#River bank crossing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

comfortless · 9 months

Text

Deep Water

nix! König x fem! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. no.. intentional harm done to reader but there are sporadic mentions of murder (drowning), König is kind of a creep here do you guys forgive me (say yes), implied sex; dubcon everything. König is wearing a fishing net rather than the usual hood because. it made sense to me sorry.

notes: yet again, i have found that i can not manage to write anything except for silly fantasy nonsense… bear with me this will pass (it will not). if you’re uncertain of what a nix is, i recommend skimming over this (or tl;dr— a shapeshifting water spirit).

You’ve always been told to beware of the river, especially on nights like this. When the singing starts up you were to run, as far and as fast as your feet could carry you. It would be the most beautiful sound you had ever heard, as well as the last. Whatever beast lies in wait along the silt of the riverbed luring people in with its haunting song isn’t kind. The drowned bodies resurfacing bloated and paled are enough for the townsfolk to assume that assuredly, a monster lies in wait someplace within the glassy water.

For all of the fear, town myths were just that— myths.

As always, there’s no singing when you seat yourself on smooth, mossy stones by the river’s bank. The moon hangs low, casting its brilliant reflection on calm, dark water. The air is alive with the buzzing of cicadas clinging to the trees at your back and night birds calling out to the wind. Nothing is amiss; it’s only peaceful, and that’s why despite the warnings, you often find yourself here when the temperature is favorable.

There are nights when the river isn’t calm, and currents are the most reliable reasoning for the deaths from past summers. The water is full of large rocks with sharp corners, teeming with plants that could so easily snare an ankle, and when the water is frothing and cruel it’s no surprise that one could be thrashed to unconsciousness if they weren’t careful.

You didn’t come here to take your chances on swimming, anyhow.

If anything, it’s a mere reprieve from the bustle of the town. No one wanders here any more since the myths gained traction, passed from mouth to listening ears time and time again, leaving this place entirely untouched. Occasionally the obnoxious teenager would cross your path on the walk here, declaring loudly to their friends about how they supposedly saw some slimy beast, eyes like moonbeams and scales like razors lying on the bank.

During your little adventures here, you often carry a snack with you, but not for yourself. Tonight, it’s just a small package of vanilla flavored cookies. In truth, they were awful— dry and near flavorless, but you suspect your friend here wouldn’t mind too terribly much, and if it got them out of your pantry without wasting it was a win for the both of you.

When the large dorsal fin crests over the water mere meters from the bank, you gratuitously crush the treats in a closed fist and toss the crumbs into the water. Time and time again, you’ve fed the large animal, watching as it thrashes about just below the surface before disappearing back into its depths. You’ve never gotten a good look at it, either, but you imagine it must stretch out past your height or further; some sort of gar or sturgeon.

Just as many times before, it glides further in, fin entirely out of sight now. The only evidence of it ever appearing at all were the small waves rippling in its wake. All is quieted once more as you embrace the placid bliss, readying your small flashlight and losing yourself into the book perched in your lap.

The next night, you’re greeted by a large snake basking over the rock you typically sat upon. It lies still, coiled into itself as it regards you, forked tongue flicking out for several moments before it simply slithers off, hiding itself away beneath the moss and stone.

“Best to leave you alone, huh?,” you ask to it’s retreating tail, feeling a bit silly for speaking to the reptile at all. It doesn’t respond, of course, nor does it bother to come out of hiding either.

You opt to seat yourself on the hill overlooking the water instead.

You find that after a day occupied by tedious tasks, there truly was no greater place to abandon your woes than here. Everything was peaceful; wild yet simplistic. Even with all of the death that seemed to haunt this place, you never feared the thought of ghosts. You’ve even entertained your imagination a time or two, that if you ever did meet one, you would only ask it not to disturb the wildlife you have grown so fond.

There’s a freedom and a mystery to places like this, places without the foot traffic of other people. It brings with it a sense of whimsy, especially when you glance towards the water and see the surface reflecting every twinkling star above.

The fish doesn’t appear, even as you listen to the water in wait, your head tilted as you lie back on soft grass to watch for ripples, for the swell of a large fin moving beneath. Nothing. You read your book as the night progresses, nearly completing it entirely before you make your way back home.

Weeks pass by like this— work, river, home and repeat. Occasionally it’s the same large snake that greets you when you wander there, more often it’s the large fish circling about waiting for crumbs of whatever treat you choose to bring. The bank and the small hill overlooking it have become a separate home to you, one where you can be away with the fairies, talking to your animal friends that never seem to stick around for long.

When the weather grows warmer, you even dare to take a swim.

You’re stood on the slick stones of the bank, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s not proper swimming attire, but you reason that you’re not at the beach, not a soul is around, and it doesn’t really matter at all that you might look a bit silly. The prospect of swimming along that behemoth below is a tad terrifying, but you wouldn’t dare to wander too far in. Maybe the fish would even be intelligent enough to not attempt to eat you after you’ve been so kind to it.

It’s hot, and with a sticky layer of sweat glossing your skin, your worries seem minuscule in light of an easy way of cooling off. You toe at the calm water for a moment, testing its temperature before willing yourself to take a step forward, then another before you seat yourself in the vibrant expanse of darkened blue. Here, you realize, is the best place to stargaze, too; they shimmer all around you, within reach as you tap at the surface of water, watching it undulate beneath the pressure of your fingertips.

You could reach the moon, too, if you swam further out. A few meters from the bank and you would be directly beneath its reflection, bathed in that ethereal glow.

You watch for your friend for a time, trying to prioritize your wariness over your whimsy. When the fish doesn’t tread by you, the water remaining calm, you rise to your feet and take slow, metered steps as the water parts and flows against your shins.

Though the river is disturbed no matter how gently you stride forward, nothing slides out from its depths in pursuit of you. Nothing happens at all when you reach out to splay your hand out against the reflection, the water now gently lapping against your stomach rather than your legs.

You hadn’t expected any sort of shift in your reality, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps some sort of clarity; a further calm for a weary mind. It doesn’t come, and with a disheartened splash you wade your way back towards the shore.

This has been your sanctuary for some time. Excusing the snake, there’s not been any sort of threat to you, not here. A safe water world all your own. Though, that peace is shattered the moment that you make it to the bank and hear the water shift some small distance behind you. Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of a man, the bulky muscular silhouette towering in the patch of moonlight you had just stood in. Bright blue eyes catch the light, reflecting like an animal’s as you scramble back to where you’ve left your shorts.

He stands there, silent and unmoving like an obelisk even as you hastily dress yourself with a thundering heart and breaths that sound more or less like gasps, senses heightened by your panic as you turn tail to run.

No one had been there. You were sure of it when you sunk into the water. There was no sound when this person had swam over to take your place. He was just there, as if he had been the entire time and you somehow failed to notice.

You make your way into the woods framing this place, hurried steps and untied shoelaces. You don’t even bother with your flashlight.

Finding your way back home with aches in every muscle, the desperate rampage you had taken to get away finally coming to a close when the door slams shut behind you, you quickly shower and mull over what’s just happened. A ghost, perhaps. It had to of been. Any other person would have made noise in their approach, especially being that big. The mind could play its tricks; what you had seen was likely not even there at all— a terrifying figment of your imagination. That sets you at ease, somewhat, but not enough.

You don’t sleep well that night, tucked beneath your blanket and staring at the filtered moonlight through your curtains. Work isn’t on your mind at all come morning until your phone chimes with a notification from your manager, questioning your tardiness. A languid crawl out of bed follows, another shower, an unsatisfying breakfast, all before you opt to send a text back to let him know you won’t be in today.

It could be excused, you’re reliable and decent enough at the job; not one to boast, but far more eager to please than the rest of your coworkers. You would be entirely useless if you went in on no sleep, you reason.

You don’t want to go back there, not under the veil of night, but you find yourself horribly curious the longer that you bide your time indoors. You had to know if the thing that you saw was really there, had to calm your nerves. What if he had always been watching each time, and you simply hadn’t noticed? The forest bordering the river is terribly dark at night, anyone could crouch behind the shield of a tree and remain undetected until they willed the courage to drag you in, cup a palm over your mouth to silence your cries.

Maybe it was the monster the people in town rumored about.

The thought of some strange, silent thing living beneath the water waiting for an opportune moment to take you by the neck and drag you down to the silty floor to watch you drown horrified you. Yet, that’s the one conclusion that sticks. Those eyes… so lurid and haunting, no human being had eyes like that.

You inhale sharply, steeling your nerves as reach for a pocket knife for defense, toss it into the bag slung over your shoulder, and storm out the door.

The trek there is nothing short of dull.

No matter where you look, what shadows rise up beneath the dim glow of a falling sun, there’s nothing out in the woods. The river is equally tame. The water babbles over rock, cicadas buzz off in the distance, and not a thing seems amiss. Your search for footprints that don’t belong to the soles of your shoes turns up empty. The only thing that suggests just maybe it wasn’t all in your head is the book you had neglected to retrieve in your fear the night before.

The cover, every page within, now warped as though it had been pulled into the water and spit out to dry. You pick it up, peeling through damp pages, running your fingertips over the smeared ink. It’s possible that a particularly aggressive splash could have sullied it, but something tells you that that isn’t the case. Either way, it’s unreadable now. You sulk a bit as you slip the ruined thing into your bag and step towards the smooth stones to watch the water instead.

Night creeps in slowly with you there, and you’re on high alert for a time before you begin to relax as usual. Even giggle to yourself at how silly it was you believed you saw a ghost at all as you entertain yourself by skipping small stones across the water.

No large snake, no massive fish, no titan of a man appears before you, only a calming crescent moon and a few wandering wood ducks, gliding down from the bank to splash about. A thought comes to mind as the calm emboldens you: what would happen if you got in just one more time?

There’s nothing to suggest that you’re playing with fire as you leave your shoes neatly in the dry sand. If the ducks could swim unbothered by fish or men, then surely you could, too. You watch the little creatures a distance away as they dip their heads beneath the surface and chitter away amongst themselves while you take your first step in.

You don’t dare to go as far this time, stopping when the water brushes over your knees. You wait there while time seems to slow to a crawl, expecting the absolute worst, glancing further down the river, dipping your hand below the glassy surface until your fingertips brush the sand beneath.

It’s horribly hot and you’re still exhausted from the sleepless night before. The water feels nice, and you feel as though you have some sort of claim to it as you’ve been here more often than anyone else would dare to. Ghosts and monsters be damned, you seat yourself and let the water lap over your shoulders, tilting your head back to watch the stars.

When the singing begins it takes a moment to register just what it is that you’re hearing. It’s not beautiful, not like the myths have said. It’s hissed, a low whisper, a mockery of what a human song would sound like. The voice is rasped, lilted yet cold. The realization that it sings words from your book of poetry is what terrifies you the most, the warped pages all making sense now.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, forward, before realizing the voice is coming from behind you. Cold spreads through your veins as you try to force yourself to stand, but in your fear you find yourself petrified, rooted in water that would surely become your grave.

You can’t bring yourself to turn around, to inevitably find your eyes locked onto the shadowy frame of a man far too large, his eyes glistening and pale like the moon hanging above.

The voice pauses when it finds you unmoving, and you can hear the rustle of the creature shifting its weight where it’s stood on the rocks lining the bank. You’ve no clue how deep the river gets, where the opposite side leads, but your only chance of escape seems to be swimming through in the hopes that this thing doesn’t choose to chase after you. A part of you knows that he would, that that is exactly what he expects you to do, goading you to flee deeper with his eerie song so that he can drown you just as he did the others.

You do the opposite as you squeeze your eyes shut and crawl back towards the bank, making sure to keep some distance despite your willful blindness. You wouldn’t look at it, wouldn’t talk to it, you would just go home and never come back.

“Best to leave you alone, hm?”

You still as your fingers brush against wet moss, the voice no longer a whisper but loud, loud as it echoes your words from days past just above you. Beating back your own curiosity proves futile, because you look up at the damned thing then, expecting to see an impossible terror before you, sharp fangs wet with blood and appendages too spindly reaching out for you. Instead, you see only a man.

He’s crouched, only a meter or so away, and you immediately recognize his broad figure. The same as the night before. From this distance you can make out the finer details, the length of net covering his face and neck, the webbing between each finger. Still a scary sight, but only in the way it’s unfamiliar and imposing rather than instilling any sort of primordial fear.

“Excuse me?” You pull yourself fully out of the water, rising to your feet and taking a tentative step back. You’re prepared to run, a coil pulled too tight on the verge of snapping.

The man, creature, whatever he may be just tilts his head, lets the silence hang in the air for a moment before he has the audacity to laugh whether to himself or at the strange, bewildered expression on your face.

His stare is assessing as he sucks in a breath, follows suit in rising to his full height. From the size of him alone, you know you’re not getting away. A mere stride for him would be two or more for you, a deliberate tug of your wrist from him could snap it in an instant.

Yet, he doesn’t reach for you, only gestures toward your bag lying on the ground with a subtle flick of a finger. You give him a quizzical glance in turn, not bothering to retrieve it. You could come back during the day with a friend, gather it and never return. Only, your knife sits somewhere inside, the only protection that you’ve got. The realization spurs you to bend over and toss the strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll… I’ll be going now.”

The stare remains fixed upon you as you take another step back, blinking slowly every now and then as you both remain in some strange stasis.

It takes you a moment to put the pieces together. The reciting of words from the book, the mimicking of the words spoken to the snake, the hint at your bag… he’s expecting something and it’s not to steal away your life, only to be fed and have your company. It’s not charming, it’s awfully strange and eerie, but you find yourself giggling at the prospect of taming some murderous, shapeshifting monster with subpar treats and poetry.

You pull open the bag, searching for anything you may have brought along that he could eat, eventually prying out a small package and offering it out to him.

“Is this what you want?,” you ask, voice hushed and trembling.

He shakes his head, rustling the net cloaking him in the process. So, he understands, he’s just been willfully ignoring every other thing you’ve said prior. You store the package away with a perturbed expression crossing over your face.

“Then what?”

Any relief you had felt seems to dwindle when the giant takes a half-step closer. His skin is cool and wet as the river as he brushes his hand over your forearm, curling a set of fingers around it. The touch is gentle, but there’s a promise of violence lurking somewhere in the depths of his eyes.

“Come with me,” he urges in that harsh whisper from before, delicately squeezing as he pulls you towards him, leading you back to the river with a tight grip and a step back over the stones. Though his touch is passive, there’s a frightening strength lurking someplace beneath his flesh, tacked to bone, and as your gaze trails lower to rest to rest at your feet, the space between you two, the evidence of a life prone to violence and strength is laid bare before you.

You don’t fight the hold as he leads you to water so deep it caresses the base of your neck, right below the milky glow of a waning moon. Deeper still, as you’re pulled below, pressed down to the very bottom with his body lain over you. You can only hold your breath so long before an involuntary gasp leaves you, and a wave is funneled straight into your lungs.

Panic is fleeting, but the adrenaline stays ever-present. You claw, push, kick, to no avail. Pinned down by a hand weighing like an anchor you feel your vision flooding and hazy as his head knocks against your jaw, mouth sealing tightly over yours. It’s not a gentle kiss, the net fashioned into a hood digs into your skin, teeth scrape over your lip until you feel the sting of blood drawn.

All at once, your vision darkens and it’s over.

You find yourself lying back on the shore as the morning sun warms your face, causes your dampened shirt to cling to your skin. Disoriented, but alive, brushing your thumb over your lower lip as you sit up to stare at the subtle waves lapping over moss and rock.

Just a dream, you tell yourself, knowing full well you hadn’t fallen asleep.

Just a dream, even though you avoid the river entirely now. Your route home from work changes too, avoiding even a glimpse of the path that leads down to that place. You don’t even replace the book, you toss what remains of it after fishing through your bag, murmuring something about it surely being cursed and entertain yourself with film at night instead.

Sleep remains tentative, you wake with every sound, and your dreaming is filled with visions of a figure pushing you down into deep water, his weight bearing down upon you so heavily that you can not move until you wake with a start, eyes searching your bedroom.

Several weeks, and the fear does eventually fade.

The morning that the rain begins to fall, you realize you haven’t even thought about the river in days. There’s no monster prowling your nightmares anymore. You lived through what may or may not have occurred, and that was the end of it, simple as it may have been.

A late shift at work has you wandering out into the rain, umbrella in hand. You’re grateful that you live close, that you’re not entirely soaked to the bone when you step inside of the mundane building. Your coworkers notice your change in demeanor immediately, chirping about how glad they are that you’re finally feeling better, looking more yourself as the hours pass you by. It brings a smile to your face, a real one that you haven’t had in place since that last night.

Even in the summer, there’s a chill to the air in the late afternoon as you hurry home from work and make your way inside, stripping out of your wet clothes and setting your umbrella aside. It’s darker outside than it should be, even more so indoors. Reaching for the switch to turn on the lights proves useless— the power’s out.

You light your way with your phone, ignoring the way your pulse quickens and your heart flutters with the fear that something just doesn’t feel right. Your skin prickles with the thought of some unseen pair of eyes watching you, blue and cold. You only relax when you slam your bedroom door shut, locking it and pressing your forehead to the wood as you sigh. The puff of breath that escapes your lips is not the only in the room, you find out when the light of your phone illuminated your bed. Crouched beside it, a towering figure with a face veiled by fishing net. Words don’t come when you open your mouth to speak, and your heart stutters in your chest as you stand shaking but otherwise petrified.

“You didn’t come back.”

Of course you hadn’t.

Most people wouldn’t have.

“No. I’ve been… busy,” you choke out the excuse, hoping to pacify whatever emotion you imagine lurked beneath his tone, undetectable through the hiss of his voice. “I’ll visit soon, promise,” you lie, back pressed against the door as your fingers curl over the knob.

Your fear seems almost unwarranted. He doesn’t move toward you, only stands to wander back to the window where he must have broken in.

“Tonight?,” he asks in a voice so soft, the voice he must use as a lure because tugs at your heartstrings immediately, makes you want to follow despite the threat this thing poses merely by existing, despite everything.

“It’s cold— I’ll get sick,” you murmur. “How did you even find me..?”

“I will keep you warm.” The question goes unanswered.

You find yourself stifled again as he lumbers towards you, brushing cold fingers across the side of your face. It’s not a mockery of a kiss you receive next but a firm bite where your neck meets shoulder, not yet hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you shiver, to grip at the wall of muscle that makes up his chest.

There’s a desperation to his movements as he herds you towards the window, pushes you toward the path leading back to the river. You’re soaked to the bone in seconds, hardly able to keep your eyes open past the weight of dampened eyelashes. The rain is so heavy it feels as though every step is like the first you took into cursed water, your feet sinking into the mud along the path with each tentative stride. The realization that you’re there doesn’t even hit you until you’re chest-deep in the chill, violent waves pushing against you, each carrying the threat of toppling you over entirely.

The palm splayed out against your bare back keeps you upright, leading you to a smooth rock jutting out in the midst of what seems a sea of frothing white and blue. The sea above is just as dark, angry clouds roaring as you’re pressed down onto your back, shivering terribly.

He keeps his promise though, a tight grip on each thigh as he pries your legs apart, sinks in between them and blankets you from the rain. Even with the cold pressed to your back, you feel the warmth of a summer sun above you, scorching from inside, just as blazing as the look in his wild eyes. The last of any resolve slips when you’re pulled beneath the violent waves, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses coaxing oxygen into your lungs. Each roll and pull no less tumultuous than the waves overhead. A placid end when the rain comes to an impromptu halt, just as he stills over you. Hands rush to cup your face with one final, desperate and biting kiss.

When the morning sun pulls you from sleep, cool moss against your back and the weight of his head resting over your middle, the shallow water lapping lazily at your figure, you find that you no longer fear drowning.

#könig x reader #konig x reader #könig x you #konig x you #könig #konig #cod fanfiction #cod fanfic #konig fanfiction #i have been mulling over this for an eternity sorry it needed to be extracted from my brain #he is absolutely more lycanthrope coded to me but whoosh whatever nix König be upon ye #also apologies to everyone for not writing much lately and the fact this is hardly a real fic #cursed by the sleepy i just need a 10yr long nap #<- in my ‘in denial about burnout’ era

578 notes · View notes

novaursa · 1 month

Note

Hii

I was thinking about fem! Targaryen who was sent to fight with Guyane and Criston.

She grow up in Oldtown with Gwayne and they fell in love. She’s supposed to marry Aemond before the war and was kinda closed with him ( he’s very possessive of her)

So it happens before Rook’s Rest, you know when they are camping in the wood, she want to wash herself in a river and of course grayne make sure that no one is looking her but then they start their little business and Criston see them.

The battle happend (she also had a dragon) but when they come back everyone know for her and Gwayne, coz you know Criston says everything to the queen…

Alicent and Aemond are against them but when Aegon wakes up he approved their love as a revenge against Aemond 👀

Down by the River

- Summary: After a forgotten betrothal with Aemond, you found love and comfort in your uncle's arms.

- Paring: niece!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Raring: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

The air around you is filled with the scent of pine and earth, the quiet hum of nature occasionally broken by the distant rustle of your encampment as soldiers and servants bustle about. The shadows of the surrounding forest stretch long, casting a serene gloom that wraps around you like a cloak. It's a rare moment of solitude, a brief escape from the weight of your lineage and the battles that loom on the horizon.

You make your way toward the river, the cool breeze tugging gently at the loose strands of your hair, which falls freely around your shoulders. The forest whispers in the language of rustling leaves and the distant call of a nightbird, and you savor the rare, quiet moment to yourself. Grey Ghost is near, ever watchful, his presence in the skies above comforting in its familiarity.

The river comes into view, its waters reflecting the dappled light of the fading sun, a shimmering ribbon cutting through the dense green of the trees. You step closer, the soft earth giving way beneath your boots. A sigh escapes your lips as you begin to shed your dragon riding attire, the leather and metal falling away piece by piece until you stand at the water's edge, clad in nothing but the simple shift you wear beneath.

The river is cold as you dip your toes into the shallows, the chill sending a pleasant shiver up your spine. Slowly, you wade in, feeling the water rise up your legs, cool and cleansing. The shift clings to your body as you move deeper, the fabric becoming almost weightless in the water. You close your eyes, tilting your head back, allowing the river to wash away the grime of travel and the tension that knots your muscles.

"Enjoying yourself, my lady?" The voice is familiar, laced with a teasing warmth that pulls a smile from your lips even before you open your eyes.

You turn your head, seeing Gwayne standing at the riverbank, his arms crossed casually over his chest, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, the color of storm clouds on the horizon, linger on you with an intensity that sends a different kind of shiver through your body. There's an easy confidence in his posture, but beneath it, you sense the tension that coils between the two of you, always simmering, always waiting.

"I was, until you decided to interrupt," you reply, your voice carrying a playful edge as you tread water, your shift billowing around you like a second skin.

Gwayne chuckles, the sound rich and low, as he steps closer to the water's edge, his boots sinking slightly into the soft mud. "Then perhaps I should leave you to it," he says, though he makes no move to turn away, his gaze never straying from you.

"And let you miss the sight of me like this?" you counter, raising an eyebrow as you glide a little closer to him, the water lapping softly at your waist. "That hardly seems fair."

He kneels by the bank, close enough now that you can see the glint in his eyes, the way his lips quirk up at the corners. "Fairness has never been our strong suit, has it?" he replies, his tone lighter now, but his words carry the weight of truth between you.

You tilt your head, studying him, the sharp lines of his face softened by the fading light. There's something about him that has always drawn you in, something beyond the bonds of duty and family. A fire that burns as fiercely as your own, a desire that matches yours in its intensity.

"And what will you do while I bathe, Ser Gwayne?" you ask, letting the title roll off your tongue, lacing it with just enough mockery to make him smile. "Stand guard? Ensure no one stumbles upon me?"

He grins, his teeth flashing white in the twilight. "Of course. Someone must keep watch over you, lest the gods themselves be tempted by such a sight."

You laugh softly, the sound carrying over the water, and shake your head. "You always did have a way with words, Gwayne."

Before he can respond, you begin to wade back toward the shore, your movements slow and deliberate, water streaming off your body as you emerge from the river. The air is cool against your skin, but the heat in Gwayne's gaze more than compensates for the chill. His breath catches slightly as you approach him, the shift clinging to your form, leaving little to the imagination.

You stand before him, the last rays of the sun catching in your hair, casting a golden halo around you. He looks up at you, and for a moment, neither of you speaks, the tension between you crackling like a storm about to break.

Then, without a word, you kneel before him, your fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his tunic as you lean in to kiss him. It's a soft kiss, almost chaste, but there's nothing innocent about the way your lips linger on his, about the way you taste him as if he were the very air you breathe.

"Join me," you murmur against his lips, your voice a soft plea that you know he cannot resist.

For a moment, he hesitates, his hands hovering over your shoulders as if he's unsure whether to pull you closer or push you away. But then, with a low growl, he gives in, his hands tangling in your wet hair as he deepens the kiss, pulling you against him with a fervor that makes your heart race.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression fierce, his breathing ragged. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?" he says, but there's no anger in his voice, only a hunger that mirrors your own.

"Then we shall die together," you whisper back, your hands working to undo the fastenings of his tunic, the feel of his skin warm and solid beneath your fingers.

Gwayne rises with you, his movements quick and sure as he shrugs off his clothes, his eyes never leaving yours. The moment his body touches the water, you see the tension melt away, replaced by something deeper, something that has been building between you for longer than either of you care to admit.

He steps closer, the water rippling around you both as he pulls you into his arms. The kiss you share now is different, slow and deliberate, a promise of what is to come. The river swirls around you, cool and calming, but the heat between you is undeniable, consuming.

In this moment, with the war hanging and the dragons stirring, nothing else matters but the man before you, the way his hands trace the curves of your body, the way he breathes your name like a prayer.

Gwayne pulls you closer, his hands firm against your waist as he draws you into him, the water lapping gently at your entwined bodies. The river is cool, but the heat between you is a fire that cannot be quenched, a blaze that has been smoldering for far too long. His lips find yours again, and the kiss is all-consuming, his desire mingling with your own as you lose yourself in the moment.

His breath is hot against your skin as he murmurs your name, the sound of it sending a thrill through your body. The world narrows down to just the two of you, the press of his body against yours, the feel of the water swirling around your legs, and the intoxicating sensation of his touch.

The river’s shallows cradle you as Gwayne pulls you down with him, the weight of his body over yours a comforting anchor in the midst of the chaos that surrounds your lives. Every touch is laden with a history of stolen glances, whispered secrets, and unspoken longing. As you join, the world seems to fall away, leaving nothing but the raw intensity of your connection.

Your breath comes in soft gasps as you cling to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, and he responds in kind, his hands sliding along your sides, his grip firm yet reverent. The river murmurs around you, the sound a gentle lullaby, as you move together, each moment a dance of passion and desperation, as if you could both ward off the impending doom by holding each other tighter, by pouring all the love and fear and hope you have into this single, sacred act.

Gwayne's lips brush against your neck, your jaw, your mouth, as if he cannot get enough of you, as if this is the only thing that has ever mattered. You respond in kind, your kisses fierce and desperate, trying to convey all that you feel for him, all that you cannot say aloud. You know this moment cannot last forever, but right now, with him holding you, it feels like it could.

“I love you,” he breathes against your skin, the words barely more than a whisper, but the weight of them is undeniable, as if he is baring his very soul to you.

Your heart swells with the force of your emotions, your own reply caught in your throat as you press your lips to his, letting the kiss speak for you. You love him too, more than you can ever express, more than you should, given the circumstances, but here, in this moment, nothing else matters.

The river flows around you, carrying away the sounds of the camp, the war, the world. For now, there is only the two of you, locked in this dance, this act of love that transcends the boundaries of duty and loyalty.

Criston Cole stands at the edge of the camp, his sharp gaze scanning the treeline. The night is cool, the air is still heavy with the scent of pine and earth, but it does little to calm the storm that rages within him. He had noticed your absence, as well as Gwayne’s, and though he had no real reason to suspect anything amiss, a strange unease had settled in his gut.

Needing to clear his head, Criston had left the camp, telling himself that a walk would do him good. But as he wandered through the trees, his instincts sharpened by years of battle, he found himself following the path you had taken earlier. He had not intended to spy, but something—call it intuition—had led him this way.

The sound of the river reaches him first, a soft, bubbling murmur that seems almost peaceful in the quiet of the night. But as he draws nearer, his eyes narrow, and he sees the silhouettes by the water’s edge. He freezes, the breath catching in his throat as he recognizes you, entwined with Gwayne, your bodies moving together in the shallows of the river.

For a moment, Criston can only stare, disbelief and anger warring within him. His hand tightens around the hilt of his sword, but he does not draw it. Instead, his jaw clenches, and his eyes burn with a fury that he struggles to contain. He had suspected something between the two of you, but to see it confirmed like this, in the open, makes his blood boil.

His thoughts turn dark as he imagines the consequences of this liaison. The Dowager Queen must be informed, of course. Your mother, Alicent, who has always been so careful, so calculating—what would she think of her daughter’s reckless behavior? And Gwayne, his own blood, betraying their cause with this forbidden affair?

But Criston does not approach. He knows that confronting you now would achieve nothing but chaos. Instead, he turns on his heel, his boots grinding into the earth as he steps back into the shadows, his mind already turning to what must be done.

As he walks away, the image of you and Gwayne remains burned into his mind, fueling his anger. He knows what he must do, but it does not make the task any easier. There will be a reckoning for this, and Criston Cole will see to it that the Dowager Queen knows every sordid detail.

The night closes in around him as he returns to camp, his steps heavy with the burden of the knowledge he now carries. In his heart, he knows this will change everything. The war may be fought on the battlefield, but the true battles, the ones that will decide the fate of the realm, are fought in the shadows, where loyalty and betrayal are two sides of the same coin.

Criston breathes in deeply, the cold air doing little to quell the fire inside him. He must remain calm, focused. The Dowager Queen must know, and then… then they will see what must be done.

But as he walks away from the river, the sound of your laughter, soft and joyful, echoes in his ears, a reminder of the happiness you have found, however fleeting it might be. And though Criston does not allow himself to think on it for long, a small part of him—buried deep beneath his duty and his anger—wonders if he is about to destroy something that might have been beautiful.

The morning sun rises over Rook’s Rest, and the men stand ready, swords drawn and shields raised, their eyes darting nervously to the sky. There’s a sense of foreboding, an unspoken understanding that today could be their last. You stand with them, Grey Ghost nearby, his massive form blending with the morning mist that clings to the ground.

Criston Cole, ever the stalwart commander, paces before his men, his expression grim as he surveys the scene. He gives you a brief nod, a signal that the time is near. You can see the anticipation in his eyes, the way his hand rests on the hilt of his sword, ready to give the order that will set everything in motion.

The roar of dragon wings beats above, and your heart quickens as you turn your gaze to the sky. Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, appears on Meleys, her dragon a brilliant scarlet against the pale blue of the morning. The soldiers around you shift uneasily, fear evident in their eyes as Meleys descends, flames already curling from her jaws.

"Hold the line!" Cole shouts, his voice cutting through the rising panic as Meleys sweeps low, releasing a torrent of fire that engulfs the front lines. The screams of burning men fill the air, and the acrid smell of charred flesh assaults your senses. But you remain steady, your hand gripping the reins tightly as Grey Ghost growls low in his throat, ready to leap into action.

The signal comes—a sharp, commanding gesture from Cole—and you meet Aemond’s gaze across the battlefield. His eye, cold and calculating, locks with yours, and a shiver runs down your spine. There’s something in his gaze, something dark and possessive that chills you to your core. But you don’t have time to dwell on it as you both prepare to launch your attack.

Grey Ghost takes to the sky with a powerful surge, and you feel the familiar rush of wind against your face as you rise above the battlefield. Aemond is beside you on Vhagar, his expression a mask of grim determination. For a moment, the two of you soar together, a united front against Rhaenys and Meleys. But the unity is fleeting, as Aemond’s gaze flicks toward you, his lips curling into a smile that is more threat than comfort.

Then, out of nowhere, a bright golden streak cuts through the sky. Your heart lurches as you recognize Sunfyre and, atop him, your eldest brother, Aegon, his armor glinting in the sunlight as he charges into the fray. He’s come from King’s Landing, against all expectations, to fight alongside you. Your chest tightens with a mixture of fear and hope as you cry out his name.

“Aegon!”

Without thinking, you urge Grey Ghost to follow Sunfyre, to join your brother in his attack on Meleys. Grey Ghost answers your command with a powerful dive, his wings slicing through the air as you race toward Aegon. But behind you, Aemond’s voice rings out, sharp and furious.

“Get back!” he shouts, his tone laced with authority and anger, but you don’t listen. You can’t. Not when Aegon is here, risking everything. Not when you see a chance to end this battle, to save him.

Sunfyre clashes with Meleys in a burst of fire and fury, the golden dragon tearing at the scarlet scales of the older beast with a ferocity that takes your breath away. You can see Aegon, his face set in a grimace of determination as he fights to bring down Rhaenys. Meleys roars, thrashing against the combined assault of Sunfyre and Grey Ghost, and for a moment, it seems like the battle might be yours.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see Vhagar, and your heart freezes. Aemond’s dragon, vast and ancient, dives toward the fray, and there is no mistaking the deadly intent in her descent. Aemond is not coming to support you—he’s coming to destroy.

“No!” you scream, but your voice is lost in the chaos as Vhagar’s flames engulf Sunfyre and Aegon. The world seems to slow as you watch in horror, the golden dragon shrieking in agony as fire consumes him. Aegon’s screams echo in your ears, a sound you will never forget, as Sunfyre, ablaze and dying, spirals downward, crashing into the earth with a force that shakes the ground beneath you.

The shock of it rips through you, and for a moment, everything goes silent. Rhaenys takes the chance to flee, and Meleys, despite her injuries, manages to pull away from the wreckage of the battle, disappearing into the clouds. You barely notice, your eyes locked on the smoking crater where Sunfyre has fallen, where your brother lies.

“Aegon!” you scream again, the word tearing from your throat, raw and filled with pain as you urge Grey Ghost to dive toward the crash site. The wind roars in your ears, the ground rushing up to meet you, but all you can think of is your brother, of the fire, of the betrayal.

But Grey Ghost pulls up short, his instincts overriding your command as he veers away from the deadly heat. Your scream dies in your throat, choked by the smoke and the realization that there’s nothing you can do, nothing but watch as the flames consume what’s left of Aegon and Sunfyre.

You clutch Grey Ghost’s reins, your hands trembling, as the dragon hovers above the wreckage. Aemond circles above you, Vhagar’s massive wings casting a shadow over the battlefield, and you know, with a sickening certainty, that this was his doing. That he had chosen this, chosen to burn your brother rather than risk him taking the glory of the kill.

Tears sting your eyes as you look up at Aemond, his expression unreadable as he watches the devastation below. There’s no regret in his gaze, only the cold satisfaction of victory, and it makes your blood run cold.

“Why?” you choke out, your voice barely more than a whisper, lost to the winds as you struggle to comprehend what has just happened. But there is no answer, only the roar of the dragons and the distant cries of the dying.

Grey Ghost pulls you higher, away from the wreckage, away from the unbearable heat, and you realize with a cold, sinking feeling that you are retreating. Rhaenys is gone, Aegon is broken, and the battle—this terrible, bloody battle—is over.

But it is not victory that fills your heart. It is grief, and rage, and a deep, aching sorrow that you know will never fade.

You scream Aegon’s name one last time, a sound of pure anguish that echoes across the battlefield, carried by the winds to where the dead lie in smoldering ruins. And as Grey Ghost bears you away from the carnage, you know that nothing will ever be the same again.

The air in the Red Keep is festers with the scent of burnt flesh and the acrid sting of ash as you stand by Aegon's bedside, your fingers entwined with his charred hand. The once-proud Dragon King, your elder brother, now lies shattered before you. His silver hair, once a symbol of the Targaryen lineage, is singed away in patches, leaving his scalp raw and exposed. His breathing is labored, each inhale a painful rasp that reverberates through the silent chamber.

You try to keep your composure, but the sight of him like this—so broken, so helpless—breaks the dam within you. Hot tears spill down your cheeks as you lean closer, pressing your forehead against his cold, clammy skin. "Aegon," you whisper, your voice cracking. "Please... stay with us."

Beside you, your mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, stands rigid, her face a mask of stoic grief. Her eyes, however, betray her sorrow, glistening with unshed tears as she looks down at her firstborn son. Aemond, your elder brother, looms at the foot of the bed, his single eye sharp and calculating, though his expression remains impassive. There is a distance between you now, a chasm that has only grown wider with time. He is no longer the boy who once protected you, but a man consumed by his own ambition and possessiveness.

Aegon stirs at the sound, a pained groan escaping his cracked lips, but he doesn't wake.

You can’t bear to stay any longer. The weight of it all is too much. Your heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice, and you can’t breathe in this room any longer. Slowly, you release Aegon's hand and step back. "I need some air," you murmur, your voice hoarse.

Alicent reaches out to you, her fingers brushing your arm in a silent plea to stay, but you shake your head. "I’ll return soon," you promise, though even you aren’t sure you can keep that vow. With one last glance at Aegon's broken form, you turn and leave the chamber, the heavy door closing behind you with a soft thud.

Inside Aegon's chamber, a heavy silence lingers after your departure. Alicent stands at the bedside, her hands clasped together in a desperate prayer. Aemond remains at the foot of the bed, his eye fixed on his brother with a cold, calculating gaze. It is then that Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, enters the room, his expression grave as he looks between the Queen and her son.

"Your Grace," he begins, his tone measured and careful. "I must speak with you both. It concerns your daughter and Ser Gwayne."

Alicent's head snaps up, her brows knitting together in concern. "What is it, Ser Criston? Speak plainly."

Cole hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering to Aemond before settling on Alicent. "I regret to inform you that I witnessed something earlier... in the woods near Rook's Rest. Princess Y/N and Ser Gwayne were... engaged in an intimate act."

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Alicent's face drains of color, her hands trembling slightly as she grips the edge of the bed. Aemond, on the other hand, goes deathly still, his eye narrowing into a slit as fury coils within him like a serpent ready to strike.

"Are you certain?" Alicent's voice wavers, though she already knows the answer. Ser Criston would not lie about such a matter.

Cole nods, his face grim. "I saw them with my own eyes, Your Grace. There is no doubt."

Aemond's hands clench into fists at his sides, his knuckles white with the force of his anger. "She was meant to be mine," he hisses, his voice low and dangerous. "She was promised to me."

Alicent looks at her son, her eyes wide with fear. "Aemond, please—"

But before she can finish, a weak, rasping voice cuts through the tension like a knife. "No."

Aegon's voice, barely a whisper, startles them all. His eyes, bloodshot and filled with pain, open just enough to focus on his younger brother. There is a clarity in his gaze, a sharpness that wasn't there before. He draws a shuddering breath and speaks again, louder this time, though the effort clearly costs him.

"Y/N... will marry... Gwayne."

The declaration hangs in the air, and for a moment, no one speaks. Aemond stares at Aegon in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to process the words. Alicent looks between her sons, horror dawning in her eyes.

"Aegon," Aemond begins, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury. "You cannot—"

But Aegon only smiles—a cruel, vengeful twist of his lips that sends a chill down Aemond's spine. He knows, in that moment, that this is Aegon's retribution, his way of striking back at the brother who attempted to take his life at Rook's Rest.

Aegon, broken as he is, still has the power to take what Aemond desires most.

And he has.

Aemond’s gaze flickers to his mother, whose face is a mask of anguish, and then back to Aegon, who closes his eyes once more, his strength spent. There is no room for argument, no room for defiance. Aegon has made his will known.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #gwayne #gwayne x you #gwayne x reader #gwayne x y/n #gwayne hightower

257 notes · View notes

randomuzerthelozer · 3 months

Note

Heloo

Im wafaa from Gaza ..i need your help if you can

Please donate to save my life and my family

My link in bio

Asking for help is not easy .l request a small donation of € 5 or €10 from each person .€10 will save my family and help me cover travel expenses and rebuild.what's left of my home

you can deliver your regards through link ( please see my bio)

https://gofund.me/27fab415

I'm so sorry you had your goals and ambitions taken from you, I don't know what I want to do in the future myself but I can't imagine it all being taken away from you. I can't imagine what you and your family have to go through currently. The fact you can't freely leave to saftey is horrible. The fact your family had to have their livleyhood, their home their normal life taken away is horrifying. My heart gose out to you to your family.

This is a vetted gofoundme AND they are far away from their goal, I'm hoping you all can share and Donate this post around your following mutuals on your blog onto other social media accounts ETC

https://gofund.me/7516f5f5

Please reblog their posts make your own posts, Make them known to tumblr

13 notes · View notes

megyulmi · 2 months

Text

Why Yuuji’s domain is a manifestation of his desire to save Megumi:

The hand symbol he used to open his domain is similar to the Mudra associated with Bodhisattva Kṣitigarbha, who is known as Bodhisattva Jizō (地蔵) in Japanese Buddhism.

In the common Japanese tradition, Bodhisattva Jizō is portrayed as the protector of the souls of children, who are condemned to stack piles of stones vainly on the banks of the Sanzu River (a mythological river in Japanese Buddhist tradition that one must cross to reach the afterlife), as these towers are repeatedly toppled. The legend has various versions. In one of the versions, the oni (demons) wreck the stone piles and torment the children, and the children seek haven with Bodhisattva Jizō who hides them inside his garment and comforts them. In another version, when the children pile stones at the 'Children’s Riverbed Hell', winds and flames are the agents knocking down the stone tower, and the flames reduce the children into cremated bones, to be revived back to whole by Bodhisattva Jizō.

It would not be an exaggeration to draw a comparison between the legend and the dynamic between Yuuji, Megumi and Sukuna: Megumi is one of those children at the riverbank, subjected to endless torment; Sukuna is the demon, the source of his torment; and Yuuji is the Bodhisattva, who has vowed to free those children from their torment, even at the cost of his own liberation (i.e. achieving Buddhahood).

We know that Domain Expansion is achieved by expanding one’s innate domain with cursed energy while using a barrier to construct it inside a separate space and that innate domain reflects one’s mind and soul. Saving Megumi has been Yuuji’s sole driving force, therefore it would not be an exaggeration either to assume that how he manifested his domain (i.e. the hand symbol for expanding it) is a reflection of his desire to save Megumi.

#there are also a lot of parallels (connections) that could be drawn between yuuji and sukuna through such association with jizō...#particularly when it comes to sukuna's past and his consuming his twin in the womb.#i might write on that later.#but i would recommend looking into it.#jjk spoilers #itadori yuuji #fushiguro megumi #itafushi #fushiita #jujutsu kaisen spoilers #sukuna

203 notes · View notes

jambiscuits27 · 2 months

Note

Hello, I'm Kariman Dohan. I am writing this letter to you feeling a state of sadness and grief, after the war on Gaza completely destroyed our lives😔🤕. I was working as a teacher for children, but the school was destroyed and I lost my job😭😭. My husband was a fisherman, but the fishing boat, which was our only source of income, was badly damaged and did not return. Usable. My young son, Hamoud,🥹 suffers from malnutrition due to the lack of food and the polluted water we drink. My husband, Ayman Alwan, and I are trying with all our might to survive😞💔, but the situation has become too much for us to bear. We are desperate to escape to a safe place where we can start over, but we don't have enough money to do so.💔💔💔😔🥺 Therefore, I ask you for your generosity and kindness to help us so that we can overcome this crisis. Please consider our situation and help as much as you can by donating and sharing the link.💔🍉🥹😭😭😭😭

My campaign was vetted by 90ghost🫂

https://www.gofundme.com/f/save-kareman-dohans-family-from-despair

Hiya there, hope you’re doing well.

If you are reading this please seriously consider helping Kareman and his family get out of Gaza. As of right now, $4,771 out of their $50,000 goal has been reached so even a single € can help immensely. Even if you can’t, a simple share/reblog can help immensely.

Gofundme desc. under cut:

“I’m Zenzi and have made this GoFundMe for my friend in Palestine and her family. Here is their story:

Update:

Dear Friends, I'm sharing here an update as we have reached 300 terrible days since the onset of this nightmare. The goal has always been clear: my family and their safety come first and foremost, followed by essential supplies, drinking water, medicine, and other necessities that any household must have. The challenges are many. For months, we have been planning to evacuate to a safer place, that's why we wanted to make a fundraiser to help this purpose. That dream was shattered when the Rafah crossing was closed three months ago. Since then, we adjust our priorities. When you see your family's difficult situation, you will spend everything you have on their comfort, no matter the cost. The focus now is on basic necessities such as food, and drinking water, and expensive medicine so we can manage the widespread diseases and epidemics. The situation in Gaza has gone from bad to worse. The prices are rising and the increasing frequency of new displacements. Nowhere is safe. It can be difficult to express the full picture of our suffering - words are inadequate. We miss our normal lives. We miss who we used to be. The need continues as long as displacement and the crushing siege continues! We are unlikely to see the end of this trauma anytime soon with recent events extinguishing the hope for that. Your continuous support is the antidote to the injustice and builds our resilience. I hope you can continue supporting us and your love for us to withstand it all as one family.

End Update.

Hello, please help me save my family from death I am 25 year old Kareman Dohan from Gaza, Palestine. My house was completely destroyed because of the war on Gaza, we lost our jobs and our money. We are now displaced in a tent. I am with my 14-month-old son Hamoud and my husband Ayman Olwan in a tent that is unlivable. My son constantly gets sick because of contaminated food and water. Please help me to raise money so that my family and I can survive. May God bless you I will be grateful to you for saving my life, my family and my little baby.”

3 notes · View notes

doctorbitchcrxft · 2 months

Text

Folsom Prison Blues | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual ? ;) )

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, sexual harassment, crude sexual comments directed at reader, mentions of rape, panic attacks, sexual coercion, blackmail, recovery from an assault (PLEASE PLEASE EXERCISE CAUTION WHEN READING THIS CHAPTER IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO ANYTHING PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED! Please take care of yourselves, lovebugs.)

Word Count: 5303

A/N: This is definitely one of the darker chapters I’ve written. I just wanna reiterate that if you are at all triggered by mentions of rape or sexual harrassment happening toward the reader, please skip this chapter. However, there are no explicit scenes of assault. I always feel like that crosses a line when writers add those really descriptive scenes.

Remember, if you are a victim of anything like this, you are loved and you are not defined by what happens to you. As a victim myself, I completely understand if you make the decision to skip this week's chapter.

Again, please, please, please take care of yourself while you read this chapter. I love you all! And minors, definitely do not read. doooo notttt readddd.

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

“Have I mentioned that I hate this idea?” you said to Dean harshly, standing outside of the Impala.

Dean chuckled. “I think a few times.” He kissed your forehead. “Look, Deacon’s a friend of ours. He’s got you covered. See you in a few days, okay?”

“I fucking hate this idea,” you groaned.

Dean leaned down to kiss you, effectively cutting off your sentence. “Just trust me, okay?”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. See you, Dee.”

And with that, you set off to meet a friend of John Winchester’s, Deacon, at Green River County Detention Center. Several men had been brutally murdered in the B-block of their men’s prison, and Deacon, the warden at the prison, had come to the Winchester brothers for help. Reluctantly, you agreed to pose as a guard in-training to be right there with the boys the whole time and to assist with their escape.

Your plan was only able to be accomplished due to the fact that the FBI hadn’t gotten a clear photo of you; not from the bank and not from your previous arrest. Your mugshot from Baltimore had “mysteriously disappeared.” However, Sam’s and Dean’s photos were all over the place; Dean’s from St. Louis and a sketch of Sam from a witness in Milwaukee. The two boys were going to purposefully get arrested to be able to get into the B-block of the prison. That was why you hated the idea so much.

Deacon was tough, you wouldn’t lie, but no tougher than your father. His whole “ex-military” thing didn’t intimidate you at all, and perhaps that was what kept the other officers from messing with you. You’d proved in your “training” how capable you were, and Deacon claimed that was part of the reason they accelerated the hiring process for you.

However, your tough, impenetrable attitude didn’t deter the inmates from making jabs at you. Your first day on the job, a scrawny inmate with rotting teeth smacked your ass harshly in the cafeteria. You promptly had him on his stomach with his arm twisted behind his back. Deacon called you into his office afterward to fill out an incident report.

“Guessing you guys don’t have that many female hires, huh?” you asked Deacon upon entering his office.

He chuckled. “That’s a nice way of saying it. Most girls wouldn’t be caught dead in here, and we pretty much don’t hire ‘em. Just for their own safety.”

“Don’t you think that’ll raise some red flags, then? Especially given the fact that I appeared out of nowhere and ‘accelerated through training’?” you questioned.

“(Y/N), we don’t exactly hire the best and the brightest. Besides, that sort of thing happens with the guys all the time. Some get transferred from other prison, for others, this is their jumping-off point before they start workin’ for the police force. Actually, I think a lot of ‘em are too excited to see a girl to even think about where you came from. Trust me, nobody’s paying enough mind to your circumstance to notice any of the cracks,” he assured you.

You let out a breath. “Okay. The boys get arrested yet?”

He nodded. “Should be on their way over now. Just finished questioning them a few counties over.”

“Wait, questioning them? How serious of a questioning are we talkin’ here?” you asked.

“Uh, I don’t know. That’s above my paygrade, kid,” he replied. “Look, I’m gonna be honest with you. This isn’t gonna be a cakewalk for you. I run a tight ship, but you’re fresh meat. Some of these guys haven’t seen a girl in fifteen, twenty, thirty years. When they see you, be prepared for some wild animals. What happened earlier isn’t gonna be an isolated incident.

“But one of ‘em even looks at you funny, you tell me. Don’t go lookin’ for trouble, though. Keep your head down and only jump in when you absolutely have to. I have you on patrol of the cell blocks so there’ll at least be a barrier between you and them. At meal and rec time, though, I can’t protect you from what’ll happen.”

You nodded, bile rising in your throat.

“Why don’t you get outta here? I’ll see you around, okay?”

You nodded again and smiled a little before turning around and heading out of the door. Some of the male guards snickered as you walked past them through the hallways of the prison, but you paid no mind to them. You were focused on seeing your boys again.

“You don’t belong here,” one of the guards called after you.

You turned on your heel sharply. “What’d you say to me?”

“You heard me, toots. Go back where you came from,” the guard replied, a foul smile across his face as his buddies snickered.

You gave him a challenging glare. “I’m gonna say this as politely as I can: get fucked.”

You turned back around and walked away, only to feel a harsh yank on your arm to turn you to face the man. “What’d you say?”

“You heard me, toots,” you said, mocking him. “How small is your dick that a third-grade insult from me got you all fired up? And holy shit, do you need some listerine. You got halitosis? What’s going on there?”

The guard’s friends began to laugh, too, much to the chagrin of the man still holding your arm. He released you roughly, and you knew it’d bruise tomorrow. “I oughta teach you some respect,” he said.

“Oh yeah? And risk losing your job?” you questioned. “You make one wrong move, and I start screaming.”

He scoffed. “Whatever. Just fuck off.”

“That’s what I was doin’,” you replied, turning away again. This time, he let you leave, and you were grateful. You were trying to remain as unnoticed as possible during your time here; despite the fact that being the only female guard put an immediate spotlight on you.

You continued down the corridor to your assigned patrol; right outside the doors of one of the cell blocks. You tried to seem as unfazed as possible in your nerve-wracking situation and walked with authority; as much as you could muster given most of these men towered over you. You mentally cursed your father for stunting your growth by starving you to make sure you stayed small for hunting purposes. Your baton in hand, you walked up and down the cells.

“Hey, they got us a hooker,” one of the men from the cell laughed. “How much for the hour, sweetness?”

As that man’s cell erupted into laughter, you walked past another where a man was pleasuring himself in plain view of the hallway. You knew he was doing so to get a rise out of you, and you swallowed your nausea and continued walking.

“I’m gonna fuck you real good, sweetheart,” a man growled from behind his bars. “At rec time, your ass is mine.”

Again, you just kept walking, ignoring their lewd and offensive comments. You prayed to see Sam, Dean, or Deacon sooner rather than later to continue going through with this. And for a moment, you wondered if this case was even worth it. ‘If these fucking scumbags are the ones dyin’, I’d be okay with that,’ you considered.

***

At the prisoner’s scheduled lunch time, you held up the end of the line of prisoners heading to the cafeteria. Every time the men at the back of the line tried to turn their heads to sneak a glimpse at you, you used the butt of your baton to hit them on the back of the head and turn their gazes forward. You weren’t completely comfortable doing that, but you were doing your best to prove that you weren’t someone to be messed with.

When you arrived with your group of inmates in the cafeteria, you saw Sam and Dean sitting alone at a small table and talking in hushed voices. You hoped your face didn’t convey your relief to see them. Even though they were in orange jumpsuits, just the sight of the Winchesters made you feel safer. Dean caught you staring at him and smirked a little before turning back to his plate. You forced yourself to remain stoic and keep your hardened expression on your face. Dean got up from the table with his tray to go throw his food away, and Sam followed. Sam somehow didn’t notice a heavily tattooed prisoner with a thick goatee heading straight for him, and he crashed right into him.

“Sorry. I—” Sam tried.

“Watch where you're going,” the man said.

The brunet stumbled over his words. “Yeah. Sure. I just—”

Dean walked up in front of Sam, voice darkening. “He said he was sorry.”

“You talking to me?” the man scoffed. “Are you talking to me?”

“Great, another guy who's seen Taxi Driver too many times,” Dean quipped. “Yeah, I'm talking to you. Trust me. Let it go.”

The tattooed man walked away, and Dean turned around to Sam. He said something quietly and winked at his brother, making Sam roll his eyes before catching sight of the much larger man the tattooed prisoner was walking back over to them with.

You tried to keep your composure when the man swung a punch at Dean. Dean, however, caught him and held him in place from behind. “We can end this right now. No harm, no foul,” the Older Winchester asserted.

The prisoner soon broke from Dean’s hold. He grabbed him again and slammed him against a wall. The man stepped back on Dean’s foot, and Deacon subtly jerked his head at you for you to step forward to help break up the situation.

“That’s enough!” Deacon commanded, walking over to the man Dean had brought to the floor. “On your feet, Lucas.”

The tattooed man, whose name you just found out, stood. “Yes, sir, boss.”

Deacon held out his baton and pushed Dean’s chin up with it. “What's your name?” he asked him.

“Winchester.”

“Well, Winchester, not a good start.” Deacon stared him down angrily. “Solitary. You too, Lucas.”

You immediately grabbed Dean’s wrists and began pushing him in the direction of solitary confinement while another guard grabbed Lucas.

“Are we having fun yet, huh?” Dean called over your shoulder to Sam.

You roughly shoved him forward, making him face ahead again.

“Y’know, I usually don’t let girls tie me up without a first date,” Dean quipped. You knew he was trying to rile you up and get you to break character for his own fun.

“If you wanna keep your tongue, I suggest you keep your mouth shut,” you replied forcefully.

For some reason, that comment seemed to excite Dean. You fought back an eye roll at his amused expression. You roughly shoved him— not too hard, just hard enough to sell it— into the solitary confinement cell and slammed the door shut.

Dean smirked at you. “See you around, sweetheart.”

You tried to fight the heat rising to your cheeks, upset by how easily he could get a rise out of you. You left him in solitary confinement and followed the guard who’d brought Lucas to solitary back to the cafeteria.

“The boys seem to like you a lot,” he sneered. “Havin’ fun yet?”

You recognized him as one of the men who’d taunted you after you left Deacon’s office earlier that morning.

“Buckets,” you responded dryly.

“I can think of a few ways we could have some more fun,” he said to you, backing you into a wall.

“Get off me!” Your breath quickened, and without even thinking about it, you used the flat part of your forearm to push his chest away and kneed him in the groin.

“You bitch!” he yelped. You took off running back to the direction you thought the cafeteria was in, taking a moment to steady yourself against a wall. You couldn’t seem to catch your breath, and you slumped down against the wall, clutching at your chest. You closed your eyes and did your best to steady your breathing and thankfully succeeded. You wiped the few tears that had fallen from your eyes, and steeled yourself to go back out there.

You rejoined your group of guards, including Deacon, and the other prisoners. Deacon seemed to notice you were upset but said nothing about it. All he said was, “You’re watching the bathrooms with Jones,” referring to your next assignment during the prisoners’ working hours and your partner for the time being.

You were relieved to see Sam when you made it to your destination. He was having to scrub the floors with a mop that seemed to be more like ragged threads now than a cleaning tool.

“How you doing?” Sam asked the older prisoner he was with.

“I’m fifty-four years old, mopping the floor of a crapper with bars on the windows. How you think I'm doing?” the man’s scratchy voice replied.

“Alright. Bad icebreaker. I'm Sam.”

“Randall.”

“Nice to meet y—” Sam cut himself off, seeming to have realized something. “Randall. Hey, weren't you there the night that guard died?”

That caught your attention. You threw a look to the guard in the other part of the bathroom ensuring he was focused on other prisoners and not Sam and Randall’s conversation.

“Yeah,” the man replied.

“Well, what happened?” Sam pressed.

“They say the stress of the job got him.”

Sam stopped mopping. “Yeah? What do you say?”

Randall didn’t answer. “Why are you inside, kid?”

“ 'Cause I got an idiot for a brother.”

“That'll do it,” Randall replied. “Well, this place ain't so bad. Compared to the old cellblock, this is the damn Hilton.”

“You spent time in the old block?” Sam questioned.

“Oh, yeah, I was a regular customer.”

“Didn't they have Mark Moody over there for a while?” Mark Moody was the man who Sam and Dean suspected of being your ghost killer.

“He was there. Yeah I was there, too, the night that lunatic bought it,” Randall explained.

“Yeah? It was a heart attack, right?”

The older man chuckled. “Sure, his heart stopped right after the guard stopped using his head for batting practice. The next morning, I was in his cell, mopping up the blood. What a mess.” He shook his head.

“Wait. So he– he was beaten and– and nobody reported it?” Sam asked in confusion.

“You kept your mouth shut, unless you wanted to die from the same heart attack, y’know?” Randall chuckled; the gravelly sound almost sending a chill down your spine.

‘This guy could easily play Hannibal Lector,’ you thought.

“Randall, exactly how much blood was there?”

*** When working time was over, the prisoners had an hour in the yard before dinner and returning to their cells. You watched from the far corner of the fence while he played poker with every man who was dumb enough to try him for cigarettes. You folded your arms across your chest and watched with amusement when Sam came up to him and began bickering with him about something.

Dean then stood and yelled, “Hey, fellas! Who's ready to deal?”

He played several more rounds of poker, and you did your best to pry your eyes away from him so as to not arouse suspicions of any kind. However, that proved to be the least of your worries.

The guard from earlier whose balls you’d kicked in came up beside you and nonchalantly leaned against the gate. “You’re playing hard to get. It’s cute. I like it,” he said.

“Leave me alone, please,” you replied coolly. You were ready to bash his head in.

“Or what?” he challenged, still facing forward. “I think you owe me an apology for earlier. I’ll have a real treat for you tonight when we get off work.”

You jerked your head toward him. “You try anything, and I swear to god I will gut you.”

“Easy there, princess. It’d do you well to get in good with me. I’ll be able to protect you from them.” The guard nodded out to the inmates who would turn their heads every once in a while in your direction.

“Not interested,” you said simply. “Besides, I think I need more protection from you than from them.”

You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your head. “Maybe so. Maybe if you don’t give me what I want, I’ll take it out on your little inmate friend over there.” He nodded toward Dean who was triumphantly fistpumping after winning another hand of poker.

You looked back at him, worry swimming in your eyes.

“That’s right, I noticed how you keep looking at him. You’re not very subtle, I hope you know. And he’s definitely not,” the guard said. “So, if you wanna keep him alive, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. I’ll see you tonight.”

You stared at the ground ahead of you in fear and tried to think your way out of your situation. All that played over in your mind was the sickening feeling of his body against yours in that cinderblock corridor outside of solitary confinement. Bile rose in your throat, and the only thing snapping you out of your trance was the whistle indicating the end of rec time.

You went through the motions of your “job” by escorting the prisoners from the yard into the cafeteria for dinner. Your head was not at all in the moment or in the case, and fear kept your adrenaline moving for the next several minutes. It wasn’t until Dean got in another fight and nearly got himself killed that your adrenaline surged for a different reason.

“If we'd waited any longer, you'd be dead,” Deacon told Dean.

“You waited long enough,” Dean huffed, trying to catch his breath.

Deacon shoved his baton into Dean’s stomach, and you nearly lunged at him for doing so. He grabbed the back of Dean’s head and told him, “Do yourself a favor. Don't. Talk.” The warden looked up at you. “Take them both up to the infirmary.”

You and the guard who’d been harassing you did so. Dean noticed how off you were, but did his best not to convey what he knew. When you got both Tiny and Dean into cells, you had no desire to leave with the guard; afraid of what would happen to you.

You were almost angry at yourself. You were (Y/N) (Y/L/N). You’d fought monsters, ghosts, and demons, and you were losing your mind over a guy that would shit his pants if he knew what you’d seen. However, the fact that he was still a very real threat drowned out those thoughts.

***

The man Dean had fought had apparently died in the infirmary; no doubt by the hands of the thing you were hunting. While Dean was fighting said man, Sam snuck to the room Moody had been murdered in and burnt the rest of the blood away, so you knew it couldn’t be him. All you could do was wait for the boys to talk to the other prisoners to get the name of your true target.

Later that night, you just wanted to make it back to the Impala when you got off your shift. You even waited a while after everyone else on your shift had left to make your way out of the prison. You hoped the guard whose name you didn’t even know wouldn’t make good on his threats. However, your stomach dropped when you saw him leaning against Dean’s car.

You stopped several feet from him.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” he told you.

“How the fuck do you know what car I drive?” you questioned.

“It’s not hard. I mean, you’re the only ‘67 Chevy in the parking lot. Nice ride, by the way,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

In an instant, he was running toward you. You turned and sprinted away, only to be knocked to the ground by the man. He roughly pulled your hair back, yanking your head back against him. “Remember what I fucking told you,” he growled against your ear. “Are you gonna start playing nice?”

***

Everything felt wrong. No matter how many showers you took, you couldn’t scrub the feeling off your skin. Back in your motel room, you laid on your side wrapped in an oversized shirt. You stared at the wall in the dark, completely numb. You hadn’t even been able to cry since it happened.

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t move. For hours, you laid there. You wouldn’t allow sleep to hold you close enough to darken the world around you.

One thing you kept thinking was ‘I’ll never be the same again.’ The words played on a loop over and over in your mind. They danced around in your head for hours, taunting you.

You wanted to climb out of your skin. Start the day over. You wished you’d fought back. Wished someone had been sound to stop him. The scrapes on your left wrist and arm were undoubtedly going to bruise in the morning, and your uniform wouldn’t exactly hide them. You knew Dean and Sam would ask questions, and the former would rip the guy’s head off. You didn’t even know that guard’s name. Everything just felt so wrong.

But you wouldn’t let this stop you from doing your job. You wouldn’t let those boys brave that place alone with no word from you. And so, despite everything in your body telling you not to, you went back to the prison the next day.

***

You could tell Deacon knew something was wrong, but he didn’t press you further. The other prison guards didn’t seem to notice a difference in you; except, of course, the guard’s posse. They would snicker at you every time you walked past, and you could only imagine what your abuser had said about you.

Thankfully, you only had to endure this last day of awfulness. Deacon was going to “fire” you right after rec time was over to give you enough time to get the Impala pulled around the back of the jail for the brothers to escape through. Your job was to wait for Sam to come over to you and give you the name of the person you were after and find what cemetery they were at. Then, you were going to get the boys the hell out of dodge.

You watched the boys in the rec yard talking to Randall, the man Sam had gotten information from while they were cleaning the bathrooms. Then, the younger brother came over to you.

“Hey,” he said, looking around to see if anyone was paying much attention to him.

“Hi,” you replied.

“Whoa, what happened to your arm?” Sam asked in concern, noticing your very obvious scrapes.

“Oh, it’s nothing, I—”

“This guy bothering you?” That awful, familiar voice said from behind you.

Without turning around to face your abuser, you replied, “No. Please, go away.”

Sam glared at the man behind you when he noticed how upset the guard’s mere presence made you. You could tell he knew the guard had done something to you; he was a smart boy.

“Glockner,” was all Sam said to you before turning away.

“Surprised you’re able to still walk—”

You immediately turned around to him and punched him square across his jaw.

“Bitch!” he yelled.

“Fuck you!” you yelled.

‘Deacon’s firing me anyway,’ you thought. ‘Might as well give him a legitimate reason to.’

You got down on top of the guard and started punching hard. His face was bloodied and bruised, the man barely hanging on to consciousness before you were pulled away, kicking and screaming by two other guards. They dragged you over to Deacon, who promptly made a scene of firing you. He escorted you out to the parking lot where he said the cops would be waiting for you to bring you in for questioning.

Once the two of you were far enough away, he roughly spun you around to face him. “What the hell was that?!” he questioned. “You know they’re gonna be out for blood now!”

“I know that, Deacon! Maybe if your guards weren’t fucking scumbags, though, I wouldn’t have had to do that!” you yelled back.

“What?” his voice quieted considerably.

“Nothing,” you said. “Just tell my boys I’ll be back for ‘em tonight.” You turned on your heel and walked away.

“Hey, kid,” Deacon called after you.

You turned around.

“Thank you. And… I’m sorry. For whatever happened.”

You nodded and turned back around again.

*** You discovered that “Glockner” was the name of a nurse in the seventies who’d been caught in the crossfire of the inmate uprising that occurred following Moody’s death. She’d been buried at Green Valley Cemetery following the severe cerebral edema the inmates gave her.

You returned to the detention center under the cover of night and pulled the car around the back of the prison away from the parking lot where the guards were beginning to change shifts. You waited anxiously dressed in civilian clothes again for the boys to come out of the HVAC unit Deacon told you would be attached to the room he would be bringing the boys into following their staged fight.

“Oh, man, are you a sight for sore eyes,” a familiar voice rumbled.

Dean and Sam leapt over the fence separating you from them, and you couldn’t help but collapse into Dean’s arms. “Whoa, sweetheart, what’s—”

“No time, guys,” Sam reminded you. “You can reunite later. We gotta go.”

As if on cue, an alarm began to sound through the prison. Immediately, you nodded and broke away from Dean. You headed to the driver’s seat so Sam and Dean could change while you drove. Quickly, you headed to the cemetery Nurse Glockner was buried in.

***

The brothers caught you up on everything that had been happening to them since you hadn’t been able to talk much over the last week.

“What?!” you exclaimed, following them through the cemetery. “Henriksen’s here?!”

“Yeah, which is exactly why I wanted to get the hell out,” Sam told you. “They were gonna extradite us back to St. Louis or Baltimore or something. Whatever was gonna happen to us, it wasn’t gonna be pretty.

“Jesus,” you responded. “And no doubt, they’re gonna be looking for me soon, too. I beat the fuck out of a guy who knows I drive a ‘67 Impala.”

“What?!” both boys questioned upon reaching the grave of Nurse Glockner.

You nodded solemnly. “Yeah,” you said.

“I’m gonna need a bit more of a response than ‘yeah,’ sweetheart,” Dean grunted as he began digging.

“Later. Let’s just get this over with, okay?” you said, helping the boys dig faster.

You could feel both brothers staring at you in concern, but you couldn’t look up at them.

***

When Glockner had finally been salted and burned, you and the Winchesters returned to the Impala and quickly drove away.

“You know, I almost wish I could see Henriksen's face,” Dean joked as the Impala’s engine purred.

“Really? 'Cause I'd be happy if I never saw him again,” Sam replied tightly. “I mean, we're not really out of the woods yet, Dean, you know? You thought we were screwed before?”

“Yeah, I know. We got to go deep this time,” Dean responded.

“ ‘Deep,’ Dean? We should go to Yemen,” Sam quipped.

“Ooh, I'm— I'm not sure I'm ready to go that deep.”

You were silent the entirety of the drive over state lines and to a motel in the middle of wooded nowhere. You were silent through the check-in process, and silent when Dean crawled into your bed behind you later that night. He began to kiss down your neck, and you wanted to enjoy the feeling so badly.

“Dean.” Your voice broke as you whispered his name.

Immediately, Dean took his face away from your neck. “What?” he asked, hearing how upset you were. “What is it?”

“I, um—” you started, unable to turn to face him. “I can’t.”

“Why?” he asked softly.

“The guard—” you said. “—from the rec yard. He, um.”

Dean lightly turned you to face him. “(Y/N), what’d he do?” His voice had darkened considerably at the thought of someone hurting you.

“He, uh—” your breath shuddered, and you were unable to meet his gaze. “He raped me.”

You swear all of the oxygen looked like it’d been punched out of Dean, his face hardening in the darkness. “Oh, I’ll kill him—”

“Dean, don’t, okay? It’s not gonna—” you protested, reaching up to grab his face to make him look at you. “It’s not gonna change anything.”

“I know, but—”

“Dean, I thought beating him to a bloody pulp was gonna make me feel better. It didn’t. I just feel more disgusting. Like, why didn’t I do that when it was all happening?” You began to cry. “I just— I’m trying to forget it ever happened. And I know I won’t. And it’s awful. And I just— I need time,” you explained.

Silence settled over the two of you for a moment.

“Do you want me to leave?” Dean asked softly.

“I— I don’t know. I just—” You took a deep breath. “I don’t really know how I feel about touching right now. Can you just lay with me?”

He nodded and climbed into bed beside you, the two of you staring up at the ceiling. Wordlessly, you slipped your hand under the covers and reached for his hand, lacing his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly.

Your world was turning completely upside down. Your mind wouldn’t slow down, and you didn’t sleep much at all that night. However, you knew that whatever happened to you, Dean was there to keep you grounded.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #supernatural series rewrite #spn series rewrite #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you

172 notes · View notes