#you fucking dumped her body on a bench knocking her unconscious!

[humanoidtyphoons]

like i think sas*saku could have been good, maybe. conceptually.

but none of these characters had actual good growth for me, in terms of romantic relationships, that i'm kinda like...

well yeah, i want naruto/sakura to have ended up together, bc at least i could see and believe in their friendship to turn it into romance

i just. i just felt like even at fifteen, sakura was stuck at twelve, and made such little effort to understand sas*ke, and the same honestly goes for naruto! for all the fact he wants his friend back! i don't think he understood him at all!

and i needed more! to have got it! to have seen these two as actual friends! to have been more moved in the fallout! and the constant conflicts they have!

why were you allergic to emotional growth!!!!!

[notyetneedcoffee]

Moving Parts, 3

Part Three

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Graphic Violence

oooo 

Steve shifted in his chair, patience waning. Sun beat through the floor to ceiling windows to heat the back of his neck. His chair looked stylish but was about as comfortable as an off kilter bus top bench. The charcoal suit felt tighter now than it did at eight that morning. He fought back the urge to snatch the pen out of Senator Wallace’s hand. If the Congressman kept incessantly tapping it, he was going to snap it in half.  

“I understand,” Cap forced a smile. “There are a lot of questions, and we do our best to provide answers. However, sir, I hope you can understand the myriad of factors taken into consideration during these battle cannot be adequately expressed in a report. We have training, protocols, and practices to mitigate risks, but in the moment, we can only make the best decision we can. There’s no time or opportunity to analyze details to extent that is done after the fact.”

“Are you suggesting we just trust you and the people within the Avengers because, what, you know best? Of course we are going review every aspect of these reports.” The Senator leaned forward, trying to take up more space, trying to dominate the conversation.

“I’m just asking that you consider the perspective…”

Wallace cut off Steve, continuing with his detailed criticism of the Avengers’ actions. Unfortunately, his phone vibrated for the sixth time in less than ten minutes. It’s been vibrating at increasing intervals for the last couple hours. The phone gave off a distinctive buzzing alarm.  

“What is that?” The Senator paused, scowling at Steve breast pocket.

“Apologies, sir. There must be an emergency. Communications is breaking past the silent status on my phone. Excuse me.” Steve pulled the phone out of pocket, standing to face the window as he answered. “Rogers.”

“About fucking time. You need to look at your mail. Let me know what you're going to do. I leave in a half hour.” Bucky’s voice growled over the phone, his voice low and murderous. He didn’t wait for an answer, just hung up. 

A frown pulled Steve’s brows together. He opened the email forwarded with a high importance and high security. He read, ‘You may violate the sovereignty of other organizations, but know that we will not tolerate acts of espionage or aggression towards our organization. We choose to keep to our kind. Be no bother to you. You should do the same. If you agree to cease all actions against us, we will return your operative. Do not and accept the consequences.’  

He opened the attachment. His entire body locked up. You were tied to a chair, beaten and barely conscious. A male hand held today’s Wall Street Journal before the camera, allowing him to see the headline and date. In the background, someone clad in black hit you hard, causing you to moan. The whole clip was eight seconds.  

“I have to go.” He stared at the phone.  

“We’re not done here.” The Senator had stood up, apparently looking over Steve’s shoulder at the video.  

“Yes, we are.” Cap turned around, rigid.

“Your time is scheduled with us. If there’s an emergency, other people can...”

“No.” He stepped forward. Wallace took a step back. “She is my priority.” Cap picked up his tablet and strode to the door. He keyed the phone, saying as soon as Bucky answered. “Tell me where. I’ll meet you.”

ooooo

Steve’s warm fingertips ghosted over the small of your back. Warm. You adored it. He would lay beside you tracing the curve of you ass, the dip of your lower back, along your spine all day if you let him. He touched you like a piece of art.  

You stretched.

Pain shocked you out the dazed memory. It dumped you back into reality like an ice bath. Stabs of pain burned through your back, your shoulder. Everything hurt.

Taking a mental stock of yourself, you realized you were face down on a concrete floor. It was dark but for a sliver of light crossing your body from a slit of a window high on the wall. You moved muscles, flexed joints. Nothing felt broken. You tasted blood, your lip split open. You couldn’t see very well out of your left eye. You fought off the fog in your mind. The drugs. They’d drugged you again.

Moving slowly, you rolled over and sat up. They’d locked you in the same room as before. Your wrists were swollen and scabbed. You stomach rumbled.  

You weren’t sure how long it’d been since the symphony. They gave you water, but you hadn’t touched the fry bread left on the plate by the door. It could not have been more than two days, maybe three. Getting up, you examined the room again. You never did find any electronics, no cameras or sensors.  

A key entered the lock on the door. You threw yourself on the floor into the same position you awoke in. The door opened. You concentrated. A foot prodded your hip. You remained limp. A rough kick hit your side. The momentum rolled you over. You remained limp. A hand grabbed the front of your shirt. You attacked.

Moving by muscle memory, seeing the room in a blur, you locked his elbow joint and rolled. Your leg fell over his throat, holding him in an arm bar. You pulled his arm, kicked against the side of his throat, breaking his neck. Rolling to your feet, you breathed when you realize he was alone.  

Rapidly searching the body, you found keys and a 9mm with only ten rounds left in the mag. It would do. You silently snuck out.  

After a few minutes you heard gunfire. Making your way to an open window, you peered outside. You looked to be in some sort of old estate. A courtyard outside held three vehicles. Six men ran from a wing to your left toward the opposite wing.  

Glass broke. A body fell from the second floor. Bullets shattered the windows to the right. Fighting men crashed against the now open window. The uniform and cowl unmistakable. You heart stopped. Steve was here. A flash of silver knocked the attacker away. Bucky.  

Adrenaline cleared your head. Moving carefully, staying hidden, you crossed the courtyard and slipped into the open door. A body sprawled across the stairs. You pulled free his knife and checked his gun. Empty. Creeping up the stairs, you slipped behind a nervous guy holding back and watching the fight.  

The sounds of the battle came clearly to your ears. They were under heavy fire but weren’t falling back like they should. They were taking a beating because they thought you were behind the assailants, maybe?  

“Are you going to shoot her too?” A man shouted. “Shower the building with bullets, Sergeant, and kill her like you killed my grandmother!” More shots. Not Bucky’s. You knew the sound of his weapons. “My grandfather! My father! You murdered them.”

“Don’t know you.” Bucky shouted.

“You didn’t bother, neither of you!” The man’s crazed response came out hoarse. “Not back then!”

Looking above the man watching the battle in front of you, the gold gilded Nazi pediment surprised you. Great. Rushing forward, a hand to mouth and brutal stab of the knife to severe the spinal column at the base of his skull, and the man was down with little more noise than a thud.  

Peeking around the corner showed a dozen combatants against Steve and Bucky. It looked like an old parlor or small ballroom. They were behind a stone column to you right. Three stood between you and them. The rest hid behind furniture and columns to your left.  

Moving as fast as possible, you shot the two furthest from you as you blocked the blow from the nearest target. Going low, when he went high, and you dropped him with a single shot. Now hiding behind your own column, you glanced over.

Bucky’s eyes went soft. You were alive and fighting. He could breathe again.

Steve’s mouth hung open just a bit, for just a moment. Then he clenched his teeth, fury filling his face.

“Wha?” The man was cursing, screaming in German. “Kill them!”  

“Do not fuck with my boys.” You growled, swinging your arm around to empty the remaining rounds. The boys attacked with full force, no long worried about where you were. Seconds later, everyone lay dead or unconscious.  

The shield clanged to the floor just before strong arms pulled you in tight. Steve had pulled off his cowl, pressing his face into your hair. He smelled of sweat and gunpowder. You sighed against him. His hand held your head. Arm wrapped around your ribs.

“Thank god.” He breathed, lips pressing against your ear. “I was so... I love you. Are you okay?”

“Love you, too.” You whispered back. Bucky’s hand slid over your hair, your back. His eyes still scanned the area. Your hand found his. “And you.”

Bucky brought your joined hands to his lips. “Let’s get somewhere safe.”

“Yeah,” Steve stepped back, picking up his shield. “We’ll return to the quinjet, get you taken care of, and then we’ll mop up here.”

You followed them out. The jet lay beyond the gardens next to an outbuilding. No neighborhood or houses in sight. You must be on a really large estate. By the time you dropped onto the bench in the jet, the adrenaline was wearing off and everything hurt again. The drop and the pain brought silent tears to your eyes.  

“Okay, Doll.” Bucky dropped his gear and pulled off his gloves. “Let’s look at you.”

Steve moved forward and locked down the jet, setting the sensors. He pulled the med kit out.

“I’m just going to cut this dress off, okay?” Bucky’s voice gently pulled your attention to yourself again, this time beyond bones and joints. You wore the evening gown, now tattered. No shoes.  You nodded.

Moving with sure and gentle touches, they got you stripped down to just your panties. Steve traced his fingers over the bruised lines crossing your back. Bucky bandaged your wrists and applied salve to your lip. Your brain went fuzzy, exhausted.

“Sweetheart,” Steve choked, his nose ghosting over your shoulder. “Did any of them...” His voice trailed off. Bucky froze.  

Numbly you shook your head. “Just the beatings.”

Bucky sighed before continuing. “Doll, let me see your feet.”

It didn’t even register. The soles were bloodied. He grabbed tweezers and started removing shards of glass. You leaned. Steve shifted and held your side against his chest, your face tucked under his chin. Your quiet tears ran down your face, dripping on to his chest, as you watched Bucky work. You felt numb, aware of the pain but apart from it.

He wrapped your feet. Then pulled out a soft thin blanket. Steve lifted you up, helping Bucky wrap it you. Steve put you down on the med bench, helping you lay down and get comfortable. “We’re going to give you something for the pain, okay sweetheart? You sleep while we take care of everything.”

“Don’t want to sleep.”  

“Yeah, you do.” Steve placed soft kisses along your cheek, the corner of your mouth.  

“No.” But your eyes were already closing.  

“You’re safe, Doll.” Bucky’s soft lips kissed your fingers. “You rest.”

“Okay.” You sighed, drifting off. “I knew you’d come. You’re always there.”

Bucky tucked your arm in, just how you like to sleep. He looked up, seeing the pain and grief in Steve’s eyes. “Hey, she’s okay. We’ve got her.”

Steve’s eyes closed, a tear falling free. “She’s okay.” He repeated. His voice cracked, not more than a whisper. “You’ve got her.”

Before Bucky could respond, Steve scooped up his gear and hit the release for the quinjet’s ramp. He heard Steve’s command voice return. “Time to clean up the mess. I want to know who these people are, everything about them, all of it.” 

With a last kiss to your hair, Bucky followed, sealing you up safely inside.  

TAGS

@rainbowkisses31​ / @dsakita​ / @dsakita​ / @geeksareunique​ / @lbouvet​ / @buckybarneshairpullingkink​ / @theneuropsychwriter​ / @vanillabunn21​ / @beautifullungs​ / @badassbaker​ / @badassbaker​ / @the-omni-princess​ / @sebbysstangirl​ / @unadulteratedwizardlove / @the-reading-octopus / @the-reading-octopus​ / @bangtan-serendipity​ / @kiki5283​ / @mindtravelsx​ / @lexie-mo​ / @gifsbysimplysonia​ / @josie605​ / @wildmoonflower​ / @rynabarnesrogers​ / @notyourtypicalrose​ / @wwe-fanfiction-queen​ / @thorfanficwriter​ / @scarlettsoldier​ / @morganhoran1671​ / @morganhoran1671​ / @michelehansel​ / @sexyvixen7​ /@ykcim24-7

[spockfallsinlove]

simple harmonies

prompt from @sierra198466​: After Beyond, Spock dumps Uhura and he realizes he loves Jim. He then finds out Jim has loved him since Into Darkness. word count: 2.2k ao3 link.

Spock has never known himself to do what humans refer to as “space out”. On the contrary, he does mental exercises daily to make sure his mind remains sharp. When there is a moment that he finds his thoughts floating from the current situation, he is normally able to bring himself back to reality.

However, during the whole conversation he and Nyota have, all he can seem to truly focus on are the wind chimes that are outside the coffee house door.

His mother had them, at their house. She used to say that it was the last non-electronic object that humans had to play music for them. The wind rarely gusted enough on Vulcan to make them sing; but whenever it did, she would look out the window and have one of her mysterious smiles that Spock never quite did figure out.

Like mother, like son. It is he who is transfixed, looking out the window, unable to look away as the chimes gently bump each other in the wind.

“We should end our romantic involvement with each other,” he says as Nyota takes a breath, ready to launch into the next part of her argument with him.

She stops. Blinks at him. “What did you say?”

The wind picks up again, knocking the littlest chime into the largest. A melodically odd tone results. “We should end our romantic relationship,” he repeats.

Nyota, for the first time since he’s known her, is speechless.

“Do you think that if we flew far enough in space, we could find the end of time?” Jim asks. He’s propped against the railing, staring out into the San Francisco bay.

Spock stops his vegetable gyro’s trajectory toward his mouth (it’s from a food truck that Jim insisted on them eating at; “the best in the galaxy” were his words). He frowns at his friend. “Modern physics suggests that a concept such as the ‘end of time’ is—”

Jim waves his hand, cutting Spock off. “I don’t want the science crap, any theorized evidence. What do you think?”

“Why do you wish to find the end of time?”

Jim shrugs. His hair is being lightly brushed by the wind and there’s a melancholic smile on his face that Spock cannot understand.  “If you can find the end, maybe you can trace it back. To where you want to go.”

Spock takes a thoughtful bite of his dinner and swallows before saying, “Even the ocean has an end. Technically.”

“It does, Spock,” Jim says, looking as if he’s seeing Spock for the first time, “it sure does.”

An hour after Spock leaves Nyota at the coffee shop, he receives an angry call from Doctor McCoy. He lets his phone ring itself to voicemail. The message is about as emotional as he expected.

“Listen you crazy hobgoblin—Nyota just told us what the hell you did. Just breaking up with her like that, no explanation, then walking out? Where the hell do you get off? You better believe that I’m going to kick that green ass of yours into the sky, and make sure you don’t get on the ship for that 5-year-mission—”

Spock deletes the message.

He stops at a crosswalk. People jostle his shoulder as they walk by. As is typical in the crowded streets of San Francisco, he feels fleeting snatches of their emotions and thoughts as they touch him: grocery lists running through people’s heads, worrying about who will pick up the kids at daycare, annoyance at how hot and sticky it is for a day in December.

Spock remains standing there. Staring into space, once again. The sound of windchimes stuck in his ears.

Spock tries to forget the day Jim got injured and almost died in his arms.

Peace talks with the people indigenous to Echo IV had not gone as expected. After refusing relations with the Federation, things had become tense. Jim, trying to calm down the situation, had gotten caught in the crossfire.

Spock’s hands were uncharacteristically shaking when he tore Jim’s shirt open to apply medical attention. McCoy was on the ship, since there was no anticipated danger at this meeting. Around the corner, the security team tried to manage the situation. Any requests for beam-ups were greeted with static.

“Spock.” Jim’s hand, stained with blood, caught Spock’s. “Leave it, find a way to get to the ship, just—”

“Cease talking.” Spock applied pressure to Jim’s wound. His mind was spinning. He could feel Jim’s agony through his skin.

“Get to the ship. Just be safe,” Jim choked out as he slipped from consciousness.

Spock tried to hail the Enterprise countless times. He helplessly watched as Jim’s face grew paler. Most of the security team had died, and Spock knew that soon it’d be him and Jim left. That Jim would die, either by someone else’s weapon or from his own wounds.

And all Spock could do is watch.

By the time the ship was finally hailed, and they were finally beamed aboard, McCoy had to stick a hypo into Spock’s neck to stop his body’s shaking.

It took five crew members to pull him off the unconscious captain.

It was standing over Jim’s sickbed, with Jim patched up and well and sipping water from a straw, that he finally relaxed. Breathed. He didn’t listen to the words that Jim said. He only watched his face, alive with emotions, and his lungs, expanding with breath.

It takes the whole afternoon before Nyota finally answers her comm. Spock is walking on the Starfleet Academy campus, which is empty due to the holidays, when his pocket buzzes.

“I wish to say I’m sorry,” Spock says, in a rush, before she can hang up.

She sighs angrily on the line. “I knew you weren’t a smooth talker, Spock, but, this... this takes the fucking cake.”

“I realize that I was … too forward.”

“Too forward?” she yells. “You didn’t even give me warning! One minute we’re arguing about me spending time on Vulcan with you, the next you’re dumping me in broad daylight! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I do not know.”

“Well…” She sighs again. “It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. But the way you did it, it just—” There’s a silence. “I’m pissed at you, Spock. And I will be for a long time. Don’t call me again, okay?”

“Underst—” The comm link cuts out. He pockets the device, and stands by a large oak tree.

A cadet walks by in his uniform and shouldering a backpack. He looks surprised that someone else is on campus before giving Spock a wry, understanding smile.

“What was your mother like?”

Jim is lying on the floor of Spock’s living room apartment, wine glass clutched in his hand. He stares up at Spock innocently.

“Why are you asking such a question?” is Spock’s reply.

“Tell me about your mom, and I’ll tell you about my dad.”

“You never knew your father.”

Jim lets loose a laugh. “Low blow, Spock. I know enough, okay? Now, tell me.” He sits up, legs crossed. “Just one thing.”

Spock doesn’t think about his mother often. It threatens his control.

But it’s Jim who’s asking.

“She loved nature,” Spock says. “She always tended faithfully to a garden in the backyard, and would cry if a plant died.”

“A happy thing about her, Spock.”

“I did not know these facts had to be so specific in nature.”

Jim raises his eyebrows, stares at Spock expectantly. Spock relents. “Very well, she... “ He pauses. “I never understood her. She seemed to have many secrets.”

Jim rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll never get anything out of you, will I?”

“Perhaps give me an example of what your father was like, so that I may see what you mean.”

Jim grins. “All right. Mom said that he used to sing to her all the time. He was really good at it.”

“You did not inherit this talent,” Spock observes.

“What? I’m awesome!”

“I have heard you in our adjoining bathroom on the ship.”

Jim laughs, a full-bodied one where his head is tilted back and his golden hair catches the light of the setting sun. “You’re such a jerk, you know that?”

Spock lets a small smile tug his lips.

Jim’s laughter dies down, and he takes a sip of wine. In the silence, Spock offers, “My mother loved music. Her favorite object in the house was the wind chimes that hung just outside our kitchen window.”

There’s a sad way about Jim’s eyes when he says, “I wish I could have met her.”

Spock feels something fissure his heart. “As do I.”

On his birthday a few weeks later, Jim showed up at his apartment with a small, blue windchime. Spock stared at it for approximately 9.78 seconds before accepting the gift.

Spock finds a bench to sit on the harbor boardwalk. The sun is dipping low in the horizon, making the ocean seem to glow.

He does not want to return home, just yet.

Since the coffee shop, his mind has been restless. Unordered. Jumping between memories and realities as if he were a living television set.

He remembers the last time he was on this boardwalk. The image of Jim is in his mind, face happy and open, eyes discerning the sea in front of him. Spock has no doubt that he could take the world by storm if he wished; the galaxy included.

Jim could have anything if he set his mind to it. Could have anyone. It’s illogical; if these are the facts, then what does Jim need with an awkwardly socialized half-Vulcan?

Spock frowns at his shoes. The idea of Jim not needing him… is frightening. When Spock himself needs Jim so.

Spock’s gaze snaps to the ocean. The pieces in his mind burst together in a colorful, clarifying light.

Jim is at his apartment door when Spock returns, sitting against the door. He quickly scrambles to his feet when he sees Spock.

“Where the hell were you?” Jim asks angrily. “I’ve been calling and looking everywhere!”

“I have just been to your apartment,” Spock explains, unsteadily. “You were not there.”

“Because I’ve been waiting for you, you idiot! I’ve gotten hundreds of messages from Bones, Uhura, even Chekov has heard about it and is upset—”

“I regret worrying you,” Spock supplies, lamely, as he takes out his keys. He walks into his living room as Jim follows him through the door.

“What, you just break Uhura’s heart and then take off? And don’t even tell anyone where you were? You’ve been M.I.A all day!”

Spock places his keys on the coffee table. “I am aware.”

Jim puts both hands on his hips, glaring at him. “So, what, no explanation? You’re just gonna stand there?”

“I was attempting to find you. I need to—”

“Then why didn’t you call me? Why did I have to—”

“I am in love with you.”

Jim stares at him. His mouth remains slack, his eyes wide. “What did you just say?”

“It’s why I was attempting to find you.” Spock sits on his couch, hands on his knees to stop them from shaking. “I have come to this realization 3.57 hours ago. I regret not realizing and telling you sooner. And I regret not knowing this as I was ending my relationship with Uhura. But I assure you, I will give her an explanation.”

Jim stares at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

“How can you just—sit there and deliver that news like it’s the fucking weather?”

“It is a fact. I thought it best for you to know.”

Jim puts a hand on his forehead, shaking his head. “Uhura’s gonna kill me.”

“I understand that the likelihood of you reciprocating my feelings is 5.456%,” Spock says, almost too quickly, “due to the fact that you have not shown amorous feelings for me in the past. I understand if you were to open my position to applicants, as working with me may now seem impossible. If you were to—”

“Spock.” Jim walks to the couch and stands close enough so that their knees touch. He stares down at him. “Shut up.”

Spock obeys. Jim kneels down to Spock’s eye level.

“Do you remember when I died?”

Spock goes tense. “I do not see what that has to do with—”

“Spock. Just answer the question.”

“Of course I remember. It is a stupid question.”

Jim closes his eyes in frustration. “God, you’re making this difficult.” He takes a breath and opens his eyes. “When I died, I couldn’t really get words out. And there was that… damn glass between us. So I couldn’t tell you what was really in my head.”

“Tell me what?”

Spock’s breath hitches when Jim is suddenly taking his hand, holding it between his. “I’ve loved you for years, you stupid Vulcan.”

Spock’s heart feels to have stopped. He takes time to illogically memorize the moment; the shadows casting on Jim’s face, the complete stillness in his normally animated expression. But only a moment, because Spock cannot stay still any longer and is framing Jim’s face with his hands, bringing him forward in a very human, very emotional kiss.

“Finally,” Jim breathes on Spock’s lips between kisses, moving to bracket Spock’s legs with his. They fit together flawlessly; effortlessly. As if the small moments between them were meant to lead to this.

In the distance, on the flight of the wind, Spock can hear the chimes.

[lovely-angst]

Since I can barely find any hoe about some iwaizumi angst maybe him breaking up with his girlfriend cause he thinks he doesnt love her anymore and then her ending up in a really long coma and iwaizumi figuring out he does love her. You can decide the ending.

I like what I wrote, I just don’t like HOW I wrote it. Smh.

Iwaizumi waited outside your house in the cold winter morning, waiting for you to finish getting ready so the two of you could walk to school together like you did every day. 

Glancing down at his phone, he sighed as it had been 10 minutes since he had arrived and you still were not done. “Hey (Name), we’re going to be late!” Iwaizumi shouted from outside and thankfully you came rushing down the stairs. 

“Sorry, Hajime! Let’s get going shall we!” 

He’s been getting irritated, irritated with you specifically. ‘Why does it feel like such a chore dating her?’ Iwaizumi thought to himself as he sat in class at the end of the day, waiting to go to practice. 

The school bell rang gently and everyone was leaving to go home but Iwaizumi made no movement to get up, instead, he remained in his seat, eyes focused on the snow and slippery ice outside. The doors slid open and he shut his eyes when he heard your bubbly voice, “Hajime! I thought you would be in here.” 

“(Name)-”

“I’ll wait for you after practice and we can walk home together. Better yet, I’ll watch you at practice today! That would be so much-”

“(Name)!” Hearing Iwaizumi shout at you stopped you in your tracks and your eyes widened slightly at the tone of his voice. An embarrassed chuckle left your lips as you took a step back and played with your hands.

“Just go home for today, I’m staying after practice longer than usual today.” Iwaizumi replied, eyes still focused outside. Pressing your lips tightly you smiled and nodded, “Sure, see you tomorrow.” 

Hearing your footsteps walk toward the door, you slid it open before closing it and walking off. Iwaizumi sighed, frustrated at himself for yelling at you. He didn’t mean to, it just happened..

How did he feel back then when the two of you first started dating? He met you through none other than Oikawa and the two of you hit it off, but how did it come to this? He was beginning to think you were annoying, a nuisance. 

‘Maybe it’s best if I ended it..’ 

-

“I’m so glad we’re walking home together,” you smiled happily as you held Iwaizumi’s hand. “I was really worried about you yesterday.” You replied and all Iwaizumi did was glance at you quickly. 

“Hajime? What’s wrong?” You asked 

“Woah man, you don’t look too good,” stopping in your tracks, you walked in front of him and before you could place your hand on his forehead, he turned his head away from you, facing the other direction. “Don’t,” 

Brows arching confused, you retract your hand before reaching down for his again, except this time he pulled his hands away from yours. “H-Hajime?”

“I’m sorry (Name), I think it’s best if we end our relationship here.” He turned toward you slightly and his eyes that you had loved met your own. “I just, I’ve been so stressed over the relationship lately, I just don’t think I can continue it. I don’t want to keep leading you on.” 

Your hands came up and covered your mouth as your eyes widened in shock. Your eyes focused on the icy sidewalk underneath you before you shut your eyes and smiled up at him, “I understand.” 

Turning on your heel, you ran away towards your house, leaving Iwaizumi in the cold alone. 

Sighing, he took out his phone and realized that practice hadn’t started yet. “Volleyball will get my mind off of this.” 

Reaching the gym, he slid the doors open before walking over to the coach, apologizing for being late. Oikawa walked over to his friend, slapping him on the back, “Where were you? You’re never this late.” 

“I walked (Name) home, but we barely made it halfway.” Iwaizumi replied, putting his gym shoes on as he sat on the bench. Oikawa gave him a confused look, “Why? What happened?” Iwaizumi glanced away guiltily, knowing how much it would hurt Oikawa.

“I..I broke up with (Name),” Iwaizumi held his head down and waited for a response but none came from Oikawa. Looking up, he glanced at his friend and regretted it. Oikawa’s face was full of pain as he looked down at his friend, “How could you do that to her?” 

“I was getting so stressed over the relationship. She was getting to clingy and she was getting annoying.” 

“She was only like that because she knew how sad you felt!” Oikawa shouted angrily as he grabbed his teammate’s shirt before throwing him back. “She wanted you to feel loved, feel like you had all the fangirls in the world. She knew how much you hated it when fangirls would surround me. She wanted you to feel like that. I guess nothing is enough for you huh.” 

Iwaizumi’s eyes were wide as he stared down at his shoes in shock. He had just broken up with his girlfriend who tried to show him as much love as she possibly could. 

“She was always a couple minutes late in the morning because she wanted to look her best for you. I don’t think you ever even complimented her on that.” Oikawa shot back. Everything Oikawa said came as a bullet to his heart, he was in so much pain because of his actions. Could he try to fix this?

“Fuck, what did I do? I need to fix this.” Iwaizumi cursed as he stood up and ran outside. Oikawa watched his best friend’s retreating back before walking over to coach to make an excuse for him.

Looking around, Iwaizumi tried to see if he could find you among the people on the path towards your house, but he couldn’t seem to find you until when he was just almost in your neighborhood. 

There in the dark winter evening, the sunset on a cold beautiful body laying on the ground. Iwaizumi’s heart stopped as he slowly walked forward, praying it wasn’t yours.

But his answers were not answered that day.

Kneeling down next to your cold body, Iwaizumi gently turned you over and noticed the small pool of blood beside your head. Following the source, he noticed it came from your forehead. 

Analyzing everything around him that could have caused this he came to one conclusion, which was all his fault. After he dumped you, you ran and slipped on the pile of ice before smashing your head on the ground, knocking you unconscious. 

Iwaizumi didn’t hesitate to call an ambulance and unfortunately, they confirmed that you slipped and fell. His heart sank when they said you didn’t look to be in great shape from that fall. 

-

Iwaizumi sat outside her room, waiting for the doctors to finish discussing about you before he was allowed in. His hands were cold, shaking, pale from the accident. He could have prevented this, but he caused it instead.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the door open and the doctors and nurses stepped out quietly, walking to their other patients. Iwaizumi looked around hopefully, waiting for an answer but no one seemed to stop. 

“What is your relationship to the patient?” A doctor asked as he stopped outside her door, facing Iwaizumi. “I’m her boyfriend,” He quickly replied standing up. “How is she?” He asked, hoping for a positive answer, but the one he received, he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or angry about it.

“Well, she’s alive and beginning to heal, but it seems that she’s in a coma. It seemed she took the fall very hard and it must’ve done a toll on her.” 

“B-But she’ll wake up right?” Iwaizumi asked, a little louder than he intended. The doctor placed a hand on his shoulder and sighed, “That I can’t answer. We’re not sure when she’ll wake up. Maybe tomorrow, maybe never.” 

Clenching his fists, he brought an arm up to his eyes to stop the tears that were forming. “You’re free to visit her. Talk to her, it’s possible she can still hear you.” All Iwaizumi could do was nod before the doctor walked off.

Standing outside your room, Iwaizumi was scared and nervous to enter. The image of you never waking up haunted him. He just wanted you to wake up so he could apologize and fix things, why was he so stupid?

Slipping into the room, he brushed past the curtains and his eyes laid on the fragile body on the bed, head bandaged up with the soft beeping of the monitor. Holding back his tears, Iwaizumi took a seat beside the bed and grabbed your hand gently, holding it in his. 

“I’m sorry (Name), this is my fault..” Iwaizumi whispered, voice cracking as he looked at you. Blinking his tears away, he brought your hand to his lips, “Forgive me.”

[tigerlilynoh]

Title: Don’t Stop Me Now

Author: TigerLilyNoh Rating: Explicit Word count: 8,109 Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, Sexual coercion

Summary: When Sam and Dean are captured on a hunt, it’s up to Ruby to save them... in her own special Ruby sort of way.

Ruby felt like she’d been hit by a truck and as soon as she opened her eyes she knew why.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” she muttered at the sight of a car’s chassis several inches above her face.

After gingerly checking to make sure she still had all her limbs, she pushed herself out from under the SUV.  She could feel some internal damage, probably a ruptured spleen, kidney and some internal bleeding.  Half her ribs felt fractured, but it wasn’t structurally meaningful.  Her meatsuit could walk and she had bigger concerns.

Sam and Dean weren’t there.  It wasn’t like Sam to just leave her unconscious under a car—Dean was another matter.  He’d ditch her in a heartbeat, especially if they had to chase down a suspect.  She supposed it was possible that Sam had just gone with Dean, after all he knew her well enough that it was clear she’d survive.

Ruby turned around and saw the Impala still where they’d parked it, about ten yards away.  The front passenger side door was open.  As she walked up to it she noticed Dean’s ridiculous chromed pistol laying on the ground.  Beside it was a coaster-sized puddle of blood that turned into a trickling path.  She followed it to the large, unmistakable tire tracks of a van trying to get the hell out of dodge.  It definitely was looking like someone had taken the brothers.

She climbed into the Impala, hot wired the car, readjusted the bench seat so that she could reach the pedals, then started driving back to their motel room as she tried to recall everything she could about the case.

They’d been investigating the deaths of eight locals.  As far as they could tell the victims had gone missing, then five to seven days later their bodies were found in alleys across the city.  The cause of death wasn’t entirely clear.  Each victim had had their heart removed, but three of the bodies showed evidence that it had been extracted postmortem.  And aside from the massive trauma to the chest, there weren’t any significant mauling injuries that would’ve indicated a werewolf.  There had been some bruising around the victims’ wrists, waists, chest, thighs, and ankles, hinting at some sort of restraint, but it lacked the distinctive texture of rope or chains.  

The strangest part was that the bodies had been meticulously cleaned, dressed, and positioned when they were dumped.  Each victim had been left well-groomed and in the muted, neutral clothing palette of some fashion designer that none of them had been sophisticated enough to reference as a joke.  The bruises had even been covered with concealer.

Sam’s research had suggested that they might be dealing with a ghost that killed beautiful people, but there wasn’t any obvious connection between the victims, the places where they were last seen, or where the bodies had been found.  There also didn’t appear to be any record of a single killing in that manner than may have given rise to a disgruntled spirit looking to share its pain.

The three of them had just met up to compare notes over dinner, but they hadn’t even gotten out of the parking lot before things had suddenly gone wrong.  The boys had been dragging their heels, discussing their frustration that the victims seemed squeaky clean and had no connection.  

Well, Dean had pointed out a possible connection.  The victims were all well above average in the looks department—‘babes’ had been the exact word choice that elicited an eye roll from Sam.  Not to mention the victims were good people who seemed completely undeserving of that sort of bad luck… the same bad luck that had befallen Sam and Dean— Ruby decided that she had her own brand of bad luck.  After all, she was the one who’d been hit by a car and knocked out mid-conversation.  And while she was out the guys had been taken, just like the victims… all the gorgeous victims.

She had to admit that Sam and Dean were both fine physical specimens, even if she’d rather eat iron than tell Dean that.  They’d been wearing their boring Fed suits, which weren’t really her thing, but she supposed that somebody had to like them in order for them to keep selling.  But why the fuck would the monster leave her behind?  She’d put a lot of time and energy into finding an attractive meatsuit without a soul.  She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, then checked how much of her cleavage was visible.  A good amount of it.  Some bruising from the impact of the SUV was visible just at the edge of her bra’s cups.  Taking a more invasive peek down her shirt she could see the extensive discoloration.  She absentmindedly readjusted her bra before texting Sam and Dean’s cells, asking for them to call her on the very unlikely chance she’d misinterpreted the situation.  

Patting the dashboard of the Impala, she said, “It’s okay, girl.  We’ll find the boys.”

Sam was an excellent researcher; he loved getting into a pile of books more than Dean and her.  Yet despite his reputation as the team nerd, there were some areas of knowledge that were found more easily mastered through experience… languages being one of them.  

Once Ruby had gotten back to their motel room, she began flipping through Sam’s notes on the case and slowed down as she read his attempt at a translation of Andalusi Arabic.  He’d done a valiant job considering the language had been dead for three centuries— Well, she wasn’t sure whether a language was technically dead if the active dead spoke it, as she did.  She rolled her eyes at the fact that he’d probably spent hours translating what she could’ve done in a minute because he hadn’t bothered asking if she was familiar with the language.  Granted at the time she’d been busy running a few hustles with Dean at a nearby bar for some easy cash.

Looking at Sam’s translation she could see where he’d missed a few nuances.  Rather than a ghost that was attracted to physically beautiful people, they were actually dealing with a flesh and blood monster called an Aashtann.  They were beautiful creatures, who retained their beauty by killing people who were beautiful, both physically and who acted with inner beauty or noble purpose.  She could definitely see Sam fitting the bill, but it was hard to imagine Dean acting nobly… well, she supposed he did sincerely want to save people from monsters, so maybe that was close enough as far as the aashtan was concerned.  With a better idea of what they were looking for, she decided to bypass some of the elbow-grease-based effort that Sam was known for.  She didn’t have time to spend all night in the library.

Ruby hurried to the closest street intersection, stood in the middle, then shouted, “Crowley!”

As a demon, she didn’t need to go through all the normal Crossroads formalities.  Any intersect would act as an open mic to the entire Crossroads.  The question was whether there was a demon left in Hell that could stand to play nice with her.  Crowley seemed like her best bet.  At the very least he’d probably be disappointed if Sam and Dean were no longer alive and available for him to periodically torment for kicks.

“You don’t have to yell,” Crowley commented from where he was sitting on the bus stop bench next to the intersection.  He sipped his perpetually-on-hand glass of 1979 Port Ellen.  When Ruby went over and sat down next to him, he added, “you look terrible.”

“I was hit by an SUV,” she explained while taking the glass from his hand and helping herself to his scotch.

“I meant your haircut,” he jabbed.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Sam and Dean are missing, I need you to find them—“

“No.  No deal.”  Crowley shook his head.  “I’m not going to be your deus ex machina.  Do you know how much of my time I would spend if I took requests like that?  Do you have any idea how often Moose or Squirrel are in danger?”

“I’m painfully aware of it,” Ruby groaned.  “Can I at least get some intel from you?”

“It depends on what it is.”  Crowley made a show of checking his wristwatch.  “I have a meeting in an hour.  The time between now and then is all the due diligence I’m willing to part with.”

“I want to know about aashtan and I don’t have time to go to the fucking library.”

“And why are you asking me?”

“You sell people their sins wrapped in a bow.  Vanity is on the list and these things live for it.”  She reluctantly handed back the glass as a peace offering now that she was actually asking for help.  “I think one of those things took them.”

“I’m not surprised.”  Crowley hummed in agreement at the thought or maybe just recalling the Winchesters’ blessed genetics.

“I’m looking for any intel that I can use to find them and on how to kill these aashtan things.”

“You know how this works.  I’m bartering for souls, and you my dear, don’t have one.”

“You want Dean’s?”  She smiled despite her concern for the brothers.  “I’ll trade you that.”

“I’ll pay you to keep both of their souls away from me,” Crowley huffed.  “Those two are like a waking blight.  You’re lucky you’ve survived this long.”

“I’m tough to kill.”

“I’ve noticed.”  He stared pointedly at her.  “There are several dozen vacancies in Hell’s finest that can corroborate that.  By the way, everyone would appreciate it if you stop killing our people.”

“Can I trade that for the intel?” she asked with a grin of false innocence.

“Like I personally care about a few more dead grunts.”  Crowley looked at her for a moment, then said, “I want your help with a ritual.”

“A ritual?”

“You were a witch, weren’t you?  I need some help cracking an egg.”

She didn’t like the sound of that.  “What kind of egg?”

“The interdimensional gateway kind.”

“On Earth?” she asked warily.

“Heavens no, In Hell,” Crowley assured her.  “We’re just looking to expand our real estate investment into the area next to Purgatory.”

“Deal.”  She quickly pointed to him, adding, “and I’m not on the hook if you unleash any Lovecraftian Old Ones.”

“Deal.”  Crowley offered her a handshake, then told her “one moment,” before teleporting back to Hell to collect her intel.  

She sat there on the bus stop bench and checked her phone for the tenth time to see if Sam had returned her text.  Still nothing.  

Crowley reappeared with a full glass of scotch and a worn parchment pamphlet.  “I pinched you the Cliffnotes.  But the good news is that your boys probably aren’t dead yet.”

“Well, that’s great,” Ruby said as she started skimming the booklet, squinting to read the fading ink in the dim illumination of the streetlight.  “And Sam’s my boy, Dean’s just the readily available organ donor.”  She held the parchment close to her face to take a closer look.  “What are these aashtan guys into Feng Shui?”

“Something like that,” Crowley acknowledged.  “Their love of beauty includes more than just their prey.  Aashtan like to stay in buildings that fit a bland, modern, geometric aesthetic, constructed with a south-facing corner that’s less than a 90° angle.  God knows how they survived through the Baroque period.”

“There can’t be more than one of those…” Ruby started saying as she finished searching for the rare architectural characteristic on her phone.  “Fucking pretentious architects.  Brent Hilton, award-winning postmodernist architect of the year.  He’s known for his acute angles and has fifteen commercial buildings and thirty homes in the metropolitan area.”

“Are you going to go door-to-door spreading the good word?” Crowley asked.

“Do I even have time to check forty-five buildings before they’re dead?”  She scrolled through the architectural journal’s article a bit more, then groaned.  “And half of them aren’t even listed.”

“The aashtan drain the blood of their victims over the course of 24 hours before removing and eating the heart.”  Crowley raised an eyebrow at her.  “How long have they been missing?”

“Maybe a half hour”  Ruby did some quick math.  Assuming that blood loss occurs at a constant rate, she only had about eight hours to get them back without risk of serious injury or death from blood loss.  “I need to find this fucking building.”

“The boys are both fairly large.  I don’t suppose it’ll take longer for them to bleed out because of that,” Crowley mused almost academically, though she suspected there was a hint of concern below the surface.

Ruby stood up and tucked the pamphlet on aashtan into her back pocket, then told him, “if you can give me a lead on Brent Hilton I’ll make sure no Old Ones waltz into your neighborhood.  Call my cell.  I’ve gotta make a run.”

He didn’t shoot her down, instead tilting his head from side to side in a noncommittal gesture.  “Where are you going?”

“The blood bank.”

Ruby was cleaning their motel room mini fridge out of its leftover cherry pie and four bottles of beer when her cell rang.  She answered the phone, then positioned it between her shoulder and her head so that she could keep working.

“Has the King of the Crossroads won my fealty?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm in her voice while stuffing eight intravenous bags of O- blood into the fridge.

“What’s the fealty of a peon worth?” Crowley snarked right back.  “It turns out Brent Hilton is on the naughty list.  Based on all his minor infractions, it looks like he spends most nights at The Spot, a bar on the edge of downtown.”

“What put him on the naughty list?”

“I’d prefer to not tell you.”

In her surprise she stopped manipulating the bags of blood, cause two of them to slip from her grasp and flop onto the carpet.  “Really?”

“I have a wager with Abyzou about whether you kill him.”

That didn’t bode well.  She grabbed the two bags, stuffed them in and slammed the mini fridge shut, hoping that the seal would hold.  When it didn’t end up regurgitating the blood packets, she stood up and went over to her duffel bag.

“How’d you bet?” she asked as she grabbed her knife and tucked it into the back of her belt.

“Well that would spoil the bet now, wouldn’t it?” Crowley purred.  “Happy hunting.”

Sure enough, Brent Hilton was sitting at the bar counter at The Spot and he looked like just as much as a preppy douche as she’d imagined.  His blonde hair had way too much gel in it.  The salmon polo shirt that he was wearing contrasted horribly with his rosy skin.  And he was wearing fucking khaki slacks.  For a brief moment she wondered if fashion sense was sufficient to put some people on the naughty list.  But she had to try shaking this guy for intel, so she put on a fake smile.

“Are you him?  Are you Brent Hilton?  The postmodernist architect.”  Ruby just assumed that some award-winning pretentious designer wouldn’t doubt the existence of a fan and would probably happily brag about his accomplishments.  She took the empty bar stool next to him.

“Why yes, yes I am.”  He smiled at her, turning to give her his full attention.  “I take it you’re familiar with my work.  Maybe the Arcadia?” he asked, shamelessly name-dropping his award-winning work.

“I think it’s stunning.”  She didn’t have any sincere compliments so she opted for vagueness.  “I read the recent article on you in Modern Design Quarterly.  I was so impressed I ended up visiting all of the buildings that were listed and doing a photoset of them for my portfolio.”

“You’re a photographer?”  Brent grinned at her and his eyes scanned her body.  “I would’ve guessed a model.”

Ruby forced herself to smile in a bit of feigned flattery.  “I’m actually just putting together my work portfolio and I thought what better subject than your designs.  The article said that there were twenty three other buildings that you’d designed, but that weren’t listed—”

“Those ones were purchased by various private investors over the years.”  He wave his hand in a gesture of disinterest at the business of his work, then pounding the last of his martini.  “I’m under contract not to disclose their addresses.”

“I wouldn’t bother anyone, I’d just like to see them from the street,” Ruby pressed.

“And your photos would end up in a collection and that wouldn’t look very good would it?”  His voice had turned very condescending.  “But if you’d like, I can show you some of my current projects.”

“Are they under construction?” she asked, wondering if the aashtan might be using a new, unsold building.

“Still just blueprints.”  Brent could probably tell that wasn’t the answer she’d been looking for because he placed his hand on hers.  His thumb caressed her wrist in a wholly unwelcome move.  “Maybe we could figure something out?”  He spread his legs, then raised an eyebrow.

Ruby felt like she could put money down on why he’d made the naughty list and why there was a wager over whether she’d kill him.  She resisted the urge to just slam his head into the bar counter, causing a scene.  “I’m seeing someone,” she replied, hoping that he’d just take the fucking hint.

Instead he leaned forward until he was far too close for comfort.  He took her hand and placed it on his crotch, then rubbed her hand against his partially hard dick.  “I won’t tell.”

Her first instinct was to bludgeon the guy to death with his own smug face—she wasn’t sure how that would logistically work, but she had faith in her ingenuity.  Yet though she enjoyed vengeance as much as the next demon, she knew that things could easily get out of hand when mixing torture and business.  Anyway, Crowley had waged on her murdering him, and she would’ve loved to make him lose that bet if at all possible.  Even though she wasn’t sure which side the Crossroads demon had taken, his parting statement of ‘happy hunting’ made her suspect that Crowley had put his money on murder.

She glanced at the clock on the wall.  There was still seven hours left to get the information from Brent, then plan and execute a rescue mission.  Sam and Dean were obviously her top priority, but pummeling intel out of a person in a crowded bar was only so effective and she had a potentially-literal axe to grind with this perve.  As long as she didn’t take too much time she could deal with this guy.

“Is there somewhere private we can go?” Ruby asked quietly.

She let him lead her out to the parking lot.  He opened the door to the back seat of a brand new Mercedes-Benz, then climbed in.  She coyly followed him.  After getting inside she closed and locked the door behind her.  He unzipped his pants, then pushed them and his boxers down to his mid-thighs.  She stared at his dick, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Go on,” he instructed.  

He reached forward, eager to push her head down into his lap, but she leaned back out of his grasp.  Before he could complain, she slid her right hand along his dick until she was at the base of it, then wrapped around to hold his balls too.  Her smile turned menacing as she squeezed.  He cried out in pain and tried to sit up, but Ruby grabbed his throat with her left hand and slammed his head into the opposite side door, cracking the window slightly.  He punched at her face, but instead of trying to dodge or block, she took the hit and tightened her inhuman hold on him.

“Every time you hit me it’s just gonna get worse.  So just tell me what I want to know or I will rip your goddamn dick off.”  She dug her nails in, making him to yell.  “I’m looking for a building with a south-facing corner that’s less than a 90° angle.  Somewhere that people can be hiding out with prisoners.”

“I… I don’t—”  He gasped when she squeezed a little tighter.  “Not the houses!  The positioning isn’t right.  One of the office buildings—The ones by Market Street or in the Financial—”

“Hiding prisoners,” she reminded him as she twisted for good measure.  “Someplace with not many people.”

“The corner of Franklin and Grant.”  He was crying, face bright red, snot dribbling from his nose.  “It’s vacant—I consulted on the remodel, but they don’t have a seller yet.”   

Some people came out of the bar.  She clutched Brent’s throat tighter, partially impeding his cries for help. She began shifting her weight rhythmically, rocking the car, then let out a few fake moans of pleasure.  The group started snickering, then turned to head another direction, giving them some privacy.

“How long ago was the remodel?” she continued.

“Five months,” he choked.  That was consistent with when the eight victims had started disappearing.

“Don’t you ever take advantage of another woman.”  She blinked her eyes black, causing him to yelp, then leaned in close to snarl in his ear.  “Or I’ll be back and you’ll lose more than the dick.”

She let go of his crotch, made a fist, and pretended to punch him in the face, but instead she hit the window behind him, shattering it before she disappeared.  After teleporting back to the motel room, she washed her hands.  It took a little extra scrubbing to get the blood out from under her fingernails.

She teleported over to be a hundred yards down the street from the corner of Franklin and Grant, then walked into a coffee shop with a large window that offered an excellent view of the three-story building’s full length.  After compulsively checking the time —five hours left— she ordered a quadruple shot of espresso and took a seat by the window.  She couldn’t help but appreciate the poor taste of her sitting around sipping an espresso while Sam and Dean were likely across the street being slowly drained of their blood.  Of course, she was still doing reconnaissance and formulating a plan.  It wasn’t her fault that she needed an excuse to sit and stare at the building for a long while.

She could see people moving around in the upper floor, but they weren’t bothering to turn on the lights—hardly the behavior of lawful occupants.  But that was another problem… there were people, not person.  By her rough guess maybe ten of them.  It was a fucking nest.

Two people exited the front of the building.  They were dressed in beige and grey ensambles, the man a suit and the woman in a knee-length dress with an awful, blocky three-quarter sleeve blazer.  The woman even wore impractical five-inch clear acrylic heels. Truly Ruby had found her monsters.

She took a moment to run her fingers along her soft, dark purple leather jacket while she considered her enemies.  They looked absurd.  Objectively they were absurd.  Bloodletting monsters that were so obsessed with appearances and their haute aesthetic that they wore clothing that was just begging for blood stains.  And those fucking shoes, how was anyone supposed to fight in five-inch heels?  

Actually, how did they even beat Sam and Dean in a fight?  It was easy to explain how she’d been bested; she’d been hit by a several hundred horsepower, two-ton fist.  Evidently she was expendable, but the boys weren’t.  And if they had to have their blood drained as part of a ritual, that meant taking them with minimal injuries.

“One more and you can keep the change if I don’t have to get up,” Ruby told the barista as she waved a twenty dollar bill above her head.  Predictably, the money was collected a few seconds later and her order skipped the line.

She sat there reading the pamphlet on aashtan while periodically eyeing her target.  Crowley had told her about some of their habits, but she needed the sorts of details that counted in a fight.  Namely: How they were able to subdue two trained hunters?  And how could she kill them?

The answer to the latter question made her smile subtly.  According to the lore, aashtan needed to have their bodies disfigured, to lose their prized beauty, before losing at least half their blood.  Ruby thought for a few minutes on how she’d like to tackle those steps, then did some quick searching online for local sources of her choice weapons.  She’d have to make a trip to go collect some goodies after her coffee.

The answer to the question of how the aashtan had subdued Sam and Dean was less delightful.  Apparently, the aashtan had the ability to disorient and fatigue their victims.  The effectiveness of this ability was directly related to the amount their target fell within the criteria of their prey.  That helped explain why Dean’s gun had been left at the scene, seemingly having been dropped after an attempt at self-defense.  Sam was a better fit as a beautiful body and mind, and had probably been easily subdued.  Dean was more debatable in his moral purity, but altruistically trying to protect future victims or his brother could’ve easily checked the box.

Ruby didn’t consider herself anywhere near Sam’s status as a would-be saint but for a few of his small vices—well, mostly just her.  But she considered herself to be somewhere on the same moral plane as Dean.  They both engaged in plenty of turpitudinous fun, with one major difference.  She was a fucking demon.  No one knew what Dean’s excuse was.  So if she was playing with a moral handicap, and trying to save Sam had put Dean into a vulnerable state, then what would happen when she tried to save both of them?  How fucked would she be?

But if the vulnerability came from being tasteful or pure, then she’d have to resist it through raucousness and self-indulgence.  Her rescue mission was about saving Sam and Dean, but it had to be more than that otherwise she could easily become another victim.  She needed to turn away from the elegance and nobility of a surgically precise mission if she wanted to be most effective at fighting the aashtan.  It was time to fight the aashtan on a whole other level, pitting their bland haute aesthetic against her own theatrical debauchery.  She stood up, walked over to the counter and stole someone’s to-go order on her way out the door.  It was time to be a little bad.  It was time to have a little fun.

After gathering supplies from the local Asian cultural museum and a nearby U.S. Army armory.  She dropped her equipment off at the motel room for safekeeping before beginning the first phase of her little rescue mission.

The building where Sam and Dean were being held was in the middle of the city and she was planning on a fight that could easily cause a scene.  Personally she didn’t care about witnesses, but Sam and Dean would probably be annoyed by avoidable innocent deaths.  Not to mention, if the cops showed up then they might start shooting and risk hurting the brothers.  She needed to create a big distraction in as little time as possible.

Ruby grabbed a can of red spray paint from the trunk of the Impala as well as Dean’s pistol, then teleported downtown.  She waited at the public bus stop, counting the number of bystanders.  When the bus pulled up, she stepped onto it and held the pistol up for the five passengers and the driver to see.

“Everyone get off,” she ordered.

The frightened passengers and driver hurried off the bus, running for cover.  With the three pedestrians making a total of eight people potentially calling 911, she guessed that she had about 45 seconds before she had to get moving.  

She closed and locked the bus doors, then took out the can of red spray paint and began writing random words in Luhya just to confuse the situation even anymore.  Tossing the can aside, she put in her earbuds and began playing Queen’s Greatest Hits.  She sat down in the driver’s seat, then started the strangest joyride of her life.

It only took three minutes of driving around the streets aimlessly for her to count nine cop cars chasing her.  The late hour left the city streets largely free of traffic, but she occasionally swerved to avoid a car and ended up sideswiping a dozen parked cars, tearing off car doors and setting off alarms.  

“Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time—” she sang as she made a detour to take out a few tabloid newspaper dispensers.  

“—I feel alive and the world I'll turn it inside out”

She plowed through a police barricade as the music swelled.

“—So don't stop me now don't stop me—”

Checking her side mirrors she noticed two more police cruisers join in the pursuit.  That seemed like it was enough.  

“—I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva—”

She swerved, cutting across a business plaza, taking out several small trees.

“—I'm gonna go go go—”

The bus bounced as she took a curb at 50 miles an hour.

“—There's no stopping me!”

The bus crashed through the glass floor-to-ceiling windows of the First National Bank building.  She took care to avoid the security desk and even offered the stunned guard a grin as she sped by.  Particle board, stuffing, and navy blue polyester exploded across the bus’s windshield as she took out the lobby’s seating area.  She turned the wheel one last time to flip the bus, sending it sliding on its side to collide with a row of teller stations.  Papers and loose dollar bills rained down on the bus, but Ruby had already teleported away.  The police would likely spend a few hours searching for the mysterious woman who had stolen a bus and used it to break into a bank.  With the attention focused there, she’d teleported back to collect the Impala and her supplies.  It was showtime.

Ruby parked the Impala just outside the building’s back exit.  She rechecked to make sure that the beer cooler was doing a good enough job keeping the bags of blood cold.  Opening up the trunk, she took a moment to gather her conviction before holstering her weapons.  Checking her reflection in the passenger side window, she fixed the collar of her leather jacket, then teleported inside.

Rather than leaping directly into the fight, she stopped at the security room.  There were a dozen security monitors depicting various rooms throughout the building.  She counted ten aashtan.  After consulting a digital blueprint of the building, she determined that Sam and Dean were being held in the north corner of the third floor.  The brothers were both bound to the tops of large, heavy wooden tables with fabric bands.  Most of the aashtan seemed to be milling about in an open-concept workspace that took up the majority of that same floor.  With the brothers probably weakened, she’d have to more or less take out all the aashtan in order to protect their retreat, which would likely be slow thanks to the brothers’ blood loss.

As she was turning to leave she noticed the controls for the emergency lighting system and the microphone for the building-wide PA system.  She pulled out her earbuds and shrugged to herself.  It only took her a minute to figure out how it worked, then to pick the right song.

Killer Queen started playing throughout the building.  She paused a moment to check the monitors.  The aashtan were looking around at each other, urgently talking as they started unpacking sleek, brushed stainless steel knives and swords.  She noticed that Dean had lifted his head at the music, then lowered it back to the table’s surface.  His mouth formed the shapes of an unmistakable ‘son of a bitch’ before he started saying something to Sam.  Sam replied, but he was visibly slower and he didn’t bother opening his eyes—he was in worse shape.

She wanted to go up there and save him, but she had to watch herself.  Aashtan had a way of messing with people who had honorable intentions.  An affectionate, streamlined rescue mission was just the sort of thing that might screw her up.  She had to try to indulge and treat the battle like a dance literally set to her own tune.

Before going up to meet her very confused audience, she went to a utility closet on the first floor.  After a little searching she located the water pipe for the sprinkler system.  She hesitated for a moment before reminding herself that all the furniture and carpets in those sorts of office buildings were flame retardant anyway.  Two good kicks to a joint in the pipe caused it to break, pouring water all over the floor.

Ruby teleported to the third floor, into a waiting area just before the fortified work area.  The flashing red emergency lights pulsed in rhythm to the music.  She waited a few beats to sync up her entrance with the song, then kicked open the double doors, breaking half the hinges on one of them.  The aashtan watched as she strolled into the room.  She smiled and casually raised her flamethrower as the music announced her presence.  

“She’s a Killer Queen.”

It’d been years since Ruby had used a flamethrower, but this seemed as good an occasion as any.  The flames would disfigure the aashtan, then she could go in with another approach to drain them of their blood.  Besides, flamethrowers were fun and this was a time to treat herself a bit.

When she realized that the aashtan were waiting to see who would make the first move, she decided to oblige them.  Ruby sidestepped a few paces to the left until she was positioned next to a six-foot tall, abstract sculpture made out of smoky glass that made her think of a tornado that had destroyed the Epcot sphere.  She placed her foot against its narrow base.  Without taking her eyes off the horrified-looking aashtan, she tipped it over, shattering the artwork.

Enraged, the aashtan charged at her and she aimed her weapon.  A burst of flame lit up a group of three, but she had to stagger backward in order to dodge a sword.  She bounced forward and followed through with a swift kick to a male aashtan’s crotch.  Her steel-toed boot connected with what she assumed was the equivalent of his balls, then she shot him in the face at point blank range with the flamethrower.

Having lost track of various foes in the sudden chaos, Ruby spun around in a circle, firing a ring of flame around her at chest height.  Three more aashtan joined the five of their allies that were rolling on the floor trying to extinguish themselves.

A female aashtan lunged at her head with a knife.  Ruby tried to evade, but suffered a cut across the cheek and nose.  Using her offhand, Ruby grabbed the attacker’s knife-wielding arm, then headbutted her.  The aashtan stumbled back, dazed by the brutish move before Ruby let her have it with the flamethrower.

A male aashtan started running for the room where Sam and Dean were being held.  Ruby teleported to intercept him.  

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she told him, then immediately started feeling dizzy and tired as the room around her blurred.  It was their disorientation effect.  Her switch in motivation had made her more vulnerable.  Knowing what was happening to her just made her angry.  She embraced that anger and let it propel her back into the fight.  Her vision and mind cleared while her blood boiled.  “You think you can take advantage of my fucking goodness?!”

He swung a sword at her, but she ducked below the swing.  As his body turned from filling through on the swing, she shoved him in the same direction as his momentum, spinning him around.  She kicked him in the back, knocking him to the ground.

“I work hard for this shit!” she yelled at him as she sprayed him with fire.  “I’ve killed armies to get where I am.  So don’t you assholes dare fuck with my goodness!”

From across the room, one of the aashtan fired several shots at her with a pistol.  One connected with her chest near her left shoulder and another hit her right thigh.  After realizing that she hadn’t exploded from the bad luck of having a bullet hit her flamethrower’s gas tank, she glanced over at the wall and door of the room where Sam and Dean were to check for bullet holes.  There weren’t any.  Evidently the angle of attack hadn’t been such to put them in danger.

Ruby glared pointedly at the aashtan who had shot at her and shook her head.  She raised the flamethrower at him while he attempting to reload the unfamiliar weapon, then she started walking with ominous purpose.  When he began backing away while clumsily pushing the magazine into the gun, she opted to half-jogging half-skipping after him in a leisurely chase around the workspace because it seemed to terrify him all the more.

One of the charred aashtan that was still on the ground tried to grab her, but Ruby dodged, kicked it in the face, then gave it another round of fire before resuming her chase.  

The guy with the gun finally took position to fire at her again, so she teleported to be next to him, then grabbed the pistol and yanked it out of his hands.  He elbowed her in the face, but she pistol-whipped him several times before shoving him away from her and lighting him up like the others.  Since she was a demon and the aashtan could only be killed by catastrophic blood loss, the handgun was only effective against Sam and Dean.  She pulled the slide off of the pistol, dismantling it, then threw the pieces to opposite sides of the room.

All of the aashtan appeared to be sufficiently disfigured.  Half of them were still rolling on the floor trying to put out the flames, one had forgotten to stop-drop-and-roll and instead was running around screaming, but a handful of them had somewhat recovered and had their weapons at the ready.  She had to spill a lot of blood and do it before the flaming office furniture really ignited the building itself.  She slipped off the flamethrower and tossed it aside, then removed her new weapons from their improvised holsters.

Ruby took a moment to cherish the truly menacing appearance of the pair of Chinese hook swords that she was holding.  Each sword was just under two feet long with the tip of the slashing weapons shaped into a bladed hook that was large enough to wrap around an enemy’s wrist or ankle.  The handles each had a fingerguard that consisted of another cutting edge, and the butts of the handles were adorned with yet another three-inch long blade.  They were literally two pieces of steel containing fourteen razor sharp edges, all backed by the physical strength of a demon.  She was ready to make them bleed.

As a new song came on, she playfully tapped her foot to the music, inviting further enraged attacks with her tasteless behavior.  Sure enough, two female aashtan with knives charged her at the same time.  Ruby parried one blade after the other, right sword for right attacker, left sword for left attacker.  After deflecting the attacks, she swung both swords inwards in a scissor-like cut, slashing both women’s torsos.  While they were still shaking off the counterattack, Ruby kicked the left one back so that she could focus on one foes at a time.

“It swings—” she sang along to the music while slicing one of the right one’s throat.

“—It jives—”  She lunged forward, decapitating the one that had been on her left, then kept moving.

A flaming desk chair went hurling right at Ruby’s head.  She managed to dodge it, but was immediately tackled from behind, knocking her to the ground.  The aashtan stabbed her twice in the back before grabbing her hair and bashing her face into the floor.  Ruby held the hook swords up behind her head, then repeated the scissor-slice motion.  A shower of 98.6° liquid showered her followed by a limp body.  

“I kinda like it—” she continued singing loudly while shaking the blood and body off of her.

“—Crazy little thing called love.”

A male aashtan with a sword swung at her, cutting a gash across her chest that gouged the bone.  She blocked another attack with her offhand, then sliced his main hand off at the wrist causing his sword to drop to the ground.  When he tried to pick the sword back up, she maneuvered the hook end of her swords to grab his torso and physically stopped him from getting the weapon.  She wanted to use one of her swords to cut him, but they’d both been imbedded with a bit too much force, so she awkwardly tugged a couple times trying to dislodge one from his ribcage.  On the third attempt, she braced her foot against his chest, then yanked, tearing him in half.  Turning to her right, she saw the female aashtan in the five-inch heels moving to attack her, but quickly swept the aashtan’s feet out from under her.  

“They aren’t fucking practical!” Ruby shouted to her for over the music.  “If you’re gonna murder people—“ she sliced through the woman’s throat, causing blood to splatter onto her own stain-resistant black boots.  “—wear smart footwear.”

She’d barely taken a breath when another one jumped her, stabbing her in the chest.  Rather than wasting energy on taking out the knife, she punched the aashtan in the face, embedding the bladed hand guard several inches into his skull just above the nose.  She shook him off her weapon, then took a nice long horizontal slice across the torso for good measure.

“I gotta be cool—” she kept singing just to piss them off.

“—relax—”  A swift upward swing, cleaved a male aashtan in half from crotch to neck.

“—”get hip—”

The last three came at her from different directions, so she interlocked the swords’ hook ends, then let go of the left one.  Ducking down a bit to avoid hitting herself, she swung the right sword around her.  The two temporarily connected swords acted as a four foot long whip of blade that cut deep wounds in the three aashtan, including slitting a throat.  Quickly grabbing the left sword’s handle, she unhooked her swords.

“This thing called love—”  She cut down one of the injured aashtan. “—I just can't handle it.”

“This thing called love—”  She blocked another attack, then decapitated the last aashtan with her counterattack.  “—I must get round to it.”

She glanced around the room and counted the bodies, then made her way to go collect Sam and Dean.

“Crazy little thing called love.”

She walked back over to the door to the room where the boys were being held.  Before opening the door, she grabbed a nearby desk that was on fire and threw it to the opposite side of the room in order to give them a bit more time to leave.

Sam and Dean were both bound to their respective tables with what had to be wide, 900 thread-count cotton straps.  They both had an IV in each arm, which was slowly drained their blood into brushed stainless steel basins.  Sam’s basins appeared noticeably fuller, but probably not enough to justify how much weaker he appeared.  It was possible that the disorienting effect of the aashtan had hindered him all the more.  Either that or maybe Dean’s blood just flowed at a trickle with all the alcohol and caffeine that he consumed acting as a diuretic.  

“You couldn’t have played Zepp?” Dean asked as soon as she’d entered the room.

“Next time you cut through a whole nest by yourself, you can pick the fucking music,” Ruby shot back as she hurried over to Sam.  She cut him free with her knife, pulled out the tubes from his arms, then applied two very temporary bandages.  When he didn’t react much more than rolling his head to one side, she asked, “Sam, you awake?”

“Pretty sure,” he murmured.

She cut Dean’s bonds and pulled out his IVs.  She bandaged his dominant arm, but left him to take care of the other himself while she turned her attention back to Sam.

“Do you think you can you walk?” she asked Dean.

“Stumble maybe,” Dean groaned as he rolled off the table.  It took him a few seconds to get up off the floor, but he seemed in decent enough shape that she wasn’t worried.

“I can get Sam, if you can get the doors and spot me on the stairs.”

Dean walked into the thoroughly destroyed workspace, and began looking around, then asked, “why is the building on fire?”  

“I lit it on fire,” Ruby replied as she hoisted Sam onto her back for a comically ill-proportioned piggyback ride.

“As long as... you meant to,” Sam replied with a pitiful shrug.  She couldn’t reach up to pat him reassuringly, so she settled for leaning her cheek against the side of his head.

Dean returned holding a severed head.  He stared at her with the knowing half-smile of a man who was trying not to display his admiration.  She tried to shrug at him, but couldn’t with Sam piled on her back.  Instead she gave a little smirk.

“Somebody’s got anger issues,” Dean commented.

“Yeah, and you’re one of them.”  Ruby nodded in the general direction of the stairwell entrance.  “Get the fucking door.”

They carefully made their way down the stairs.  Unfortunately, the strain of supporting Sam’s weight made all of Ruby’s stab wound flow liberally with blood.  She wouldn’t complain about her ruined clothes, but after having someone be nearly decapitated directly above her… well, she didn’t want to think of the dry cleaning bill.  

Halfway down the stair the music cut out having possibly been a victim of the first floor sprinklers.

“You owe me a new iPod,” Ruby muttered to Dean.

“Eat me.”  Dean let go of his intense grip on the arm rail in order to flip her off properly.

“If you want to get eaten, you can go back to the aashtan—oh wait, you can’t because I killed them all saving your ass.”  Ruby paused at the second floor landing, then shifted in order to get a better grip on Sam.

“I can’t believe you can lift him,” Dean commented, waving his hand toward Ruby carrying someone twice her size and weight.

“It’s not the first time I’ve had him on me.”

“One sec, I need to go back and burn my eyes out,” Dean joked, then pretended to turn back towards the fire.

They made it down the stairs and out the back door without anyone collapsing.  Ruby deposited Sam into the backseat of the Impala, then carefully straddled him.  The holes in his elbows had continued to bleed while he was being evacuated, but at least the bandage had slowed it down a bit.  She redressed his elbows, then folded his arms up to help apply pressure.  Once the damage was mitigated she started an IV by his collarbone, connected a bag of blood from the cooler, then held it above him to let gravity do its work.

“You sure you should be driving?” Ruby asked Dean as he squeezed into the driver’s seat.

“I’m fine.  Sam’s the one they really went in on—Jesus Christ, Ruby.  It’s like a ten year old was fucking driving,” Dean groaned as he repositioned the bench seat.  

“Just be glad I didn’t weld it in place.”

Ruby tried to clean herself up as much as possible considering the quantity of arrant blood that had followed the three of them into the car.  At a particularly long traffic light, Dean allowed Ruby to put an IV in him.  It was a long night and she was kneeling in the backseat holding up bags of blood for her hunter companions.

“Hey Dean, can you drive through someplace?  I’d kill for a burger and fries.”

[calamity-writes]

In Glory & Gore - 01

Following Ships to wreck

Fenlin's head ached and throbbed. Even though she wasn't unconscious for long, the hit had been hard enough to leave her dazed, and unable to focus on what was happening. Something strange was snapped into place around her neck, and it was heavy, holding her head down and rubbing her neck raw. There was shouting.

Hanin threatening that his mother would seek retribution, Rahlen trying to calmly talk to whoever had taken them.

Nothing had worked, because the next thing Fenlin knew was that she was dumped into a longboat, landing in water that had settled along the bottom. Her head throbbed, and Rahlen climbed in after, forced to kneel next to her. She tried to push herself up, but her hands had been shackled behind her, hampering any attempt to straighten.

She blinked, things still too fuzzy to focus on. They were moving, the boat bobbing on the waves. How easy would it be to roll over the edge of the boat and shift into a fish? Fen eyed the gunwale, and realised it was too high to reach in her current state, not without one of the slavers grabbing her.

...fuck.

She closed her eyes, trying to steady her thoughts, and stop the throb of her head. When she opened them again, it was because one of the larger slavers had picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. She watched, feeling ill, as he climbed up the rope ladder to the ship, watching Rahlen and Hanin sitting in the longboat below. Hanin had a split lip now, and Rahlen was just watching everything, seemingly unbothered.

"This is the one that was injured?" a calm, cultured voice asked as the slaver reached the main deck. He slung her over, setting her down surprisingly gently. Fen blinked, looking up through bleary eyes as a new man crouched by her, examining her face. Then he moved her arm to get a look at the slash down her side.

"Yessir, the only one to try to fight back too," the slaver said, scratching at his beard. "Well, at first. You'll see the other two, one won't talk much and the other doesn't shut up."

"Bring her to the surgery, I'll treat her there. The other two can go to th cargo hold with the rest. This gash needs to be seen to or we'll lose her before we get very far." Fen shifted, trying to squirm out of the slaver's reach, but he was quick and strong. Soon she was back over his shoulder and being carried below decks.

The cultured-voice man, wore Tevinter style robes and his hair was greying at the temples. Fenlin got a good look at him as he followed, and despite one of her eyes so swollen it was nearly shut, Fenlin glared at the robed man as hard as she could. She wasn't sure if he was one of the dreaded Magisters but she was prepared to think of him as one. She was in a dangerous situation, until she knew more about these slavers she'd have to assume they were as dangerous as possible.  

Because you're so small, because you're an elf, everyone will think you are less dangerous than you are. Her mother's voice echoed in Fenlin's head. Don't make their mistake.

"I can already see the fight in this one," the magister said with a slow smile. "I look forward to seeing what she can do when she is fully healed. You said she reached for a blade?"

"Aye, the first to react. Didn't get a chance to see if she was any good with it though," the slaver said. He set Fenlin down on a wooden table that had a few...concerning bloodstains on it. Waiting patiently, Fenlin watched as the large man unshackled her wrists.

Seeing an opening, Fen sat up and swung at the slaver's jaw as hard as she could. It connected, but the man's jaw felt like she was punching rock. He grinned, catching her small wrist in his massive palm and pressed it down to the table, buckling a leather strap around it. He did the same to her ankles and other wrist, before clipping the collar around her neck to something that was out of her line of sight. Spread out on the table, Fen tried to move, to see how sturdy the restraints were.

"She's awfully...quiet," the magister remarked, rolling his sleeves up. "Does she not talk?"

The slaver shrugged. Fenlin felt him pinch her side. She arched, a silent cry of pain on her lips as the scab burst, weeping blood. Though her body tried to shout, to scream, nothing came out. Falling back with short sharp gasps, Fen spat at the slaver. It landed short, somewhere beyond the table. Retribution for the punch? Her knuckles still hurt. The small gratification of watching him rub the rest imprint on his face helped soothe her ego, at least.

"Looks like you've got a Mute, Master Polonius. If you don't want her, I'll take her." The slaver grinned. "I like 'em with fight." 

The magister known as Polonius looked back at Fen again, and she could see thoughts and gears starting to turn. Not something she particularly was interested in seeing the result of.

"How interesting. I'll consider it Favus, but I believe she'll suit my needs just fine. Go get the rest of the cargo settled and tell the captain to set sail. I must attend to the wound you so thoughtfully opened up."

The slaver nodded. With a grin and wink at Fenlin, he disappeared through the surgery's doorway.

"This is a mess," Polonius muttered. He leaned over, examining her side. He clucked his tongue, and Fen felt him start to cut away the bandages. "But we'll have time to sort it out. I have plans for you my dear, a wild elf, and a mute? I am a lucky man."

Fenlin grit her teeth, unsure what that meant. Why would a tiny, mute elf be more important than a prince? Or the heir to the inquisition?

**

"You'll regret this," Hanin shouted hoarsely, spittle flying from his lips. Rahlen watched as the large slaver who had carried away Fenlin, held Hanin in place as two others chained the elf's wrists to the chain that ran along the side of the ship's hold. Rahlen waited patiently behind, watching the proceedings with a half smirk.

"Hey," he said over his shoulder to the guard who stood behind him, sword drawn. Rahlen at least had no intention of starting a fuss, not when he'd seen the large man shrug off a spell like it was nothing. Templar slavers, who knew? "The little female elf, she's not down here..."

The man narrowed his eyes, and Rahlen shrugged.

"I just want to make sure she's okay."

"Why do you care about an elf?" The guard asked. "She your pet pocket or something?"

Rahlen wasn't familiar with the term, but he got the meaning of it. Wasn't this man... delightful. The Prince shook his head.

"No, she just got hurt trying to help us. I want to know if she's alright. I don't plan on causing trouble, but..." he trailed off, arching his eyebrows. He was taller than this guard by at least half a foot. Staff or no staff, Rahlen knew he'd be able to knock out at least one of the guards, maybe take on one of the others before the large slaver got involved. 

"My mother will-" Hanin's shouting was cut off, replaced with muffled and wheezy gasps. The templar must have hit him quite hard. Rahlen made a note to stay out of the large man's reach in future confrontations.

"The Master's stitching her up," the templar said. "Polonius doesn't let his cargo spoil. Now." He rubbed his knuckles. "Are you going to get into place politely or will I have to force you, like your friend?"

Rahlen smiled, relieved. At least Fen wasn't tossed over the side. She was their best hope for escape at that point. The slavers didn't know she was a mage. If she could shift into a bear and take on the templar... Rahlen and Hanin could easily handle the rest of the slavers.

"No need, just point me to where you want me to go," Rahlen said with an easy shrug.

Before long, Rahlen was sitting on the bench next to Hanin, hands chained in place. While comfortable for now, Rahlen imagined that by the end of the day his arms and back would start to ache. He waited, watching the templar and extra guards leave, then looked around the cargo hold. There were others, scruffier looking and Rahlen wasn't sure how long they'd been there. Some a few days maybe, others, weeks?

"Bastards," Hanin croaked. "They'll pay."

"Buddy," Rahlen said under his breath. "Just relax for a bit. Shouting won't make much difference. And if you're who you say you are, your mom'll be on the path to find you before long." His would when she heard what happened. And Maker help anyone who stood in her way. It was a comforting thought, but almost immediately replaced with one that was less comforting.

Everyone around them, they had families too. Fenlin probably did, though as far as he knew Dalish never travelled alone. Could they expect a rescue too? Troubled by the realisation that the answer was a 'no', Rahlen frowned. He'd find a way to help them too, his Mother would have.

"It's... insulting. This collar," Hanin said, getting his breath back slowly. The red and purple bruise forming on the elf's bare chest told Rahlen the Templar had hit his solarplexus. Hard enough to drive the air from Hanin, but not hard enough to damage the man. "Like some sort  of slave."

"Maybe we're going to be sex slaves," Rahlen said, wiggling an eyebrow. "I mean, not likely but a man can dream." He wasn't particularly sold on that idea either. His reputation in Orlais was inflated, not that he'd minded much. Still, Rahlen had little interest in being someone's plaything.

"No talking in the hold," the guard snapped.

Rahlen closed his eyes, settling back to rest. Wherever they were going, it was going to take a while. He might as well rest when he was able to. Sleep didn't come quickly, but eventually it did over take his tired body, leaving him standing in the fade. Here, on the ocean, the fade took on the shape of an impossible ship, winding staircases and boardwalks over open water. A small green spirit flitted around him, darting towards his leg and then away.

"It still hurts," the thing said softly. "Pain, sharp. so red. Red. Too much red. She tried but not done. Not done."

Before Rahlen could ask what the spirit meant, the healing sprite flitted away, disappearing behind a door that Rahlen knew he wouldn't be able to open. He tried anyways, but something strong refused to let the Prince bend that part of the fade to his will.

Another dreamer, which meant that there was a very strong mage on the ship.

That wasn't good.

**

Polonius was skilled at healing, though he didn't bother to ease the discomfort of cleaning out the slash along Fenlin's side, scraping out grit and pus. By the time that was done, Fenlin could scarely breathe, eyes screwed shut against the pain. And then.... she felt a cool magic spread over her side, knitting angry and red flesh back together. The pain was gone, leaving only an itch  that she was unable to scratch due to the restraints.

Eyes watering, Fenlin let out a long breath, releasing the knotted air in her lungs as the pain subsided. Polonius cupped her jaw with one hand, holding her in place, and pressed a waterskin to her lips. Wary, but thirsty and too tired to resist, Fenlin drank.

"There," Polonius said, wiping his hands clean. "There'll be a scar, but it's rather impressive on your skin. It suits you." With that, he called for Favus. The world was getting soft, and Fenlin realised that the water had something in it. Mild... mild something. Her mother would have known. Something to make her lips prickle and her body unresponsive.

Daw...n flower? lotus. The pretty one that grew in the swamp that she used to make flower crowns with. She used to make pretty things, flowers like red and black for friends... Blinking Fen realised the large Slaver had returned and was in the middle of undoing her restraints. Funny, she'd barely felt it. Scooping her up in his arms, Favus carried her out of the surgery and down the narrow wooden hall to a cabin. She tried to bite him, but the drug in her system was strong enough that she just sort of, awkwardly bumped her head into the man's shoulder.

He laughed, saying something about being time for that later if she was still interested.

Opening a door with his shoulder, the large man carried Fen into a cabin that had a cot on one side, lashed trunks, a table and in the corner, a small bedroll spread on the floor. It was the bedroll that Favus set her down on, and Fen was only barely aware that he was tying something to the heavy collar around her neck. 

As the drug wore off slowly, Fen discovered the rope was long enough to stretch to the chamber pot in the corner, and not much further. Bastards. She stayed on the bedroll, dozing until the door to the cabin opened and the maybe-magister walked in.

 "Do you know why you're here and not below decks?" Polonius asked, walking in and pulling off the heavier overcoat of his robes. Underneath he wore a tunic and leggings. He was more fit than Fenlin had expected, but that didn't make her hate him any less.

She stared at him as Polonius readied for bed, jaw clenched. Then, minutely, shook her head by way of answer. 

"Because I see something in you that i don't in the others," Polonius said, watching her, or at least the way her eyes shone back in the dim lamplight. "A killing instinct. Sure, the two you were taken with, maybe they'll survive. Some of the others. The Avaar if they make the voyage. But you..." he sat on his cot, fingers brushing over his beard. "They'll love you out there. I can tell."

Fenlin frowned. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be flattered or not at this point. Who would love her? Future masters? She rather thought not. At least not once she turned into a bear and bit off their faces.

"Even now, if you were given the choice between killing me and freedom, I don't believe you would hesitate," Polonius said. He was right, but Fenlin didn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that. "Hold onto that little elf, you'll need that in the ring." He smiled, not unkindly.

"You will see, soon."

She did.

They arrived in a port a week later, Polonius leading Fenlin off the ship before the rest of the 'cargo' had been offloaded. The air was hot and the sun strong over head. Fenlin squinted, barely able to see after so long spent in the dim cabin. Hands shackled behind her, she stumbled after Polonius, down the ramp to the dock where vendors were shouting prices for fish, supplies, taxes? She frowned, hearing Tevene spoken as often as common.

Surely they weren't-

"Come girl, you have lost strength on the voyage. We need to recoop that and prepare you for the ring."

What...ring?

Fenlin glanced over her shoulder as the rest of the 'cargo' began to surface on the ship's deck, but she only saw a glimpse of them before the magister tugged on her leash and she was forced to follow deeper into the docks quarter of wherever they were.