When Verna awoke as a guardian, she knew nothing about what life is meant to be like as a Lightbearer. And though she has been told that learning about her past is a forbidden endeavor, she can't help but feel drawn towards discovering who she once was. But her pursuit of the quest is interrupted by the growing chaos, by the Darkness spreading.
Begins with the events of Destiny 1 and will continue up to the current timeline (but hey, it'll take awhile to get there). Verna is a void-using Hunter.
pairing:
- cayde-6 x female guardian x uldren sov
- the crow x female guardian (eventual)
[VAMPIRE AU] From the moment she was born, Marianne Braxton, née Winchester, has been coerced into giving the Templar Order her unwavering loyalty. After years of witnessing the horrors performed in the name of the Order, she questions the purpose of such an organization. But dismantling the Order is a task that can’t be accomplished alone.
pairing: Jacob Frye x Original Female Character (Marianne)
pairing: ares x original female character (beatrix)
blurb: “Loyalty can be rather expensive.”
word count: 2.1k+
title inspiration: game of survival - ruelle
apologies for the incredibly long wait. in mid-july, i moved across the country and immediately got sick due to 3-4 weeks of nearly continuous heatwaves (uncommon for the area i’m living in). my apartment does not have a/c, so all i had was one fan and an unbearable amount of humidity. my apartment was in the high 90s nearly every day, with the low end being.... the low 90s.....
just to note: i am starting graduate studies this monday. i am working on getting an mfa in creative writing, so all of my school-related writing projects will take priority over fanfics.
“You want me to meet with your seller?” Beatrix asks, a request for confirmation that she had not misheard the man.
“You will be accompanying Ares,” Santino clarifies. “She is the one meeting the buyer.”
“You’re not going to meet him yourself?”
The Camorra boss frowns, leaning back into his armchair. “I’ve been asked to return to Naples and I can’t push it back any longer than I already have. I’m entrusting Ares with closing the deal and I want you there for support.”
“Why send me?” The woman says. “Why not send one of your men?”
Santino shrugs. “You know sign language,” he replies.
A simple assignment, really: be the translator.
As the driver eases the car into a stop, Beatrix glances out of the window. Her eyes scan their surroundings, noting the clusters of people showing off their overpriced designer jewelry and the borderline scandalous hemlines of their clothing. The New Yorkers loiter the space outside of a ritzy expensive nightclub, Das Schwein, a club that is embedded into the bottom three levels of the high-rise building.
To get the woman’s attention, Ares reaches out towards Beatrix, brushing her fingertips against the top of her hand. And when Beatrix turns to look at her, Ares pulls her hand away, signing, We are here.
The assassin nods, before opening the door and stepping out of the vehicle. She smooths the sides of her burgundy dress and takes a moment to straighten the plunging neckline. Though the winter chill encourages a splattering of goosebumps to form along her bare arms, it, for the moment, lacks the biting cold that had permeated the Chicago air.
Ares, dressed in a matching suit, takes the lead and approaches the building. Do not speak unprompted, she commands. Do not leave my side.
Falling into step behind the woman, Beatrix nods. “I understand,” she says.
When the bouncer sees the pair approach, he steps aside before waving them through the entrance. Without even acknowledging the man, Ares steps between the doors. She scrutinizes the first floor of the club, scanning over the patrons boozed up with fine liquor, the grinding bodies on the dance floor, and the sloppy touches exchanged between indiscrete temporary lovers in the booths. Her eyes land on a private elevator tucked away in the corner of the room, protected by a couple of guards.
Ares and Beatrix approach them and the guard on the left greets them with a nod of his head. “Mr. Brecher is on the top floor,” he says, pressing a button to open the doors.
Beatrix tenses at his words.
Brecher?
No, it couldn’t be.
He wouldn’t be here, not in New York. Not right now.
Ares enters the elevator and Beatrix steps in beside her. She clicks on the button for the top floor and takes a small step back when the doors slide shut. They ride in silence, undisturbed by the subtle hum of the ascending machine.
But for Beatrix uneasiness fills the silence, floods her senses with a flight response that’s impossible to act upon in this enclosed space. Threads are tugged in the pit of her stomach, snapping as they attempt to suppress the building worry, anxiety, dread.
It could be a coincidence; a different man with a shared surname.
A button dings, signaling their arrival.
When the doors open, Beatrix realizes that this easy job, this simple task of being the translator, is a far more complicated situation. Her eyes land on the silhouette of a person she had hoped to avoid for as long as she could. And her gaze drifts to the left side of his face, confirming his identity with a familiar scar etched into the skin. One that begins just beneath his eye, before curving to slice into the side of his lips.
Matthias Brecher.
Her last thread breaks, drowning Beatrix with a renewed realization that she has spent too much time dancing next to the growing flames. That frequently tempting fate would encourage it to retaliate with the most severe consequences.
The man notices the Camorra woman first. “Ares,” he greets.
She exits the elevator, stepping into the private room.
Matthias shifts his gaze to Beatrix. His eyes flicker with surprise, before an amused grin weaves itself into his features. “Well,” he says, “I wasn’t prepared for quite the surprise.”
“Matthias,” Beatrix acknowledges.
Ares’ footsteps come to a halt and she turns her head to glance back at the other woman. She watches her, studying the assassin’s face for any subtle twitches that would give away her thoughts, betray her motives.
“I didn’t think we would meet again so soon,” the man says.
Beatrix smiles, but the false joy never reaches her eyes. “Perhaps we meet again too soon,” she forces the joke between her lips.
And the words deepen the frown that’s already forming in the corners of Ares’ mouth.
Matthias slides his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks and takes a step closer to Beatrix. He chuckles, “I thought I was having a meeting with Camorra’s people, not Lilith.”
The woman straights her back, lifting her chin just a tad higher off of the ground. “You are having a meeting with Camorra,” she states. “I am here to translate on Ares’ behalf.”
The man hums, pondering over the woman’s response. “But Lilith would never loan you away for something this trivial.” He nudges his head towards Ares, “especially when it involves one party in particular.”
“I wanted a change of pace.”
“Or,” the man leans down, “perhaps the rumors are true. Perhaps Lilith’s favored rosebud has fluttered away with the wind. I’ve found that loyalty is a tough commodity to find,” he whispers, “nowadays.”
“Loyalty can be rather expensive,” Beatrix says.
Matthias takes a step away from the woman, turning to face Ares. “Would you mind if we postpone our meeting, for a just a few minutes?”
Ares narrows her eyes.
“Miss Amsler and I are old acquittances,” he continues. “Conversations with her are always a treat. And I do enjoy splurging on a bit of pleasure before getting into business.” Matthias chuckles, “You never know which job is going to be your last.”
Ares shifts her gaze to meet Beatrix. When the other woman gives her a slight nod of assurance, her eyes dart back to Matthias. She gives him a nonchalant shrug and then retreats to the small bar on the left. She sits down on one of the stools, before gluing her eyes back onto the pair.
“Come, Süsse,” Matthias places the palm of his hand against the small of the woman’s back, directing Beatrix towards the open balcony on the other side of the room. “We have much to discuss.”
When they are just far enough away that Ares is unable to listen to their conversation, Beatrix pulls herself away from Matthias. “You said there are rumors that I’ve been disloyal,” she says. “Did you know that I was working with Santino?”
“It wasn’t my first guess,” he admits. “But I knew you wouldn’t stay with Lilith forever.”
Beatrix frowns.
“I am surprised,” Matthias continues. “The last person I expected you to align yourself with would be such a prominent figure for the Camorra.”
“People have stooped to less for a few extra dollars in their pocket.”
“I’m almost offended,” the man says. “You would choose his company, before committing yourself to someone like Tarasov, or to someone like me?”
“At the time,” Beatrix leans towards the man, “I found this to be a more favorable business opportunity.”
“Must be quite the pay,” Matthias says. “Perhaps I should consider dropping my lifestyle as the boss, huh? Work as one of D’Antonio’s lackeys. After all, you must be swimming in riches. The pay must be good, good enough to convince you to work for the man who told his people to brutally torture and murder your best friend.”
The woman tenses, nails digging themselves into the palms of her hands.
“Tell me how you sleep at night,” he continues, “knowing that you’ve chosen to snuggle up to the devil himself. Do you still think of Evie? Do you hear her screams? Her pleading cries for help?”
Beatrix takes a small step away, increasing the distance between them.
But Matthias inches closer. “Or do you hear the wails of your baby?”
“Fuck you,” Beatrix shoves the man away from her. “Don’t you dare—”
“—No wonder you look so tired.”
The woman scoffs. “Is there a reason why we’re discussing this?”
“Süsse, we’re just having a conversation,” he says. “But if you want a change of topic, let’s talk about Ares.” Matthias smiles, briefly shifting his gaze to the Camorra woman. “She’s your type, no? Deadly, powerful, commands the room, when she wants to. And stuffed full with information that you could sell for quite the pretty penny.”
The man chuckles. “I know you, more than you’d care to admit. You’d never work for Santino, but you would target him, hurt him, cripple him. So, are you going to seduce his right-hand woman? Manipulate her? Convince her to confess all of those valuable secrets?”
“Targeting her would be pointless,” Beatrix says.
“Why? Because she understands the concept of sworn, unfaltering loyalty?”
“Because it would take too long,” she says. “I have no interest in wasting my time with a pointless task.”
Matthias smirks and pulls a phone out of his pocket. His fingers press against the screen, tapping on the buttons, before angling the item towards the woman. “Is that why poor Luca got chopped up into itty bitty pieces?” He taunts. “Because he wouldn’t spill any of Camorra’s dirty secrets? Was he a waste of time?”
Beatrix glances down at the phone, swallowing the nerves brewing in the bottom of her throat. Filling the screen is the image of a body, blood spilling out of appendages that had been sliced into manageable pieces. The body had been placed inside of bathtub, one that Beatrix recognized.
“Izzy may be your friend, but she is still under my employment,” Matthias explains.
“Does she give you documentation on every job she takes?”
“Just for the handful of people I care to keep tabs on,” the man shrugs. “Is your contract for intel or disposal?”
“I think it’s best that I keep that information to myself,” Beatrix says.
“I disagree.” Matthias puts the phone away, before reaching inside of the pocket concealed beneath the jacket of his suit. He pulls out a small circular object, which he holds up, displaying it for Beatrix.
It’s a Marker.
Her Marker.
Beatrix can feel the intensity of Ares’ stare, can feel her processing and examining the situation as it unfolds. And though she wants to look at her, wants to tell Ares that she wants, no, that she needs this conversation to end, she chooses to ignore the Camorra woman. She maintains eye contact with Matthias, determined to not shudder, to not buckle, beneath his gaze.
“You owe me,” he says. “We’ve made an oath, you and I, a blood contract. I’ve completed my end of the bargain, but I still need to cash in on your side.”
Beatrix remains silent.
“Tell me the truth,” Matthias continues. “Which of your many skills have you been hired to perform?”
“What would you do with that information?” She says, “If you sell it to the right buyer, I’ll end up killed, regardless of my answer.”
The man frowns. He raises a hand towards Beatrix and weaves her loose curls between his fingers. “You think so little of me,” he says. His fingers tighten around the hair, and he pulls Beatrix towards him, before shoving her towards the railing at the edge of the balcony.
The assassin gasps when the metal slams against the bottom of her ribcage. Instinct kicks in and her fingers latch onto the rails.
“If I wanted to kill you,” Matthias growls, “there are much more convenient ways for me to do so.” He releases his grip on her hair and takes a step closer. With his chest pressed against her back, he traps her between himself and the metal that is preventing her from tumbling to her death. “I have every intention of using the task you owe me. Ratting you out would be a waste of time and resources. You owe me, Beatrix,” he hisses, “not the other around.”
“Boss,” a man calls.
“What?” Matthias answers, ever so slightly relaxing his stance.
“Do I shoot?”
The man pulls away from the woman, turning towards his henchmen.
When Beatrix turns to see what the man was referring to, her eyes widen at the sight of Ares. All thirteen of Matthias’ men have their weapons trained on the woman, whom has a gun pointed directly at the their leader’s head.
“How fascinating,” Matthias says.
a/n: thank you so much for reading. if you liked what you read, please considering reblogging this chapter. every reblog truly does help a small author like me! but any likes, comments, or other indications that you enjoy this story is also appreciated!
this chapter was meant to be much longer, but i didn’t to split it into two pieces in order to prevent even further delays in getting an update out. the next chapter’s rough draft is over halfway done. if all goes well it will be published before the end of next month.
if you’re interested, you can also follow me for more updates on twitter @ VostaraFics
pairing: ares x original female character (beatrix)
blurb: “Just an annoying needle, pricking the back of her throat.”
word count: 3.1k+
title inspiration: hold me while you wait - lewis capaldi
[Hanahaki Disease AU] with a small, but significant twist. You might want to grab some tissues because this is, absolutely, the most upsetting thing I’ve written so far. This is not canon to hypnophobia, just involves the same couple!
warning: untethered angst, mentioned sexual content, and implied character death
*This work is cross-posted on AO3.
series masterlist
It starts with a touch, with Beatrix gently wrapping her fingers around Ares’ injured arm. “Let me help you,” she says.
At first, Ares hesitates, unsure of the woman’s intentions.
For Beatrix is still a new addition to her routine, a new member that has much to prove. She may have already pledged her loyalty to Santino, but once she pledged loyalty to Lilith. Beatrix has broken her vows before, and there is no evidence affirming that she won’t do it again if she finds a better deal.
But the woman fights against her resistance, pulling the arm towards her. She sprays disinfectant on the long slice engraved into the skin of Ares’ forearm, before beginning to bandage the wound with a roll of gauze.
“Thanks for the help,” Beatrix says. “That guy really got the jump on me.” With the gauze secured in place, she pulls her hands away from the injured skin.
Her eyes lift to meet Ares and a moment of silence passes between them.
No problem, Ares signs.
~ ~ ~
Beatrix knows that she is being foolish, that her evolving emotional involvement with Ares will never lead to a happy ending. But against her better judgement, she allows herself to be a fool.
Ares is a distraction, one that she’s grown quite fond of. Nights of bruising kisses, breathless pants, and hushed moans are an irresponsibility that grants her a passage to escape the world she’s trapped in. With Ares, she escapes from the lingering suffocation of being under Eli’s control. She suspends her subconscious fear of failure, of the punishment Lilith would distribute whenever she had displeased her. Her thoughts replaced with a flood of colorful butterflies, fluttering in the depths of her mind. It’s dizzying and entrancing, but Beatrix becomes addicted to this feeling. When Ares coaxes her to let go, submit to break the coils building inside of her, she obeys without hesitation. And she’s overcome by the sensation of the exploding stars that consume her.
The beginning of the end is set into motion when Ares undoes the silk fabric restraining Beatrix’s wrists against the metal poles of the headboard. Beatrix looks up at the woman hovering above her, longing to leave more bruises against her swollen lips.
So she reaches towards Ares, pulling her as close as she can to her body. And she meets her lips with a kiss that’s too gentle, too passionate. It’s too revealing, but Beatrix allows her emotions to slip through the cracks, just this once. And she knows that this could be her downfall, that everything she has worked for could unravel. That growing fond of the someone could lead to her failure, her demise, her heartache and betrayal.
But she ignores that; she chooses to live within this moment. To allow herself a rare chance to experience how it feels to be with someone that she yearns for, even through the disguise of lust.
For life isn’t guaranteed beyond this night; for Ares’ lust could fade, leaving her empty and abandoned. Is it not better to grant herself one single indulgence? To quench her desire, her curiosity, before it can bloom.
~ ~ ~
Beatrix develops a cough.
It’s a tiny discomfort, really.
Just an annoying needle, pricking the back of her throat.
She tries to clear it. She gurgles warm salt water. She drinks green tea with honey. But nothing works, and as the weeks progress the cough gets worse.
Do you need a doctor? Ares asks.
Beatrix declines, claiming that it is nothing more than a simple cold. “Santino is stretching me thin,” she says. “I just need a chance to catch up on my sleep.”
It’s a lie.
She can sense that something is wrong, that something is trapped and growing inside of her. It’s something that she can’t dislodge, something she won’t be able to force out of her system.
Ares raises an eyebrow. No more nights together, then?
Beatrix laughs. She glances at their surroundings, making sure that no one is watching them. And with the confirmation that they are alone, she leans towards Ares. “We can still have our fun,” she whispers the words.
Their lips brush against each other.
And Ares smirks in response, before giving the woman a playful bite on her bottom lip.
~ ~ ~
Beatrix lurches forward into an upright position, retching and gasping for air.
The noise startles Ares, whom was sleeping beside her. She reaches a hand towards Beatrix, rubbing it against the curve of her spine.
Between coughs, the woman sputters out the words, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Ares frowns, but continues her soothing motions.
“I’m gonna grab some water,” Beatrix says. She pushes the covers away from her body and climbs out of the bed. The woman can sense Ares’ gaze latched onto her back and she turns to look at her.
You sure you okay? Ares asks.
“Yeah,” Beatrix nods. “I’m fine.”
As she enters the hotel bathroom, she closes the door behind her. Beatrix reaches for a glass cup placed beside the sink and twists the knob for cold water on the faucet. After filling her glass with the cool liquid, she takes a long sip, hoping to settle the aching pain engulfing her throat. Instead, she chokes and falls into another fit of coughing.
The glass slips between her fingers and cracks when it crashes against the marble floor.
But Beatrix doesn’t notice the broken glass, nor does she notice the sound of footsteps approaching the door. Her mind is focused solely on the excruciating pain, on her body’s desperate attempt to rid itself of whatever is lodged deep inside of her throat.
A splotch of crimson distorts the simplicity of the porcelain bowl of the sink.
And Beatrix breathes a sigh of relief and closes her eyes. The discomfort that had been etched into her throat has finally alleviated, giving her a sliver of momentary bliss. She gives herself a few moments to enjoy the sensation of breathing normally, before glancing down at the dark color tainting the simplicity of the pearl colored bathroom.
She expects to see blood.
But she sees a single rose petal.
It can’t be real; it’s impossible. There’s no way she could be so careless, so stupid. She’s just exhausted, overwhelmed by this persistent cough, by her weakened immune system. She must still be asleep, trapped in a nightmare, and she will wake up any moment, any minute now.
With a trembling hand, Beatrix reaches towards the object. And when she touches it, when her fingers brush against the soft material, she knows that she isn’t dreaming. She knows that her recklessness, her impulsive decision pursue desire has marked her. That her exit won’t be sudden, won’t be due to an unforeseen bullet to the back of the head. That, should she live long enough, her demise will be slow, painful. Utterly miserable.
There is a firm knock against the wooden door and Beatrix is quick to hide the petal inside of her fist. The door swings open, revealing Ares, concern etched into her features.
“Everything is fine,” Beatrix says, before the woman can question her. The answer is too quick, too panicked. And she knows that Ares can see right through her, but she does her best to keep herself composed.
~ ~ ~
One petal turns into two.
Three.
Four.
And soon, one petal coughed up at a time, doubles, multiplies.
Beatrix can barely breathe, can barely stand. She can’t focus on her meetings with Santino; she spends her time rushing to the bathroom to hurl petals into ceramic sinks. To flush the evidence down the porcelain bowls of toilets.
You are not getting better. Ares tells her.
But the woman brushes off the concern, insists that she’s fine.
Go to the doctor.
Beatrix sighs.
Please.
“Okay,” she says.
~ ~ ~
Beatrix already knows the diagnosis; she knows long before the words exit the doctor’s lips.
Hanahaki Diease.
Her love is unrequited.
And the petals growing inside of her lungs will eventually kill her, suffocate her.
“It’s progressing quickly,” the doctor says. “The disease has already consumed more than 50% of your lung capacity. I’m afraid that, even if you recover, there will be lingering damage.”
Beatrix stares at them, unable to muster the words that she needs to speak.
“Unfortunately,” they continue, “it’s too late for you to fall out of love with this person. Your first method of treatment is, of course, the natural route. However, you are running out of time, so you will need to act quickly. I suggest that you tell this person how you feel. Be direct, straight-forward about your feelings.
“If all goes well, and the feelings are mutual, you will be able to reverse the progression. It is important that you have this conversation face-to-face. This cure will only work if their requited feelings for you are stated out loud.”
A crack forms, breaking the composure that Beatrix had worked so hard to maintain. She laughs. It’s a desperate, defeated noise. One that does little to disguise the realization of her doom.
“I understand if you need time to process what I’m telling you,” the doctor says. “But we are working against the clock, your condition is accelerating faster than the typical—”
“She’s mute,” Beatrix interrupts.
“I see,” they say. The doctor pauses, taking a moment to type notes into Beatrix’s patient file. “Then your only alternative is surgery. It is an invasive, aggressive method. And in your current condition, it is quite dangerous. I would go in and cut away the infected ares, including the root of the disease. Right now, your chances of surviving the procedure is about 45%. The longer we wait, the higher your risk of death.”
The doctor stops speaking when Beatrix begins to cough.
When the woman pulls her face away from the palms of her hands, five rose petals are nestled against her skin.
“Hanahaki Disease isn’t contagious, but there is no sure way of knowing who is at risk of developing it,” the doctor continues. “On top of the risk for your life, there will be risk for the life of the person you love. Once I remove the root, your feelings for them will disappear. You will never be able to fall back in love with them. If this person happens to return your feelings, there is a possibility that they will also suffer from the disease.”
Beatrix frowns. “It would be impossible for me to save her?”
“This procedure is your only shot at survival, Miss Amsler. As your doctor, I advise you to act quickly,” they sigh. “But I cannot, in good conscience, recommend you do this without first having a discussion with this person. If they are in love with you, they may also need surgery in the future. It is best that you give them a proper warning, so they can be prepared if the worst case scenario does occur.”
“Thank you,” Beatrix says, “for the advice.”
When Ares inquires about the woman’s diagnosis, Beatrix tells her the truth. That an infection has manifested inside of her lungs. That the treatment is easy, simple. But she omits the fact that the easy cure for her illness is outside of her grasp. And the alternative is a path that she will not pursue.
~ ~ ~
It isn’t long before the severity of her condition becomes impossible to hide. Her health deteriorates at a rapid pace, and soon Beatrix is unable to stand for long periods of time. She frequently collapses, consumed by long fits of painful coughing. The woman is almost breathless, barely able to fill her lungs with the bare minimum of oxygen required to keep her going.
You need to go back to the doctor.
“No,” Beatrix says. “I already got my diagnosis.”
They were wrong. Ares says. You need new treatment.
The woman coughs and it’s exhausting. “Nothing will help,” she whispers.
Bullshit. Ares frowns. You are just stubborn.
When Beatrix attempts to respond, she unleashes a new onslaught of coughing. The pain is overwhelming and liquid pools in the corner of her eyes. She feels the petals sliding through her throat. They exit her body and land on the cold stone of the floor beneath her.
“It’s Hanahaki Disease,” Beatrix says.
Ares lowers herself to the ground, sitting in the empty space next to Beatrix. She places a hand beneath the woman’s chin, turning her head to look at her.
Who is the cause?
The truth almost slips out, but Beatrix quenches that instinct. Would it not be more kind, to hide the truth? To spare Ares; to save her from experiencing the guilt, the knowledge, of being the cause for her demise? And what if her affections are returned?
It would be selfish to tell Ares. Selfish to expose her heart, to force Ares to cope with the knowledge that their relationship was cursed from the very beginning. That there exists no solution in which they are both able to live and be together. Because even with the surgery, it would be pure torture for Beatrix to share her feelings, just to have them sliced away, ripped from the confines of her body. And the risk of condemning Ares to share the same fate was nothing more than cruelty.
It would not be fair.
No, it would not be kind.
Ares had not forced Beatrix into falling in love her. Beatrix had done so willingly, had been the pursuer, not the pursued.
Beatrix pulls her gaze away from Ares, focusing her sights on the stone. “Santino,” she says.
But had she not looked away, she would have seen it.
It was there, for just a split-second, painted and unconcealed in Ares’ features.
Heartbreak.
~ ~ ~
With Santino’s permission, Ares takes Beatrix away from their Camorra duties. The pair travel to Germany, locking themselves away inside of a cottage; one that is hidden within the woods of a rural town. It’s a location that Beatrix has escaped to before, a shelter she latched onto when she had first attempted to slip away from Lilith’s grasp.
Though Beatrix is embarrassed by her dependence on the woman, she is thankful that Ares was more than willing to help her. The lack of sufficient oxygen being supplied to her body leaves her weak, unable to do tasks that were once easy, thoughtless.
Just a few months ago, showering with Ares was energetic, fueled by intoxicating kisses and touches that ignited quickening heartbeats. Masked by the noise of running water, Beatrix had allowed herself to be more vocal with her sounds, had allowed Ares to fully experience each response she was coaxing from the woman. But now, bathing has simplified to the two woman laying together inside of the small bathtub.
Their routine is simple.
Ares starts the bath, ensuring that the water’s temperature is warm enough to soothe the aches permanently settled inside of Beatrix’s chest. When the water has filled the tub halfway, Ares carries Beatrix into the bathroom. She helps her undress, before undressing herself. The pair settle themselves into the water, and then Ares washes her hair, her body. She rubs her hands across the woman’s chest, hoping to alleviate some of the pain.
And in those moments, Ares wishes that she could switch places with Beatrix, that she could save her. That she could go back in time and convince Santino to ignore the woman, to refuse her offer to kill Angelo. A life where she hasn’t loved Beatrix, hasn’t known Beatrix, is a sacrifice she could make. A sacrifice she would willing make, if it meant there was a chance of Beatrix never developing this disease. Because she knows that she will never care for someone again, not in the way she’s cared for this woman. And to live the rest of her life without her embrace would be worse than torture from the cruelest of tormentors.
Beatrix leans back, pressing her skin against the woman’s chest.
Ares responds by wrapping her arms around her, embracing Beatrix in a hug that’s too intimate, too revealing of her buried emotions.
Everything is just too overwhelming. Beatrix knows that it’s no longer a matter of months or weeks, that her time left before the disease fully consumes her has been reduced to a number of days. But it’s painful to cry, an exhausting action. It eats away the little amount of air that she can hold in her crowded lungs.
“I lied,” Beatrix whispers.
Ares tightens her grip on the woman’s waist, urging her to continue.
“It was never Santino,” she admits. “It was you. I love you.”
Ares removes her hands from the woman, lifting them out of the water. I love you, she says. And then she pulls Beatrix back into her arms and nudges her nose against the skin of her delicate neck.
Beatrix is never able to speak again.
~ ~ ~
In her last moments, Ares is with her. An oxygen mask is secured in place, but it only delays the inevitable. Still, Beatrix cherishes these few extra moments, this tiny extension of time that she can spend with her lover. They lay together in the bed, covered by a mountain of emerald green blankets.
Even knowing her fate, there is nothing she would have changed. And given the chance, she would do it all over again. Because love was never something she thought she could experience; the concept of love has always felt like a gift that would never be granted. She has done terrible things to those who did not deserve it, has sealed the tragic fate of innocent people. And if this is her punishment, her only chance to repent, she accepts it.
And the truth is that she has been lucky, to survive the consequences of betraying Eli, to survive the wrath of Lilith. She has been lucky to live long, long beyond the day when Angelo had planted a bullet inside of her. Throughout her career, her life, she has come so close to embracing the hand of Death himself. Yet, she has always refused him, choosing to push him away and cling onto the robes of the Angel of Life. But the Angel is tired, tired of her relentless begging, her pleading for another day—just one more.
Beatrix accepts her fate, accepts the pain. And she does so, knowing that unlike her victims, she can spend her last moments within the embrace of someone who loves her, is devoted to her. That this is a luxury she doesn’t deserve, but has been gifted, regardless.
She wraps her fingers around the woman’s hand, pulling it close to her chest.
And she smiles, knowing that their love is requited and Ares will be safe.
a/n: hello! thank you for reading my work. if you like my content, please consider reblogging this piece. it is a simple action that truly helps a small author like me be seen by others. i do also appreciate any likes/comments you are willing to leave.
sorry for being a sad clown and writing this, but i had an idea and i was itching to write it. normal updates for hypnophobia will resume after i’ve settled into my new apartment! so you can expect that in the next 2-3 weeks, depending on when i’m able to set up wifi.
blurb: [afterlife au] “This is where love blossomed.”
word count: 1.3k+
warnings: character death, implied (but not elaborated on) suicide
*This work is cross-posted on Ao3.
This new world is a void; a place without scent, touch, sound, light, taste.
You expected this isolation, this deprivation of your senses.
You expected nothingness.
A simple cease of your existence.
But you catch a whiff, a hint of lavender that begins to surround you, consume you, overwhelm you. It is far from unpleasant, no, this smell is soothing, comforting. It welcomes back the memories that you have attempted to bury, deep inside of yourself, over and over again. Memories that you have clung to, dug your fingers into, latched onto as if they were your most valued possessions, your greatest treasures.
Lavender awakens memories of your lover, of your dearly departed.
Reminds you of the way he would surprise you with dried wildflowers. Flowers that had been accumulated during his time spent away from the camp. Flowers that had been carefully pressed between the pages of his notebook. Flowers that he had plucked for you, knowing that in return you would pepper him with intoxicating kisses. And that you would spend the night together, limbs tangled beneath a pile of worn, torn blankets.
Lavender reminds you of him, of Arthur Morgan.
You feel grass press against your bare feet. It is cold, damp from the dusting of water that coats the earth. And when a cool breeze sweeps across the exposed skin of your neck and arms, a shiver races down, along the curve of your spine. The soft fabric, the well-worn cotton of your long dress, conforms itself to wrap around the side of your legs. It holds you, clings to you, praying to not be swept away by the wind.
And you hear the wind, whispering, as it whips by your ears. You hear the grass rustling. The lavender plants swaying in sync with the breeze, giving the flowers beside them a quick, soft kiss as they brush against one another. In the pauses, in the gaps where the breeze is gone, where the grass is still, there are birds. They begin with a faint noise, the beginning notes of a long song. The volume ascends, louder and louder, until it is a crescendo of chirping.
Then this world illuminates.
You release a gasp, an instinctual response to the colors popping into your vision. You can see the world in front of you. There is an ocean of purple flowers. An ocean that is in the process of overtaking the grass that has dared to break through soil, grass that has dared to grow in the spaces between the lavender plants.
You know this place, this meadow tucked away in a valley between the mountains.
This is where love blossomed.
Where Arthur had hesitated, for just a fraction of moment, before reaching out for your hand. Where calloused fingers had rubbed against your skin, as the man stunned you with his secret, his confession. Where he uttered a sentence, uttered words you never anticipated hearing for yourself.
In this field, this purple paradise of your beloved lavender flowers, Arthur had told you that he loved you. That he was not a good man, that he could never repent for all of the pain he has caused. That he would never deserve love in return, and yet, he still ached for an ounce of yours. That he would understand if his feelings were not returned, would never be returned.
Your response was silence.
A moment to process a truth that you had somehow overlooked.
Arthur… loved you.
His words were clear, straight-forward, but you found yourself unable to comprehend what was being said. He loved you? But for how long? When did it start?
Would it end?
Did signs of his love begin when he first started to bring you flowers? Did it begin with the small gifts that you had deemed as nothing more than mere proof of platonic affection? Since Arthur had known about your love of flowers, had known that these gifts would bring you a touch of joy in the most awful of days.
When did his affection shift?
When did he realize that his feelings extended beyond friendship?
The sketches. Did they give it away? Those portraits of you that he once had tried to conceal inside of his notebook. Portraits you had managed to capture a glimpse of while he was sleeping. Or perhaps he knew, not in a moment of tender affection, but rather in an instance of violence. When he had beaten several men in a Valentine saloon, men that had pursued you, men that had ignored your polite declines for their advances.
But in the end, your utter oblivious nature did not mask your own feelings. You were not unsure of your affections for Arthur. You may have dismissed signs, brushed away the romantic undertones that were never as subtle as you pretended them to be. You had simply ignored love, subconsciously believing it to be an impossibility.
The truth is that you did love him.
And you still do.
God, you miss him.
You miss the way his beard would scratch against your skin as he planted kisses against the sides of your cheeks and neck. You miss the way his body would radiate heat, keeping you cozy and comfortable during the winter months. And you miss the lingering smell of cigarette smoke embedded into his clothing.
You long to see him again, to feel his body pressed against yours.
You long to tell him that you love him. To tell him that you are sorry, that his death was your fault. That the guilt of living makes you feel as though you were his executioner. If only you had pushed him a little harder, been insistent, had begged him to runaway with you when you still had the chance. If only you had fought harder, had not allowed him to win this one argument.
Life does not feel the same without him; it feels too empty, too pointless.
The Van der Linde gang is gone.
Your family is gone.
Everyone is either dead or alone, off to pursue a life with new accommodations, new goals, new desires.
But this new life was lonely and forced you to live with a wound that time could never heal.
It was just too unbearable.
Silence befalls this world, before a voice interrupts this temporary solace.
It calls out to you, uttering your name in a mixture of surprise and the desire that coexists with the feeling of longing. This voice is familiar, laced with a gruffness that had always fueled the butterflies hiding inside of your heart.
It is a sound that you have not heard in over a year.
And you turn to look at where the voice originates, certain that nothing, no one, will be there. That his voice is nothing more than a hallucination, a punishment for the sin you have committed.
But when you turn, you see him.
You see his slightly overgrown brunette hair and the matching stubble along his jaw. You recognize his black hat and every blemish that time has etched into the leather.
He smiles and takes a step forward, stretching his right hand towards you. “You’re here,” he says.
And though his words painted with love and joy, there is a trickle of grief that leaks through the tiny cracks. For he knows what it means for you to be here, to be reunited with him. He knows the tragedy that comes with seeing your face almost as youthful as the day he left you.
“Arthur,” you whimper. You grab his hand, pulling it to rest against your cheek. “I missed you,” you struggle to the say the words, choking on them as they stumble through your lips.
With the touch of his skin, you smile, know that this is real. Arthur is real, with you, right in front of you. You have reunited, returned to your home. And neither time, nor pain, has severed your ties to each other. Your bond, your love, your trust, could never tainted, could never be erased.
The man pulls you closer to him, desperate to feel your lips against his own.
The kiss tastes exactly as it does in your memories.
Traces of whiskey consumed, combined with an underlying note of tobacco.
a/n: thank you for reading my work! if you liked this piece, i would appreciate it if you could reblog this, which allows me to reach a wider audience than i would on my own. any likes/comments are also appreciated, as it lets me know that people are interested in what’s going on inside of my fandom brain.
pairing: jacob frye x original female character (marianne)
blurb: “One’s given name is hardly a confirmation of character.”
word count: 3.4k+
title inspiration: horizon - snow ghosts
[VAMPIRE AU] From the moment she was born, Marianne Braxton, née Winchester, has been coerced into giving the Templar Order her unwavering loyalty. After years of witnessing the horrors performed in the name of the Order, she questions the purpose of such an organization. But dismantling the Order is a task that can’t be accomplished alone.
This work is cross-posted on Ao3.
01 | … series masterlist
London, 1867
The confession tumbles out of his lips. And though Marianne knows that he stands by his words, she does not miss the waver in his voice. He is unsure, but desperate to reveal this truth. Almost eager to open the pages of a once concealed book; to point at the one sentence that unlocks the key to understanding its meaning.
“I love you,” he says.
A silence follows this revelation.
But it is a truth that Marianne has known for quite some time. For she has already witnessed his lingering gazes, has already felt the way he shudders when her skin makes contact with his own. And yet, she is not ready for this verbal confirmation of her suspicions.
Her hands press against her plum colored dress. And out of reflex, she smoothes down the fabric beneath her fingers. She needs a moment to process, to fully gather her thoughts. The woman wants to string together the right words, a response appropriate for this situation. Something that will cause the least amount of damage to their relationship.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “but I do not return your affections.”
The man gives her a small smile, unsurprised by her rejection. “I know,” he says, with a nod of his head. His amber eyes drift to focus their gaze on the dark wood of his large desk. “I simply wanted to express my feelings for you.”
“Claude,” Marianne sighs and takes a cautious step towards the man. “This does not mean that I will never learn to care for you, as more than a dear friend. This marriage was—”
“An event that I never believed I would experience with you,” he interrupts. “I can understand why you agreed to marry me and I will not fault you for your decision. I have known you long enough to be well aware of the difficulties you have experienced. I do not blame you for wanting to escape from your parents, from their endless demands. I am a Baron, and that was more than enough reason for your parents agreed to our marriage. You have become a Baroness, an upgrade to your status in society.”
Marianne frowns. “I did not marry you for you title.”
“It is okay, Marianne. You do not need to justify your actions.” The man stands up from his armchair and approaches the woman. “I do not ask that of you.”
“Tell me why we are having this conversation,” she raises her gaze to meet his own.
Claude hesitates, before reaching a hand towards the woman. His fingertips brush against the loose curls of her copper hair. And just as he is about to press his palm against the skin of her cheek, he pulls his arm away. “You are much more intelligent than our peers would like to believe. And you have a heart, one that should not be chained by the vows that you have made with the Order. When I am gone—”
“Gone?” Marianne interrupts. “Where are you going?”
The man continues, ignoring her inquiries. “I want you to trust your instincts,” he says. His hands lightly grasp onto the sides of her arms. “Question everything, question the Order. I know that you have doubts about their cause, purpose. You know that something is not adding up. That vampirism is spreading at an exponential pace. It is unnatural, as if the spread is being encouraged, manipulated by an outside force.”
Marianne blinks. She studies the man looming above her. “What do you know?”
“That the worst thing that you have ever seen is nothing, compared to the truth.”
“Claude—”
The couple are interrupted by a knock on the door.
Claude retracts his hands and takes a step away from his wife. “You may enter,” he says.
One of their maids, Bethany, enters the room.
“My Lord, my Lady,” she says, “Mr. Crawford Starrick is here. He requests a moment of your time, Lady Braxton, if possible.”
Claude groans and runs his fingers through his short blond hair. “What could that vile man possibly want now?”
Marianne stifles a chuckle, before it has the chance to escape from her lips, and turns to address the young woman. “Please inform Mr. Starrick that I will be with him in just a few moments.”
“Of course, my Lady,” the woman curtsies and exits the room.
“I do not know why you bother entertaining that man,” Claude says.
“Sometimes it is easier to simply do the bare minimum,” she responds. “Smile and laugh, when prompted, and then slip away once the opportunity arises.”
The man crosses his arms and leans against his desk. “And what happens when the bare minimum is no longer enough? Will you still continue to appease that man with your attention?”
“If you were not so keen on angering the future Grand Master, I would not have to appease him as often as I do.”
Claude scoffs. “That is a silly rumor.”
“To ignore that possibility is utter naivety on your part.”
“Starrick will never get that kind of promotion, not with the amount of people that dislike him.”
Marianne turns to exit the room. When her fingers latch onto the doorknob, she pauses to give one last remark. “You forget that leaders do not have to be liked; they just need persuade those who will help them accomplish their goals.”
~ ~ ~
“Mr. Starrick,” Marianne greets. She descends the steps of the grand staircase and then approaches the man. “I was not expecting your company.”
“Forgive the intrusion, Lady Marianne,” the man replies. He gives her a small bow, before gesturing to a somewhat small, flat object propped against the wall. “I come bearing a gift, an early birthday present.”
“I see.” Marianne steps closer the rectangular object. Once her fingers are tightly gripped onto the edges, she lifts it up. It has a surprising amount of weight to it, but it is still far from too heavy for her to carry. The gift is concealed by large pieces of parchment, which Marianne gracefully tears away.
This action exposes an oil painting, a landscape. Her eyes trace the coating of colorful hues, examining the splatters of pinks, blues, and yellows for flower petals. The vivid brushstrokes of colors blend in with the lush greenery of surrounding grasses and leaves. Off-center, on the right side of the painting, is a woman. She is dressed in a large navy blue evening gown, complete with a subtle floral print and lace trimmings on the sleeves. Though the angle of her head conceals her identity, the woman’s shade of red hair bears a striking resemblance to Marianne’s own locks.
“This is quite beautiful,” the woman says. “It reminds me of my parents’ countryside estate, of the springtime blooms that overtake the gardens.”
“I am pleased that the painting is up to your standards,” Starrick responds.
Marianne smiles.
She motions for a nearby maid to approach. “Elizabeth, take this painting to the dining hall. I shall pick a suitable location for it later.”
“Of course, my Lady,” the woman says. She takes the painting away from Marianne and then disappears through a doorway.
Turning back to her guest, the Baroness says, “While I do appreciate the early gift, I cannot help but wonder if your visit today is for a different reason.”
The man nods. “You know me too well, Lady Marianne. There is, in fact, a matter I hoped to discuss with you.”
“Of course,” she says. “What is it?”
“Perhaps we could venture to a more discrete location, away from any curious ears.”
“If you are worried about my husband overhearing this conversation, then you have nothing to fear,” the woman smiles. “He is currently preoccupied with a business engagement,” she lies. “Right here is a perfectly suitable location for our discussion.”
Starrick sighs, but submits to her insistence. “I have previously expressed my concerns with your marriage to Lord Braxton.”
“You most certainly have,” Marianne interrupts.
He brushes aside her words and continues speaking. “I believe this to be an unfit union, especially for a Templar of your status. I encourage you to leave him, as soon as you can.”
“A runaway Baroness would be quite the scandal,” she chuckles. “The other aristocrats would never stop gossiping about such behavior.”
“English aristocracy would be the least of your problems,” Starrick snaps. “When you married Braxton, he was a respectable Templar, but he has turned into a fool. In order to regain the respect of our peers, you must leave him. Your loyalty to our cause must surely be more important than your insignificant obligations as a wife.”
“You may not like my husband, but he is still a Templar. And, despite what you think, he is still loyal to the Order.”
“Braxton will only stop you from reaching your full potential. He will hold you back and bring upon shame to you and your family. If you continue to remain by his side, you will lose the support of the Templars.” He takes a couple of steps towards the woman. “Do you truly wish to ruin your family’s reputation, the Winchester reputation?”
“I hardly believe that you are concerned about the status of my reputation.”
“Braxton is a traitor.” His accusation is firm.
But unsupported.
“Then why is he still alive?” Marianne quirks a brow. “Where is his executioner? Is it you?”
Starrick frowns.
“Or perhaps,” she taunts, “could it be that you are lacking the necessary proof? That your word is not quite enough leverage to sway the minds of our superiors, of those who much prefer the company of Lord Braxton over yourself?”
“You will see what kind of man he is. You will see where his loyalties lie.”
“I wonder if someone will say the same thing about you one day.”
The man glares at her. And from the corner of her eye, Marianne can see his fists clench, an attempt to quench the anger brewing beneath his skin.
“I believe it is time for you to leave,” the Baroness says. “I have several appointments that I must attend to.”
Starrick takes one last step towards her and lowers his voice to a hiss. “You will come to regret your involvement, your commitment, with this man.”
Marianne keeps herself rooted in place, unwilling to break beneath his threats. “Life is full of regrets, Mr. Starrick. I doubt that, in the end, this one will be noteworthy.”
~ ~ ~
Before Marianne is able to enter her husband’s study, she senses that something is out of place. Claude has a tendency to cause a bit of a ruckus while working, always pacing throughout the office or rummaging through his papers.
But she only hears silence, a trait far too uncharacteristic for the disorganized man.
The Baroness reaches between the ruffles of her gown, slipping her fingers around the handle of a small dagger. With a secure grip, she pushes open the door and enters the room.
A body is on the floor, in front of the desk. And Marianne needs only to see the burgundy tie, a gift from her, to know that it is Claude. Blood streams from a large slash carved into his neck, forming a puddle of crimson liquid that creeps its way across the floor. It reaches for the doorway, as though, it too, longs to escape from the death steadily consuming the atmosphere.
Marianne is quick to cross the room, knowing that she needs to give the body a closer inspection. She crouches down to look for any traces of evidence.
Aside from the gash in his throat, she finds no other signs of a struggle. There are no ligature marks. No early signs of bruising. A potential weapon is nowhere sight. And his hands are clean, untainted by any blood.
His wound is not self-inflicted, nor did he react or attempt to resist his fate.
She presses a hand against his skin; he is still warm to the touch.
Her husband has killed and—
The woman’s ears perk up when she hears a floorboard creak behind her.
—the murderer is still in the room.
“Tell me,” she says, “is his killer an Assassin or Templar?” Marianne rises to a standing position and turns to face whomever is in the room with her.
With their hands slightly raised in front of them, a figure steps out of the shadows. It is a man dressed in white robes, adorned with ornate golden trim and stitching. His face is shrouded by a matching white hood, but traces of his almond colored skin bleed through gaps in the fabric.
“An Assassin,” Marianne notes. Her eyes drift the blade held between the fingers of his right hand. A drop of blood drips from the edge of the metal and splashes against the floor. “Are you here to kill me, as well?”
“For now,” he says, “you are not a target.” The man speaks with the slightest hint of an accent, revealing his origins of birth to not be that of Great Britain. India, perhaps?
Marianne tilts her head and takes a step towards him. “If I am safe today, then what of tomorrow? Next week? Should I expecting a visit from the Grim Reaper in the near future?”
“That will depend.”
“On?”
“On strength of your loyalty to the Templars,” he says.
“Interesting,” Marianne replies. She turns her head to glance back at the oozing corpse. “Some Templars believed Claude to be a traitor, but most could not fathom the idea that such a well-respected man would turn against us. Still, there was speculation that he may have been leaking information to your Brotherhood.”
The man remains silent.
“I know it is a bit of a rarity between presumed enemies, but are you willing to keep a secret?” Marianne adjusts her grip on the small dagger, spinning it between her fingers, while awaiting his response.
“A civil conversation between our organizations is already a rarity,” he says. “I don’t see the harm in adding to that list.”
“I would never confess this to my fellow Templars, but the truth is that I believed the rumors.”
The Assassin slightly raises his gaze to examine the woman. “You, a Winchester, refused to betray a man you believed had turned on the Order?"
Marianne shrugs. “One’s given name is hardly a confirmation of character.”
“Why did you keep his secret?”
“He should never have been a member of the Order,” she says. “Beneath his guise as the utterly devoted Templar, he was a kind man. He had a code of morals that he longed to follow, but knew that he could not do so publicly. For quite some time, I have known that he was drifting away. I had my speculations long before the rest of the Order. And I knew that if I did not marry him, if I did not attempt to protect him with my family’s long proven loyalty, he would be made an example of, slaughtered.”
“You loved him.”
“No,” Marianne shakes her head, “not in the way that you are suggesting. He was a friend that I cared for immensely. We grew up together; I knew the pieces of him that he hoped to keep concealed. I do not need to see proof to know that Claude turned against the Order, that he became an informant for the Assassins.” Her fist tightens, clutching the dagger in her hand. “But I wonder, what do you have to gain by killing the one man who was willing to tell you everything.”
“Lord Braxton was well aware of the Order’s suspicions,” he says. “He knew that it was only a matter of time before they sent someone to execute him.”
“He asked you to kill him,” she realizes.
“Death by Assassin was the only way to prevent himself from being captured by the Templars and forced into betraying the Brotherhood.”
“He snipped off his own loose ends,” Marianne muses.
“He spoke of you often,” the man reveals. “He wished that you had been born into a life that was free from the clutches of the Templars. And he believed you to be conflicted between your need to satiate your parents’ expectations and your desperation to cling onto some minuscule inkling of good morality. Your husband didn’t die due to loose ends; he died because it was the only way to protect you from the consequences of his decisions.”
“Why would you tell me all of this?” The woman wonders. “What makes you think I am the type of person Claude believed me to be?”
“Because,” he pauses, “instead of bloodshed, we are having a conversation. I confess that I am not much of a killer.” He glances down at his hand. “This blade was used to help my friend. I do not wish to fight with you, Lady Braxton.”
“If you do not wish to fight, then what happens now?”
“If you desire to escape from London, I can help you. I know excellent forgers who will grant you a new identity. You could have the freedom to live the kind of life you wish to follow. My Lady, you could be free of this lifestyle, free from the influence of Templars.”
“No,” Marianne shakes her head. “No, I will not be going anywhere.”
“I realize this is a big decision to make in the spur of the moment,” the Assassin says. “Should you change your mind in the future, I will gladly provide the promised assistance.”
“You misunderstand,” she says. “Without an informant, your information will soon be outdated. I can replace Claude.”
The man sighs. “If the Order catches you, you will be executed.”
“Sir, I may only know life as a Templar, but I know enough to realize that I do not wish to remain as one. They are a terrifying organization, one that aims to rule the world. And if they accomplish that goal, they will do so with the utmost cruelty. The Order must be prevented from gaining more power than they already have. They have already seized control of London and we must stop their influence before it is too late.
“I have seen the experiments that are conducted on captured vampires. They live their lives in constant torture, torment. They are starved, stabbed, electrocuted. Limbs are chopped off, until there is hardly anything left. They are drained, physically and mentally, and it is beyond inhumane. If you could witness what I have seen, you would know that the Templars are the real monsters. They do not care for stopping the infection; they wish only to harness immortality and use it to guarantee their dictatorship.”
“Lady Braxton,” the man smiles, “I believe an alliance between us would be most beneficial.”
Marianne gives him a warm smile in return. “And what is the name of my new partner?”
“I am Henry Green.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Green, despite the grim circumstances.”
Henry drops his smile and lowers his gaze, a feeling of guilt itching inside of his chest. “My condolences for my contribution to your loss.”
“Claude knew what would happen,” she reassures. “He knew that he would not be able to hide forever. His death is not your fault, regardless of the blade clenched between your fingers.”
The man nods his head and tucks the weapon away.
“Most importantly,” Marianne says, “our current circumstances need to be resolved, in a way that avoids any unwanted growth of suspicion about Claude’s loyalty. I will not be able to buy you much time to escape, but I can provide the servants with a brief distraction.”
The woman brings her blade up towards her face and glides the sharp metal against the skin of her jawline. She uses the knife to slice against the sleeves of her dress, destroying the expensive material. Then the woman presses the blade against the newly exposed skin and etches new cuts into her body. She smears the dripping blood along her arm and against the bodice of the dress.
“I hope to see you soon, Mr. Green.” She says, before gesturing to the window. “Go, before it is too late.”
Henry nods and approaches the window. Before he slips through, he turns to cast one last glance at the new widow. But he says nothing, and instead continues with his escape.
When his figure disappears from her sight, Marianne releases an ear-splitting scream.
a/n: hello~ thank you for reading this fic! if you enjoyed what you read, please considering giving this piece a reblog, like, and/or comment. i am a small author, so any and all responses boost my confidence and let me know that people are interested in my work.
considering this is a vampire au and that the assassin’s creed franchise is technically considered a work of science fiction, i’ve accepted the fact that this series will be historically inaccurate. while I won’t do anything crazy like throw in cellphones in the victorian era, I am bound to make mistakes. I am about to start my journey into obtain my MFA in creative writing, which means I will not have the time or energy to properly research each aspect of this time period. this fic is simply a fun side project where I can exercise my writing, while gushing over my favorite chaotic bisexual (lovingly) dumbass assassin.
you can find my other social media at Twitter and Ao3
warnings: descriptions of migraines and its side effects, including details about throwing up
full disclosure this is a self-indulgent fic. i suffer from excruciating migraines that often effect my daily life. all details regarding the described migraine are based on my personal experience and routine when dealing with them.
This work is cross-posted on AO3.
The pain always starts with a dull throb. It prods at the left side of your face, in the small space just below the eye and next to the nose. By the end of the hour, the throbbing spreads, capturing the orbital bone and creeping its way up into the temple. When the pain escalates from a dulled gnawing to that of a piercing pain of a knife etching itself into your skull, you know the worst of it all is about to come. There is no hope now for preventing the chaos and misery about to unfold.
You retreat to the comfort of your bed, right before your brain can fully process the nausea forming in the pit of your stomach. Moments later, you can feel your body enter a state of panic, confusion, self-destruction. Your stomach is twisting, tangling itself into painful knots. Your skin begins to burn. It becomes a furnace of scorching heat that is overtaking you. And then you’re shoving the sheets away from you because you can feel them suffocating you. The skin of chest, your face, your arms, and your fingers grow clammy, coating themselves with a thin layer of sweat. And even though you know you’ll be okay once the you’ve slept until the next morning, you fear that this time your body truly is breaking down. That maybe this migraine isn’t the same as the ones before it, that this one is irregular, introducing a modification to your usual experience. What if this one ends up being too much pain for your body to handle?
With a shaking hand, you reach towards the beside table. Your fingers wrap around the edges of your communicator and you pull it close to your body. The brightness of the screen introduces you to a new wave pain, forcing you to squint your eyes to dull the sensation. You push through it, focusing your attention on opening your list of contacts. Your fingers slide down the screen, looking for a name in particular.
Angela Ziegler.
She’s helped you through this many times before. She knows your routine, almost better than you do.
When you find her name, your fingers press against it.
Almost immediately, the call is answered. And before she can utter a single word, you whimper a strained, “Can you come here?”
There is a brief pause after your words.
She just needs a moment, to pull herself away from her work and focus her attention on you. A moment to completely process the tremble in your voice, the desperation and pain lacing your words. And then she realizes what is happening, that you need her before the situation escalates.
“I’ll be right there,” she responds.
Barely ten minutes later, the doors of your room slide open. Angela heads straight towards the bed, kneeling on the floor beside you. She places a gentle hand on your exposed arm and rubs soothing circles against your skin.
“What do you need?” She says.
A wave of nausea hits and you whine at the discomfort. You need a few moments to build up your strength, before you can respond. “Gonna be sick,” you say.
Angela pulls away from you and rushes to your bathroom. She opens the cabinet beneath the sink and pulls out a large bowl, one you keep stowed away for situations like this.
The moment she places the bowl onto the bed, your fingers clutch onto it, digging themselves into the plastic. As you shift to sit in an upright position, the coil containing the bile inside of your stomach breaks, and you hurl the fluids into the vessel. The acid burns the inside of your throat and the chunks of your undigested lunch heighten the experience, making you feel more disgusted and uncomfortable.
After the first round of vomit has fully exited your system, Angela pulls the bowl away. She disappears into the bathroom, dumping out its contents and giving it a quick rinse. When she returns, she brings a spare towel. The medic covers a small area of the bed with it, before placing the bowl on top of the material.
You take a moment to attempt calming yourself down, inhaling shaky, gasping breathes of air. The pain of your migraine is still throbbing and the knots in your stomach are steadily rebuilding themselves.
Lurching forward, another round of bile escapes from your body.
Angela perches herself on the edge of the bed. She reaches towards you, pulling your hair away from your face. “It’s okay,” she says, “let it out.”
Tears leak from your eyes as you throw up once again, but the action finally eases the knots that had embedded themselves inside of you. When you pull your hands away from the bowl, the woman takes it away from the bed.
“I’ll be right back,” she says. “Do you want a wet washcloth?”
You inhale.
Exhale.
“Yes,” you respond.
She heads back towards the bathroom. When she switches on the faucet to clean the mess, you focus your attention on the sound of the running water. Anything to distract you from stabbing pain grinding against your skull.
Once you’re certain the nausea has subsided, you move to lay down on the bed. You feel exhausted, overwhelmed by the state of your body.
Angela returns, placing a cool, damp cloth against your forehead. When she sees your body begin to relax from the sensation, she reaches out for the small music player sitting on the table. She turns it on, breaking the silence of the room with the soft sound of a piano.
The noise pulls your thoughts away from the migraine, allowing you to focus on the music produced by the keys of the instrument.
When your muscles are no longer clenched from the pain and your breathing is back to a normal rate, Angela picks up the washrag. She wipes the fabric against more of your skin. It relieves the burning sensation, allowing your body to cool down.
The motions comfort you and you begin to drift off into a shallow state of slumber. Half-conscious, you utter a quiet, “Thank you.” The words are muffled by the pillow pressed against your lips.
The woman moves to crawl onto the bed, settling herself behind you. She presses a hand against your back and rubs gentle strokes against the fabric of your shirt. Angela pauses for a moment, shifting to settle herself closer to you. She leans forward, placing her lips against your shoulder blade to leave a soft kiss on the skin.
Your smile at the contact.
a/n: thank you so much for reading! if you liked this fic, or just like my work in general, i would very much appreciate a reblog, like, or comment. any piece of support helps motivate a small writer like me!
you can also follow me on ao3 or twitter.
the following is a note about my migraines:
i didn’t want to leave a big long blurb about them in the intro note, so i’m leaving it down here. i’ve suffered from headaches for the majority of my life, but they didn’t truly escalate in intensity until i started attending college at age 18. they are not always as gruesome as depicted in the fic, but sadly it is a frequent occurrence.
i suspect i suffer from hypoglycemia, based on what normally triggers such a response from my body. but the problem is that it’s been very difficult to diagnose what is truly the cause. i’ve been rushed to a health clinic while suffering from one of my excruciating migraines, but even then they couldn’t figure out the trigger and gave me the oh so very useful diagnosis of “you have a migraine” before shoving a needle in my asscheek to reduce the pain.
my migraines do very much effect my life. i’ve thrown up at work before and my boss had to clean up my vomit, which was such a humiliating experience. i’ve also had to cancel many events last minute because the risk of minor headache escalating to a full-blown migraine in a place where i can’t get proper help is too high.
anyway! if you’re still reading this note and you also experience migraines, just know that you aren’t alone. and hopefully this fic can provide you with some comfort.
pairing: Jesse McCree x Original Female Character (Odette)
blurb: “Get a move on, cowboy.”
word count: 1.1k+
title inspiration: badge and gun - john mayer
the beginning for a series of vignettes (not posted in chronological order) revolving around mccree, ashe, and their shared girlfriend. note: for the purpose of this story, mccree and ashe are not in a romantic relationship with each other, but do consensually share a girlfriend.
This work is cross-posted on Ao3.
01 | … series masterlist
Post-Disbandment of Overwatch
The sound of running water echoes throughout the bathroom, splashing against the seafoam green tiles of the walls and splattering onto the white floor beneath the two pairs of bare feet. Some droplets of water coat the frosted glass of the shower door, while others wrap themselves in-between the strands of long hair.
Jesse watches as the dripping waters race amongst each other, sliding down the space of exposed pale skin. His eyes lift, gazing upon the black roses tattooed into the right shoulder blade of his partner, Odette. And though he has seen this artwork, has had this naked body revealed to him many times before, he finds himself enraptured in its beauty once more. Longing for physical contact, Jesse reaches his right hand forward and twists a lock of deep emerald green hair around his index finger.
The woman in front of him tenses, just for a brief moment, startled by the contact. She turns her head to glance back at him, eyebrow raised and a hint of a smile painted into the corners of her lips. “What are you doing?” She asks.
Jesse releases a soft chuckle. “Just admirin’ the view, darling,” he says.
She makes a show of rolling her eyes in feigned annoyance, before shaking her head and laughing. “You can admire all you want,” she says, “but we’re late.” Odette reaches for the shower’s faucet, turning the handle to adjust the temperature. “Get a move on, cowboy.”
Jesse responds with a dramatic groan. He wraps his arms around the woman and pulls her back flush against his chest. “What if we just don’t go?” He mumbles.
“And make Liz mad?” She pauses. “Again?”
“Ashe is always mad,” he says.
The woman gives him a light slap on his wrist, but her face is still highlighted with an expression of amusement. “She is not!”
Jesse leans down to rest the bottom of his chin on her shoulder. “Now we both know that’s just a blatant lie, honey.”
“Nuh uh,” she denies. “Liz is almost never mad at me, but you, on the other hand—”
The man sighs.
“—never stop pissing her off.”
“It’s not my fault—”
“Don’t you call me a liar if you’re about to lie yourself,” Odette scoffs. “You absolutely contribute to her temper.”
“You can’t put all the blame on me.”
“You are,” the woman pauses, “often at fault for her temper. Is that answer truthful enough for you?”
Knowing that she is teasing him, Jesse responds with an exaggerated huff of annoyance.
“Just behave today, okay?” Odette turns around and lifts her arms to wrap around his neck. “Please? For me?”
When her soft pink lips pull themselves up into a tender smile, a smile directed only at him, Jesse melts at the sight. The man’s breath hitches, distracted by dark chocolate brown eyes that are warmed by sparks of joy that glisten within the irises. And his heart flutters, energized by the sight of the subtle freckles speckled across Odette’s adorable nose.
Looking at her, admiring her, he falls for her all over again.
“Fine,” Jesse concedes, “but only because you asked.”
Odette shifts, placing a hand against the man’s cheek. “I’ll make it up to you. We can be bad a different day,” she whispers. “How does that sound?”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yeah,” she says.
Jesse smiles and leans down to kiss her, but Odette stops him with a finger pressed against his lips.
“No, no no,” she laughs. “If you start, then we’ll never get out of here!”
The man frowns. He lifts a hand to wrap around hers, holding it in place as he playfully bites the woman’s finger.
“Jesse,” she whines, but laughs. “You promised!”
When Odettes moves to pull herself out of his arms, a sensation of panic, of desperation overcomes him. Jesse digs his fingers into her waist, tightens his grip on her hand. His chest tenses and he breathes in shallow gasps of air. An impulse tells him to pull her back to him, to not let her slip away from his arms. And Jesse listens to this impulse, believing that if she leaves now, everything will change.
Crawling out of the crevices of his mind, is a truth that he has wanted to ignore. The knowledge of what happens once they leave the hotel room. That after today, Jesse will never be with her again, not like this. There will be no more shared moments. No more private liaisons where they can expose the most intimate aspects of themselves, sharing secrets that they would never trust with anyone else. Jesse will never feel her again, never feel the comfort of how his skin tingles when her fingers trail down his body. Never again feel her lips pressed against him, never feel her teeth nipping playfully at his skin.
Knowing this future urges Jesse to say the words that he has already said to her many times before, words he wished he had told her again in this moment. “I love you,” he says.
The woman smiles, but her expression is ruined by the concern lacing her features. “I love you, too,” Odette says. “But are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Jesse leans down, pulling her back into his body and burying his face in the side of her neck. “I just wanted to make sure you knew,” he says. He takes in the scent of her, comforted by the lingering traces of her perfume: jasmine warmed by faint notes of vanilla.
The woman embraces him, sliding her hands to rest against his back.
And for awhile, the couple stand there together, motionless, allowing the sound of running water to silence the quiet that has grown during the break in conversation. An aura of comfort, of solace, blankets them and urges Jesse to pull her into an even tighter embrace.
“Why did you leave me?” Her question is a whisper, hesitant, confused.
The man closes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Jesse?”
When he reopens his eyes, the woman is gone. Water pounds against his back, loosening the dirt and blood that paints his skin. His arms are raised in front of him, hands pressed against the cracked tiles of the motel bathroom.
Ignoring the shower, he slides open the plastic curtain and steps away from the water. As he dries his hands on a towel, Jesse approaches the sink’s counter. He picks up a small silver object, a compass. It’s an item that has rarely strayed far from Jesse’s grasp; an item that remains close to his body, tucked away in a pocket hidden from sight. It’s one of his few possessions that he has cared for as the years have progressed, the only blemish being a small scratch on its glass face.
The man turns the compass over, allowing his fingers to trace the words engraved.
don’t get lost without me, cowboy
a/n:
hello~ thank you for reading this fic! if you enjoyed what you read, please considering giving this piece a reblog, like, and/or comment. i am a small author, so any and all responses boost my confidence and let me know that people are interested in my work.
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