#getting close to time for the eclipse get your rattles ready

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Green (Bucky x Reader)

Word Count: ~3k

***Warnings*** : Graphic and explicit consensual non-consent. It’s all pre-negotiated roleplay, but it includes fighting, struggling, spitting, scratching, the whole nine yards. 

A/N: The companion fic to Red. You do not need to read that first; this stands on its own. However, without that as an introduction, there’s no obvious indication until about two-thirds into the fic that what’s happening is consensual. 

More on this in another note at the end, but thanks to @thoughtslikeaminefield​ @fangirlxwritesx67​ @katwillrise​ @mskathywriteswords​ @cracksinthewalls​ @littlegreenplasticsoldier​ @stunudo​ and the rest of the Slack squad for helping me sort out my feelings about “dark” fic, and for being a safe space to talk through stuff like this. This was really fucking difficult for me to write, but I’m glad I did. 

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

- From “Wild Geese,” by Mary Oliver

It’s just like any other Friday night, until it’s not. 

One moment I’m turning on the light in the entryway, hanging up my coat — next there’s a prickle down my spine, some primal reptile-brain instinct — 

Run! Now! 

— but there’s no time to recognize it for what it is. My body isn’t in the habit of being threatened; my body is tired and lazy, moving on autopilot through the comforting routine of Friday night. In the heartbeat between instinct and action, he pounces. 

The hand over my mouth is metal: unyielding, unliving, chilling me down to my core, and if it wasn’t for the heat of the rest of his body all down my back, I wouldn’t assume he was human. His right arm is around my ribs, locking me in place, and it feels feverish in contrast but it’s trapping me as securely as if it was iron. 

I can’t reconcile the cool metal against the human warmth, or the awful metallic tang mingled with the barely-there whiff of sweat. My mind is moving all jerky and slow. I can’t make sense of this. 

Doesn’t matter, though, because I’m trapped anyway, like a wild animal in a snare. Trying to make sense of it won’t change the fact that vicious iron jaws snapped shut around me. 

It was just like any other Friday night.

Panic clutches around my lungs all at once, adrenaline flooding in, and everything in me screams, fight back. 

I thrash and squirm in his grasp, but he has my arms pinned down at my sides, and I’m small and helpless against the solid wall of muscle that is his chest. My raw strangled gasps come out as tiny hitched sobs, muffled by metal, barely audible in the still half-dark entryway of my apartment. He leans back, hefting me up so that my feet don’t quite touch the floor any more, like I weigh nothing, and takes a few steps away from the door. 

“Don’t make a sound,” he snaps, before spinning me around, slamming me back against the wall and pinning me there with his metal hand at my throat. 

Panic makes everything sharper. It’s too sharp, sharp like the shadows cast by the angles of his jaw and cheekbones, sharp like the way he’s watching me with pale hard eyes. 

“Why — why are you here?” 

He tilts his head, considering me. 

“I was sent,” he says simply, in a low rasp of a voice. 

“What do you want?” 

Something cracks open in his eyes, like a tectonic shift bringing magma to the surface, and then the strangest expression spreads slowly over his features, fierce hunger and wild terror all at once. Fear splinters like lightning down my spine. 

“Take off your clothes,” he says quietly. “Let me see you.” 

I lash out with both hands, ready to claw at his eyes, but with his arm outstretched, he’s just out of my reach; when I scratch and slap at the metal wrist, he doesn’t even seem to notice, and when I strain against his grip, I only succeed in choking myself. Black spots dance across my vision, and I draw ragged wheezing breaths, clutching uselessly at the sleeve of his black leather jacket, still twitching and twisting feebly. 

At least he can’t undress me with one hand, I think, for one absurd second. 

Then his free hand twitches down to his side, and he’s raising a knife. Dark oxidized metal gleams in his fingers. I freeze, staring at the wickedly honed edge of it as he brings it closer, holding it up at eye level before lowering it slowly. 

The tip hooks under the first button of my blouse, and when he flicks the blade upward, the fabric separates like it’s nothing. I barely dare to breathe as he cuts my shirt open, one button at a time, with surgical precision. The knife is so close to my skin that one wrong move could slice into me. 

When the ruined remains of my blouse gape open, he lowers the blade, ready to cut through the waistband of my skirt, and my frayed nerves snap. 

“Don’t,” I blurt out. “I’ll do it. I’ll cooperate.” 

I unzip it, trying to step out of it without moving my head, still trapped by the constant silent threat of his fingers around my throat. 

He sheathes the knife so that he can push my shirt roughly down my arms. My bra straps follow; he tugs them down my shoulders and reaches around to pop the clasp open, and when it falls, he pauses, licking his lips as he gazes up and down my body, taking in the revealed skin. 

There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes when they meet mine for a long, frozen moment. He draws a breath like he’s about to say something, and his grip loosens a fraction. 

I’m not done fighting. 

I spit in his face, and when he flinches, I wrench myself away, twisting out of his grasp, bolting down the hall toward the bedroom door. 

Just as I wonder whether he’s reconsidered, whether he’ll let me go, he snarls, “You’ll regret that.”

I go down hard and fast when he tackles me, barely getting my arms out in time to break my fall, and the impact sends a flash of pain through one elbow but there’s no time to think about that — no time to feel it — not when I’m thrashing and kicking and squirming — but he’s too strong, too heavy — I almost writhe away but then he rolls me onto my back — pins me, sitting on my thighs — and my fists are swinging, flailing uselessly against his face and shoulders, but he doesn’t even seem to notice — and I let out a desperate sob as I realize I’m helpless again. 

I want to scream, but there isn’t enough breath in my lungs. 

He shuffles up on his knees until he’s straddling my waist, looming over me, blocking out everything else, and he snatches my wrists as I beat my fists against his stomach and chest. His lip curls, baring his teeth in a feral approximation of a smile, and he gathers my wrists together so he can hold them in the bruising circle of his metal fingers. 

Flesh fingertips dig cruelly into the hinge of my jaw, forcing it open, and he leans forward to spit into my open mouth — something twists and clenches deep in my gut as I sputter and choke, skin crawling with disgust. 

“Not so nice, is it?” he sneers, sitting back on his heels. 

Worn black denim stretches over muscular thighs as he shifts, drawing attention to the fact that he’s hard — the thick shape of his cock is obvious, straining against the fabric.  

My eyes snap back to his face, but it’s too late. He chuckles, throaty and smug, and then he rubs himself through his jeans, squeezing roughly, making it impossible to ignore his arousal. 

“Is that what you want?” he asks — taunts — and I shake my head frantically, throat too tight to speak. He smirks and drops his hand to my chest, tweaking one nipple hard enough to make me yelp. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall, and light catches the dark metal plates of his arm. 

Hot stinging tears well up and roll down my temples, blurring my vision, but not before I see his fingers on the button of his jeans, popping it open. 

“No,” I choke out. “No. Please, please, please —” 

He has to move to shove his jeans down, has to let me go for a moment — a fresh wave of adrenaline surges up with sickening speed, and I scramble back, twist, flop onto my stomach — it’s graceless and uncoordinated but I’m not giving in, not yet. I’m army-crawling out from under the cage of his body and I’m almost free — almost — but before I can get up on my hands and knees he’s yanking my panties down. 

Panic rises to a crescendo. 

I shriek — thin and pathetic even to my own ears — too frantic to even see straight, and then my breath is punched from my lungs as his hand slams down between my shoulderblades and crushes me to the cold hard floor. I curl an arm around my head protectively, burying my face in the crook of my elbow, and I whimper into the dark space it makes, trying to hide from what’s about to happen. 

My body is vibrating with tension like a rubber band about to snap, every muscle clenched so tight it hurts, and when I feel the blistering-hot pressure of his cock between my thighs I almost snap. 

“Struggle all you want,” he growls. “Won’t make a difference.” 

And it doesn’t make a difference. He shoves, and after a split-second of resistance he’s slamming into me with skull-rattling force. He grunts as he grinds in, working himself into me as deep as he can be. 

The weight lifts from my upper back, and I suck in a desperate breath, only to sob it out again as he braces himself on his left hand and tangles the right in my hair. It stings, but somewhere along the line I’ve lost the ability to feel pain as pain; it’s only another sensation, and it’s eclipsed completely by the flint-to-tinder flare as he starts to move. 

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, but I can’t hold back a moan. 

It’s too much, too fucking much, he’s too big, wrenching me apart, taking up every bit of space inside me and forcing me to accept the intrusion. There’s no rational thought left beyond I can’t take this. 

There’s nothing rational about it, though. 

Something catches and sparks — ignites — and wildfire licks up my spine before bursting out through every inch of me. It’s going to burn me alive, and there’s nothing I can do about it. 

There’s nothing wrong with it, I try to tell myself, but shame slithers through my belly anyway. 

I’ve never been this wet in my entire fucking life. 

I’m breathing fast and panicked, I’m naked and squirming on the gritty floor, and it’s humiliating, and it hurts… but friction is friction, and my traitor of a body is slick and eager even though my rational brain is screaming for it to stop. 

“Stop,” I choke out. “Stop, don’t —” 

“Don’t what? Don’t make you come? Don’t make you admit how much you like this? Not fightin’ back any more, are you?” 

I sob and shudder, squeezing helplessly around him. “Please.” 

“Shit, can feel you gettin’ close — gotta see this,” he says, panting harshly, and then he’s pulling out, grabbing at my shoulder to flip me onto my back. 

He hooks an arm up under my knee to open me up and drives in deep again, and I spasm around him, spine arching so forcefully my head slams back against the floor. He’s wild-eyed and wrecked, but he stops for the space of a jagged-edged inhale, pausing, slack-jawed with shock when I look dazedly up at him. 

“Green,” I breathe, and slap him across the jaw with a crack. 

He moans and surges forward all at once, hips snapping down, and the pleasure-pain coils tighter inside me, ratcheting up to new impossible heights.  

I’m not going to stop fighting — not now, not ever, no matter how good it feels. I hit and scratch and claw, and when my nails catch on his cheek he gasps, rhythm faltering for the first time. 

He’s scorching-hot, steely-hard, every thrust a solid filthy smack against my skin, a vicious stretch pushing me to my limit — and it hurts, it hurts, but the adrenaline makes the pain feel faint and distant, and the pleasure is raw and immediate and building (faster by the second) into something inescapable. 

I can feel it starting to overwhelm me. My muscles are seizing up, but I’m fighting back on pure animal instinct, still. I grab him by the throat with one hand, pull his hair with the other, and his face is the last thing I see before my world dissolves: cheek bleeding from a rough scratch, features contorted, mouth open in a wide red O that’s somehow, unmistakably, a smile. 

Bucky is breathing just as hard as I am, when I swim to the surface again.

 We’re both drawing deep wet gulps of air, gasping on each exhale. I twine my arms around his neck limply, resting one palm between his shoulders so I can measure the rise and fall of his lungs. 

I can’t bring myself to open my eyes, but I feel everything: every little tremor and twitch that goes through him, the slick warm tickle of aftershocks as he starts to go soft inside me. His face is buried against the side of my neck, and his right hand cups my cheek, so very gentle, thumb stroking my temple and wiping away tears. He kisses me softly where my pulse hammers under the skin. 

My heart is racing, beating against my ribs like a wild bird caught in a cage, but my head seems very far away from the mess of my body.

I whimper when he pulls back, but he doesn’t go far, not yet — I can hear the barely-there rasp of fabric as he shifts. 

“Can’t believe you’re still wearing pants,” I mumble, slurring like I’m drunk. 

“Wearing is a generous word,” he says flatly. 

It’s a weak impersonation of his usual deadpan snark, but I let out a cracked giggle, and for a hysterical second I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop giggling. 

Bucky whispers, “Gonna get you up now, okay?”

He slides his hand under my head, cradling the back of my skull, and kisses my sweaty forehead before gathering me in his arms. He sits up carefully, pulling me against his chest and letting me burrow into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. 

Then there’s a disorienting swoop of motion that means he’s standing up. I feel fragile and strange as he walks, like something inside me will break if it’s jostled, but I trust him to keep me safe. He nudges the barely-open bedroom door with his hip, easing us through it, and behind my closed lids the quality of the darkness changes as he steps toward the soft golden glow of my bedside lamp.

“Not going anywhere, just going to put you down for one second,” he warns me. 

The comforter is already pulled back when he settles me on the bed, and he pulls it up around me, wrapping me up. 

“Water,” he says quietly, holding the glass to my lips, and I sip carefully. “Juice? Something sweet?” 

I shake my head. “Not yet.” 

He steps back. I hear the soft thump of his shirt and jeans dropping to the floor, the click of his dog tags as he puts them back on, and then he’s sliding into bed next to me. I shift closer and trace the chain around his neck, touching the familiar imprint of letters in the metal. 

My swollen lids are heavy when I open my eyes, and they sting when I finally look up at him, taking in his puffy parted lips and the red line of dried blood on his cheek where I scratched him. It’s already healing, it’ll be gone within a couple hours, but I brush my finger over it anyway, making an apologetic face. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly. He clears his throat and swallows hard. “I’m the one who — I’m so sorry.” 

I shake my head. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry about. It was…” 

I don’t know how to finish that sentence; I shrug, helpless, dizzy with the enormity of getting exactly what I wanted — of getting what I never thought I’d be able to ask for, let alone have. 

His lashes are wet, his eyes shining in the low light, and that’s when it really starts to sink in. I shiver, and then I can’t stop shivering, and I curl forward, burying my face in his chest. 

It’s hard to believe that the world is still turning and even harder to believe that he’s still here. 

“God, sweetheart, you were incredible,” he whispers, voice breaking, wrapping me up in his arms and kissing the top of my head. 

Shuddery, convulsive sobs wrack my body, one after another, and I don’t try to hold them back even though they’re so powerful I’m afraid they’ll crack my ribs on the way out. The tears are nothing to be ashamed of. It’s more like they’re physical evidence of shame leaving my body, purging it with each ugly sound wrenched from my throat. 

I never would’ve said it out loud if we hadn’t stumbled into his violent fantasies. There’s nothing wrong with you, I told him, and I sounded so sure, but I still had a hard time believing it about myself. My rational mind knew that it was natural… but it was like knowing that the person who grabbed me tonight was the same man holding me now — it was like knowing he would never hurt me, but feeling my body panic anyway. 

Bucky holds me, crooning nonsense fragments against my hair, until it subsides.  

I sit up enough to look at him, and I’m conscious of how blotchy and swollen my face must be, but I let him brush away my tears. I feel soft and raw inside where I’d been holding all that guilt. Everything is starting to ache. 

“God, we’re a mess,” I say thickly. He lets out a huff of laughter. 

“I love you,” he blurts out. His eyes go a little wide, like that wasn’t what he intended to say. 

“I love you too,” I say, wobbly but warm, and I duck my head again, resting with my ear over his chest to hear his heartbeat. 

His sigh is long and shaky. 

“Yeah, we’re a mess,” he whispers. “Feels good though. Feels human.” 

fin. 

N.B: If you’ve spent any amount of time around my masterlist, you probably will have noticed that one of my favorite subjects is the shame people (especially women) frequently feel about sex in general and their fantasies in particular. I also really love writing enthusiastic consent, and so in a way this is very different from anything I’ve written before. 

I have trouble with the way a lot of fanfiction seems to glorify coercive or under-negotiated dom/sub scenes, and most so-called “dark” fic is triggery for me in its oversimplification of things like rape fantasies; they’re normal and common and natural, but frequently the way they’re written has the same flat, male-gaze approach as a lot of exploitative porn, which I hate. Rape has never been a fantasy for me personally (although it has been an actual life experience) but my #1 fantasy is finding the sort of trust and partnership and support that would make this sort of roleplay emotionally safe. I also just felt compelled to tackle the challenge of writing about something that is often considered so shameful, and writing about it in a way that neither romanticizes or demonizes it. 

So. Yeah. In case you need a reminder: don’t punish your body for what it wants. 

(If you liked this, please reblog or leave a message?) 

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Run on for a Long Time

Jericho had lost sight of his friends. The rushing of blood in his ears eclipsed the scratching sounds, caused by claws scraping along floors and walls. Coming from abominable things that crawled through the corridors of the derelict hospital, in search of them.

Catching his breath, he stared down the length of one such hallway he had gotten lost in. The scratching and scraping and skittering were far away enough. For now.

One of the long fluorescent tubes kept flickering while all others remained dead, drowning the corridor in darkness and flooding it with a cold hard light. Flickering in and out, in an irregular rhythm, robbing his eyes of the ability to adapt.

He blinked and his vision blurred. That made some of the dried splatters on the wall almost appear like something else, like something that was not blood.

Gunsmoke still stung his nostrils, rising from the muzzle of the revolver in his hand. He dared to tear his gaze away from the other end of the corridor and check the chambers of his gun. Every single one of them was empty.

The rushing in his ears continued, his wheezing breaths competed with it and made it hard for him to hear if any creature’s sounds were nearing. Or to hear if any of his friends were sneaking around nearby.

Something scratched against the linoleum floors. Metal screeching followed, like a metal bar being wrenched apart, or twisted and bent.

Without looking where he went, Jericho instinctively ducked through the nearest door into whatever room awaited him nearby.

The light behind him projected a soothing warmth just by virtue of its soft orange color. It dispelled the wintry cold flooding the corridors outside the room. But Jericho also sensed a presence here. Eyes—a gaze—burning into the back of his head.

He still heard the scraping sounds from outside, so before even bothering to look around, he closed the door behind him with care, gripping it between one hand and the fingers of the other still holding his gun, letting the door’s lock emit nothing beyond a soft click once it latched into place within its frame.

This place did not belong. Jericho could tell as much without even turning around to fully take it in. The rustic and homey appearance of the wooden-paneled walls, sturdy bookshelves lining the walls which he already saw from the corner of his eyes, and a lush green potted plant.

The rest of the hospital looked like a slaughterhouse left to rot for a decade. By comparison, this place looked like it was in another world entirely.

And he still felt like someone was staring at him, standing right behind him.

He slowly turned and raised his gun. Whoever it was would not know there were no more bullets left inside of it.

A single burst of sharp breath escaped his lungs as he found nobody there. Paranoia had gotten the best of him.

Yet the room still did not belong. Immaculate, untouched. Some antique-looking chairs with fine leather upholstery and brass tacks. A marble bust of some Greek philosopher stared past him, adding to the atmosphere of sophistication that permeated this place.

One single other door leading out of the room. Footsteps approaching it.

Jericho trained his weapon on that next door, ready for anything.

The door opened and a man poked his head through. Sharp, angular features, short curly hair that had turned salt and pepper over the years. A piercing gaze, like what Jericho had expected to see staring at him upon turning around. And a well-fitted suit that clung to a sturdy and muscular frame, like that of a person who constantly worked out.

This stranger’s eyes went wide, staring right into the barrel of the revolver in Jericho’s hand for several seconds. If he felt fear now, he was hiding it well. He peeled his gaze off the weapon and locked eyes with Jericho while fully opening the door.

With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he presented a larger room beyond that door, a lavishly decorated office filled with more antique furniture. The small adornments like statues, taxidermized deer heads, antique books on more shelves, and water-colored paintings all screamed of a strange sense of opulence.

“Mister Day?” the man asked Jericho. “Please. Would you do me a favor and put the gun away?”

Jericho swallowed and registered how the rushing of blood in his ears had quieted itself somewhat. His heart had decided to take it down a notch, too. Descending from frantically thundering drum solo to a softly thumping background beat.

Confused by how he was being welcomed in here and how none of this fit together with the nightmare he had just hidden himself from, he shoved the weapon into the back of his belt. Once he blinked, he uttered a string of foul-mouthed profanities as he tugged it back out—in response to the searing pain of heated metal stinging his right butt cheek.

The man stepped fully into the waiting room and flashed him a feeble smile, communicating a sense of sympathy towards Jericho’s plight. He held out an open palm to Jericho while also giving him enough space to enter the office.

“Allow me to hold onto that for you until our session is over,” said the man.

Jericho swallowed again and placed the pistol into that open palm. The stranger took it and nodded to him, the air about him heavy with expectation.

Not having forgotten the clawed monstrosities prowling through the abandoned hospital’s hallways, where he had lost track of his two friends during their panicked escape, Jericho never felt more confused.

Jericho bit his lip, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, “Fuck it, I guess.”

He walked into the large office. Surveying the desk and chairs and the small couch and their respective placements finally made the needle drop. This office was a therapy room.

The man closed the door behind them and placed Jericho’s revolver on the desk, then he gestured to one of the chairs. That chair looked newer and more modern than the ones in the waiting room, but also more comfortable.

Jericho hesitated and stood in the middle of the room. Right now, he preferred the idea of standing, just in case he needed to make a run for it.

Because something was wrong. Not only with this place, but with this man. This therapist?

“Who are you?” he asked, his skepticism elevating each syllable to a higher pitch and instantly annoying himself at the sound of it.

“Wolff,” replied the therapist. “Doctor Simon Wolff. We have been working together for a while now, Mister Day. It is especially important that you do your best to remember that.”

Doctor Wolff straightened his jacket’s collar, slipped a small journal from the desk’s tabletop, and paired it with an expensive-looking pen. Taking the objects, he sat down on one of the chairs across from the other that he had gestured towards before, where he expected Jericho to sit.

The geometrical placement of the furniture was so perfect that it unsettled Jericho. He stayed standing and earned another small smile from Doctor Wolff, this one warmer than the last.

Windows to the outside world reflected everything in this room like darkened mirrors. The dead of night swallowed everything outside of them, save for clues of pine trees standing in a thick, snowy mist beyond them.

“Shall we begin?” asked Doctor Wolff, opening his journal and twisting his pen.

He crossed his legs, rested the journal on his lap, and tapped it twice with his pen, the smile never fading from his face.

Jericho mentally reeled. Doubt started eating away at the frayed fringes fluttering around in the darkest recesses of his mind. Was this real and the hospital before, those creatures—was that all unreal? Delusions?

“Do you know who you are?” asked Doctor Wolff.

It took Jericho another moment of internal deliberation, another instance of him swallowing emptily before he replied.

“Yeah. I’m Jericho Day. Private investigator of Fuller & Day.”

Wolff nodded and wrote a short note in his journal.

“Anything else?”

“I, uh, served in the military for almost four years. Uh, am 33 years old, uh,” Jericho stammered his way along, pooling his identity into the format of some lame fact sheet. It helped him get his mind off the horrible hospital behind him.

The more he rattled it down, though, the more the temptation to tell the truth grew. He added, “Two friends from high school hired me to help them, uh, well, check out a letter from our dead friend. It was, uh, sent posthumously.”

The regular ticking of a grandfather clock tocked away in the background, filling every empty beat and every awkward pause of his. The mechanical clicks thudded louder with each strike. After taking down more notes in his journal, the pages rustled as Doctor Wolff flipped through them, at one point back and forth before settling on a specific spot.

“The letter was authentic, the writing indeed Harry’s, but running the fingerprints yielded no match. So you traveled to your home town with your childhood friends, Daniel Smith and Joel Kline,” Doctor Wolff read out loud, in a monotone punctuated by the grandfather clock’s ticking. He clearly removed all melody from it to not offend Jericho, to not make it sound like he was mocking him with the brief summary.

The accuracy still stunned Jericho. He stopped fiddling with the black marble statue of a buffalo on a stand nearby and stared at the doctor.

How in the hell did he know? Jericho sheared every thought over Occam’s Razor and concluded that he must have told him all of this. The doctor obviously knew. But how come he himself did not remember telling him? The doctor acted as if he had been here with him several times before. Jericho wondered if he was losing his mind.

The hospital out there—was it even real? The creatures that infested this town in the absence of people? Had he been seeing a therapist and telling him about all of this? Was all of that out there the hallucination, or was this in here the illusion?

The gun on the desk suggested: both were real. Somehow.

Right?

The therapist’s gaze softly trailed from the book on his lap back to meet Jericho’s eyes again.

“Please stop me if I have gathered anything wrong from our previous conversations, Mister Day.”

Doctor Wolff cleared his throat and continued.

“You keep running into,” he paused, arching a brow. “Monsters—vaguely human-shaped, often faceless or eyeless. Some of them look like people wrapped in plastic that shamble around like zombies. One of them, you described, was a tall man with a horse’s head that attacked and injured your friend Daniel with a—with a stop sign.”

He looked up at him again and Jericho felt put on the spot. Sweat erupted from his pores, knowing how absurd it all sounded when read out loud like that. Yet the therapist allowed no pretention, no derision into his voice. His relaying of Jericho’s experiences felt earnest. Jericho felt taken seriously.

A nervous grin spread across his face, a day to the night of the doctor’s calm, statuesque, mask-like expression.

Still—it was all the truth. Nothing but the truth.

Jericho’s truth.

Right?

Jericho nodded in response. Doctor Wolff mirrored his motion. The therapist pursed his lips, flipped through the pages and kept his gaze locked onto Jericho.

“Good. There is more, but I see that you remember all the experiences you shared with me, even if you do not remember any of our sessions together. That is—somewhat, at least—to be expected.”

The clock continued to tick and tock away, unnerving Jericho further.

“I have been following your progress for a while, Mister Day,” Wolff said. The pause that followed left a lot of wide-open space for pondering. A lot of time for dread to take root in Jericho’s heart, even if the ticking and tocking indicated mere seconds to be wasting away.

He shot a glance at the gun. Even with its chambers empty of ammunition, just looking at the weapon’s cold steel lent him a sense of safety. Jericho wanted it back in his hand.

Some part of him wanted to be back out there. Looking for his friends. Running from those monsters.

Away from whatever this strange place was.

“Though I do not think you are ready, yet.”

Wolff clapped the notebook shut and folded his hands, resting them on top of the little black book, with the pen peeking out from between his fingers like a cigarette.

“Ready for what?” asked Jericho. Each word sharper than the last. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Who are you—really?”

Wolff savored the seconds as they passed upon letting that question sink in. An eerie and knowing smile crept across his face until it froze in place there.

“I have many names, Mister Day. Some call me Judas Iscariot. Some have dubbed me the First Man, others the Harbinger of the End Times. But for you, I’m simply Doctor Wolff.”

Jericho squinted at him.

“‘Kay. I’ll be leaving now while you wax poetic about, uh,” he paused. He waved a hand in a figure eight motion in Wolff’s general direction. “Whoever the fuck you are.”

Wolff still smiled at him. Tilted his head.

“Soon, you will be done with what you came to Evergreen for,” the therapist said. Shook his head. “But until then, the dusk will refuse to end. The sun will never rise again until you commit.”

Jericho had enough. He paced towards the desk and took his pistol. The steel had cooled down again. He wedged it into his belt behind his back.

“Do you realize how long you have been wandering your hometown? Jericho?”

Jericho decided not to indulge him.

Although he did not turn to see it, the rustling of fabric told him that Wolff took a theatrical glance at the watch wrapped around his own wrist.

“Twenty years. You have been trapped in a soulless place, unable to leave for all the mountains of snow that swallow the streets leading out of town, unable to see beyond its borders for all the fog that strangles your vision. You and your friends have lost all sense of time.”

Jericho clutched the brass knob of the door, but he did not twist it yet. Hesitated to leave.

Wolff spoke with such authority. His voice exuded such clean resolve.

It all sounded true. Like nothing but the truth. An impossibility, but now that he thought about it, his memory was obviously not what it used to be. His mind must have been Swiss cheese, or something. Deep down, Jericho knew, that all of this was real.

“Ten years ago, while you still aimlessly stumbled around in this little pocket of personal purgatory, you weren’t even a private detective. You were a petty thief—a grifter—who had burnt down every last relationship in his life before returning to this town. Are you aware of what you are running from?”

Jericho opened the door, returning to the waiting room he had entered from.

“The exit is through the other door, Mister Day,” Wolff informed him in his strangely melodious monotone. “I would kindly ask you to follow the proper path.”

“Fuck off,” Jericho muttered while stepping back into the waiting room and heading towards the final door.

Wolff had nothing left to say. Perhaps Jericho’s rude retorts had finally rendered the sickeningly polite therapist speechless.

Opening the door, the single fluorescent tube in the hospital’s hallway flickered again, alternating between flashes of pitch-black darkness and a harsh, cold light. Cold air poured through the doorway, biting his skin and reminding him of the winter outside, the winter that had taken hold of the abandoned hospital’s bowels.

“Perhaps, next time, you will not even be Jericho Day anymore. Perhaps you will be Danielle. Or Jerry. Perhaps, next time, you will be ready to move on. Ready to finally grow some balls,” Wolff’s voice echoed behind him, the tone rising in pitch to underline his sudden taunt.

Jericho slammed the door shut. Then the words fully sank in, poured fuel into the dimming fire of his fury. He ripped the door open to tell this Doctor Wolff to go fuck himself.

But the waiting room and the office had vanished.

Instead, he only found empty rooms beyond that door. Windows to the outside had been fogged up with years’ worth of grime, boarded up from the exterior. Trash from squatters and disaffected youths littered the corners and the place smelled of urine. Graffiti and lewd comments had been scrawled onto the defaced walls.

With nowhere else to release his anger, Jericho slammed the door shut again.

Scratching sounds erupted in response, traveling to him from the end of the corridor.

A pallid head with neither nostril nor eyes reared around the corner. Its toothless mouth opened, and black slime oozed out from its lower jaw, dripping to the filthy floors. Slender fingers with the flaccidity of undercooked sausages, covered in polyps, flopped around the corner, tipped by long, sharp, black claws. Those talons dug into the surface of the wall, scratching the paint from it, sending more unnerving sounds his ways.

Though it had no eyes, he felt seen by the creature.

Jericho ran.

He would be running for a long, long time.

—Submitted by Wratts

[randomkposts]

Hey Eclipse, you know how Harry seems to be in a place to become, or be adopted by anyone, so too have I seen a lot of odd characters as Xanxus's cloud guardian.

From his mother, to Harry potter, to Obitio Uchiha. So I thought, what if Xanxus cloud guardian was met, but has their own odd fixation and is never there.  

It became a monster hunter of undetermined gender. That's not the important bit, after all. 

---

Hunt

---

Xanxus is aflame, fists at the ready, preparing to fight off trash, when a voice cuts through everything. 

"Thats it!"

The trash turns towards the intruder, who swats him aside, eyes fixed on Xanxus. 

"Sky flames! Thats what I need" 

The intruder's eyes sweep over Xanxus, assessing. 

"You have good reserves." 

Xanxus has had enough of this nonsense. 

"Who the hell are you, and why would I go anywhere with you, 'Segone'!"

"No need to be rude, sky. I can pay you for your time and service"

Xanxus's hyper intuition is a useful thing to have. Much as he wishes he could turn the opportunity down, the stranger isn't lying. 

"You still haven't said, what do you want them for?"

The intruder comes closer, close enough that Xanxus can see blue eyes and blond eyebrows. 

"Do you believe in monsters, Sky?"

Xanxus has seen monsters. Human ones, that he could encounter everyday. 

"I mean the ones that aren't quite human. Maybe they once were, but now they are something more dangerous than that."

The intruder walks away with a dark laugh, and Xanxus follows his intuition after him. 

---

Intruders path, leads them to an out of the way house. It has a peculiar smell to it, although he couldn't pinpoint what made it smell so off...

Intruder sets up a bear trap, and instructs Xanxus to wait in the closet. He doesn't. He watches as Intruder draws words and numbers on the floor. First in blood, then in ink. 

Then, Intruder goes off into the house. The wait doesn't last long.  

The fight is something crazy to behold behold. Intruder glows  purple. Speed and strength and viciousness, clashing. The opponent looks human at a distance, but the closer it gets, the more obvious it is, that this is something Other. 

It moves in unnatural angles, its bones visible beneath pale skin, its cries are shake him, rattle his teeth. 

Eventually Intruder maneuvers it into the bear trap, and while dodging, starts drawing in oil, ending it, by throwing it on the... Thing in the bear trap. 

"Now" Intruder commands, and Xanxus doesn't hesitate to light the fire. 

They watch it scream and burn in silence, before Xanxus can ask the preninet question. 

"What the hell was that?" 

"Perhaps that's a better story told over dinner."

--

A lot gets told over that dinner. Legends of monsters, personal encounters with them, his childhood. Intruders stories come out in bits and pieces as well. Never a name, nor any particular title Xanxus should call them. The name Intruder sticks.

Later he finds the promised money slipped into his pocket. 

It's not the only thing he finds slipped onto his person, as the Intruder walks in and out of his life, always headed towards the next monster. Beads, feathers, even some raccoon tails, bits of protection, even books about math, equations that can balance. 

When he goes with Nono Volga, it comes with the knowledge that he probably won't see Intruder for a long time. 

What use would a monster hunter have for a heir? For being a guardian to one?

Regardless of the flame bond that has formed, any cloud guardian Xanxus has, will likely be a political appointment. 

One does not simply choose a cloud. They choose you, precisely because they know you will not hold them back from their interests. 

Xanxus wouldn't be Intruders sky, without that understanding. 

But even with that understanding, it hurts.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Half-Priced Chocolate

The day after Valentine's Day is great for many things. Basking in the glow of a night well spent, sharing the joy of love with your family, and eating chocolate priced considerably lower than it was the day before.

Except Sam can't enjoy any of that, because Dean won't let him. Because Dean woke up in a sour mood and has picked up the banners of war against romantic love.

Albeit, the three aforementioned things might make his conflict the shortest in history.

           Sam sits with his granola and his pressed juice for exactly seven seconds when Dean walks in. Storms in, trailed by a dark cloud that thunders and readies to soak through anyone unlucky enough to cross its path. Grey dead man’s robe already looking dark and wet, clinging to his body. He passes Sam and the healthy breakfast he prepared as they marched towards the fridge with murder and hunger burdened on his tense shoulders.

           Mornings like these warn Sam of a day spent tiptoeing around his brother lest he accidentally set off a bomb. Ignore muttered grumblings if he wanted to be spared listening to Dean spend hours talking about everything annoying him except the real problem. Bury his head in a book or website so Dean would find his own outlet and wear himself into an approachable mood.

           Only he’s riding a strong high, drunk on Eileen and careless enough to stomp around with his happiness.

           “Morning Dean,” Sam says, chewing around the spoonful of granola, “How’d you sleep?” Dean grunts, backtracked by sizzling bacon being slapped onto the pan. Undeterred, Sam continues cheerily. “Me? I had an okay sleep, I mean when I actually went to sleep… I had a pretty late night.” Sam sips at his juice, letting Dean’s silence balloon for a moment until he pops it again. “Eileen and I stayed up chatting for a long time… didn’t really want it to end.” He then describes the date he planned, setting up the tablet in the library. Watching his reflection while the screen loaded, fixing his tie and mussing his hair until Eileen’s face popped up over his. Her hair perfectly cascading over one shoulder, hiding one of the straps of the purple dress she wore. In front of her was a mirror to Sam’s set up, a plate of food, a candle, and a little rose. Eileen waved at him in greeting, and in return Sam signed his. “I mean, it was kind of difficult,” Sam confessed, “I promised Eileen that I would only sign the entire night – even though she told me it would be okay. But, oh man… you should have seen her eyes light up when I recited The White Rose by John Boyle O’Reilly. Was scared I got something wrong but she said my fingers were fine… those hours spent hunched over the laptop watching YouTube were really worth it to see her smile…”

           “Big deal,” Dean scoffs, back still turned, “you got your fingers to make some neat shapes. I can do that, too…” Then, he extends his arm to show his middle finger to Sam. Even if he wouldn’t face him, Sam knows his pursed lips and heavy stare burn holes in Dean’s head.

           “Wow, Dean,” Sam says, “I take it there were no presents under the tree with your name on it for Unattached Drifter Christmas?”

           “Bite me Sammy.”

           “I already have someone I can bite, thank you very much –“

           “Not like she’s here, though, is she?” Dean asks, finally turning. He crosses his leg at the knee, mockingly rubbing his chin. “Wouldn’t an in-person date be more romantic than sitting alone with your computer all night? That’s just an average day for you.”

           His balloon springs a small leak, and he floats towards the ground. “Okay, you’re seriously bringing down my mood,” Sam glowers, pushing his bowl away. “Can you take whatever bullshit you brought in and wade through it somewhere else?”

           Dean scoffs, “What mood? Pent up sexual frustration? Or did you take care of that, too, with your magic fingers.” He mimes around his crotch, sticking his tongue out with a disgusting wink. Snickers when Sam’s lips curl.

           His grip on his juice tightens, and he drowns the furious remark burning his tongue with the drink. Instead of playing into Dean’s game, Sam stirs his granola with an almost forgotten spoon. Ignores another jab meant to shake up his Jenga tower of patience. Dean lucky that each piece he pulls doesn’t damage the structural integrity.

           Except the tower wobbles. “Probably gonna have to get used to it, though,” he continues, leaning against the counter, “with how long the sabbatical Eileen’s taking, you’re gonna need it.”

           He jumps onto the line like a fish to bait. “What is your problem –“

           “Dean? Sam? What’s going on?”

           Across the room, Dean stiffens and whirls to the entrance. Face pale, Sam watches his brother hands tremble before hiding behind his open robe. “Cas,” he says, “what’re you doing back?”

           Castiel’s hands are also out of sight. He glances between the two men with trademark confusion. “I only stepped out for a moment –“

           “A moment?” Dean hisses. He peeks at Sam from the corner of his eye – red and puffy, now that he pays closer attention to those kinds of details. “A moment,” he says again, stepping closer, “Cas you’ve been gone for –“

           “Almost an hour, I’ll admit,” Castiel sighs, meeting Dean halfway, “I didn’t intend to be away that long, but the line at the store was tremendous… and the register system was glitching –“

           “The store? What were you doing at a store though?”

           A smile blossoms from his pursed lips, Castiel finally revealing his hands and the heart-shaped box in them. “I got this… for you.”

           Dean falters, stunned. Stares at the present with trepidation and awe. He reaches for it, caressing the edges and following the trail until his fingers skim Castiel’s hands. Flinching away like he touched the forgotten pan of overly crispy bacon. “For me? Why?”

           “Well,” Castiel starts, “I was lying up thinking about how we sort of celebrated the holiday backwards yesterday and… I wanted to make up for it.” Sam sees the flower of Castiel’s lips wilt. “Do you… not like it? I’ll admit, it was marked considerably low…”

           He can’t see from how Dean angled himself. But the shaky shoulders and how a palm drifts up to rub his face, Sam feels glad for his obstructed seating. “That’s because it’s the day after, you idiot…”

           “Dean?”

           “Shit, Cas,” he huffs, “no note, couldn’t have texted me or something –“

           “I… I wanted this to be a surprise,” Castiel tells him, “besides, after last night I figured you would need the rest. Three times at your age is exhausting –“

           Dean cuts him off, Sam blushing fiercely while his mind shades in the crude drawing the angel began. Aided by his brother’s finishing remark. “Well maybe if you didn’t renovate my insides my spleen wouldn’t have been squeezing my bladder.”

           “Guys,” Sam chokes, the granola catching in his throat, “guys what are you –“

           “Dean,” Castiel speaks over him, “what is this about?”

           “What is this about?” Dean mocks, chuckling darkly. He inches closer, eclipsing the heart from Sam’s view. “I thought you… I thought you left…”

           A serene wave of understanding washes over Castiel’s features, smoothing the lines marring his face. Sam wishes for a similar stroke of clarity. “Next time,” Castiel says, “I will leave a note. And text. And wake you… although you can’t be mad if I do, okay?”

           The next laugh is much lighter, Dean sniffling between rounds. “Yeah… I promise.” He turns again, Sam tactlessly falling into his seat from the whiplash of his brother’s emotional rollercoaster. Gapes as Dean flicks the stove off and leaves the ruined bacon in the pan. “Come on,” he says, rattling the box of chocolates Sam failed to notice where in his possession, “let’s see what fifty percent off tastes like.”

           They’re so close to escaping, except Sam finds his words. Buried deep under shock and confusion, they’re there for him to dust off and shout. “What the hell was that?”

           Dean stops, a hand over Castiel’s on his waist to slow the other. He finally remembers Sam’s presence, a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks. “Hey,” his face twitches, “you see all that?”

           “…Yes!”

           “Well,” he drawls, leaning into Castiel while he thinks, “it was a… a fight.”

           Sam feels his eyebrows recede into his hairline. “A fight?”

           “Yeah, look,” he huffs, pointing at Sam with the heart box, “I know you and Eileen are still new but sometimes couples who’ve been together for a long time get into them every now and then. But then you make up and move past them.”

           “Oh,” Sam scoffs, “so you two are a couple now?”

           “Of course.”

           “A couple for a long time…?”

           “We only made it official last night,” Castiel says, tone easy despite the pitched voices of the Winchester brothers, “while you and Eileen were on your date, Dean and I sat and drank and shared a few words… among other things.”

           “But,” Dean carries on, “we’ve practically been together for over a decade. This is just an – an upgrade from our previous situation.”

           “An upgrade?” Sam asks.

           “Yeah,” he nods, “now I can do stuff like this.” Quickly, in a blink, Dean presses his lips to Castiel’s cheek. Rocking on his heels from the momentum of pulling back, face aflame like a bad sunburn. Almost laughable if Castiel didn’t gaze at Dean with heavenly wonder. “Whenever I want…” Dean adds, trailing off.

           The desire to tease Dean bubbles forth, but whether exhausted or blinded by the natural glow on Castiel’s face, it pops and dies in his chest. He grabs his spoon and stirs his granola. “Okay.”

           “Okay?”

           “Yeah, okay,” Sam smirks, “that’s it. Happy Valentine’s or whatever…”

           “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Sammy,” Dean says, being led out of the room by Castiel, “later, you’ve got to tell me how your date went. I’m sure it was great – Eileen’s a really lucky girl!”

           “Bye!” he waves, waiting until the two men fully disappear behind the corner. Leaving him in relative peace for a moment. But then Jack walks in, focused on the hallway. Sam thinks he can accurately guess what captured the younger boy’s attention, only hopes that his brother has enough wits about him to maintain restraint. “Hey,” he says, startling Jack, “you want breakfast?”

           Jack strides forward, sliding in across from Sam. “Why was Castiel holding Dean’s hand?”

           Sam rolls his eyes, “Because they’re dating.”

           “They are?”

           “Apparently,” he chuckles, “it’s their day-iversary.”

           Jack cranes his neck and glances behind him once more before leaning forward, near conspiratorially. “Is this a good thing?”

           “Uh… yeah?” Sam tells him, chewing around the granola and words carefully, “Dean’s happy, and Cas is happy, too… don’t you want them happy?”

           “I do, I do, I just…” Jack frowns, staring at his fists, “I wasn’t sure the Empty would agree to nullifying Cas’s deal. But since they’re together and he’s still here...”

           Sam chokes again, spoon clattering against the bowl when he drops it. “Excuse me?” he asks, coughing fitfully, “Cas made a deal with the what?”

[songbrook]

Seconds...

*music* Part 1 Kiss the Rain Part 2 The Assassin Part 3 Shelter From the Storm Tagging @gloamingdawn​​ - You’re it. @ouroandar​​, @trisandrah​​, @saltsparkle​​ As Raerys stood over Ouro, gun in hand, tears and rain blurring her vision she caught motion down the walkway. The barrel of her revolver swung to meet it, sight set and her hands steadying. She blinked several times, forcing saline and rain through her lashes, trying to visually lock on the target. Just as she feared there had been more than one, and Ouro was unconscious, leaving the last comer to her. 

Lightning illuminated the yard, exposing her quarry. A blurry figure running at full tilt, hands raised as if holding a gun, a gun that Raerys didn’t see. Just that quick the visual was gone, now only the shiny wet ripples of the figure’s clothing caught the too-soft light spreading from the porch lights and the opened front door. “Just a few more steps…” Raerys thought, waiting, waiting for the figure to come clear in the ambient glow of the stoop. His sacrifice would not be in vain however, she drew back the hammer with her thumb, and slowed her breathing. Whoever these people were, they had no idea who they were dealing with when it came to her. She felt ice-cold resolve in her veins, thoughts of Olivia foremost now, even as Ouro lay bleeding to death at her feet.  She would give no warning, only shoot, once she could see them clearly enough to make sure her bullet found its true home, deep in their brain. She had never shot another sentient being, but that wouldn't preclude her doing it now. Her daughter was inside and she'd vowed a long time ago to snuff the life of anyone who dared come for her or Olivia. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Fiddle,” Trisandrah sighed as she approached the far end of Dawning Lane. Though there was no rain here, the bubble of Silvermoon extending over the old ruins enough to protect it from the elements, she could smell the ozone of lightning and see the heavy clouds above obscuring the stars of the night sky. The temperature here was chill and the air damp, indicating that once she passed through the gate there was a full on gale out there. She paused for a moment, considering waiting it out. She had her heavy laden cart full of boxes, paper bags and little this-and-thats which decorated her table at Menagerie. As she stood, weighing her options she spied a young courier who burst through the gate, soaked to the bone and making haste. “You there! Hallooo! Would you like to make a bit of extra side coin?” She asked, slowing the youth: a boy of indeterminate age in the unmistakable livery of Falthrien Academy. He came up short, looking at her through rain traced lashes, nodding. “Sure, Lady… what you got? And where is it going?” Tris wriggled the handle of her cart, giving him a winning smile. One of those sly and flirty smiles she was so good at, the entrapment smile as Raerys liked to name it. The one no one seemed able to say no to. “Oh, just this little cart here… if you could just take it up the way to the inn and leave it with Miss Delaniel with a word that Miss Emberstrom will be along in the morning to pick it up, I’d be ever so grateful.” The youth’s momentary dazzlement at Trisandrah’s wayward grin melted as she gave the specifics. The cart would certainly slow him down and all he wanted just now was to make it to the Spire and then find a warm dry place to get a late super. A credulous eyebrow was his response, while his body fidgeted - ready to get back at it. “I’ll make it worth your while…” Tris dipped into her purse, withdrawing three gold coins. She splay them like cards in her dexterous fingers and tried the grin again. The boy softened for a second at her expression and then squared his shoulders and pursed his lips. “Hrm… not quite it I see. Howsabout…?” Tris turned and rifled through the cart, bringing up the box of rose creams she’d saved aside for Raerys. “You can take this as well, and if they’re not to your taste you could gift them to your girl?” It must have been adequate, for he extended a wet and dripping arm, hand palm up for the coin. “Alright, I’ll do it.” Tris dropped the coins into his extended hand and then handed over the box. The youth, tucked the candy box under his arm and pocketed the change. Tris turned slightly offering the cart and the boy leapt forward and grabbed the handle from her. Without another word he bolted down the golden-cobbled street.The cart bounced and rattled with the motion, seeming to complain at the speed, but before Tris could offer a caution about it tipping, he was already too far away to bother. With that bit of business concluded, she wrinkled her nose and cast a quick cantrip to provide some shelter from the rain. Above her head and down to her shoulders a shimmering arcane dome appeared, looking something like a carnival glass umbrella. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Out into the wind and wet she ventured, feet picking up a swift track. The promise of warmth and shelter at Raerys, with little Olivia and a roaring fire sounded just perfect as a cap for her evening. Through the gusts of wind, which carried heavy drops of rain she persisted, her fine leather shoes soon soft as mush but for their spiked heels. “Oh, Fiddle…” she said, yet again. She was almost to their lane, when she decided to stop and slip off her now destroyed shoes, preferring at this point the comfort and safety of bare soles. Just as she slid out of the left one, the right already in her hands she heard a sharp crack of electricity. The sky lightened, turning the inky landscape into a black and white photograph all around her. She thought, perhaps she’d heard a yelp, but then it was whisked away by the thunder that followed the lightning strike. Looking down toward the little house with blue shutters she saw one of the aspen in the yard glowed, a seam of fire running down its paper-white bark. “Gracious! That’s close…” She fretted a moment, then headed off again, picking up her pace as much as bare-feet would allow. The closer she got the more attention the front facade of the house took. During the brief flashes of light, she thought she saw two figures in the yard, very close to Raerys’ stoop. They appeared to be clashing, but as the darkness filled the void of momentary light, she chocked it up to Raerys’ hydrangea bushes out front being ravaged by the howling coastal wind. And then just before she let out a soft sigh, glad to be within the slight glow of the little house with the blue shutters, she heard a scream. A masculine scream of agony. Something had happened, was happening! The little chocolatier broke into a run, bare feet pounding down the path to the house, splashing through puddles that soaked the hem of her dress. As she ran, she squinted into the night, trying to make out what slowly came clear the closer she got. A crumpled form on the doorstep, another swaying in the wind just beside it and the growing sound of gurgling and sobbing. She lifted her hands on instinct, the words and gestures of a spell coming without effort as she leapt over the little garden gate. The scene went bright, as if another strike of lightning had landed amidst it, but it held steady and only then did Tris see Raerys’ figure backlit by the lights in the house and framed in the open door. Raerys had her pistol and Tris could make out the swaying form was Ouro. Blood, lots of blood ran through with rainwater seemed to flood the stoop and roll down the face of that little stone step. Was it Ouro’s or the other man’s? Questions, a billion of them suddenly crowded her mind, but they were all eclipsed as she heard the hammer of Raerys’ revolver click and realized she was staring down its barrel. She would not be able to stop the spell now, no… she could feel the fire singing her fingertips, smell the rank odor of infernal magics as they crackled about her aura. She did the only thing she could, she screamed and swung her hands left, forcing the magma like-ball of fire she’d accumulated out over the side-yard. “RAE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tris' sodden features grew steadily closer, running full tilt toward the house. Tris was likewise poised, her hands and fingers curved into arcane forms, her mouth already muttering against the howling wind a spell of fiery destruction. Raerys leaned into the shot, head tilting just a little to fix her gaze down the sight, her hands re-gripping the weapon as she prepared to unload the contents of the pearl-handled revolver into the second assassin. In the haze of wrath and terror, Raerys didn’t make out Tris’s face, nor the soaked frilly frock that clung to Tris’s legs as she ran toward the house. All she saw was the figure advancing and the churning pyroclastic mass that was forming in its fingers. She knew in a moment, she, Ouro and the house would be on fire, a fire that even the wet of this storm would not quell. It was now or never, her finger slowly curled, pushing its soft pad to the trigger. And then the second scream, Tris’s voice, Tris calling to her, and then Tris’s horror-widened eyes burning from the rushing figure. Raerys dropped her arm, shaking so hard that she thought she too may end up a lump on the stoop, next to Ouro’s dying body and that of the now dead assailant. Sobs, heavy and all encompassing surged through her, as she tilted and then sagged forward, catching her shoulder on the blood smeared pillar of the porch. The stench of demonic magic filled the air as the pyroclastic mass shot out like a cannonball, followed by a fiery tail that arched out and over the garden, headed for the garden gazebo that Raerys had labored so long to erect. But it mattered not a wit, for it would not take a life or burn down a home. There was no time for shock, no time for questions or recriminations or anything else extraneous in that moment. The two women locked eyes, one bend and winded with exertion, hovering over the bleeding figures of two men and the other bent and sobbing, leaned against a bloody post. “Fiddle, fiddle, FIDDLE FUCK!” Tris finally exclaimed, pushing herself up to standing as she surveyed the mess. “Exactly that… ok, I think Ouro is still alive… we got to get him inside.” Raerys un-cocked the revolver and tucked it into the waistband of her pants, naturally sliding the safety on as she did so. “You grab his feet and I’ll get his shoulders, hurry and then we need to get Lyne on the com and check on Olivia… ohmyfuckingsun…” Tris nodded, quick to scoop up Ouro’s feet and long legs as Raerys slid her hands under his arms, securing him about their pits and began to drag/lift him over the threshold and into the little house with blue shutters. He felt like a sack of flour, lifeless and limp, heavy and awkward but the two managed with a few sworn words and a near slip of Tris’s feet as she stepped wrong in the puddle of viscous blood on the stoop. Breaching the threshold they were bathed in warm light, the quaint little house suddenly christened with blood and violence felt different, its hard edges in sudden relief. Laboring together Raerys and Trisandrah managed him to the couch, a fine silken thing with hand painted blue and green finery. The trail of blood behind them was troubling, doubly so as they lay Ouro down on the silk and the blue turned to purple and the green to a muddy brown. “Fuck.. ok, I’ll get Olivia, you call Lyne.” Before Tris could contest, Raerys was gone, running down the hall toward the bathroom. Trisandrah dug into her purse and found her comm and with a touch she made the connection. It was Lyne’s private code, direct line to their friend and healer. Tris relayed what she knew, which wasn’t much, that Ouro lay bleeding badly on the couch and they were in dire need of Lyne’s gifts. And while the conversation took place, Raerys found Olivia, blessedly asleep, having had a full belly and the warmth of her blanket lulling the infant into the land of dreams. She looked so peaceful, swaddled up and eyes closed that for a moment, Raerys froze. The air in her lungs gone in that instant, her heart in her throat and beating in her ears. “Livi…?” Raerys whispered, terror coloring what should have been relief with uncertainty. Bending down to scoop up the infant as she spoke, her unspoken fear melted away as a soft curl of lips resulted from the caress of the child’s name, uttered by her mother’s lips. She didn’t wake, but stretched and kicked lightly before nuzzling into Raerys’ arms. The breath Raerys didn’t know she’d stifled slid out, her shoulders suddenly sagging as that primal fear and tension slid out of her. She wanted very much to take Livi to her room, to sit in their rocking chair and fall asleep. Everything felt heavy, her limbs and lids, her heart and mind, but she could not. Ouro was dying. Gathering herself, Raerys tightened her grip on Olivia and joined Tris in the Living Room, wide eyed at the amount of blood that continued to seep from Ouro’s wounded body into her silken couch. “We need to um… bandages or something…” Panic returned, reedy and awful in her voice. “I’ve got a little something to tide him over until Lyne arrives.” Tris took charge now, like a switch had flicked inside her. A steady calm came over her as she made her way to the couch, in her hands a small vial of a healing draught the sort they passed out to soldiers. “It won’t heal him totally, but it will buy us time.” Kneeling beside Ouro, Tris tilted his head gently, then with her teeth pulled free the cork in the vial. She poured slowly, making sure not to choke him, letting the glowing red liquid flow over his tongue. He coughed once, both potion and blood spattering his lips, but then he swallowed and swallowed again as Tris emptied the vial into his mouth. Tris nodded as she leaned back, seeing the color rise once more to Ouro’s ashen-skinned face. “Alright, the first aid kit is where we agreed yes?” Raerys nodded, looking back over her shoulder toward the bathroom. “Uhhuh… should be just to the left on the top shelf.” She would muse later on the cool, almost cold detachment in Trisandrah’s manner, the methodical and calm surety of her actions. But not now. Shock had come to visit and burrowed itself into her bones. Tris went off, and when she returned she held some linen bandages which she quickly wrapped into a pressure bandage. Setting them on the couch arm, Tris leaned over the Gunman and tore open what remained of his shirt, exposing the ugly dark stab-wound in his gut. Raerys winced, her head shaking as she watched his vitae dribble from it and saw the ugly growing stain under his skin where blood pooled in his flesh. The chocolatier took the wad of linen padding and placed it over the wound, then wrapped Ouro’s midsection tightly with the tails of the bandage, lifting him easily and working carefully to make sure it was good and tight. “Might help, might not… I guess we’ll see.” Her voice was almost mechanical, devoid of true feeling and it lent a cold crispness to the air of the house. All Raerys could do was mutely nod her head, tears rolling down her cheeks. She felt useless, utterly powerless in the face of this. About Olivia’s little body she tightened her grip, lifting the sleeping infant to her cheeks and lips, where she could draw in that precious scent of life and love. “Daddy is going to be ok, Livi… he is, I… promise…”

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Jigsaw // Black: Part Three

Home

A/N: This is the final part of the Jigsaw series, and I could not be happier to have it done. I’ve carried this one around in my head for quite some time now, and while I don’t regret a single thing, it’s been rough to say the least. I want to thank everyone who has stuck it out and made it to this final chapter. I truly hope you like the way it ends. 

Warning: major character death (I think by now that goes without saying) 

Word Count: 2,625 

A young woman sat quietly at the table as two detectives looked on through the one way glass. Her hands were in her lap, her eyes trained on a small dent in the sheetrock; a leftover mark from a previous interview, one where tensions had run high and fists had flown. Won’t be like that this time. Detective Brett Mahoney sighed to himself as he watched her take a deep breath, the slight rise of her chest as her lungs expanded and the subsequent shuddering deflation as she exhaled had been the only movement she’d made since she’d been shown into the room, a cup of coffee placed on the table in front of her. It sat there, untouched, the creamer and sugar packets unopened, nothing added to the dark, bitter liquid. She’s not here to put up a fight. 

 Mahoney tapped the manila folder in his hand twice against his thigh before turning to his partner. “Let me do the talking, got it Buchard?” 

 The second detective nodded solemnly, understanding that he was only there as a matter of protocol. “Yeah, got it,” Buchard responded. 

 Brett returned his gaze to the woman in the interview room, a deep frown cutting into his features as he sighed again. Last loose end. He’d been working on the Castle case, which had been looped in with this mess, and now, finally, the ends were being tied off, the frayed edges cut. “Alright then,” he took another breath, still in slight disbelief that it would all be over soon. Alright, here we go. 

 He gripped the doorknob, knuckles straining at his skin as he turned it and pushed the door open, Buchard following him into the small room. The woman remained still, not even turning to face the two men as the door clicked shut behind them. Mahoney cleared his throat, suddenly dry and harsh now that he actually had to speak to her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Miss-” 

 “This is about Billy Russo, isn’t it, Detective?” She looked up at him then, sad eyes leaving that fist shaped hole in the wall to lock with his. Mahoney got the feeling that almost everything in this woman’s life for the last year or so had been about Billy Russo. He got the feeling that she was as ready as he was to turn the page and move on. Will we be able to? It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered if someone would be able to cope with the aftermath of one of his cases. But it was the first time he’d wondered about it for himself. This one was… rough. Apart from the grief that dulled the light in her eyes, she showed no other emotion, not even contempt for the man she’d been called in to discuss. 

 Brett nodded as he moved to take the seat opposite the woman and her untouched black coffee, Buchard silently following suit. “Yes,” he answered her question. “I’m sure you’ve heard that-” 

 Her palms came up to lay flat on the table, Mahoney’s eye immediately drawn to the ring the woman wore on her left hand, and the bracelet, engraved with a name, that she wore on the right. “I heard that he escaped the hospital, yes. And I heard that he was being considered armed and dangerous.” She looked at him, unblinking. “Is that right?” 

 Mahoney felt his partner’s eyes shift sideways onto him as he blinked back at the woman’s question. Billy Russo was probably the most dangerous man Detective Mahoney had ever come across, armed or not. It’s either him or Frank...well, was. So the fact that Billy’s escape wasn’t causing her to have more of a reaction raised a flag for him. “That’s right,” he said. “He murdered his therapist, and then killed four more people. I’d say that’s pretty dangerous, wouldn’t you?” His eyebrows rose as he posed the question, waiting for her response. 

 She sighed. “Look, detective, I know that can’t be the reason that you called me down here.” Her eyes flicked back to that small dent, refocusing before they returned to his. “To discuss whether or not Billy Russo is a dangerous man? He’s an elite Special Forces Marine operative. Of course he’s a dangerous man.” She shrugged, her lips turning down as she shook her head. “But that’s not all he is. I know him, know what he’s like, and if you’re looking for some kind of-” 

 “We’re not looking for anything, ma’am,” Brett calmly interrupted her. “We… we found him.” She sucked in a breath and stared at him, absently pulling at the links in her bracelet, rubbing over the engraved piece. He was able to see the flat piece of metal once she’d run her fingers over it, and it made his stomach drop to see your name there. Goddamn. “Ma’am?” She swallowed, mouth falling open. “Can you tell me how your sister knew Billy?”  

 ..  .. ..  ..  ..  ..

 His hand shook as he placed it on the cool stone, a forceful exhale leaving his lungs as he made contact. Knees buckling, he traced a finger through the deep v-cut grooves of the engraved letters, vision too blurry to read the inscription clearly. Dropping to the ground, another forceful burst of air escaped him in the form of a sob. He pressed his forehead against the granite, still gripping the curved top before flattening both palms on the smooth face. “I promised I’d … come...back to you.” He struggled to choke the words out, chest shaking with the effort to breathe let alone speak. Rolling his forehead to the side, he rested his cheek against the surface, skin absorbing the chill. I’m here. 

 In the moments between his phone call with Frank and their final encounter in the now smoldering warehouse, Billy had sifted through the remaining contents of the folder he’d left the hospital with. Most of it was worthless- session notes in Dr. Dumont’s obsessively neat handwriting, a list of charges that Homeland was trying to hit him with, medical documents detailing his post-op recovery. He’d thrown it all in a pile that would become nothing but ash, engulfed in flames and erased. None of it matters. The only items that Billy had seen fit to save had been the pictures of the two of you, which he’d already been carrying in his pocket, and one sheet of paper, which he held in his trembling hands. It was an address, and he’d read it over and over, finding every crack and crevice in his memory and jamming that information into them. Gotta get back to her. 

 He’d dragged himself out of the burning building in a final act of defiance, refusing to let himself slip away in that place, refusing to break his promise to you. Not when I’m so close. The walk had been mercifully short, and he was grateful for the cover of darkness as he pushed through. He knew that if he were to be seen, covered in blood and ash and fighting for every ragged breath, that he’d be stopped before he could finish his mission. But once again, for the last time, Billy Russo disappeared into the night, stealthily seeking out a place where he could rest. With every stumbling step forward and each impossible beat of his heart, he repeated your name and felt you calling back. 

 By the time he’d made it to the small parcel of land dotted with headstones and encircled in a pointed black wrought iron fence, his vision was little more than shapes and blurs, his breathing rattled in his lungs, and he’d fallen twice, adding a few more scrapes and bruises to his battered body. His feet brought him to the numbered plot that he’d read from that sheet of paper in Krista’s file as though they knew the way through habit- as though this wasn’t the first and only time he’d ever been where he was now. He felt what little strength he had left leave him in a rush as his body finally relaxed, sitting on the hard ground and leaning all his weight against the stone. A sob broke free from his heart as his hand fell away from the stone. He knew he’d only be able to do this once, knew that this wasn’t something he’d be capable of repeating even if it were possible to do so, the clawing feeling in his heart completely eclipsing every ounce of pain, every shred of damage he’d endured. Your name fell from his lips in a gasp, and he was glad that he’d waited until now, glad that this was where he’d be when it happened, that he wouldn’t be alone.

 A cool breeze swept across the cemetery then, blowing leaves and blossoms from the branches of a nearby cherry tree through the air, chilling and drying the tears on his cheeks. He opened his eyes as a few petals fell into his lap, but the soft pink flowers didn’t register. He focused instead on a shimmering light, just like he’d seen in his dreams about you. It can’t be… 

 He choked out your name, eyes wide in disbelief as you appeared before him, the blue of your dress and the scarlet hue of your lips the only vivid colors he could see as the rest of the world faded around you. He tried to reach for you, but couldn’t make his limbs move, too broken, too weak, too damaged to do his bidding any longer. Desperate to touch you, hold you before he closed his eyes, he looked up at you and sobbed two words, “I’m sorry…” 

 Dropping to his side, you said his name, clear and calm, all of the pain and fear that was present the last time he’d heard your voice gone now. “It’s okay,” you said as you sank down beside him, arms slipping around his shoulders to pull him closer. I thought I’d never…  He felt your lips, warm and soft as they dropped to the corner of his eye. I thought I’d never have this again... “It’s okay now.”  He let his eyes fall closed, let himself finally let go of the fight that had been raging inside of him all of his life. A weight lifted from his chest and he leaned into you, arms winding around your body as his breathing evened out. “It’s okay Billy, you’re home.”  

 ..  .. ..  ..  ..  ..  

 “She...she, my sister,” The woman spoke your name, her voice catching as she did. “She loved Billy.” A tear slipped silently down her cheek as a mournful smile played with her lips. “She loved him.” She nodded. “I knew she did from the start, even before I met him, just from… from the way she’d,” she closed her eyes and tilted her head back so that when she opened them again she was looking at the ceiling. “From the way she’d talk about him, the way she’d sound when she’d tell me something… it was...she was happy with him. Happier than I’d ever seen her, and then when I met him,” some more tears pushed their way through, her voice breaking once more as she continued. “When I met him I knew he loved her, too. I just… I knew he’d do anything for her.” You can say that again. “So, like I was trying to say, detective, if you’re looking for more fuel for the fire that you’re going to roast him on, you’re asking the wrong person.” 

 In his tenure with the NYPD, Brett had seen his fair share of people he’d considered to be brainwashed; victims with Stockholm syndrome that showed far more love for their captor or attacker than was reasonable to any sane individual. He was stunned to hear it coming from your sister, though, about the man who may or may not have gotten you killed. “I’m not looking for any fuel, ma’am.” No need. Bastard roasted himself. “I just don’t understand… why are you protecting him? Even after-” 

 “Billy did not kill my sister, detective Mahoney.” She spoke louder and more clearly than she had the entire time, making sure that the tape that Buchard had started recording at the onset of the interview picked up her intent and inflection. She shook her head, a hard look changing her sad eyes. “I don’t care what you tell me, or what the record says. I don’t care what they say in court, or what the official military statement is. I know that he didn’t kill her. And no matter what else he’s done,” determination took over her face as she balled her hands into fists. “I won’t help you put her death on him. I won’t do that to what they had.” 

 Incredible. Mahoney realized that he wasn’t getting her to budge on that front. He chalked it up to grief and the way it had a tendency to alter people’s memories of those that they lost. She wants to think of her sister and Russo as an angel and a choir boy? Fine. But she still needs to know. He cleared his throat again, opening the file that he’d brought into the room with him to pull out a single photo. Jesus, he glanced down at it before closing the folder, and for the first time since he got the call that they’d found Russo, he saw the kind of connection that the woman was trying to tell him that the man had with her sister. To do that… drag yourself there in that shape… goddamn. He winced. Maybe she’s right. He blew out a heavy breath. “Ma’am, I’m not looking to change your mind about anything.” He suddenly felt exhausted. The way she must feel. “I’m,” he shook his head before locking eyes with her. “I called you here today for closure.” For you and for me. He looked down at the picture again. And for them. Her eyebrows came together and her lips twitched and Brett could see that she already knew what he was about to say next. “I called you here today to tell you that we found Billy Russo at your sister’s grave.” He watched as her eyes blinked closed, her throat working to swallow the lump of emotions his closure had brought up. “He’s-” 

 “He’s dead.” She said it in an even tone, not as a question, voice barely a whisper. Eyes still closed, the lids quivered as tears slipped from beneath them. 

 “Yes ma’am,” Brett responded, trying to match her evenness. “He was found this morning,” he explained, “It appears as though he-” 

 “He wanted to be with her.” 

 Not what I was going to say but… He was going to say that it appeared as though he got into a fatal showdown with Frank Castle before dragging himself several miles to her sister’s final resting place. But that works, too. It did. No matter what he thought he knew about Billy Russo, Mahoney could clearly see that there was infinitely more that he didn’t know, couldn’t understand. She wiped at her eyes, eyeliner and mascara creating dark smudges around them as she cried. For you, for herself, for Billy. He tucked the photo away. She doesn’t need to see this. 

 “I’m glad,” she said after a beat, drawing Mahoney’s attention back up to her tear-streaked face. “Glad he got out...glad he...glad they’re together.”   

Mahoney sniffed. Goddamn. He turned to give Buchard a meaningful look, the other man reading it instantly and leaning forward to press a button on the recorder before nodding and leaving the room. Waiting until the click of the door resonated in the room, Brett reached for the woman’s hand. “Me too.”  

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@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @gollyderek @thesumofmychoices  @obscurilicious @traeumerinwitzhelden @jigsawlover10 @getlostinyourparadise @breanime @nananananananananananabatman @lexxierave @songforhema @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @lysawayne @roses-in-your-country-house @ymariejp @belladonnarey @audreychaz @songtoyou @stories-you-wont-hear @luminex3 @ificouldhelpyouforget

[journal-of-an-outlaw]

Price to be Paid - Chapter 26

AO3 link here

When you arrived back at camp everyone seemed to be buzzing. A new energy flowed through the air, connecting all of you together in a fabricated sort of high. The mayor’s party had gone exceptionally well, at least three new leads for big jobs had been found and Dutch sat in the gazebo hunched over his table stewing over which to pursue first. The gang needed money, and a lot of it, if they were to leave this life of living on the run. You weren’t quite sure where you fit into that plan but hoped it would all be clear soon. 

Arthur swung down off of Zeus and was immediately called over by Hosea and Dutch. He cast a smile and rolled his eyes before heading off to see what those two needed from him now. 

You approached Abigail who was in the middle of trying to get Jack to eat. 

“Well, how did things go?”

You told her all about your trip into Saint Denis and how the party went. The beautiful backdrop the twinkling lights provided and how Dutch’s plan seemed to have gone well, the multiple plans he had thought of and ways to get money. It really was a success, and you hinted at how your night after had been just as successful, too. 

Abigail blushed but slapped your arm playfull. “You sly thing! Maybe soon you’ll have a little one on the way.” 

The thought made you falter. The last time you and Arthur spoke about having children he had made it painfully clear his own insecurities were holding him back even if you saw the paternal potential that was inside of him. As you mulled over the idea you brought your hand to your stomach and imagined what it would be like to grow human life inside of you. 

“Well, either way I have to drop these clothes off before Grimshaw rips my head off. Haven’t done a chore in a few days and I know she can smell that…” you smiled and headed towards Shady Belle. Sadie sat whittling away at something on the front porch and she tipped her hat as you walked into the house. 

From downstairs Arthur and Dutch��s voices floated in as they talked about their plan to rob the trolley station in the city. They moved upstairs and into Dutch’s room, out of earshot where you folded your clothes and set aside others to be washed. 

You hummed a song to yourself and admired the way the light shone on your reflection when a shrill scream pierced the afternoon. You froze, the sound making your blood run cold. Loud sobs rang out from the front of the house as your heard Mary Beth wail. 

“It’s Kieran!”

“What the hell have they done to him?” Arthur yelled. 

At the same time Dutch called out, “Everybody take cover!” and gunshots rang out as Shady Belle was attacked. 

Shit, shit, shit, shit. Your hands fumbled at the ammunition on the shelves of your room. You knew you had to get out there and help but somehow the erratic pace of your breathing made it difficult to focus. Thundering steps ran by outside the door and you know it was Arthur. 

Arthur. Your anchor was running into danger. You needed to get it together. 

With that grounding thought in your head you barged out and followed the sound of gunfire. Karen nearly ran you over, a rifle in her hands, as she hurried to get outside. She grabbed a box of bullets and gave you a hard look as she steeled herself to go and defend the camp. 

“It’s the O’Driscoll boys!”

You weren’t sure who said it, but a series of memories flashed through your mind at the thought of your last encounter with that particular group. Flames, your hands hanging from bloody ropes, the blazing pain as Colm shot a bullet into your thigh. It was suddenly too much and you dropped the ammunition you had brought down around you, falling slowly to the floor on your hands and knees. 

It was like Colm was standing there again with his hand around your neck, threatening to end your life right then and there. 

In the distance you could hear the panicked sounds coming from the horses and in the back of your mind you hoped Eclipse had gotten away. The front door was shoved open and Jack came flying in after John shoved him. He looked terrified with tears running down his cheeks, and you snapped back to yourself. “Jack! C’mon, let’s go we’ll be safe.”

Jack put up a protest for a moment but let you scoop him up and run back upstairs to the safety of your room. Sitting on the bed Jack crawled into your lap and shook with the fear of what he had just seen. The door to your room burst open and you clutched Jack tightly until you saw Tilly and Molly scurry in. 

“Where are the others?”

“Shooting. Dutch sent the women and children in, everyone else is holding their ground.”

As if on cue Grimshaw and Mary Beth came in breathing heavy from running. Karen opened it a few minutes later with a gun in her hand. “C’mon, I need help boarding up the windows and doors. Who’s with me?” Tilly and Grimshaw followed quickly as Abigail rushed in. 

“Oh, my boy thank you YN! John grabbed him but I was around the corner and didn’t see if he made it. Thank god you’re safe,” she pulled him from your lap and the sudden lack of comfort struck you cold. “It’s a nightmare out there, they seem to be everywhere. The boys and Sadie are holding them down but,” she cuts off as Mary Beth lets out a small sob and does her best to cover her mouth. 

You were still in shock. “What happened?” You looked around at mournful faces. “I was up here, is...is he okay?” 

Nobody spoke. There was a silence broken only by Mary Beth’s quiet sobs from the corner where she had wrapped her arms around herself. 

Molly finally answered you though. “He was sent ahead of the attack. It...he was on horseback, with his head in his lap,” she raised a dainty hand at the thought, but you were confused. It seemed that Arthur may have to explain it later as no one was in shape to relive that moment. 

Kieran was sweet and seemed to be redeeming himself steadily. He had done good work with the horses and Mary Beth was always ready with a smile for him. Dutch had even gone so far as talk about bringing him on a job someday, something Kieran held onto with so much hope. A dream. Something to live for. 

“Everyone, back inside! We need to block off that door, there’s too many of them.” Dutch barked and could be heard throughout the house. 

“Is everyone accounted for?” 

Your heart squeezed at Arthur’s shout. His mind was always with others, even in the face of battle. Someone yelled something back and you could hear glass breaking as Arthur leapt out to the yard to attack. The gunshots were getting louder as the battle moved to the back. Arthur was an excellent shot, the best you had ever seen. His skills had been honed by years and years of knowing his aim meant life or death, so you closed your eyes and prayed to whoever might be listening to give him safe passage to protect the others. 

A thought crossed your mind after Mary Beth asked something about the O’Driscolls and how they had found the camp. Those few months ago you were held captive because of a deal your father made. Had he somehow tracked you down again? Paid Cold and his gang to come collect you in exchange for going free from the law? You wouldn’t put it past your father but the thought of everyone being in danger because of you rattled your heart more than you cared to admit. 

It seemed to go on for ages. Those in the room flinched every time a yell went out in fear that it was someone they knew. But Tilly would look out the window and confirm that Charles had run by just fine, and made a noise of surprise as Sadie Adler knifed a man just to turn around and shoot another. She sounded impressed, like she respected the woman for finally coming back to life. Eventually Hosea opened the door and told you all to come outside, it was safe again. 

You walked slowly behind the others. Hosea wrapped an arm around Mary Beth’s shoulders as she continued to cry, and Abigail clung tightly to Jack. It was good to see your community strong and holding together, even if you may have been the cause. 

“Arthur,” you breathed as soon as the front doors opened. You ran to him and wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the gun from his hands hit the ground next to you as he did the same. The two of you stood silently for a moment, letting the reality settle in that you were both still alive and breathing. 

“You okay?”

You nodded. “I-I feel like a fool. I froze when I heard it was O’Driscolls, just got caught up in what happened all that time ago when I got holed up with them. I swear I felt Colm in the room with me, his hands on my neck again.”

His features softened. “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed about. You survived something terrible, you’re allowed a little time to let that wound heal.” 

You squeezed his arm and let him go over to join Charles, Dutch, Hosea, and John who were planning their next move. Reverend Swanson and Hosea removed Kieran’s body and head and the image of what happened made your stomach roll. Molly’s words rang in your ears as they moved out of sight. 

“Colm O’Driscoll...that man can really hate.” 

Dutch looked out across the fields thinking. “So can I, Arthur. So can I. We need to get moving. Away from here.” 

“Another camp?”

“You ain’t thinking big enough, Arthur.” Dutch laughed darkly as he formulated a plan. “You ain’t seeing the vastness of our problems and our opportunities. It will make sense in time. I’ll be back soon, then we’re robbing that trolley station!” Dutch clapped his hands together and took off to find the Count before leaving for who knew where. You saw the last puff of dirt fly up as you heaved another dead O’Driscoll up from the ground. It was taxing and grueling work, but everyone was chipping in to make sure the camp was safe and secured. 

Everyone except for Dutch, the little voice in your mind said. 

That evening everyone was quiet as they ate dinner around the campfire. The need for company outweighed the need for conversation and the time passed peacefully to the sound of crackling wood. You sat next to Arthur, as close as you could be without disrespecting the others in camp with being over the top. 

“You gonna eat that or just play with it all night, darlin’?” Arthur had noticed your loss of appetite and poked your side playfully. 

The slop in your bowl was bland, making it harder and harder to choke down. And it somehow reminded you of the carnage you had seen earlier, so when you pushed it away Arthur knew you were finished. 

“I can’t stop thinking about how they found us, they knew exactly how to attack. We were caught off guard even with people on patrols. And Kieran…” You shook your head thinking. “How can we ever forgive ourselves, Arthur? He was, he didn’t deserve that.”

Arthur swung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into his chest. For a few minutes the two of you sat in silence, simply trying to cope. You had a nagging thought in the back of your mind that the O’Driscoll attack had something to do with you and your father and Colm, and that feeling seemed to blossom the more you dwelled on it. 

“Kieran was...he had a good life with us. We fed him, clothed him, he was free and worked doing what he loved. A man can’t ask for much more than that, and we should remember him for the good things he put into the world, not the terrible way he…” Arthur waved his hand out into the night sky. “You know. All that business.” 

You nodded and pulled your bowl back to push the slop around at least having something to do. Quiet murmurs went around the group but no one really talked, even Sean for once was sitting silently next to Karen, his fingers dragging lazy patterns on her knee. Javier was polishing his set of knives and Charles walked the perimeter. You could almost see his eyes dart every which way from your spot by the fire as he slowly secured the grounds, on high alert since Mary Beth’s scream earlier in the day. The piercing sadness still rang in your ears. 

The sound of an approaching horse had everyone standing instantly. Your hands shook at your sides as terror rose in you like bile at the back of your throat. Were they back? Did they get word from your father to attack again?

But it was only Dutch and the Count, back from their day out in the city. Or wherever Dutch went to be alone.

He swung down and greeted the group from across the grounds of Shady Belle. As he approached you realized you couldn't hold this secret inside of you for much longer. Someone had to know why the O’Driscolls attacked and that it was your fault poor Kieran had been brutally murdered in such a cold way. Your hands shook later that night even as Arthur’s arms held you tight in bed, nothing seemed to be able to calm the storm raging inside of you. 

The secret of your father that you held was too heavy to carry alone, but you were terrified of what the others would say. That it was no coincidence you were found back in Blackwater. That you had planned this all from the start and didn’t really care for anyone. You were terrified to think of Abigail’s face, how she would hide Jack behind her with a shove and point a shaky finger at you begging John to put her out of her misery and kill you. You saw Karen and Sean snarl, positively feral as they ran you out of camp with threats pouring from their lips. You winced at the thought of Hosea’s eyes turning to stone as he left you to the mercy of the swamps, offering you nothing but a nod as you left to fend for yourself. 

One thing you were absolutely certain of was that Arthur could not find out who your father was. In your mind they were two pillars of the same building, each standing for their own values and upholding an idea they were ready to die and collapse for. Arthur would accuse you of never truly loving him and hearing something like that would break your heart. The image of his heartbroken face staring right at you was too much, it was a thought you pushed as far away from your mind as possible. 

Dreams of wild beasts chasing you through flames and from your home plagued you for nearly a week before you woke up Arthur with your screams and sobs. 

“YN! Jesus, you’ll wake the whole house. Come back to me, love, it’s okay.” 

You felt yourself bolt upright, out of control, desperate to escape whatever dream had been after you that night. It must have been early as no light came through the windows. A sob ripped through you again and your whole body wouldn't stop shaking as you were stuck in that in between place between dreaming and being awake. Arthur grabbed your arm and you shook him off before you realized who it was. The tears hung to your eyelashes but you quickly blinked them away, pressing the heel of your hands into your eyes to try and calm your racing heart. 

“Honey you gotta talk to me. What in the world is going on with you?” Arthur’s accent seemed to get stronger when he was worried, using words that normally didn’t make it into his conversations. “This is the third night in a row you’ve been waking up yelling. What can I do to help you?” 

He rubbed small circles into your back as his words washed over your fried nerves. A hiccup escaped you as you finally took the reins back again. 

“I’m scared, Arthur.” 

His hand stopped. “What of, sweetheart?” 

“I’ve never talked about my family much with you, have I?” You played with your fingers, not looking up in the dark. “I never had any siblings, it was always just me. My mother was an angel but never spoke up for herself. I swore I wouldn't be like that when I grew up, and I think that’s why my f-father and I hit heads so often, ending in…”

The phantom bruises on your body started to ache and you clamped your hands together to stop from attending to them. Arthur sat in silence, knowing that you needed to think and speak about what was dragging you into such a dark place. 

“My father is a terrible man. He’s in a terrible line of work and lets the small amount of power he has corrupt him into something I don’t recognize. I’m real scared of my father f-finding us. It’s...he’s a complicated man, and it’s complicated between us but I know that if he ever found me I...I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Darlin’, I know he was a monster who hit you, but you have to believe me that he or anyone else will never touch you again while I’m here. I know I’m just some old, ugly man that you got stuck with but I would do anything to keep you safe. You’re my new home.” 

The sweet words made your heart feel like it was about to burst and you looked up at Arthur for the first time in your conversation. For one small second, the world was right. The man you loved, who you were set to marry, loved you more than you deserved. Your father had made sure you were ruined the moment you left home. No one like you should be loved unconditionally like Arthur was pledging to do. You would only bring pain and destruction to his life. 

“I promise. He will never find you as long as I’m around.” You raised a hand to Arthur’s cheek and drew yourself in for a kiss. Hopefully it conveyed just how much everything he said meant to you. 

The next morning you felt better. Cleaner, fresher, as if that made any sense. You brushed your hair and braided the short locks down your back and out of your eyes, you woke up before Arthur. His sleeping form entranced you and he had been up with you late into the night comforting you during another nightmare so you crept out of the room and downstairs to get a start on helping around Shady Belle. 

A deep breath cleared your mind and you took in the group meandering around the camp. Near Pearson’s table a pot of steaming coffee sat alone, so you poured a cup and let the warmth seep into your bones and relax you. Arthur was right, nothing could get in your way. 

“Morning, princess,” a snide voice broke through your serenity. 

“Micah.” 

“What, no greeting? No good to see you back after slaving around for the gang and making sure we’re safe and sound?” 

“I’m not in the mood. Please, just let me drink my coffee and -”

“Plot something?” 

Your eyebrows drew together in confusion at his words. Micah wore a smirk that said he knew more than you did and it made your hackles stand up, instantly on guard. 

“And what would I be plotting, Micah?”

“Oh,” he walked slowly around you, taunting you. “Nothing I would know about, that’s for sure. Maybe something a little less dramatic this time? Something that won’t put your targets in harm’s way? Better for the end goal now, ain’t it?”

You slammed the coffee down as your patience ran out and anxiety took its place. “What in the hell are you talking about?” 

“I know.” He leaned in to whisper. You had enough and left to find something to do when he called out again. “Seems you’re more than meets the eye, Miss Moore.” You stopped dead in your tracks but refused to turn around. “But, if you insist, I’ll leave you alone. Princess Pinkerton.”

The knife was pressed against his throat before you realized you had even moved. Micah only laughed as you weren’t really a threat, more of an annoyance but you were breathing hard in the morning sun as he batted your hand away.

“What did you say to me?” 

“I told you I knew,” he chuckled. “Seems you got some explaining to do as to why you got a whole detective agency after you, little Miss Pinkerton.” 

He didn’t know. Or at least, not all of it. The fact that your father was the detective in charge of bringing in the Van der Linde gang had escaped him. 

You took a steadying breath. “How did you find out?”

He met your response with a slow smile and pulled out a ripped piece of paper from his pocket. You tried to snatch it from him but he pulled it back, only showing you when you promised not to take it. 

“When we rescued you from dear old Colm there were some papers in that house that were very interesting. Named you personally as someone of interest to the Pinkerton Detective Agency and that you were to be kept alive and unharmed until they could collect you. I knew it was strange that some small town girl just happened to wiggle her way into the gang and then we’re attacked by O’Driscolls in our home.”

“No!” you tried not to shout. “It’s not, not like that Micah. Just...they’re after me, too. I promise I would never put anyone here in danger.”

“Hard to believe when that ain’t what this signed paper says.”

Your eyes lingered on the scrap he held up and you tried to focus on what you could read off of it. Shit. Right there was your name and a note that said to keep you away from any danger like Micah had told you. It was even signed with a name that looked vaguely familiar. But strangely enough, your last name wasn’t there, just YN. A thought struck you that your father would be embarrassed his daughter had gone and hitched herself to the enemy and you sent a silent thank you that his ego had won out. 

“You’re right, that is me on that page.” Micah’s eyebrows shot up into his dirty hair as you made up a cover story on the spot. “I’ve been on the run for something I didn’t know about at the time it happened.”

“And what’s that now?” 

You batted your eyelashes innocently to buy some time. “Can’t blame a girl for falling in love, can you? I...back in Blackwater there was a man I courted. We were almost engaged, but on the day of the proposal another woman came into town.” You paused for a dramatic effect that was surely lost on Micah. “His wife. It turns out he had been married for ten years and was planning to con me out of my family inheritance. Well, two months later I get a letter saying he’s dead and that I’m wanted for going through with it even though he had gone back with his wife to the city! I’ve been on the run since then, but they want a trial which is why they asked for me to be safe. To see if I could locate the locket he left behind in Blackwater worth thousands.” 

Micah looked unimpressed. But somehow, his mind accepted this story and he dropped your gaze with a huff. “You better talk to Dutch about this.” 

You nodded and promised you would, your heart kicking up a few speeds after he stalked away. How in the world had he bought the same story you had read off the back of one of Hosea’s mystery novels?

Dutch strode down through the front doors and you realized you would need to tell him. The truth this time, not some made up story. The bubble inside of you threatened to burst with the tension you were carrying as the secret loomed heavy over your head. 

“Why, good morning YN! Did you sleep better last night? Arthur said there were some...troubles.” 

You blushed slightly and adapted Dutch’s gait as he made his way to the gazebo with you. “Yes, thank you. Just some things on my mind. I was actually hoping that we could talk?”

Dutch stepped to the side and made a sweeping gesture, ushering you into the structure. “For you my dear, I always have an ear. Now. What can I do for you?”

“YN! Where did that woman go, Tilly you seen her? Swear I checked everywhere.” 

Arthur had finally awoken and was ready to start the day, dressed for heading into town. You walked out of the gazebo from a very pensive Dutch. He leaned his hands on the white railings after claiming the need of a few minutes to process everything you had confided in him. Dutch was a smart man; he made plans in the blink of an eye and always had the group at the heart of what he did so you were confident in your choice of who to tell. The world was lighter, you were no longer alone in knowing your secret. 

“Arthur!” You called and waved him over. He muttered something to himself and pulled you in for a chaste kiss. A smile crinkled the lines outside of his eyes that you loved so much while he told you about what he was off to do. Something to help the gang, money, the usual schtick. 

The one thing that caught your attention was the mention of Josiah Trelawney tagging along. 

“Hasn’t he been away awhile?”

Arthur nodded. “He comes and goes. Should be here soon, but Dutch seems to be alright with him wandering in and out of camp as he pleases. Like I’ve said, loyalty goes a long way with that man.” 

You smiled to yourself knowing that you had showed Dutch more loyalty by confiding in him. Hopefully he would take your words to heart. 

“Arthur, my dear boy, it has been too long!” 

Trelawney sat upon his horse as they slowly walked into camp, waving at a few shouts in his direction. The well dressed man looked healthy, smiling as he removed his top hat and avoided the mud puddles that formed on the path up to the house as he strolled to stand with you and Arthur. You were greeted with a bow. 

“I see I missed all the excitement, may I see it?”

For a moment you stood frozen, appalled that he would speak about Kieran and the attack in that way. It was very unlike Josiah and Arthur scoffed next to you. After a moment he reached out and took your left hand in his, admiring the ring on your finger and you and Arthur laughed. He meant the engagement. 

“How did you ask her, Arthur? Hopefully it was worthy of such a fine woman.”

Arthur blushed and rubbed the back of his neck as he retold the story. You could listen to him retell it over and over, it never got old. The build up as you stayed in the cabin, how he had bought you the book Pride and Prejudice after your old copy was destroyed in the fight with Micah, and how you looked when he suprised you and accepted. It was truly wonderful and you wondered how Arthur had described it in his journal. 

You slipped your hand into his and squeezed, telling him through touch how much you utterly loved him. 

“When is the ceremony then?” 

The question caught you off guard. You and Arthur hadn’t discussed how that would happen. “Hopefully soon. Just hard to find time to plan in the middle of this mess.” Arthur smiled at you as a thanks for having an answer ready. 

“Well, Arthur might I steal YN away before we head out to the boat?”

“Boat?” Arthur snorted. “Dutch didn’t say anything about a boat.”

“Ah. Well, do you at least have a nicer suite to wear? Something with less...dust. We’ll be with high society for the poker game.”

Arthur muttered something under his breath as he walked away and into the house, upset that no one told him he would have to dress up for the scheme that evening. Josiah sighed but smiled at you, a gesture that surely meant he had gone through this same routine with Arthur many times before. 

“How have you been, Josiah? We missed having you around. Your flair is one of a kind.”

The man offered you his arm to hold as you strolled around the grounds, and for the first time you saw Shady Belle as a shell of its former self. You pointed out the different spots around the house of interest, not that there were many, and conversation was easy. Talking to Josiah was like drinking a fine champagne; smooth and bubbly but not something that could be indulged in every day. 

“My dear, I did want to speak to you about something else. It’s a delicate topic, let’s sit out here away from the crowd.” He led you to a few barrels turned into seats as your stomach started to turn. 

“I ran into someone in Saint Denis who had your likeness drawn out, with longer hair of course, and offering a reward for your return.” He let the confession sit heavy in the air between you like the humidity that clung to your skin. “I know that you ran away for other reasons, but do they know who your family is? I’m afraid something bad will happen if the wrong person opens their mouth while out in the city.”

“He’s still here?” You whispered. Josiah nodded and covered your hand with his own at your distress. “Josiah I, I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell the others, they won’t understand. Like you said I ran away from him; he followed me here, I never wanted to bring harm to anyone. Least of all to those who took me in when I needed it.”

“I know. Just wanted to make sure you had someone to confide in. If that’s just me, I’ll happily hold that burden with you. Does Arthur know?”

“No.” You answered curtly. “And he can’t find out. To know he’s engaged to his enemy’s daughter? He would hate me.”

Josiah looked around to make sure no one was nearby before speaking. “My dear, I don’t think you give him enough credit, he’s a strong man who has been through his fair share of unfair circumstances and learned to look for the light at the end of the tunnel. But I won’t force your hand, of course. Some battles we need to take on ourselves.”

“I know, and it’s unfortunately my decision.” You flinched at the hard tone in your voice. “I just don’t want anyone hurt because of me. I can’t, I can’t live with that.”

“YN, we’ve all hurt people before. Eventually you have to just look out for the ones who matter.”

Arthur had lumbered out of the house and found you and Josiah sitting at the table, motioning he was ready to go. He tried to hide his fancy suit that he bought when you went to the mayor’s house, even though the thought of that evening sent your stomach into butterflies. 

You walked over and ran your hands along the buttons, fixing one that had gotten out of place. 

“Now, Josiah, make sure this fiance of mine gets back here in one piece, you hear? He’s got someone waiting for him back at home now.” Arthur chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, murmuring something sweet before heading off to his horse to leave. You watched Josiah follow him and lead Strauss and Javier out of the camp as well, wondering just what kind of trouble they had cooked up this time. 

The last bit of joy seemed to be sucked out of the air as the men left, and the weight of what happened with the O’Driscolls and poor Kieran filled the empty space. You placed a hand on your chest just to check if the hollow feeling in your heart was real or not, and almost disappointed when it wasn’t because at least physical wounds all healed. That was something you experienced first hand. 

It had taken time and work, but your leg was finally whole again after Colm had shot you. What a wild ride it had been living with the Van der Linde gang, who would have ever thought that any of this would happen to you?

Dutch stood on the balcony above, looking down at the group. He slowly smoked a cigar and you could almost see the gears moving in his mind. As he caught your eye he nodded, then looked curtly away. 

“Micah, can I ask you something?” 

The question was out of your mouth before you knew what your question was but the man stopped and dropped the bale of hay he had been trying to move. 

“Finally come to your senses and plan to ditch Morgan for a real man?”

Your stomach turned at the thought but you waved it away, eager to solve this gnawing riddle that had wormed its way into your head. 

“I need to see that paper again. Can I look at it?” 

He agreed as long as you stood right in front of him and promised not to rip or damage it in any way. You gripped the page and searched it over until you nearly had the words memorized. Maybe it had been something in the slant of your name where you could detect your father’s writing that had gripped you, or how he refused to put your last name that held its grip on you just a little bit too long. Something about this felt off…

And then you noticed it. It wasn’t anything about your name that had drawn you back to look over the paper. It was the name that approved of the order, who had sent the dogs running after your scent. 

It had been signed by Cornelius Staten. The man you met back in Rhodes.

[marril96]

Tonight

Chapter 8: Total Eclipse of the Heart

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Characters: Rowena, reader

Summary: It was supposed to be a happy, carefree outing. After tonight, however, nothing will ever be the same for you and Rowena.

A/N: Huge thanks to @lordhellebore for helping me with Latin!

Editor: @rowenaisfabulous

EARLIER…

For a few moments everything was quiet. A cold, deafening calm settled on the nightclub. Not even a breath could be heard, or a heartbeat. Nothing. As if time had frozen, enveloped the world into stillness.

Then Rowena screamed, the magic that had built up inside of her tearing free. Bursting from its prison, finally unleashed. Wild. Unpredictable. Deadly.

She'd saved up spells for this very moment. Rehearsed them in her mind, went over every word of Latin, and made sure her pronunciation would be perfect and to the point. Yet, now that she was finally unchained, finally free of the iron that contained her, it was as if her mind were a blank, wiped clean of everything but one word: die.

She wanted the hunters to die. Wanted the Lumberjack and especially Mike to die. Painfully. Brutally. She wanted them to suffer, to spend their last moments in agony, for what they did — what they all collectively did — was unforgivable. They needed to pay.

All those lives lost. Your body wounded and mind broken. Rowena's heart shattered. All because of them.

They needed to reap what they sowed.

An eye for an eye.

A wound for a wound.

A life for a life.

Rowena's magic listened. It heard her call and listened, and broke out to fulfill its mission. To enact its revenge for being caged. For being unable to protect her when she needed it the most.

She stilled. The hands that gripped her arms mere moments ago were gone, their owners having backed away.

Smart boys.

It wouldn't save them, though. Nothing could save them anymore.

Muscles taut, body stiff as a statue, Rowena called on her magic once more. The familiar warmth washed over her, filled up her veins, spread over her body like welcome poison. Her skin tingled as energy rushed through her like electricity, tiny sparks tickling her skin, caressing it.

Home.

It felt like home.

Even as it twisted and coiled with her anger, with hate that seeped deep into her bones, her magic still made her feel comfortable. It was a part of her; had been for centuries. An organ, invisible but alive within her, needed, necessary for survival.

Die.

The word thundered in her mind, a firm, decisive echo.

Die!

Thunder rumbled in the sky, loud as an explosion, the walls of the nightclub shaking under its song. Rain fell free from the clouds, heavy droplets slamming into windows, rattling the glass. Wind howled like a pack of hungry wolves.

Die, die, die!

The windows burst open, flew from their hinges as if they weighed nothing, and landed amongst the bodies in a rain of glass and shattered frames. Bar stools flipped over. Glasses clattered, shattered on the ground.

The hunters whispered amongst themselves, shouted over the wail of the wind. "Stop," Rowena heard them say. "Enough!"

Och, how the tables have turned!

Their weapons were drawn. Aimed straight at her. Safety clicked off, ready to fire.

Bampots.

Bloody, amateur bampots.

"You stop this right now!" the Lumberjack shouted.

Rowena didn't dignify his question with a response. Instead, getting to her feet, letting the stool she was sitting on be blown away, she turned to him and smiled, wide and bright.

"You cunt!" he spat and pulled the trigger.

The others followed in his lead, a rain of bullets booming amidst the chaos.

Smile never leaving her face, Rowena put her hands up and commanded, "Finite!"

Stop.

And they did.

Over twenty bullets hung in the air as if held by invisible string. Frozen in place.

Rowena looked over the hunters, took in the shock on their faces, the fear painting their skin white as chalk. She let her hands fall to her sides, and with them the bullets tumbled to the ground.

They couldn't do anything to her now. Couldn't hurt her. Couldn't hurt you. She was the one with all the power now. And it terrified them to the bone, the same way their torment terrified her earlier.

Karma was a bitch.

She made eye contact with each and every one of them, threat clear in her eyes. Payback, it said. This was payback. It would hurt. Charles, it would hurt! Like nothing they'd ever felt before.

And it was all their fault.

They'd made their own beds. Now they had to lie in them.

"Morite," Rowena told them — commanded them with authority clear in her tone, accent thick in the word.

Die.

For a moment they just stared at her, frightened of what was to come.

Then they started screaming.

They screamed and screamed and screamed as if they were being torn apart from the inside. As if their organs were cooking and liquefying and burning within them. Blood rushed out of their eyes, then their noses and ears, and no doubt other orifices. Their hands slammed to their heads, some of them hugging themselves, some falling to their knees and clutching their stomachs as they cried like children.

Now they knew what it was like.

Now they knew what it was like to be scared, to be in pain and helpless to do anything to stop it.

Now they felt what she had felt. What you had felt.

Their screams were one with the wind. A cacophony of wails and whines and whimpers. Of gasps and sobs. Of pleas Rowena ignored just as they'd ignored hers.

It went on for minutes, but felt like hours. No doubt, for them, the agony must have felt like years. By the time they'd gone quiet, they were on the ground, sprawled about, curled up like fetuses. Blood pooled around them; their blood, staining their clothes, clinging to their skin, turning to jelly as minutes passed by.

They were dead. Gone. In Hell. Rowena let out a breath she'd been holding, one of relief. As she did so, the wind quieted down, and the clouds drifted apart, taking away the storm that boomed outside. Her head slumped forwards. Arms hung loose at her sides. She was weak, spent. Her heart slammed against her chest as if she'd run a marathon, almost to the point of pain.

"Rowena?" you said in a small voice, breaking the silence that had settled over.

She willed herself to look up, to meet your eyes.

"Are you okay?"

A small smile grazed her mouth. After everything, she was your first concern. Always had been.

"Aye," she said. She didn't sound it. "You?"

"I-I'm not feeling so well," you admitted.

Worried, Rowena rushed over to you, her arms instantly around you. You leaned your head on her shoulder. Closed your eyes. Released a puppy-like whimper, muffled by her shirt.

"It's alright," she said. "Everything will be alright."

Looking downwards, a lump bloomed in her throat. Your pants were still down, panties wrinkled, pulled to the side, halfway exposing you. She remedied it right away, reaching down to pull your pants right up.

You stiffened, petrified..

"It's alright," she repeated, heart shattering. Nothing was alright. Nothing would ever be alright again. Securing your pants around your waist, she said, "There we go. It's okay."

"I feel sick," you said.

Rowena pulled back and looked you over. "Would you like to sit down, love?"

You nodded.

However, as soon as she stepped away to fetch a chair, your hand fell on her forearm and squeezed.

"Rowena, I—"

Your knees gave way, and you tumbled downwards.

Rowena reacted fast, jumping forwards, arms out to catch you. Grabbing hold of you, she slid down to her knees and lowered your head atop her thighs.

"Poor dear," she whispered, caressing your hair, pushing hair off your sweaty forehead. "I'm sorry for letting you down."

If she'd fought harder, reacted faster, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't have suffered.

You'd protected her so many times, yet one time you needed her, she couldn't deliver. Couldn't return the favor.

I'm sorry, she thought. I am so sorry.

From now on, things would be different. She would be better; a better girlfriend, a better protector. She would never let you down again. As soon you got home—

A pang of panic shot through her.

How would she get you home? How would she take care of so many bodies?

She'd made bodies disappear before without issue, but never this many.

Sam.

That was right. Sam could help her. He and Dean could cover this up, make Illuminae disappear off the face of the earth.

The only question was, would they want to?

Rowena had helped them many times, but she knew well they weren't big on returning favours. Sam, maybe, but Dean… The man was waiting for her to make a mistake so he could put a bullet in her head. He never trusted her. Not even when he said he was willing to give her a chance to redeem herself. A part of him might have believed it to be true, but there was another, more doubtful part that would end her at the smallest slight.

Would he blame her for what happened?

Would he think she'd killed all these people, all these innocents?

Would Sam think so?

It didn't matter, she decided. They could blame her all they wanted, as long as they helped her get you home. She was a big girl; she could deal with Dean Winchester. She could deal with them both.

Reaching into her pocket with a shaky hand, Rowena grabbed her phone and started looking for Sam's number.

And then she pressed call.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @dropsofpetrichor @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @gaysnakess @angel7376 @rowenaisfabulous @ruthieconnells @evil-regal-vampiress @collectorofsecretsandsouls @angel-e-v-a @melisandre02 @a-queen-and-her-throne

[pizzahorse]

Replica

Title: Replica

Description: Who is the shadow and who is the caster?

[Read on AO3]

Lena stared at the face in the mirror. It was one she'd only actually seen a couple times before, during the eclipse, although her image was the last thing she'd seen before being banished to the shadow realm (twice), so it was deeply ingrained into her psyche. Magica De Spell.

Except it wasn't quite Magica. The curvature of the face and beak matched almost to a T, but white plumage revealed itself where green would normally be settled. There was a faint trace of purple eyeshadow from the day before (Lena had a habit of not wiping off her makeup before bed). The hair was different, too, although it had recently begun to take on a similar style to that of the witch. Her bangs were more or less the same, swooped to the side and colored, but still… There was a stripe down the edge of it where she'd grown it out, blue where Magica's was purple, but if she turned to the side at just the right angle, the resemblance was almost uncanny. The hair had been a subconscious decision on Lena's part, merely wanting to try something new, but one that led her to take a good hard look at herself when she finally noticed.

Half-awake, the face in the bathroom mirror startled her. So familiar, yet so foreign. She blinked, trying to find her way back to reality, but found nothing changed. She knew it was her own image, because she saw that same image just about every day. And yet, this morning, it felt like there was a little bit of her aunt staring back, too. The longer she stared, the more unsettled she became, until she finally pulled back her fist and slammed it into the glass.

It was hard enough to shatter it into hundreds of pieces and rattle it so much the medicine cabinet to bounced open, resulting in several bottles clattering into the sink or onto the floor. It was a wonder the thing stayed attached to the wall. Lena drew her hand away and without its support a few fragments broke off and fell into the sink with a clink.

For a moment, she stood, hands braced against the sink as her form quivered. Her chest felt like someone was squeezing it, like there was so much pressure she could barely breathe. The world felt far away, and only the coolness of the porcelain beneath her fingertips kept her grounded. She didn't bother examining her hand after her outburst. It stung, a little, and small red droplets were beginning to show on the surface, but they went unnoticed.

Lena finally backed away from the mess she'd made, not stopping until she felt the wall behind her, sliding against it down to the floor. She curled her knees up to her chest, burying her face in the space between and wrapping her arms around them. She choked out a sob, trying to muffle her whimpers in the hopes she wouldn't be discovered.

Of course, in a house with two ex-spies and an extra curious ex-spy's granddaughter, very little went unnoticed in this household. Webby had heard all the commotion from down the hall, and it was mere moments before a light knock came at the door.

"Lena? Are you okay? I heard a lot of noise."

If Lena answered now she'd definitely hear the thickness in her voice, and if she tried to get rid of it before speaking Webby would definitely hear the sniffle. Her keen senses were invaluable on adventures, but when it came to trying to hide things in the manor, they made it nearly impossible. Maybe if she was quiet, Webby would go away.

"Is this a prank? You know your traps hardly ever work on me."

Lena should have known better than to think she could get rid of her that easily.

"Lena?" she knocked again, louder this time. "I'm coming in. O-Okay? I just want to make sure you're alright."

If she'd thought about it, Lena could have gotten up and locked the door. Not that that would have stopped Webby. At most it would result in a minor delay in her entering, although it would really only take her a few seconds to completely rip the doorknob off. So perhaps it was for the best that she hadn't thought of it.

Webby entered slowly, the old door squeaking on its hinges and announcing she had made good on her statement. She was indeed entering the room in which Lena sat, curled into herself, and upon seeing her friend in such a state Webby closed the door behind her and rushed over.

"What happened?"

There was no way to hide the fact she was crying, but Lena looked up anyway, swiping a hand across her eyes. Unfortunately she'd momentarily forgotten about the cuts on her knuckles and ended up smudging some blood on her face. She realized her mistake when she looked down at her hand, then back up at Webby who was more than a little concerned.

"It's not a big deal," Lena spoke softly, trying to keep her voice level.

"You cut yourself! Let me see," Webby gently grasped the hand and examined it, turning it over so she could see both sides. It looked worse that it was, now that the red liquid had been smeared around. When she looked up, Lena had buried her face into her free arm, but her unabashed sniffling could clearly be heard.

"I don't think it's bad, but it definitely needs to be bandaged. "Let me-" Webby stood quickly, observing the cracked mirror on her ascent now that she was facing it, piecing together the clues around the room and speculating what may have occurred when she was absent. There would be time later to find out the actual story from Lena, but right now she had to focus on gathering a towel, an antiseptic, and something to wrap up the hand.

She wet one edge of the towel with warm water, crouching down onto her knees with all the supplies so she could get to work. The cuts were small and the bleeding had mostly stopped, but it would definitely bruise and be sore for awhile. Nothing to be too worried about. It had looked a lot worse than she let on when she'd first seen it, although Webby had initially lied about it not being bad, Lena's hand was in much better condition than she'd thought.

"This might sting," Webby warned as she poured some of the disinfectant on a dry part of the towel, before applying it to the still open wounds. She thought she saw Lena shrug an acknowledgement, but she wasn't sure. In any case, her friend had grown quiet while Webby went about her task, her breathing leveling out and her sniffling growing infrequent.

She was worried there might be some glass in the wound, but a thorough inspection indicated it was a fairly clean injury to begin with. That was good. Webby may not have been a doctor, but her grandma had taught her enough about first aid that even a doctor would be impressed with her training and knowledge.

"We should get that blood off your face, too," she stated, once she had finished wrapping the hand up with gauze and tape.

Lena glanced down at her knuckles, noticing Webby had finished her work, and curled it back over her other arm. She stared, expectant, until the other duck took the initiative and used a clean part of the wet cloth to wipe the red from her cheek. She also took the opportunity to dab at Lena's eyes, clearing away some of the salty dampness that had soaked into her feathers, along with dark traces of leftover eyeliner that had gotten horribly smudged amidst everything.

Blood in her feathers, runny makeup, hair all askew, Webby had to admit this was probably the most vulnerable she'd ever seen Lena. She had caught glimpses of this Lena when she sometimes woke up from nightmares, crying and shivering in her bed, but the light was always dim and the focus was on consoling her friend and helping her get comfortable again. Lena was always so confident and sure of herself, and it broke Webby's heart to see her pained like this.

When she was satisfied, Webby disposed of the towel into the hamper, and put everything back in its place before washing her hands. This included everything that had been knocked from the cabinet above the sink, and it gave her an opportunity to better examine just how damaged the bathroom mirror was. It would definitely need to be replaced, but what exactly had driven Lena to smash her fist directly into it? The cuts being on her fist indicated that it wasn't an accident, as if she'd slipped and tried to catch herself (badly). No, all the evidence indicated her actions had been deliberate.

Webby settled herself next to her friend, barely touching, but close enough they could feel each other's presence. They sat quietly for awhile, burning questions on the edge of Webby's beak, but she knew better than to try to pressure Lena into talking. She'd open up when she was ready. Patience was the best way to get her to explain.

Eventually, Lena leaned her head on Webby's shoulder, at the same time reaching out her hand to grasp the others, entwining their fingers as she peered down at the bandage.

"I don't want to grow up. I'm… afraid."

Webby waited for there to be more, but when Lena didn't elaborate she decided to take a gamble and offer a response. "I think everyone is a little afraid of growing up. You don't have to change just because you get older."

"But I am changing. Every day I feel like I'm morphing into her. I'm so terrified that one day I'll wake up and I AM her. I look so much like her, as if I'm some kind of a clone. I came from her shadow so I'm not exactly my own person. She might still have some kind of hold on me I don't know about. She could come back and control me again."

It was so rare for Lena to admit she was afraid of something, even it it was evident to those around her. So hearing her admit to being scared must have meant this was a fear far different from the norm.

"She won't. I won't let her get to you. I love you too much to let her do anything to you ever again."

"I look in the mirror and I just see- I just see-"

Well that more or less explained what had occurred. Webby turned to her friend, using her free hand to cup her face. "When I look at you, I see Lena. You are Lena. You always will be. That doesn't have anything to do with what you look like on the outside. It's the person I know who's on the inside that counts. If I went blind and I couldn't see you, I'd still know who you are. What you might look like on the outside does not define who you are on the inside. You chose to fight Magica at the bin, you chose to try to rise up against her before the eclipse. Even without a body, Lena still existed. You still existed. I know who you are. You're not Magica. You're my best friend. I've known who you really are since the day I met you. I never stopped believing in you. You ARE a real person. You'll always be real to me."

Lena swallowed back the lump in her throat, mirroring Webby's gesture and cupping her face as well. "How do you always know the right thing to say?" she grinned fondly down at her.

"I just speak from my heart. And you- you're in my heart. That makes it easier," the slightest bit of color appeared on her cheeks as Webby made her confession.

The other duck hmmm-ed lightly in response, leaning down so their foreheads were touching. She was still scared, a bit, but this felt so warm and safe she could almost forget her trouble. Lena always tried to be brave, and fearless, like she didn't have a care in the world. Maybe her desire to appear tough was a remnant from her time with Magica, and the need to keep any sort of emotional vulnerability hidden. That was all over now, and the truth was it was extremely comforting to have Webby pledging to protect her. For perhaps the first time, Lena felt secure. If Webby believed in her, believed she could be good and believed she could be better than her lineage, maybe it was true.

"I'm sorry about the mirror."

"Don't worry about that. It can be replaced. You can't be replaced."

Lena pulled away, sighing as she gazed affectionately into Webby's eyes. "I don't deserve you."

"Of course you do! You deserve everything. The world! You went through so much and you still came out of it all being the sweetest, kindest person I've ever met."

"Then you've got to get out more."

"Stop it! I'm serious. You are amazing and beautiful and nothing can stop me from being your friend. Not threats, not curses, not disasters, not even Magica. I'd like to see her try to get to you now!"

"Thank you for giving me a chance. I literally wouldn't exist without you. I'd be stuck as a part of Magica's shadow. Some days, it feels like I still am. But seeing your face every day, it helps me stay grounded. I can never forget it was you who brought me back, and it's you that constantly reminds me I don't live under Magica's rule anymore. I get to be free. There's no way I can repay that, but, if you ever think of anything comparable, I'll do it."

"Lena, you silly darling. Your friendship has paid me back enough. I've never met anyone like you, and I never will. There's only one you, and it'd be impossible to find a replacement that's just as amazing as you are."

Before things got too sappy, Lena came up with an excuse to change the topic. "This is kind of starting to hurt. I didn't think this through."

"Let me see," Webby lifted the hand to her beak, placing a gentle kiss on each knuckle. "You have to tell me if you need help with anything while it heals. I'll be right there to assist you."

"I think I can handle it."

But she had to admit to herself it felt nice to have someone around to care for her. Someone to pick her up if she got hurt, someone looking out for her. After so long of having to be guarded and having to face the world on her own, she could finally afford to let herself bask in the compassion allowed to her.

They lingered in each others company, quiet and still, until the smell of the housekeeper cooking breakfast drew them out. Despite the rough start to the morning, both were now in good spirits. Life was full of obstacles and adversity and bad memories, but maybe, if they had each other, they just might get through it all together.

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[tippitv]

Supernatural Recap: 14:01 “Stranger in a Strange Land”

The road so far... is thirteen years long. Thirteen years. If this show were a person, they would be dealing with acne and/or getting their period. We're on the fourth American presidential term since this show started. My dog Henry looked like this

And now he looks like this:

But back to the show's rock-n-roll montage to catch us up for this season. 

There was a nephilim boy named Jack, an alternate dimension accessible by an episiotomy in spacetime where bad angels ruled and dead characters were still alive, and a weird fight between Dean Winchester (with archangel Michael stuffed up in him like a heavenly turducken) and Lucifer that ended up looking like the video for Total Eclipse of the Heart.

At the end of it, Michael absconded with Dean's hot bod and made him wear a silly cap and break the fourth wall.

As the episode starts, Sam's full beard lets us know that some time has passed since the finale. He's driving through slick streets because it's always raining in the lush coastal rain forest of Kansas. .

But then we cut to some other bearded guy, asleep in a room somewhere that looks like a room they've used on this show a lot, but this time with a weirdly loud background soundtrack of ocean waves and seagulls. The guy gets up, puts his prayer mat down on the floor, and begins praying in what the CC tells me is Arabic.

He looks up to see Michael (in Dean) sitting there in his little cap. "Hello, Jamil," Michael says. Jamil looks surprised, as one should.

Michael quotes from what Google tells me is verse 2:98 of the Holy Quran in order to introduce himself: "Whoever is an enemy to Allah and His angels and His messengers Gabriel and Michael..." He still makes Jamil go through a guessing game. God? No. Gabriel? No. One of these guys in Newsies?

Also no. He says he's there to ask Jamil the same question he's spent weeks asking people all over the world. "Do you want your newspaper on your porch or in your mailbox?"

"What do you want exactly?" Michael asks him. Jamil says he wants peace and love. Michael says "you never would have ran" from Syria if that were true. Okay first of all, that's "would have run," Mister Archangel. Second of all... wait, where did the seagulls go? It's quiet now. As if they left to bother someone else.

Michael flings him around a bit with his angel powers. Like is that even fun? Super powerful beings always act like it is but it's just a normal part of his abilities like my being able to scratch my elbow or blow my nose is normal for me. Anyway, Michael says he wants a better world. Cut to the season's new title card!

Meanwhile, the bunker has been embraced by the resistance fighters from the alternate dimension. Is anybody feeling guilty about the fight they left behind? Are they assuming the fight over there is done because Michael is here now? Mary checks the aim of a new gun by pointing it at or very near these people's danged heads.

The girl already died once so maybe she's unflappable and the guy's too busy getting a monster tooth removed from a wound to notice. He says it happened in Phoenix... which Google tells me is at least a 16-hour drive away if you have a normal car.

Sam joins the bunker, letting us know that he's been in Atlanta checking up on a possible Michael-Dean sighting that turned out to be someone's drug-induced hallucination. It's the good thing the Impala travels a thousand mph or that would've been a lot of wasted time. He and Mary exposit about how it's been three weeks since the end of last season. That's only three weeks of beard growth? Does that seem like a lot just because I don't grow beards?

Sam has just enough time to yawn and be sad before some guy who looks like if maybe Jonathan Van Ness got halfway through getting ready to go chop fire wood tells him there are some "gypsy type" vampires heading east. Boo, Fake Jonathan. Even though he's exhausted, Sam starts delegating teams to go take care of the problem and sits down to hack into a traffic cam.

Then he remembers a cliffhanger from last season. "Hey how's Jack?"

Cut to Jack getting his ass handed to him by Bobby in a fight training session. Aw look at his cute lil sweats. Wait... what are those windows in the gym? They look look like they're streaked with rain. Isn't the whole bunker underground?

Also omg someone give that boy a face guard while he's sparring! He can't heal his cute little mug anymore!

Meanwhile in Detroit, Castiel is following up a lead at a BBQ joint called Motown Meats. And like I know "Motown" is also a nickname for the city and not just the name of a record label, but the country music playing in this joint is still annoying to me. Anyway some pink-cheeked fella who thinks burgundy brown shoes go with cornflower blue suits strides into the place all, "Castiel! Darling!" 

This fella, with his imperious little strut and vaguely Southern demeanor, simply demands I refer to him as Young Lindsey Graham. He orders sausage, brisket and "pork ribs, well done." What the fuck, Linds? All pork ribs are well done! If someone gives you underdone pork anything, you get right off your ass and call the health department!

"I didn't think you consorted with my kind," Linds says, revealing himself to be a demon and also someone who doesn't know his basic show history.

Castiel is loath to admit that he needs information. "Does any demon know where Dean Winchester is?" Young Lindsey is delighted and scandalized at the thought of Cas losing any Winchester, much less Dean. "I thought you two were joined at the... everything." He gets about as close to pointing/looking at Cas's dick as Mary got to pointing that gun at those people's heads.

Yes, I'm terrible at making gifs. Anyway, Linds goes, "What's in it for moi?" And Cas tells him, "Your life." So Linds is like, "Come again?" Honey, he ain't even come the first time yet, don't get ahead of yourself.

Castiel uses his graveliest voice on Young Lindsey, but to no avail. It turns out the whole place is full of demons. Wouldn't Cas have picked up on that? Is he that powerless? They all crowd around him and knock him to the floor.

A sign outside a church in Duluth welcomes "Sister Jo" and advertises its morning prayers at 8 in the morning. Does that seem ridiculously early to me just because I'm a heathen? Also it's clearly nighttime in this scene. Some parishioners thank Jo for saving their lives. It seems like she should be trying to fly under the radar, so to speak.

Oh now she's walking through a dark alley, counting her money. I'll give her a pass because she has angel powers, but people on this show are always being unwise in alleys. Michael approaches her. "You don't recognize me with this pretty face?" he asks. It's the hat! It! Is! The! Hat! He reveals his big seagull-lookin' wings.

Jo is naturally suspicious of Michael. "Why would Dean say yes to you when he turned you down like seven seasons ago?" she asks. "We needed a cliffhanger for the finale and he'd already been a demon," he says. I mean, that's not what they say but I'm sure they were thinking it.

He asks her what she wants, and she tries to be glib about it but he's not buying it. He says she wants love and a family and barfy stuff like that. He keeps asking people what they want and then just ends up telling them.

Back at the bunker, Sam has a chat with Jack.

"I know this must be so hard," Sam says, "without your grace, without your powers...It's a lot, I'm sure." I mean, Sam wasn't a nephilim but he used to be super juiced up on demon blood with telekinetic powers. If there were ever a time for Sam to bust out with "hey I went through a sort of similar thing," it'd be now. Mary interrupts this tender moment to say someone's awake. Way to talk-block, Mary.

Sam reluctantly leaves Jack to go see whoever this other person is. He opens the door as the soundtrack builds up tension. The camera finally swoops in and reveals...

NO.

NO! I REFUSE. I!!! REFUSE!!!! THERE IS NO WAY NICK'S CARCASS SHOULD STILL BE ALIVE. NONE. BEGONE YOU FOUL THING, BEGONE!!!

You know what this means, right? Either that whiny little baby Lucifer will come back somehow and need to possess him again, or when they inevitably get Dean back, Michael will use this empty toothpaste tube of a human as his vessel. OH FUCK HE'S TAKING HIS SHIRT OFF

Okay why does Sam need to be the one to clean his mostly healed wound? It's not like Nick's hands are broken. Nick has a big dramatic reaction. Calm the hell down, it's peroxide not alcohol. Then he just puts the same dirty old bandage back on. What. The. Fuck.

Sam is being very sympathetic, if rattled because this guy's got the same face as the fucker that tortured him for a hundred years. Nick doesn't remember much about what happened, but says Michael told Lucifer "he wanted to do things right this time." Sam goes outside to collect himself when his phone buzzes.

"Oh, hey, Cas," he answers. Young Lindsey Graham corrects him: "I'm the boy who's got your angel." Okay, when I said he was young, I meant compared to current day Lindsey Graham. He's clearly not a boy. He's also clearly not a very worthy foe.

The music goes "eeeeeEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!" to build up tension, but fourth-tier demons are like basically gnats compared to the other baddies the Bunker Bunch have fought. It's kinda silly that Cas even got captured by these twerps.

But everyone is taking it very seriously and packing up their weapons to head to Detroit. Maybe the Other Dimension people haven't fought demons before? I can't remember. Sam assigns teams. "Maggie, you're with Bobby. Mom, you're with me." 

Jack wants to come, too, but Bobby protests that he's not ready for a demon fight. And Maggie is? That poor child seems perpetually on the verge of jumping out of her own skin. But Sam's like, "He needs this, Bobby." 

Back in Detroit, a bloodied Cas sits magically cuffed to a chair. "You sure I can't get you anything hot... and black?" Young Lindsey asks him in a needlessly suggestive manner. I mean, he's talking about coffee, not Grindr. Wtf, my dude? Castiel's face right now is so relatable.

We launch into a good old-fashioned Sit-n-Chat! Linds blah blahs about coffee and using Cas as bait, then reveals, without naming names, that Michael recently approached him like he did the other guest characters in this episode. He was asked what he wanted. "I realized after 600 years as a demon walking the planet...I didn't know." But now he's realized he wants everything. Start with some shoes that look better with your suit.

Meanwhile, Sam and Mary are driving through the perpetual rain. Seriously, how do y'all in Kansacouver deal with this much rain?? I live in Houston and we get a lot of rain, but in like... big groupings and not just constantly. Anyway, seeing that Sam is fretting, Mary says, "It's gonna be fine." Sam isn't convinced. "You don't know that!"

Now, normally this 900-mile trip would take about an hour, but Sam and Bobby didn't carpool so the Impala had to slow way down. Lol when Sam walks through the door at the barbecue place it looks like he's wearing the doorbell as a tiny hat.

Sam gets frisked to make sure he's not packing heat, then Young Lindsey waxes impressed about his shoulders and hair. He makes a "mm MM!" sound like he's just been presented a bowl of delicious bread puddin' and hot caramel sauce.

Here we are nearly at the end of the episode and we finally find out Young Lindsey Graham's name is actually Kipling. "Kip, for short," he says, offering his hand for a shake. Sam leaves him hanging. Also: lol "Kip." Kip's goons drag Jack and Maggie inside. Sam's nostrils flare in consternation as one of the demons punches Jack.

God this guy talks a lot. To sum up: Kip wants to be king of Hell and he wants the Winchesters to treat him like they did Crowley. You know, keep him around past his expiry date and then still somehow manage to make his death too abrupt.

When Sam turns him down, Kip has a bit of a tantrum. "In life, I rode with Genghis Khan!" he rails, mispronouncing it. He pouts and stomps some more, but Sam stays chill because he knows Mary and Bobby are about to bust in with guns blazing.

Slo-mo fisticuffs ensue! Kip throws Sam across the room with his powers. He's a higher level demon who could kill every human with a swoosh of his hand, but then the show would be over. Also, didn't the Bunker Bunch all have devil's trap bullets and stuff? These demons are taking a long time to die.

Kip somehow gets hold of the demon knife during the melee and takes one second long to admire how cool it is. This gives Sam enough time to switch things around and stab him with it. Kip dies as he lived: admiring Sam's shoulders.

Sam calls an end to the fight. "There will be no new King of Hell!" All the remaining demons vacate their meat suits. Who's going to run the barbecue restaurant now? Also, Castiel has been sitting, still cuffed, to that chair this whole time.

Back at the bunker, everyone is beat to hell. Cas and Sam have a rueful talk about what they just went through. Cas is embarrassed he went to the demons, but Sam says he'd work with anyone if it meant finding Dean.

In the kitchen, Mary and Bobby do a little Chekhov's flirting.

Cas goes to find Jack and try to cheer him up. "You did well," he says. "All I did was get punched in the face," Jack says. Don't sell yourself short, kid. You also got punched in the stomach.

Jack feels frustrated and useless without his powers. Cas tells him they have each other and they're family. Aww. I feel like Cas could also say he relates here. "I used to burn the eyes out of demons and destroy buildings with my voice!"

Sam gets a call from Jo. "We have a problem," she says. Is she working for Michael? Maybe!

Cut to a grungy abandoned warehouse, where Michael is currently having a chat with a monster of some kind. Maybe it's one of the vampires mentioned earlier in the episode. "Your want is pure," Michael says. Monsters are soooo much easier to deal with than people or angels! "You just wanna eat," Michael says as the monster shows off some fangs.

Incidentally, "You just wanna eat" also describes me at a brunch buffet.

So that's the end of the season premier! The FOURTEENTH season premier. Holy hell right?

If you'd like me to recap the next episodes, let me know. Thanks for reading!

And now’s the self-promo time when I add my Ko-Fi link! (ko-fi.com/A4017DA)

These are some very desperate times for me, so if you have a few bucks to spare and you enjoyed this fic, I would very much appreciate any donation. I know it looks like I’ve received quite a few donations recently but those larger ones were me “donating” to myself with credit cards to pay bills that had to be paid from my bank.

I'm afraid of not making rent this month, thanks to several clients just refusing to pay me for my work.

Or my Paypal address is btippi@gmail.com and if you send it as a gift I think no fees are deducted from my end.

[polandspringz]

 “You shouldn’t go alone, remember last time?” I believe you have an oc named Eclipse?

I’m going to confess that I’ve been waiting forever to write this and it’s based of the Tangled song “Set Yourself Free” because my goal is to write every thing I can for Eclipse to that show’s music. By the way, this is a fic about my RWBY OC! Clover belongs to @cammie-maccloud and Euca is by @ellseisaskullswindler Thank you for letting me write such a self-indulgent piece for the OCs I made less than two months ago.

Eclipse was almost a step out the door when she felt the a hand curl around her arm, causing her to freeze where she stood. She turned around, expecting to see Euca’s amused face, ready to bonk Eclipse on the head for running out of the dorm without her purse or her scroll, and Eclipse was already preparing to laugh at herself and apologize like she always did. It was getting easier for her to accept her airheadedness as not something to be ashamed of, and with Euca she had been better about not letting little things like this lead to her self-loathing or bottling up feelings about how she was causing trouble for anyone. So, as she turned around with a smile and a light-hearted, simple apology ready to leave her lips-

-She felt as though someone had punched her in the lungs when she met Clover’s eyes, narrowed and green piercing through her. The hand around her wrist burned, hot and wrong, and the other girl seemed to sense this as she let go when Eclipse jerked back. All of the fluttery feelings Eclipse had prepared herself to exude were squashed when Clover touched her, Clover hated being touched, Clover hardly ever acknowledged Eclipse (not in a mean way, she just wasn’t the most personable leader). So, everything about this situation was wrong, and it set alarm bells screeching inside Eclipse’s head.

“Oh, Clover…!” She tried to sound cheery, rubbing the spot of her arm that still felt as though it was burning. But my semblance isn’t activated, she thought to herself, as her body seemed to heat up even more, flushing pink as more and more thoughts began to build up in her brain. She wants you gone, you’ve finally done it, she’s going to tell you- “What can I do for you?”

Clover gave the other a strange look, the distrust and wary expression always sending shivers down Eclipse’s spine at the fear that it was reserved for her and for something she had done wrong. They stood there for a minute, every ticking second heightening Eclipse’s anxiety as she waited for the stinging words to come. But, then Clover sighed and walked over and grabbed her scroll from the desk and marched past Eclipse and out the door, stopping once she was in the hallway to wait for the girl.

“Look, you shouldn’t go alone, okay? Remember last time?”

Eclipse blinked at her confused, but then realized what she was talking about, and it was as if her life had been simultaneously ripped out and put back inside her, as she jolted at just what Clover was implying.

She doesn’t want to go, see? You’re just being a burden, causing problems. You can’t even walk around the school without bothering everyone to look after you. Maybe it would be better if you-

Wow, Eclipse really thought that she had gotten over these things. Apparently not, she stuffed everything down as she forced a smile.

“It’s okay, Clover, I wouldn’t want to bother you-”

“Just come on, already. I don’t have all day. Besides, I don’t want the other two or the teachers bugging me when you go missing again.”

Clover marched down the hall, and Eclipse gripped the strap on her purse tighter as she bit her lip, trying to calm down the raging, raw emotions that had been torn back up inside of her.

She had woken up inside a cage, and the sad part was, it wasn’t a foreign thing to her. Ever since her semblance had been discovered, her life had been sleeping inside the iron barred wagons as they went from show to show. Sometimes, when it was a really dark night, they threw her inside the walled in wagon, the windowless prison cell because they didn’t want her “light” keeping them up at night.

She slowly pieced together what had happened. Even with her head still ringing, she could figure out that this was all her fault. She thought she had escaped the circus when she got away that one night and was rescued by Bram, she thought that she was actually free when he enrolled her Sanctum and she was, Grimm, she was a fool to even believe that, finally free when she made it to Beacon.

But then, they had rolled into town. It had been years, but she should’ve known their routes, she should’ve known that there was nowhere they didn’t perform. Sitting up in the wagon, she started pulling her hair out in frustration at her naivety. She should’ve never gone to the show, she could have dealt with Euca’s disappointed looks, she could have suffered through a few weeks of Clover calling her names for being a letdown, anything would have been better than this. Being locked up, knowing that she had walked right back into this trap. She had been to tent, she had been in the audience. They must have seen her face, they must have followed her home. They must have taken her. Her contract wasn’t up yet, after all.

“You have a lot of Lien to make up,” a voice chuckled, the shadowy figure waltzing up. She didn’t even need to see the spinning cane to know, “How was your adventure? Learn any new tricks?”

“Ringmaster.”

A part of her wanted to spit at him, but she was too weak hearted, and as he pressed a hand to the cage and looked inside at her, she found herself quivering in the corner. The chains on her wrists and ankles rattling as she drew her body up into a ball.

“I’m sure you’ve improved your act plenty. Now, it would be foolish of us to take you out during this show when so many people… know of you, so you won’t start performing again until we are well out of Vale. Don’t worry though, in the meantime, you’ll get plenty of practice and work beaten back into you. You’ll remember the old routine in no time.”

Before she could even cry out, he lifted something up and sprayed it through the bars.

The next time she woke up, it was night again, but not the same night. They hadn’t put her in the dark cell yet, but that might just be because she wasn’t prone to start glowing randomly anymore, and they figured she was scared enough not to try anything. It was true, she feared the wrath of the others if they saw her trying to get out. Too vividly she remembered being forced to witness what the others would do to the Faunus who tried to escape…

She was in the back of the fairgrounds, hidden behind many tents, structures, and glowing lights from the week long festivities. She wondered how long she would be left back here, she was getting hungry.

She tried to fall asleep, but the Ringmaster came by again, mocking her as he asked about where she had been all this time.

“You couldn’t have gotten to Beacon all on your own. Who sheltered you all this time? Maybe you slept your way up here? You always had… “ He eyed her over, and Eclipse found herself wishing she was in solitary confinement. She could handle his voice, but she could never handle his eyes.

“Please, stop,” Eclipse whispered, tucking herself further back and shutting her eyes tight as tears began to roll down her cheeks, her body beginning to shake with ugly sobs.

“Just tell me, Moonie. If you do, maybe we can bring him here to join you in the little act.”

Eclipse didn’t respond, but that didn’t deter him. He seemed to be even more pleased at the sight of her whimpering in the corner.

“Or… was it a girl who saved you? We saw you with your team last night, you seemed awfully close to one of them. The red head? Does she got something good we can use?”

Eclipse thought of Euca, her voice, how happy she always looked singing or dancing, and her stomach twisted into sick knots as that thought transformed into singing becoming something she would hate, being whipped after shows when her voice had been used raw from nonstop nights. Eclipse’s skin used to burn when she was forced to activate it night after night, still learning how to use it, and they would beat and bruise it, making it extra sensitive, but it didn’t matter because the moonlight she exuded always covered it up.

“Please, don’t…” was all she could manage, pressing her hands into her eyes as she tried to stop herself from imagining bright Euca turned miserable and even suicidal from her time here. Eclipse had gotten lucky, she had managed to get out before and then the universe had decided to give her a sliver of luck in the form of Bram, but she doubted she would be so lucky again, and if they ever saw her acting suspiciously around Argus, they would stop their shows there. He would catch on quick, he always did, and then Bram would be left wondering where she went, forever in the dark-

“It’s been a whole day already, and I’ve been in town. Neither one of those girls have been looking for you. They must be really thankful you’re gone, huh?”

Eclipse lifted her head out of her hands, breath shuddering.

“What are you….”

“You never were good at anything. Always skinny and weak, acrobatics can’t get you far in a school where you need to fight, and you’ve always been so scared. It must be a relief that they can get a new teammate.”

“You know nothing,” Eclipse cried out, “You don’t know anything about me!”

“But, Moonie, I do. I’ve known you since your semblance first appeared, since you started having an identity, since you started thinking for yourself. And I know, they don’t care about you. I don’t even have to talk to them to tell. I saw you at the circus, saw how that green-eyed one rolled her eyes whenever you talked, how the red head looked at you sympathetically. They all pity you but find you annoying, and they’ll be glad to have the burden lifted off them.”

Eclipse didn’t say anything to him. She wrapped her arms around herself tighter and tucked her head into her knees. Eventually, she heard him sigh and walk away.

“Just give it up Moonie, you’ll be better off where I can see you.”

“My name is Eclipse,” she panted, tugging her oily hair out of its disheveled, knotted style as she knelt and shook the bars of the wagon. It had been three nights since she had been taken. She remembered, because the moon was boring into her soul. How had they not found her? How had they not gone looking for her?

How had they not cared-

No, she shook that thought away, her nails clawing into her scalp as she forced it out. She was starving, they had given her water, but she had drank it sparingly. The cell was starting to reek- it always did when they were breaking in the caught fugitives again. A part of Eclipse’s mind, the sane part, was telling her they were trying to break her, trying to get her to feel like a caged animal so that when she got out she would be terrified of running off again, that when they gave her food she would beg for more, and she would slowly get indebted to them. They would play these mind games until she was near dead, and then they would finally open the doors and clothe her and bathe her and put her on stage within a few hours all nice and pretty. They would be asking her to shine and glimmer and dance and clap and smile as people oohed and aahed in amazement, even though if she was caught doing the same thing in town they would laugh and point and call her a freak. She hated this, she hated this stupid semblance, she hated-

“You were very strong to escape all on your own. But, you can get stronger.”

She let go of her hair, a rush of memories overwhelming her. The moon was rising in the sky, and in a few minutes, the grayish indigo on the horizon would drift overhead and then in a few hours, everything would turn black.

“You escaped, and you can keep escaping your entire life, but I can’t figure out how to free you from this unless learn how to do it yourself. I don’t know what you went through, but one day… You’ll find people, or maybe just someone, that you can confide everything in, and when you do that, you’ll know how to set yourself free.”

This was her fault, she knew that even as she laid down in the cell, pretending to have fainted as she listened for the guards to come on shift. If she had told the rest of her team the truth, had explained why she didn’t want to go to the circus, well, they probably still would have gone, but Eclipse would have had back-up, and they would’ve annihilated them. Even if Eclipse stayed at home, she knew everything would be taken care of, but perhaps it was better this way. She thought this as she heard grumbling, jingling, and then the tell tale sign of the the cage being opened as they got ready to drag the unconscious girl out. She cracked one eye open, and glanced at the sky.

Pitch black.

Perfect.

A hand curled around her ankle, and then she felt someone reach in over her, going around her waist to lift her out.

She gladly jumped up and socked him in the face.

“Clover, really, wait a minute,” Eclipse finally managed to say when she met the girl at the end of the hall. The team leader turned around with a raised eyebrow, obviously perturbed that she had been stopped again, “Look, if this is about not realizing I got kidnapped then-”

“Eclipse, I told you. Shut up and come on-”

“No!” She shouted, startling Clover and herself as her voice echoed off the walls in the empty hall. She swallowed and kept pushing forward though, “Listen, you don’t have to make it up to me or anything. It’s okay, I’m okay, really. You don’t have to feel bad about it.”

“That’s not it. I told you, it would be troublesome if you were to-”

“Then, I’ll take Prime! They’re a robot-”

“A stolen Atlas robot.”

“Yeah, but we reprogrammed them, remember? So, nobody will mess with me and if they did, he can stop them. Or I can!”

Clover ran over the girl with her eyes once more. It was true, Clover had not even noticed Eclipse had been missing. She was sure the other two had mentioned something, or tried to get her to come with them to do something, but hadn’t been listening too much. So, when she was trudging back to the school from some late night gambling after curfew, and saw this white light running through the courtyard like a shining beacon, she had been more than surprised, especially when she had been tackled by said light, which smelled revolting and filthy from three days rotting in a rusty circus wagon.

When she realized it was Eclipse, perhaps it wasn’t the most apt thing to say, “Woah, you were kidnapped?” when the girl started rambling and crying, but after they had talked as a team, and talked to the teachers and Mr. Ringmaster arrested and everything else squared away, Clover had to admit, she did feel a little bit shitty about the whole thing.

Still, Eclipse seemed insistent enough, so she sighed and relented.

“Remember, if you aren’t back by eight, they’ll chew me out again,” She said, continuing to walk towards the stairs leading down to the common area.

Eclipse smiled and gave her a loud “Got it!” before she dashed back towards their room, ready to turn on Prime and roll out.

Clover listened to her leave, shuffling her cards in her hands as she stared at the coffee table. Eclipse ran out into the street, her Atlesian companion following close behind.

It was winter, and the sky was getting darker earlier. As she made her way to the courtyard, Eclipse spread her arms wide and breathed in, and for the first time in a while, she let herself glow.

She hadn’t escaped everything. She still had thoughts, still distrusted, still felt indebted to some friends more than others, but as she ran to the train station to meet with Bram, she knew that at the very least, she was free.

[rosesisupposes]

“i’m with you to the end” for royality?? (eyes emoji)

The quote is just so close to Winter Soldier, so may I present: the Captain America Royality AU

Protective/Loyal Prompts

word count: 1,342pairing: Royalitywarnings: fighting, blood, brainwashing,reader tags: @residentanchor @royally-anxious@bewarethegrammarpolice  @jemthebookworm@arandompasserby  @sparkly-rainbow-salt @astral-eclipse​ @thelowlysatsuma @adorably-angsty @notveryglittery [it’s royality

read on ao3

The streets of 1930s Brooklyn weren’t kind to many - only the richest, most upper-crust were able to weather the Depression without their cheeks becoming a bit more gaunt and their belts tightening a notch or two. Desperation, or maybe resignation that times might never improve, drove many to a level of cruelty they would have never considered in more prosperous circumstances.

But not everyone felt that way.

“No need for trouble, miss. Just hand over the bag and we all go about our days, nice and easy.”

“Please, just let me go, my family needs this-”

“Yeah, join the club. Or the breadline, I don’t care which. Just hand it over before I need to do something I might regret.”

The knife in the man’s hand had seen better days before it was sharpened so thin, just as his coat had been high-quality once before overuse had worn it threadbare. The woman he threatened was in no better condition, with matching holes in her gloves and hose. She clutched the small grocery bag to her chest as she trembled, eyes huge with fear.

“My boy, he’s sick,” she said, voice choking up. “He’s so fragile, he can’t wait in the breadline, and they won’t let me take extra to him…”

“Cry me a river,” snapped her attacker. “You think you’re the only one with a sob story?”

“The lady asked you to step back,” a new voice rang out. “I suggest you listen to her.”

The man with the knife turned and started to laugh. A smaller man stood at the entrance to the alley, glaring fiercely as he held up his fists. He was skinny, but in the way that said he’d always been so, not just since food became more scarce. He was also almost a foot shorter than the man he was challenging.

“What’re you gonna do, pipsqueak?” he said with a snort. “Bite my ankles? Tickle my knees? Get out of here, before I make you.”

The smaller man said nothing, but edged closer, fists at the ready. The armed man rolled his eyes and turned fully, brandishing his knife. Sandy blonde hair fell into the short man’s eyes as he feinted a swing at the big man’s head, prompting a retaliatory swing of the knife in his general direction. But he’d anticipated it, and grabbed the arm as it whooshed past him. He managed to knock the knife away as the unencumbered arm landed a punch on his cheek.

He reeled back, bringing his fists up to guard his face again. He tried to hit back, but his swing was knocked away easily as the bigger man landed another blow with his dominant hand, knocking him to the ground. He scrambled back up, grabbing a trash can lid as a shield. Curling his lip in derision, the mugger pulled it out of his hands and used his lack of balance to hit him down again.

“Had enough yet?”

“I could do this all day,” the smaller man gasped, lip bleeding. He glanced behind him and saw with pleasure that the lady had made her escape. He swung and missed again.

“Hey, pick on someone your own size!” a new voice called out. The mugger spun, only to receive a punch to the face by a new man, one who outstripped him in height and build. Intimidated by his size, the mugger fled.

The small man braced his arms on his knees as he caught his breath. “Thanks,” he gasped. “But I had it under control.”

“Of course you did, kiddo. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you like getting punched. What was it this time?”

“He was mugging a woman for her food.”

The big man hugged the smaller man, enveloping him in his muscular arms. “I wish you’d stop putting yourself in harm’s way, but you’ve got a good heart, Ro.”

Roman leaned into the hug. “Thanks, Pat.”

“Now let’s get you home, and cleaned up.”

The two men walked back through dingy streets and narrow alleys before arriving at a brownstone. “You know,” Pat started.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Roman grumbled, searching for his apartment key.

“You could come upstairs, we could put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were little. It could be fun!”

“Thank you, Pat,” the short man said, looking up at his oldest friend. “But I can get by on my own.”

“I know you can, Ro. You’re the toughest guy I know. The thing is, you don’t have to. I’m with you to the end, kiddo.”

Roman swallowed back the threat of tears. “Thanks, Patton.”

The grating of metal and harsh thump of explosions rattled around them as the helicarrier slowly fell out of the sky. Scraping through office buildings, tilting from failed engines, heavy steel beams fell around the two men locked in combat.

The Winter Soldier refused to yield. His metal arm shown in the surrounding fires as he threw another punch, hitting Roman in the face once more. Roman’s mouth was bleeding, but he still had a grip on his vibranium shield. His huge frame, granted to him by a brilliant scientist’s serum, was tough, tough enough to withstand the violence of the highly trained assassin who was his opponent. Had he tried, the New Yorker now known as Captain America could have defeated the Russian asset, neutralizing him the way he’d taken down so many enemies before. But this was not just any enemy. This one, Roman knew better than any of his new, 21st century companions. He remembered him better than he remembered either of his parents.

The Winter Soldier was none other than Patton, the man he’d mourned ever since that terrible moment above the Danube, when he’d watched Pat fall into the icy river 500 feet below them. Since he’d tried and failed to save him. His last glimpse of his face had been a mask of terror as his grip slipped. The last words he’d heard were “Ro, I’m fa-” and then nothing but the ripping wind around them and the rumble of the train they’d been clinging to.

He had been changed, brainwashed, and morphed into a weapon. But from the minute his face mask had been ripped off, Roman knew him. It was his Patton. Far more than 50 years would have to pass for him to not recognize him in an instant. And there was no way Roman would willingly hurt him again.

He staggered back as Patton punched him in the face again, his face a grim mask of concentration. “You know me,” he said, refusing to retaliate.

“No I don’t,” his opponent spat out, kicking him in the stomach.

Double over in pain, Roman kept talking. “Pat, you’ve known me your whole life.” Another punch, this time caught on his shield. “Your name is Patton Buchanan Barnes, you’re from Brooklyn-”

“Shut UP!” the assassin yelled. He punched Roman right in the sternum, knocking him back into a fallen steel beam. His face contorted in confusion as he stared at the opponent who wouldn’t punch back.

Roman removed his helmet. “I’m not gonna fight you, Patton.” He let his shield fall in a clatter until it bounced out a whole in the floor and fell out of sight. “You’re my love.”

“You’re my mission,” the Winter Soldier growled, and tackled the larger man to the ground. Holding him down with his knees, he punched him in the face, over and over, metal fist against bone, again and again.

“Then finish it, Pat,” Roman gasped, spitting out blood. His faces was a tapestry of bruises and cuts as he stared at the scowling man above him. “‘Cause I’m with you to the end.”

The assassin paused, eyes wide. His arm was still poised to land the final blow, but he was just staring, breathing heavily. Emotions played over his face: confusion, sorrow, regret.

“…kiddo?” he breathed.

Roman smiled through his injuries, eyes lighting up as he spoke. “Welcome back, Pat. I missed you.”

[noahbordeaux]

expiation || self para

LOCATION: Main Concourse

TIME: 1:45AM

FEATURING: Anton Grimaldi, mentions of Mallory and Susannah 

             The original weapon had since been passed off to Mallory, leaving one goal obtained amiss the madness. While finding his sister had felt near hopeless at one point or another, they had connected with the firm promise that Noah would meet her at BITE with the additional weapon, under the guise that Emrys would help procure such magic spurred malfeasance. Now, Noah Bordeaux had a track record of going against that in which was promised, an inherently moral blunder that he could not quite escape from, even on a night in which he would do best with an extra set of supplied strength; hands still slightly marred from his altercation with Susannah. Noah was enervated to some extent, and while the Grimaldi’s were notorious for the power elicited from practiced fingertips, Noah had his eyes set on the weapon and he would always get that which he coveted.

                    It seemed Anton had found him first, sinister incantations spouting out from behind Noah, the vampire being near forced to the ground as black magic emanated from the Grimaldi. The co-leader of the Ouroboro’s was clever in his approach, concealing himself within the shadows for most of the evening; a predator ready to pounce when need be. The witch needed no audience for such triumph, any witnesses only a wrench in the entire plan as most had either crawled their way to safety or had the unfortunate will to pass out from their blood loss. All the same, the Grimaldi was more than ready to take such final steps, a wicked grin poised on venerable mien as he closed the distance to Noah; the Bordeaux near impossibly attempting to fight off such dark malediction that kept him stowed in place.

                     Anton could near glide up to Noah, the weapon haphazardly twirled around between calloused fingertips, as if it was hardly as powerful as intended to be; as if it wasn’t set to kill. Of course, he had heard about Susannah’s fate with Noah; her demise of this lifetime a surprise to Anton who was sure their approach would work. An eye for an eye  — two original’s meeting their own quietus having been the end game for the evening. No matter, Anton would have to do the best he could in such moment, a mild smirk eclipsing his former sense of triumph at the notice of marred flesh on the Bordeaux; his encounter with the phoenix clearly not as effortless as implied. “I’d offer your sister a chance to return the weapon but I know it is pointless to toss threats at your family. It’s a bit like rattling a hornet’s nest and we all know your family has done enough with that.” Anton had to figure Mallory had been the recipient for their creation, alerting any Ouroboro’s to stop any family member that passed their way. The edge of the blade was brought forth, resting precariously before Noah’s chin, Anton finding it difficult to abstain from relishing in such sight; the impression of an original’s death at his very own fingertips.

                    Noah could only offer a scowl in rejoinder, the visual of Anton near mimicking Susannah’s goading nature hard to ignore. If only they could go straight for the kill, it’d surely save them a lot of vexation in the end; the thought dancing across Noah’s viscera as he fought off a smirk of his own. The Ouroboro’s made it far too easy — a cabal of supernatural dissidents who let their ego and sense of moral superiority get in the way of their own planning. Of course, Noah was no hypocrite, his glib and calloused nature rearing it’s head far more than not, but at least he was a man of haste; going for a kill shot whenever suited. This, however, was not such time to go for said fantasized kill. If Anton wished to gloat and prance about in possibility of Noah’s death, then the man — much akin to Susannah — would awaken to know that his mission had failed. He would not get the ease of death despite how much Noah, too, would savor it. 

                    The incantations which held him could only wane as Anton prattled on, Noah knowing full well his own move would have to be calculated; Anton powerful enough to recover his magic’s pull with one nimble flick of the finger. It was why Noah’s shoulders near laxed in defeat, a subtle sense of a red herring; the movement enough for Anton to pause before continuing on. A false alarm that would quell any possibility of anything more, springing forward as hand plummeted into the witch’s chest hand gripped around still beating heart. The desire to wretch it from Anton’s chest pulled forth, savagery that was so entrenched within Noah’s veins taking precedence; as fear propelled Anton’s heartbeat to a meteoric pace. He wanted to laugh, and he did, chillingly so as brows raised in challenge to the Grimaldi witch, “One slip of a Latin syllable and you’re dead,” he muttered, cerulean hues flitting down towards the weapon that had tumbled from the witch’s fingertips. Noah knew it would be useless to kill Anton, only providing more ammunition for the Ouroboro’s and for Mallory’s own argumentative stance against her brother; though he surely couldn’t let the other walk away (not that they would), a near exhausted sign leaving Noah’s lips. He always adored a sense of dramatics within his antics, shaking his head in tandem at the preserved sense of terror in Anton’s eyes. 

                    Everybody encapsulated a sense of fear when faced with possible death; even those who were entranced by it on a daily basis; even those who bathed in the parabolic blood of their own victims. Noah had figured even a leader of the Ouroboro’s would clutch onto that very sense of fear, especially Anton, in light of leaving his poor daughter an orphan. And while Noah didn’t quite have a heart, he did enjoy the inevitable fulmination that would come when the Ouroboro’s realized they had completely failed. His hand relinquished the hold on Anton’s heart, grinning in near glee at the inevitable gasp that fell from the other, fangs unearthed as rapaciously met the other’s neck. He couldn’t kill, Anton, no; but he could do his best to deal with the problem, blood loss being a wretched thing. The ichor that spilled into Noah’s mouth near addictive in all it’s spell infused right, watching as the fight from Anton was near snuffed out, body falling limp as consciousness within the witch faded away. Perhaps, it was the impression of Anton’s daughter that kept the witch from sporting a bigger fight; all the same, Noah hardly gave a damn, tossing the unconscious witch to the wayside as he bent in tandem to pick up the second weapon. 

                    Blood stained the lower stretch of his countenance, standing near flummoxed as the weight of the weapon finally rained down on him. Magic seeped from every curve and prick of the blade, the devilry suppressed within it not something that could be tied down for long. It was what caused Noah to pause, truly looking down at the blade that sat heavily upon vitiated palms, heart near lurching in his chest in recollection of what Mallory had said not too long before. He had made a promise to survive for her. And while, perhaps, it had catapulted him back into the time where it had just been the two of them for the first five years of their lives, he couldn’t allow himself to keep such promise. For he wished to be dead and despite the thousand years behind them, Noah always got that in which he yearned for. Vampirism had morphed him into what he could not recognized, cognizance mutilated by years of carnal debauchery and blood lust. A shell of a boy whom he could hardly remember; a boy that his sister and the rest of them near willed to return every day. They all had something taken from them under such curse, pieces whittled away by savage inheritance and under the survival of hurting other, but Noah had made such curses his armor and he felt no remorse for such hell thus unleashed. 

                    There was a blink of a moment, the most minuscule impression in which Noah’s mind floated to Lory, awaiting through the night for his approach, knowing he would never quite make it. He had lived far too many lives, the carapace that was his gelid nature becoming an exhaustive second skin in which he felt forced to never be able to remove. And what good were such lives? The misery and quietus inflicted upon those who hardly deserved such wicked corruption; the toll taken on Noah’s own irreparable mind, hand coming up to position the weapon atop his heart. At least, for the sake of his family, they would only have to fight to keep one weapon safe — and at least, in the essence of amends, they would know if it could work. 

                    A strange sense of tranquility overcame Noah, uncharacteristically so as the weapon was thus thrust into his chest, a prodigious wall of power purging from the vampire as body soon turned to dust. 

[vagrantblvrd]

The Moon and Its Eclipse (1/1)

Summary: Gavin’s patrolling the forest when he hears the sound of rattling bones followed by a startled yell.

Notes: Prompt fill for @miss-ingno from who asked for Freewood Minecraft Kings AU.

AO3

Gavin’s patrolling the forest when he hears the sound of rattling bones followed by a startled yell.

His clothing allows him to blend into the forest around him, and he creeps forward to see a figure backed up against the base of a cliff. To Gavin’s surprise there are several wither skeletons ranged around him, keeping to the shadows cast by the towering trees.

It’s rare for them to cross over from the Nether, but not unheard of.

The ground where the wither skeletons have stepped hisses softly, corruption dripping from the blackened bones burning the fragile grass. Gavin can see spots on the man’s armor that have come into contact with the corruption, metal pitted scored, leather scorched.

He seems to have held his own so far. The bodies of zombie and scattered piles of bones from skeleton archers attest to that much, but the wither skeletons present an added difficulty with their corruption.

A single touch enough to afflict a living creature, doom them to a painful, lingering death.

The man is clearly tired. Breathing hard and a fine sheen of sweat on his brow, moving sluggishly when one of the wither skeletons feints towards him.

Gavin draws his bow and fires in the same motion. His arrow flies true as it lodges in the skull of a wither skeleton, snapping the tether of dark magic animating it. He takes a second arrow form his quiver and targets a second wither skeleton,and another after that, as the mob turns to face the new threat.

The man wastes no time, taking advantage of the distraction Gavin’s provided him as he engages the wither skeletons. Between the two of them they make short work of the wither skeletons in a matter of moments.

Gavin jumps down from his perch, and stops short when the man swings around to face him, sword at the ready.

Gavin holds his hands up, and can’t help the smirk when he sees the man’s crown.

One of the great and mighty kings, in his forest? Interesting.

“Your majesty,” he says. “You’re a long way from home.”

The king’s eyes narrow, chin lifting at his tone.

“And you are?”

Gavin lowers his hands when it becomes clear the king isn’t going to put his sword to use in attacking him just yet. (Poor form, he supposes, when Gavin’s just saved his life.)

“Just a simple archer,” Gavin says, because titles and royalty aren’t much use out here. Tend to cause more trouble than they’re worth.

He can see the king wrestling with his sense of decorum. All sorts of manners and etiquette that have been drilled into since birth, and his too-human nature as he regards Gavin.

As moments pass without the the king speaking, Gavin shrugs and turns to leave. His patrol is only half done, and he’d like to be home before dark falls and the mobs come out in force.

He’s at the edge of the clearing when the king finally speaks, sounding as though the word’s been torn from him.

“Wait!”

Gavin’s tempted to keep walking. Slip into the forest and leave the king behind to whatever task has brought him well bast his kingdom’s borders, but there’s something very close to desperation in his voice. (Sound of a man swallowing his pride and cursing the need for it.)

Looking back at him, the king seems very small in that moment.

Human.

Shoulders bowed by exhaustion and the burden of whatever weight he’s carried with him all this way.

“My horse was killed when the wither skeletons attacked, and I’ve lost my way,” he says, and there’s the annoyance Gavin expected, although it’s directed at himself rather than the scruffy archer before him. “I don’t suppose you could point me towards the nearest village?”

No towns or villages for miles, just a rough settlement half a day’s walk to the west.

The king might be able to barter for a new mount there, if he loses that haughtiness he wears like ill-fitting armor.

“For a fee,” Gavin says, and grins at the wary look it gets him as he walks back towards the king. “Something, simple, your majesty, for a simple archer.”

The king tips his head to the side.

“Somehow,” he says, “I doubt that.”

Gavin laughs, because this king is a clever one, it seems.

“Fair play,” Gavin says, and steps closer still. Smiling at the way the king refuses to give ground to him. “Then I’ll settle for the pleasure of knowing your name.”

Stories say there’s power in a name, that the fae would trick foolish humans into handing their names over and come to regret it all too soon.

Gavin doesn’t know that he believes in any of that, but it’s always interesting to see how people will react when asked for such a simple thing.

The king hesitates only briefly.

“Ryan,” he says, and no more, wry twist to his mouth as he waits to see how Gavin will react.

Gavin laughs as he sketches a little bow to this king, this Ryan.

“Well then, King Ryan, allow me to act as your guide this lovely day.”

Ryan huffs as he sheathes his sword.

“I’m honored,” he says, and though his voice is flat, devoid of humor when he speaks, Gavin can see the reluctant amusement in his eyes.

It’s a long way to the settlement from here, but Gavin has hope he’ll be able to satisfy his curiosity along the way. Discover what brings a king like Ryan this far from the safety of his kingdom.

[theindifferentdroid]

Hot Blood: Part 2 [Kylo Ren x reader]

Part 1

A/N: Well, I think I’ve found my new multi-part fic! The first part of this fic took off (I’m not sure why, but I’ll take it). I really enjoyed writing that prompt fill, and I thoroughly enjoyed writing this part as well. I have a vague idea of where this will go, and I believe it’ll be a wild ride. Enjoy! Any feedback is appreciated.

Word Count: 2,000+

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

"Hold on, Y/N! I’m coming with you," Ben called.

You turned to see him running up the hill, trying to catch up, his long, lanky legs moving him effortlessly up the steep incline. You didn’t wait up for him.

"Ben, I’m going to meditate. I don’t need company."

"Ah," he said, pausing to take a few deep breaths, having finally caught up with you. "See. That’s where you’re wrong."

You ignored him but caught a sideways glance at him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

"Alright," Ben said, his tone softening a little. Still moving forward, he extended his arm to rest it over your shoulder and pull you closer to him. "Maybe you don’t need company, but you could use some help."

You turned your head to look at Ben, desperately trying to ignore how close you were to him. The dimming sunlight played with his features, casting deep shadows across his face.

He stopped walking, and you slowed to a stop with him. He turned to face you completely, and his arm slid over your back, but he left his hand there, squeezing your shoulder gently. You suddenly wondered if it would ever get easier to look at him.

When he spoke again, his voice was timid. "I noticed you’ve been struggling a little. With the lessons. I mean, not that I’ve been watching you, or anything." He stopped short with a huff, running his other hand through his hair, catching the braid at the base of his neck and twirling it on his finger absentmindedly. "What I’m trying to say is... if you want help meditating, I can... I can help. If you want me to."

You felt your cheeks redden, but you tried to play it off. "Why do I feel like you'd be more of a distraction than a benefit, Ben Solo?"

To your disappointment, Ben pulled his hand off of your shoulder quickly, feigning offense. "Oh, I distract you, do I?" His confidence was surprisingly present again.

"You know what I mean! Don't get too full of yourself."

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

You huffed. "Stars, you are your father's son."

Ben eyed you dangerously, though you still saw a playful sparkle in his eye. So you decided to push a little further. "Han, Junior."

Ben took off quickly back down the hill. "Alright. That's enough."

You chuckled and called to him as he walked away. "Hey! About that lesson."

Ben stopped, his head snapping back to look up at you. His eyes were hopeful and endearing.

"This time tomorrow?"

The corners of his lips twitched slightly, and you could tell he was stifling a bigger smile. "Whatever you say, princess."

A guttural scream dragged you up from depths of your distraction.

You looked down. The tip of your light saber had just disappeared into the general’s shoulder. You didn’t move. It wouldn’t kill him, which was a fate far more generous than he deserved.

You shook your head, trying desperately to clear your mind. The memory you had was so clear. You couldn’t remember the last time you had recalled any of your days from the temple as vividly as you had just now. You looked at Kylo - Ben - and he was staring at you, that same hopeful look in his eyes as he had had in them so many years ago.

"What do you mean?" you asked slowly.

"I mean what I said; I’m coming with you."

On instinct alone, you removed your saber from Hux’s shoulder to guard yourself, the green light humming between you and Kylo.

"You’re not coming with me."

"You’re never going to get out of here by yourself," Kylo pleaded. "If we take my shuttle–if you let me come with you–we might have a chance."

You stared at him for a beat, considering. "How do I know you won’t just bring me back here?"

"You just have to trust me."

Kylo’s eyes were even more pleading now. He looked tired, drained. Was this what the First Order had done to him? He was merely a shell of the man, the boy, you had known. He looked like he needed a break. He needed rest. He needed to go home.

Suddenly, you felt a tugging on your leg. Your feet fell out from beneath you, and your back hit the cold metal ground hard. It rattled your bones and your head ached instantly. You leg was being pulled, one hand wrapped tightly around your ankle. You sat up just enough to see Hux using his one good arm to drag you towards him. His coat sleeve was displaced by your boot; a blade glinted viciously beneath his wrist.

The air sang with electricity. A sharp crack sounded as red, pulsing light bounced off the walls. Kylo’s saber was raised above his head momentarily before he brought it down with a throaty growl. You closed your eyes and shielded your face, and you could feel the energy prickling at your leg as his light saber passed by it. Something sizzled eerily above the din of the saber before being drowned out by a scream far worse than you’d ever heard.

When you opened your eyes, Hux was doubled over, a few feet away from where his hand lay next to your ankle.

"Ren!" Hux screamed, the name drawing out into an incomprehensible sound.

Kylo approached you, strutting right past the officer screaming his name. He reached out a hand to you. His saber was still activated and glowing in the other. "I’m not coming back. Let’s go."

You didn’t take his hand, instead pushing yourself up off the ground. You started at a quick pace down the hall and reactivated your saber. The whirring of the TIE fighters echoed down the hall, and you knew you were getting close to the hangar. A hand grasped your arm before you could go any further. You spun around ready to swing your light saber at a moments notice.

"It’s just me," Kylo said, meeting your eyes.

His hand felt like hot coal against your arm, even through his gloves and over your sleeve. His touch was stern and strong but you could feel the comfort flowing off of him in waves. It had been so long since you had contact with Ben, or even been in his presence; you’d forgotten what his energy felt like or how strong an attachment you had ever had to him.

You had to remind yourself that this wasn’t Ben; that, if given the chance on any other day, you would have gladly sunk your saber deep into the heart of Kylo Ren. You weren’t here to help him escape. If he happened to get out while helping you, then that was on him.

Kylo blinked to break your gaze, squeezing your arm before letting go. "I’ll go first. Follow me."

He stepped in front of you, his large frame eclipsing the bright lights in the hanger. He turned off his saber and holstered it. "Pick up your saber. You won’t need it."

You balked at him. "Why should I –"

"Do you want to attract attention to yourself?" he asked, turning slightly to face you.

You complied, mumbling curses under your breath. You swore you could see a smile creep on his face before he strode out into the bay.

There was a spattering of troopers throughout the vast chasm that was the hangar, none of which seemed to care about the two of you. Kylo avoided the designated lanes, cutting a shortcut through the lines of fighters, ducking under ladders and fuel lines. He moved swiftly, his heavy cloak swaying behind him.

He finally slowed once you reached the opposite end of the hangar and approached a fighter. It was different than the rest: the ends were long, pointed and sleek as opposed to the flat wings of the other TIEs. It was menacing. You probably could have assumed it belonged to Kylo.

He gestured for you to ascend the ladder, and you began to climb, until you reached the top. Peering into the cockpit, you scoffed and looked down to Kylo who was right behind you on the ladder.

"This is barely big enough for you. How are we both going to fit?"

"Just get in."

You began to look around the hangar for your ship, pointing it out to Kylo. "There. There’s my shuttle. Why can’t we take that?"

"Y/N, now is not the time. As soon as someone finds Hux’s sorry self in the hall, we’re going to be wanted men."

You stopped, one foot in the fighter. "‘We?’ Oh no, you’re not dragging me into this. I’m not – ”

A blaster bolt cut through the air, scorching the metal of the vehicle just above your head. "Kriff –"

"Go," Kylo yelled. "Now!"

He pushed a hand against your back as you continued to step into the ship, careful not to step on any controls. He kept his hand on your back as he made his way up. Another blaster bolt sounded and Kylo hurried in trying to evade it. The motion sent you tripping over the seat, landing awkwardly on the other side.

"Son of a -" Kylo screamed, a loud groan escaping his lips as he fought to shut the door quickly behind him. "They hit me."

Panic burst in your chest, a deeper worry than you had already been feeling. You tried to sit up, leaning across the seat. "Where? Let me see."

"Move!" Kylo bellowed as he fell into the seat. You leaned back as much as you could without disturbing any of the controls, but your knees were still pressing into Kylo’s space at odd angles.

The fighter roared to life as the blaster bolts began to accumulate, more troopers appearing as word got out and the noise of the engine called attention to itself. Kylo leaned forward to engage a switch, leaving a shiny streak of blood along the back of the seat.

You kept your eyes on him, trying to ignore the chaos of the hangar bay just outside. The fighter shook as Kylo unleashed his own artillery on the ‘troopers, blowing most of them away as he took off. The forward motion of the shuttle pushed Kylo back in his seat, and he winced.

"Are you okay?"

You saw his eyes flash your way just briefly, as if to see where the sound had come from. "Ask me again in five minutes. I’m a little busy."

You rolled your eyes. Typical Ben.

You sat in silence for a few minutes more, watching Kylo in awe. He was an incredibly skilled pilot, all the more impressive as he blew his old allies out of the sky. You shook with a chill wondering if he would turn on you as quickly as he had the First Order. That would be a question better suited for when you weren’t in such close quarters.

Once the TIEs had seemingly been eliminated, you relaxed back against the console as much as you could and inquired about Kylo’s state again.

"Not important," he quipped. "They’ll send more fighters soon enough. We need to get out of here. What are the coordinates for the base?" he asked, beginning to pull up the nav system.

You leaned forward to read his face. "What base?"

"The base," he repeated, cocking his head to look at you. "The Resistance..." He trailed off when he saw the blank expression on your face. "You’re not with the-"

"I’m not with the Resistance," you said plainly.

Kylo’s eyes finally met yours. The cockpit was dark, only the lights from the console illuminating his face from below, casting deep shadows around his eyes. His brow furrowed, concealing his eyes further in the darkness. They were usually his easiest tell, but he was so hard to read here, now, so close.

"Who?" he began, confused enough to leave off the rest of his question. You knew what he wanted to know, though.

You took a deep breath. "I’m not with the Resistance," you repeated. "I’m... not with anyone. I’m a bounty hunter."

Part 3

[underimagines]

Here's one I've been thinking about since Monday. UT UF US and SF skelebros. Their S/O invites them to watch the solar eclipse with them. I imagine they'd probably think its pretty amazing, especially when totality happens. Please and thank you

I hope you don’t mind metaking this one for my first response! Space nerd, coming through! I hope allmy American friends got to enjoy it; I’ve yet to see an eclipse myself! I thinkI’ll only do UT/UF/US Brothers since I’m still not 100% confident withSwapfell, so sorry! :( ~Mod Panda

UT! Sans

He low keys acts cool asyou drag him outside for it, but he’s slightly shaking in excitement. As soonas it starts you can barely get his attention again. Like, at all. But it’s inthe best way; his smile is the biggest it’d been in a long time. He’d read somuch about it while stuck in the Underground, but finally being able to see ithimself…? When totality happens, his eye lights become little stars and he’scompletely silent. He would respond a little before to a few things, now it’sthe quietest you’ve ever seen him. This is a very, very happy skele. When theeclipse is over he’ll pull you into a tight hug with a quiet “Thank you”.

UT! Papyrus

WOWIE, the moon blocks outthe sun?!  Do not worry, Date-Mate, thegreat Papyrus will protect you from the darkness! Once you tell him it’s allnatural and happens occasionally so no protection needed, he’s excited. Youmake sure he’s wearing his glasses despite his protests (“SKELETONS DON’T HAVEEYES”) and it’s begun. He’s cut off mid-sentence while he watches in happiness.You and Sans best be prepared for many, many questions later, but for now,Papyrus is happy watching the event unfold before him while holding your handtightly.

UF!Sans

What the hell are you doing? You’re practically yankin’his arm off, and now you’re shoving these stupid lookin’ glasses on his face?What the fuck is goin- Oh. You had done a pretty good job of keeping him awayfrom any news of the eclipse, and his reaction is so worth it. The sky darkensand at first he’s sweating buckets, thinking something is gonna come dust him,but as soon as he looks up and sees totality happen, he’s awestruck. His wholeposture completely changes and he relaxes a little for once. He’d never seensuch an event before in any reset, and to spend it with you? Wow. Afterwards hegoes back to his usual asshole self, but there’s definitely a smooch for youlater behind closed doors.

UF!Papyrus

He’s not happy at all at being brought outside byyou, and with so much enthusiasm too. He’s clearly too busy to stand outsidewatching something as asinine as this! You have to put your foot down a little– always a risky move – but eventually he relents and stands outside with you,complaining the whole time until it starts. It’s hard to read his face when itstarts, especially because he’s tapping his foot as he’s watching. His frownseems to disappear momentarily when the moon fully eclipses the sun, surprisedat the display. When you’re both alone afterwards he’ll briefly admit that theevent was enjoyable, even exciting- no stop smiling he’s not admitting defeat!

US!Sans

DATE-MATE, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, IT’S GOING TO START ANY MINUTE! Thislittle energy-filled bean had been bouncing around non-stop since you asked himif he wanted to watch the eclipse with you, it was like he had drunk coffeeagain (Papyrus said he’d drank some once… Only once.) For such a smallskeleton, he’s strong as he drags you up to the top of the hill you’d agreed onthe day before with such speed you had to pause and catch your breath. Once youwere both ready with your glasses and sat comfortably you both looked up at thesky eagerly. As soon as the moon starts to move in front of the sun, Sans grabsyour arm and his bones rattle. You begin to worry about the excitement possiblymaking him explode. Help him. His jaw drops when the eclipse hits its fullscale and you’re sure you’re going to be shaken to death. Thankfully he tellsyou everything in detail after it finished, since you weren’t really able towatch.

US!Papyrus

He’s more than happy to join you outside when youask him, casually resting his arm around your shoulders as you join the othercrowds waiting for the eclipse to start. He enjoys the quietness that falls asthe first shadows start to cover the sun. It’s like the whole world standsstill it’s so peaceful. He’ll probably make a terrible pun or two, but whentotality happens he just smiles and watches quietly with you. When it’s allfinished, he’ll invite you for a nap with him, talking about the event and howlucky a guy he is to see it with you.