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This is honestly, by far, the most ambitious work of fanfiction I have ever undertaken.  Some of the tags are notated for later chapters.  I do hope that you will enjoy this work that I have put a good amount of blood, sweat and tears into.  Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Simon "Ghost" Riley/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, Original Female Character(s), John Price (Call of Duty), John "Soap" MacTavish, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Kate Laswell, Kate Laswell's Wife

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The BIG NEW FIC

Greetings, Readers - It is my pleasure to announce, "The Mislabeled Miseducation/Reeducation of Simon Riley," written by my good self and beta read by my good friends Twin and Ary. Characters, etc. are inspired by Call of Duty Modern Warfare A Prologue and Chapters 01 - 03 to be published to Archive of Our Own Feb, 14th. Chapters to follow, I hope, every 1 -2 weeks as scheduling permits. The story is legit. one of the longest things I have written and also, I think, one of the best. The story is of Simon, "Ghost," Riley, and his slow return to feeling Human again. Thanks to the power of the love of one a found family and one woman. Other characters from the Modern Warfare are also going to be featured. If you're into Call of Duty, a fan of Ghost, and you like really long fanfics with spicy female characters, then I like to hope you will read and leave feedback when, "Mislabeled," is published.

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Deep Waters

Deep Waters Author: Willow Ravenwright Word Count: 1386 Disclaimer: Any and all references, characters, etc. connected to Call of Duty are sole property of their owners. The same is being used without copyright and no attempt is being made to copyright any material herein. It's just for fun.

Summary: After the events in Chicago, Laswell sends her top operative on a forced vacation. But she isn't going alone.

“LaFey, you've earned a rest,” said Station Chief Laswell over their ritualistic morning coffee.

Task Force 141 had all returned from Chicago a few short days ago. For her part, Laswell was glad of the fact her right – hand woman was on the mend after taking the bullet meant for her in Spain. She admitted, if only to herself, that she was afraid of losing her between there and Al-Mazrah. But, as she might have guessed, John and Gaz and the others had rushed in to bring, “their girls,” home.

Rhiannon's right leg would not be the same. Alex had done what he could, but he was no proper medic. It certainly didn't help that she took off with Price and Gaz to help the 141 in Mexico.

Ghost was angry. Luckily, he was Price's problem. The two operatives had more or less been joined at the hip since she was discharged home. And if the Lieutenant wanted to, stay with her for a while? Neither of their superiors were going to debate it.

“You stay home with Gho – Simon – and recover. Let your leg heal.”

That was three weeks ago.

Simon, for his part, busied himself by assisting around the apartment, allowing her to truly rest and recover. Today, as he was tidying the high up shelves, a small photo album lightly caught him on the head. He chose in the moment not to open it, but instead took it into the small living area and offer it to Rhiannon; perhaps it would be a good distraction.

As usual, he had to pry away the files and the tablet in her hands; ever the workaholic. Stubborn to the end. He carefully set them aside, placing the pictures into her hands.

“Laswell told you to rest,” he chided her for the millionth time.

“I -am- resting… I'm not running the course, or doing more than half – limping 'round this apartment, now am I?” replied Rhiannon succinctly. He chose to ignore her tone, putting it down to cabin fever. Rhiannon LaFey didn't do well in what she thought was a cage, no matter how temporary that cage might be.

It took a few moments for her to sigh, closing her eyes and rubbing her face. She looked tired and pale, and turned her gaze up to him from the little couch.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“S'all right, love,” he easily responded. It was no harm; no foul. Finally, she looked, eyes widening and a smile gracing her lips.

“Where did you find this?” she inquired as she looked over the cheap plastic cover.

“Up in one of the cabinets; got me in the head,” he answered as she opened it to look inside. With a gesture of her head, she invited him to come and have a look, as well.

Smiling parents. A little boy with swim trunks and beside him, a little girl. Slightly older, with a colourful bathing suit on the beach with waves rolling in.

“This was a beach holiday, then,” he observed, “you were; what? Ten?”

“I think it was twelve.” Rhiannon's eyes had gone soft, as had her voice, as she took her time looking through the pictures. “We'd always take a vacation to the beach once a year. Sometimes twice.”

The pictures changed; that same girl much taller – more like the Rhiannon he knew before him now. Also taller and more like a young man was the little boy; he surmised without asking this must be Rhiannon's little – mentioned brother Liam. This time in sweaters and on the balcony of a hotel with the sea still crashing in the background.

“I haven't been to the sea in – god, it's been years,” she mused as she finally closed the photo album, “thanks for that, Simon; I'd forgotten I had those pictures.”

“Glad I could distract you from everything you're not supposed to be doing,” he replied, smirking behind his mask. ***

“Pack?” asked Rhiannon a few days later.

“Yeah; your leg is doing better and better… I think we can test it out a bit, eh?”

“And somehow I don't think you're telling me where we're going, now are you?”

“Nope.”

The drive was long enough that Rhiannon might have been a bit more annoyed, had her intrigue not been musing the entire time as to where they could possibly be traveling. Simon, as ever, was single – minded in his purpose. Rhiannon took some hints as to the direction they were headed.

But even she was floored when they arrived at the hotel. It looked to be somewhere that Laswell might coordinate for them on a long – term sort of mission, which immediately made her suspect that it was her who had made these arrangements. She led with her cane as she carefully extracted herself from the vehicle, not noticing Simon's eyes on her as she did so. Always vigilant and watchful, even as he opened the trunk to get their bags.

The manager seemed to know who they were at once, and immediately welcomed them fondly and presented them with keys and wished them a good stay and, “please, do let us know if you need absolutely -anything- Sir. Ma'am.” The room that was theirs was, they had been assured, “the very best we can do… on the first floor, as specifically requested.” Rhiannon knew the request had been for her benefit, and was grateful for it for the time being. The long hours in the vehicle hadn't done her leg any favours. Their accommodations were spacious, beautifully furnished with very soft and crisply laid bed sheets and she smiled. A box of chocolate covered strawberries and a bottle of champagne.

'Enjoy,' said the note. Signed, K.

“Kate did this for us?” Rhiannon finally inquired as she stretched out on the bed to look out at the gorgeous ocean view their room afforded.

“She agreed with me when I said you needed a change of scene… that, or you were going to absolutely go 'round the bend being stuck at home.”

“This is – really lovely, Simon. Thank you.”

“When you're ready, we'll go get some drinks and head out to the beach, yeah?”

And so it was that evening, Simon and Rhiannon found themselves seated on the beach, hot tea in their hands and wrapped up together in warm blankets. She had settled between his open legs, resting close against him and eyes fixed on the water.

As they sat together, the waves crashing before them, his ears caught a sound… felt the soft vibrations of the woman in his arms. For a moment, he looked at her, perplexed. But then he realized…

She was singing. Softly, gently, but she was singing.

What care we though white the Minch is? What care we, boys, for windy weather When we know that every inch is Sailin' homeward to Mingulay

As the song began to pick up, so did her voice, and he could hear her; a soft and even tone. Certainly not the rock voices he had grew up and around… but it was much better than he could do.

Heave her ho, boys Let her go, boys Swing her head round into the weather Heave her ho, boys Let her go, boys Sailin' homeward to Mingulay -

For a moment, it seemed as if she was in her own world… until she looked up and saw him, looking down at her.

“You 'ave a nice voice, love,” Simon complimented her, a warm smile in his tone, “what sort of song is that?”

“It's a sea shanty,” she explained, eyes turning back to the water, “sailors used to, and might still, sing them to help keep rhythm with tasks on board ship. “When I was a girl, I loved to hear them.”

“Do you know any more?”

“I know a few…” she affirmed, and her voice was a bit bolder now… the young woman in his arms paying homage to the men and women of the sea with their own music.

Arms wrapped close around her, Simon knew he couldn't join her… he didn't know the words. But she could feel a soft, easy baritone in his chest, humming softly along, harmonizing as much as he felt he was able.

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Not For You...

Not For You... Author: Willow Ravenwright Word Count: 4781 Rating: G Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it’s characters, locations, etc. are the sole property of Eric Kripke and Warner Bros. Entertainment. It is being used without permission and no intent is being made to copyright any material herein. Any small references to ShadowHunters are the sole property of Cassandra Claire, Freeform and their subsidiaries; again, no copyright infringement is intended and no intent is being made to copyright any material herein.   Summary: In a first, he actually hurts someone to help them. “Argh!” “Oh, c'mon,” she chided, “you've drank higher proof than this.” Letting a deep breath escape him, Arthur Ketch sat as motionless as he could while his wounds were being ministered to by the deft hands of his current Hunting partner. Emily Winchester, Shadowhunter, Nephilim, dark haired and serious, was working on a particularly nasty wound at his midsection from the werewolf they had recently dispatched. Pretty standard fare, but Arthur, even if he would only admit it to himself, had gotten cocky. He'd left his left flank open, and before Emily had dispatched the creature with a well – aimed arrow, he had gone down in flash of pain. Though it had been quickly checked and labeled as nothing but a very deep flesh wound that would need stitches, the information didn't make the pain lessen. Back at their hotel room, Emily began to lay out the supplies they'd need; needle and thread, a candle, lighter, Jack Daniels (not the super good stuff – standard Old Number 07) along with bandages and some sort of plant that he didn't recognize. With hot water, Emily began to re-hydrate the plant and set to work with the alcohol. “Are you sure it wasn't a bite?” she asked for what was the fifth time that evening, concern in her tone. “As sure – ugh – as I can be,” responded Ketch with a groan while Emily was cleaning the wounds. Candle flame to the silver needle, and soon the wound was being stitched up under Emily's fingers. “Is this how – American Hunters – work?” Ketch inquired while she worked, “patching each other up in cheap hotels?” “More or less,” was the non-committal response while Emily made each stitch with care, reaching up to pour a plastic cup of the Jack. “Drink,” she told him firmly but kindly, “it'll help take your mind off the pain.” Though he was loathe to lower his standards, the promise of pain relief was too tempting, and he took the offered alcohol, the adrenaline mixing with it to create a heady sort of state where the pain was not so bad. “You've done this a lot, I imagine,” he went on, eye turned upward as she finished, “with your brothers?” “Yup; reset shoulders and elbows, stitched up wounds, and everything else.” Now that the work was done, Emily set those tools aside, gently placing the newly hydrated leaves against the wound. “I used a silver needle to stitch you up,” she said, “but this is wolfsbane; if you did get bitten, it should prevent you from turning.” The warm leaves were soft against his skin while Emily placed bandages over the wound. “There,” she said at last, “done.” “Thank you,” he said, and there was a genuine gratefulness in his tones, despite crude and unheard of methods of patching up a wound. “Hey; it's better than taking you to the hospital and trying to explain you got messed up in a hunting accident,” she joked, drying her hands on a towel after cleaning the instruments and her hands, “now, try and get some sleep; you're likely gonna be sore in the morning.” It wasn't anything Ketch didn't anticipate, but he did as she recommended, soon asleep. *** It was a couple weeks later, on a Hunt involving a particularly nasty Wendigo, Ketch was able to return the favour. During the fight, Emily had jumped down in close, and the creature had caught her hard, dislocating a shoulder and getting their claws deep into her flesh. While the bleeding had stopped with well placed iratze rune, the shoulder and the wound would also need some alternative means to heal speedily. Emily took several deep breaths, preparing to brace herself against the doorfame in an attempt to reset her shoulder. As he watched, Arthur gently placed a hand on her good shoulder. “Are you sure that you do not want me to assist?” he asked her. “Do you even -know- how to fix a shoulder?” she asked, casting him a dubious look. “Believe it or not, I -have- had to assist my fellow Hunters in the field a few times,” he assured her, surreptitiously reaching for the pistol he had to hand. In a flash, Emily was down without a sound. As gentle as he was able, he picked her up in his arms, lying her down as he set to work. With a soft groan, Emily came to a few hours later, arm supported in a makeshift sling, wounds healing. Her glare was palpable, as if her jade green eyes were driving hard into his skull. “I know you're angry,” he said around a glass of scotch, “but...” “You didn't need to do that,” she said, her tone flat. “Perhaps, not for you,” he said, and allowed the statement to hang in the air as another swallow of scotch passed his lips. As Emily laid back down, wincing just a little in pain, staring up at the ceiling, she considered the why behind being knocked out while Ketch had tended to her. It both stunned and surprised her.

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Revelation 7:14

Title: Revelation 7:14 Word Count: 564 Rating: PG – 13: Depictions of Mild to Intense Violence TW/CW: Character Death ** SPOILER WARNING: Supernatural S15E03: “The Rupture.” ** Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it’s characters, locations, etc. are the sole property of Eric Kripke and Warner Bros. Entertainment. It is being used without permission and no intent is being made to copyright any material herein. Summary: “And in that moment... Fate had marked him...” The title is taken from the Book of Revelation, Chapter 07, Verse 14 (And he said to me, These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.) From the Bible. It was too late from the moment he saw the nurse go down. She may have had the best intentions, but with a quick snap and twist her troubles were over. Arthur was only too thankful that he had already chosen to begin to unhook himself from the many hospital trappings that held him. They would be a potentially – no, make that a guaranteed – threat in the battle that was now upon him. The IV pole, a convenient glass partition, and the benefit of his current opponent occupying a Human form bought him just the time needed to retrieve his Angel blade from his jacket. “You had one job,” the Demon began, and oh yes – Ketch remembered too well what had happened there. How his current quarry had managed to turn into one under Winchester protection. Damned inconvenient to his current task, but not to his friends. Friends. How many, and how often, had Arthur Ketch used that word to define anyone? Maybe not even since Kendricks – and even then only in the loosest of terms. Toni had been a friend – and a friend with benefits. Mick had been a friend – one that he regretted killing even to this day. Davies had always been a voice of calm in what was often a sea of crazy. “I assure you; I haven't the foggiest,” he replied to Ardat's query – and it was true. He had not a clue as to where exactly Belfagor was at this particular moment – except in the general vicinity of his newfound friends. It was still strange to imagine them as friends. “Such valor,” the Demon half praised as she held him by the throat, “and for what? One profoundly irritating Demon?” “No,” he would have said, if only to himself, “but for two men named Winchester, who could have killed me a second time – and yet let me live. For the sake of a woman that I loved – even if only for a short time. For the Angel that they befriended – and all of these who I now think of as my friends. I cannot give them up now.” He had never been one for dramatic speeches, but he knew the Demon could sense it – knew that she was quick – minded and fierce and that his one chance for escape had gone. The eyes would tell, and he closed his momentarily, seeing them float before his vision for a moment. “You won't give them up?” Ardat inquired tersely, giving him a little shake for good measure, “Not for any price?” The answer... Arthur already knew what it would be before he gave it. And he knew it would sign his own death warrant as surely as he knew his name – what he had been – how he had lived, and how he was about to die. “Not at any price,” he said. A low cry escaped him as he felt a hand enter his chest as surely as any blade would. A flash of pain, and only a few more moments of awareness as his own heart was produced for him to see. A brief moment of fascination, perhaps wonder, before sightless eyes knew no more. His heart laid bare, Arthur Ketch died the one thing he never thought he could ever be – a hero.

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Open Letter To Those Who Won’t Be Doing NaNoWriMo

It’s okay.

I know social media will be overflowing with people doing nano and talking about their progress the next month or so.

Please don’t feel like less of a writer because you go at your own pace. NaNo doesn’t fit into the schedules of a lot of people, and for many, it just isn’t possible with work, school, and so many other things.

Being competitive with yourself is good, but writing, especially for fun, should never be a chore. Don’t put too much stress on yourself.

Happy writing—at your own pace.

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570/365

Alan Rickman // “It’s a human need to be told stories. The more we’re governed by idiots and have no control over our destinies, the more we need to tell stories to each other about who we are, why we are, where we come from, and what might be possible.”

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Homeward

Title: Homeward Word Count: 1018 Rating: G/PG – allusion to Adult Situations Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it’s characters, locations, etc. are the sole property of Eric Kripke and Warner Bros. Entertainment. It is being used without permission and no intent is being made to copyright any material herein. Summary: During, “The Last Ride,” otherwise known as the Current Season (15), Emily Winchester  and Arthur Ketch get a few minutes to breathe, drink, and think. The music that inspired this particular piece is entitled, “Where the River Shannon Flows,” which is an older Irish folk song. ********** It was evening, and in a little motel which was across the board entirely a, “Winchester Special,” and nothing like the wealth to which he had grown accustomed, Arthur Ketch settled in with his companion, who sat patiently in the other bed, combing out her long black hair.

They had both chosen to forgo their Standard Nightcap, which consisted of two parts Jack, one part bourbon, and topped off neatly with whatever else they had on hand. It might have perhaps loosened tongues and inhibitions, but for once both Mr. Ketch and Miss Winchester needed both.

That wasn't to say drunk (or even slightly tipsy) relations would be unwelcome – just unwise. And so, Arthur admired her slender form from the other bed – the silvery runes which caught the light and made her skin shimmer just a little, as if she were made of moonlight. As if her lifeblood was that same pale light which was a reflection of the brighter sun. “When all this is over,” he began, making Emily's head come up, her bright green eyes trained on his darker ones, “what is it you wish to do?” “You mean, “if we survive,” am I right?” she corrected humorlessly as long fingers moved through ebony strands of hair, settling it into a loose braid at the side of her head. Emily often plaited her hair in this fashion, for the sake of convenience as much as anything else.

“If you want to be that way about it; yes,” was the simple reply. Neither Emily nor himself seemed to be unaware of the inherent danger they were currently facing. With one of if not THE most powerful being in the Universe having a personal vendetta against them, there was always a constant need to move.

However, this particular road was taking them toward a small town in Wisconsin. In a desperate plan and on a big hunch, Sam and Dean had recruited the witch Rowena to attempt a salvo for the sake of Humanity. As long as the Winchesters were breathing, they were fight to keep the Earth turning. Dean's logic had led him to the idea of attempting to find and then recruit the four Archangels, who may or may not have escaped the Empty (I mean, Hell itself had opened up right? That was bound to cause some rifts) and enlist the assistance of Amara, the one Being in the Universe who might be able to seal Chuck away, as she had been for millennia.   Emily's eyes went ceiling-ward, and her mouth quirked in the concentration of thought. She exhaled heavily, preparing her answer.

“I think I'll go home,” she said.

“Home?” was Arthur's immediate query, surprise in his tone.

“Yeah,” mused Emily, her body relaxing as she kept her eyes directed upward, “you know I didn't live here all my life; right?”

“That – I was unaware of. In all the course of our time together, it never did come up.”

Emily chuckled a little, crossed her legs where she was, and turned her jade eyes on Arthur.

“Well; I didn't. A good deal of my life I grew up in Idris – the land of the ShadowHunters. But – I also spent a lot of time in Ireland. That's where my mother's people came from – before they were Shadowhunters and had the blood of Angels. I remember the place well....”

Sensing a story or two, Ketch chose to relax, gazing upon her as he settled in to listen.

“Some of the greenest land you've ever seen.... not many trees, but by the river... oh, the willow trees on the banks just dipped their long branches into the water. And the water was clear and cool – sweet on the tongue. And fish – there were a few small fish that would swim in the water. My cousins and I would play in that water and hang from the sturdier poplars that grew there. And the earth was rich and black and grass.... so green. It's not called the Emerald Isle for no reason.” “I imagined not,” Arthur murmured softly as he allowed her to continue.

“The house we lived in was smaller than the estate in Idris... a cottage in some ways really – with the old thatch roof and the old stone walls that told stories of the land. Uncle never farmed the land, but – ah, he knew where to go for peat to make fires when we stayed there for Christmas. It was small �� just a few rooms, a main room, and then the kitchen. But we all fit comfortable. The wind would move through that tall grass in Summer and oh – it looked just like an ocean.”

Continuing to listen, Emily's words began to act like some sort of lullaby – or maybe it was because he was genuinely tired – that Arthur's eyes drifted closed as she spoke, smiling just a little at the lilt of Irish that came into her voice.

“That cottage has some of my favorite memories,” she said, “and maybe – if we can make it – and somehow, you know, don't die – I'd like to try and get back there someday.”

Behind his own eyelids, Arthur could picture clearly how beautiful the place Emily spoke of was and would be. He could see high, rolling hills to compliment her river and the willow trees on the bank, which were tall and strong and by now had grown down into the waters. He saw the grass moving like the waves of the ocean in his mind's eye, and for the first time in a long time, he felt peace.

“I'll take you there,” he said suddenly, making Emily looked at him, a soft inquiring sound leaving her.

“I'll take you back there,” he said, moving to take her hands and kissing them in a pledge, “I swear to you, that if we survive this – I will take you back there. And you don't have to stay there alone.”

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In Which Arthur Ketch Regrets His Life Choices

Author: Willow Ravenwright Word Count: 1,139 Rating: PG for some Adult Situations Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it's characters, locations, etc. are the sole property of Eric Kripke and Warner Bros. Entertainment. It is being used without permission and no intent is being made to copyright any material herein.

Summary: Written for the SPN Hellatus Week 01 Challenge. Prompt: “It's 8:30, I have a hangover, and you're annoying me.” While on a Hunt in Kentucky, Emily Winchester brings back a bit of Moonshine. It hits Mr. Ketch in the backside. Hard.

********* He had absolutely no idea of the time. Only that he could smell the beginnings of blessed coffee in the small motel room they had rented for a couple nights just outside the city of Lexington. Bothersome spirit had been troubling the local mountain people.

“It's a case,” Emily had said. And Ketch, not wanting to argue with her, had agreed.

In some ways it was boring –  in others it was an interesting lesson in the American method of Hunting. These people of the mountains were suspicious and quick to believe anything having to do with the supernatural and, by token, were open - mouthed and open - handed. They were a good, honest, generous people.

In short, they put the British Hunter on edge. Emily Winchester, however, seemed to be very much at her ease among them, asking pointed questions over mason jars of sometimes questionable liquid. She was always careful to be polite and thank the people for whatever they chose to set before them. She was kind, compassionate, and a determined Hunter.

The next evening, they were on the side of the highway where the spirit was said to be causing trouble. Apparently it was a small item that had tethered him to Earth, and once it had burned (Ketch had been given the honor) the people wouldn't be troubled again.

The family of the deceased had gifted the young Winchester with clear liquid, and a finger to their lips. With a knowing nod, Emily stashed the mason jar in her large black duffel, and said they should be getting back. Ketch had thought it looked like water, but there must be a reason why it had to be done on the sly.

“Whatever is that?” he finally asked as Emily sipped carefully out of a cheap plastic cup back at the motel room.

“Corn liquor. Moonshine, Arthur,” she grinned, pouring him a small amount, “here, try a bit. Sip it slow. It's heavy proof, even for you.”

Sniffing and catching the distinct scent, he then swallowed at the clear liquid. And then subsequently choked a bit, making Emily laugh.

“I -told- you. Moonshine is strong stuff. Not like your fancy bottles of scotch and bourbon,” she said, saluting him with her glass as she took another swallow.

“Did that man...”

“...brew it himself? Yeah; it's an old tradition. Some people can do it legally now, others choose to keep it under the radar. Like that man. He was nice. Some of his best, I think,” she replied, setting the glass aside for now.

“How do you drink that filth?” inquired Ketch, whose palate was far more accustomed to the finer things in life.

“Very carefully,” was Emily's response as a warm glow settled into her belly.

“I see,” was his very careful response.

Time passed lazily on. Mick didn't have a Hunt for them right away, and he had contacted his so-called supervisor more than two hours ago. As there was little to do except drink the swill Emily had been gifted, he chose to take her measure.

Emily Winchester shared some of the features of her brothers. Her hair was dark, with green eyes that could be soft as jade or hard as emeralds. He liked the aesthetic of her, of the way her hands were so capable of death, and yet delicate and likewise capable of patching a nasty wound. Just as she had done about a week ago on a Werewolf case. He'd been a little overly cocky and been tagged in the leg. Emily had quickly patched the wound. Thankfully it had been claws and not teeth.

Granted, she had used whiskey, a sewing needle and nothing near medical grade thread, but she had persevered and had given him the rest of the bottle to numb the pain of the procedure.

He liked her body, all compact and muscle, lean and firm from many years on the road. And yet there was a softness in her too; something that sometimes showed him she was more than just a Hunter. She was a woman too. She had a beautiful body; Arthur would have to be blind not to notice the curve of her breasts and the angle of her hip.

Reaching for the mason jar, Emily's hand curled around his own, and her green eyes were trained on him, as if taking his measure for herself.

“This is a remarkably stupid idea,” she said, her gaze intent on him as her fingers relaxed.

“Something tells me you're rather used to stupid,” he murmured, a smirk quirking his mouth as he moved in to kiss her.

Only in his most private moments did Arthur Ketch ever imagine seeing the pale skin beneath her clothing, of the runes that gave her a shimmer when the light touched them. Only when he was alone after seeing her for the first time, small and determined and brave, did he ever imagine his hands roaming across planes of skin, learning her body by touch. And he certainly had never imagined how she would touch him in return, as if she were just as hungry for the contact as he had been.

And yes, they were both amazingly under the influence of that Kentucky Moonshine. But it didn't seem to matter as they lazily made love at three AM, her sighs and little moans the only music he needed as they lost themselves in each other.

As he woke that next morning, he reached for her and, as part of him expected, she was nowhere to be immediately reached. But the smell of coffee told him everything. And if he knew anything from spending this time with her, it was that Emily Winchester adored her coffee.

“Mmmm; morning,” she said as she noticed his eyes opening. Sitting up in bed, he groaned and rubbed his temples. The smell of coffee was under his nose almost instantly. Black. Apparently she noticed a lot more than he actually thought she did.

“C'mon,” she said to him, wrapped up in his discarded shirt from last night, “drink up. It'll help until we can get some water in you.”

Glancing over at the little motel clock, Arthur gave her the most annoyed look he was able to at her cheerfulness.

“It's 8:30 – I have a hangover – and you're annoying me,” he mumbled, but nevertheless accepted the coffee and allowed himself to enjoy the look of Emily wearing his shirt as she made a quick call on the motel phone.

“Apparently the diner down the street serves breakfast. Courtesy delivery here. Coffee. Nice, greasy breakfast, and you'll be right as rain,” she assured him.

“I'd settle for aspirin and another twelve hours' sleep,” he muttered as he drank the coffee.

“Nope. Gotta move; something about a Wendigo up in Montana.”

“I. Hate. Wendigos...”

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Three-Word Drabbles

As a permanent thing, I have decided to accept three-word prompts for drabbles. 

The rules are simple. 1. Give me two characters. They can be shippable or not; I just need two. 2. Give me three words. They can be any combination of words. 3. I will write a drabble with those characters and use the words as well. 

Example: Sastiel. Garden, Book, and Iron. I might write a little drabble where Sam and Castiel are sitting in a garden on an iron bench, and Sam is reading to Cas or vice verse. So please send me these prompts. I look forward to writing things!  

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A Swearing of Fealty

A Swearing of Fealty Author: Willow Ravenwright Rating: G to PG Disclaimer: All Supernatural characters, locations, etc. are the sole property of Warner Bros. Entertainment and it's subsidaries. It is being used without permission and no attempt is being made to copyright any material herein.

Summary: Castiel is a Seraphim of the Host of Heaven. Captain in a Garrison. This doesn't come without a few perks; one of them a lower Angel who chooses to follow his Seraphim no matter what.

Haliel was known as a Cherubim - a lower Angel than even the Seraphim. Like the one he was serving under. His silver hair and blue eyes were unique, as were the soft tawny color of his wings. Many had called him cursed and he was only educated by Seraphim who were not exactly known for following the orders of their Father. However he had distinguished himself as a warrior of great caliber. He had chosen to follow one who, he discovered later, was not that much unlike himself.

Castiel. He remembered vividly the first day he met the young Seraphim, who himself was just beginning to gain fame among his circles as a master tactician, and a cunning warrior. He had smiled at him, barely out of his fledgling years, and the other's blue eyes lit up, mirroring his own.

"I like you," he said with a smile, "and I'll bet you can be a great fighter too. Our siblings used to tease me about my wings too."

It was in that moment Haliel knew that he wanted to fight under the wings of Castiel. And he kneeled down, his tiny sword in the ground as he dropped to a knee.

"Castiel; if you will have me, I will serve under your wings and no other. My blade and what service I can offer shall be yours till Sun and Moon shall pass from Heaven itself. And you should never want for a friend, either."

Those mirror blue eyes, deep as lapis lazuli, lit up as he smiled back at the younger Angel. He knelt with him, his hands wrapping around Haliel's hands.

"I accept your offer, Haliel; together, we will show them what we can do."

And then; Haliel could feel it. The shift in the special bond he shared with Castiel. It had opened, and even the Moon shifted in her courses as he stared up at it, the air thrumming with vibratrion. He sensed the imcomplete bond forming. And he rushed to find Castiel. Rushed to confirm that which he had felt.

Dean Winchester lay in bed quietly with his Seraph, an arm around him in the dark night just as dawn was breaking. Castiel was not a morning person in any way, and would sleep until the sun arose. As for himself, he slipped into his boxers, quietly seeking out coffee in the Bunker. The few lights that remained on soon flickered, announcing the presence of - well, something.

Dean had an Angel Blade in his hand within a moment. The Angel that met his eyes was nobody he knew; youthful and silver haired, quickly dropping to a knee as he took out a sword and let the tip of the blade rest against ther floor of the Bunker's kitchen.

"In the name of the loyalty I bear to your mate, Dean Winchester; my sword and my service are yours."

Cas had stirred, seeing Dean's stunned face and overhearing the quiet call over the deep mating bond they had forged. Dean stood there, blade in hand as the coffee brewed, looking more than utterly confused.

"The hell, Cas?"

"Dean; this is Haliel; a Cherubim who is under my command. He flew under my wings for many years until I left Heaven. I uh - didn't think to see him again."

"Dude; he called me your mate. He swore loyalty to me. I need at least two cups of coffee. And then he can do it again when I'm awake."

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A little something from my new book. Coming 2016. More writing here

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I think I fall in love a little bit with anyone who shows me their soul. This world is so guarded and fearful. I appreciate rawness so much.

Emery Allen (via quotethat)

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