in their hands. Killian shuffled his feet, scuffing the dust with the toe of his boot, and Liam was nervously gripping his blade.

“Due to Graham’s medical elimination, there will be no need for further testing of your blades,” Wil Willis began, addressing both of the men in front of him. “For the first time in this competition’s history, we have brothers competing for the title and the check for ten grand.” He had his fingers tented, pointing to each brother in turn. “Congratulations on making the finale round. How do you guys feel about that?”

“No finer opponent,” Liam shrugged, looking sideways at his brother who had his trademark smirk and raised eyebrow plastered on his face.

“May the best man win,” Killian added, bobbing excitedly on the balls of his feet.

“Liam, Killian, we asked you here to forge a blade in your signature style, and we have not overlooked the fact that most of our competitors in this competition were Irish, so now we are sending you back to your home forges to recreate an iconic weapon from Celtic history.”

“The instant Wil Willis mentions Celtic, my heart flutters. Our family has strong Celtic roots, so beating Liam is going to be all that much sweeter.”

Liam looked to his brother, the same gleeful expression lighting up both their faces at the host's words. He hadn’t even revealed the weapon yet and they were both poised to explode with excitement as he reached for the red, silk cloth covering it next to him.

“And that weapon is...the Irish Ring-Hilted Sword.”

The covering fell away from the sword in slow motion, the glint of the silvered pommel catching their eyes. It was beautiful. A long, hefty sword with a distinctive design that simultaneously caused joy and terror to course through them both. What looked like a simple design was actually a long list of complex crafting techniques the show's host was about to divulge.

“You’ll have five days at your home forges in which to complete this challenge,” Willis said enthusiastically, a wicked grin on his face. “Your blades must meet the following parameters. The length of your blade must be between twenty nine and thirty one inches in length, it must be double edged, and include a fuller on both sides of the blade, that runs at least three quarters the length of the blade. You must have an ‘s’ shaped guard, with forked terminals, with at least three prongs on each terminal. Additionally, you must include a ringed pommel, through which you can see the tang. Bladesmiths, after five days you will return to present your swords to our panel of judges, and after they have thoroughly tested them, and inspected the quality of your work, they’ll declare one of you the Forged in Fire champion, who’ll walk out of here with a check for ten thousand dollars. Good luck, Bladesmiths. We’ll see you in five days.”

“Unfortunately, for Killian, he is not used to wielding such an impressive weapon, so it’s going to be easy to, once and for all, instill in him that he will always be the little brother.”

“My older brother seems too preoccupied with the size of the weapon when it’s really about how the sword will perform. I assure you, I’m up for this challenge, and when I forge the better weapon, and I will, whoever is jabbed with it, will most certainly feel it.”

After five days in their home forges, and after extensive rounds of judge testing - including both brother’s hearing Doug Marcaida declare that their blades ‘would cut’ - it was settled once and for all.

Killian Jones did indeed have the bigger knife.