#did she put a sigil on him??

[starryaugust]

Spoilers to Agatha all Along ep6

I feel like the fact theu acknowledged the fact Billy is jewish makes his casting even worst.

They actually went ahead and wrote a bar mitzvah scene just to cast a non jewish actor.

[saetiate]

itoshi sae x f!reader smut. portal sex, lowk witchcraft (sigils drawn that mean the toy he fucks into = your pussy basically). p in v. not representative of real toys at all, this is very much fantasy. word count: 1.5k author's note: this is fucking deranged tbh but also very hot and different from the usual poetry of lovemaking i usually write. wrote this so horny that i feel like i should apologize or something

There's a sex toy in Sae's hand.

The term "pocket pussy" itself fills him with disgust. There's a strange symbol on the back of it, which he presumes is just the company's logo. Who is he to judge the branding of a sex company.

He presses his thumb to the entrance of the toy, tracing around the labia. It's surprisingly detailed, even the pearl of a clit lays right at the top, as if eager and waiting. It's almost…

He thumbs it curiously, only to be met with hardened plastic.

He doesn't know what he expected.

This really isn't him at all. Frankly, the sales associate was pushing this onto him way too hard. But he's not going to fault someone for doing their job, and she seemed like she really needed the commission; purchasing it was more like a favor to her.

But now he's in his bathroom, and he's cleaned the item inside and out, sterilized and soaped and dried. There's a little dispenser for putting in water-based lubricant, which he does have lying around. Something to make it more realistic, is what the salesperson said. Doesn't change the fact that it's just a plastic toy in his opinion, but he presumes most people are imagining someone in particular when they use it.

Sae doesn't have anyone. So he pours just a little bit of the lubricant in.

This is stupid. He thinks it even as he lays down in his bed, toy in hand. He's never been into dating or hooking up, but it really has been a long time.

~

This is stupid.

You're holding an image of a sigil in one hand, the witch that called you into your store and gave it to you (with insistence on payment immediately, might you add) said if you drew this on the back of your panties, you'd meet the love of your life!. Which, sure. You presume it's something about bodily fluids and the drawing. What do you know about sex magic?

So what if you grabbed a pair of old underwear and a marker, and started copying the sigil. It's been forever since you've last dated. You'll at least try it once. And then you can toss them to the side with a scoff and an obvious "that did nothing". You gotta try it before you kick it, right?

You lay down in bed and stare at the ceiling, the moon outside rotating over the sky.

And then you feel it, a sensation over your clit. Something light. A trick of the wind, maybe. But it's pointed enough to rock you out of your sleep. It's like a finger is tracing over either side of your pussy, dipping just slightly into your folds.

This is way more than you expected. You almost want to take off your sleep shorts just to check on the sigil, because what the actual fuck? Are you dreaming right now? But then you feel the sensation of something entering you, and it's big — much bigger than anything you've been used to. It stretches and aches but somehow doesn't hurt, like you've been prepped. And it's —

Holy fuck, it feels incredible.

The cock feels like it sinks into your pussy perfectly, running against your g-spot and pressing against your cervix. It's warm and hot inside of you and it thrusts slowly, inch by inch pressing into you over and over again and you're reminded of how long it's been since you've felt something like this. So full and whole and yet you don't know if you've ever had it this good.

The slow pace has you begging for him to speed up, even as the head of it moves and presses against every spot perfectly. At the end of every thrust, the tip presses to your cervix, and your mind goes completely blank. It grinds there for a moment almost knowingly, until your back arches and your hands grip the pillows tight.

~

It's so wet, around his cock, dripping down his member. He swears he only added a little bit of the lubricant, has half a mind to check the little cartridge if he wasn't doubling down with the way it tightens around his cock.

"F-Fuck," he can't help but swear as his hands press against either side of the toy like he would around someone's waist, fingertips that would create indents in someone's skin.

It squeezes him so, so, tight. And then it gets even wetter. Like —

Like someone's having an orgasm around his cock.

What- he doesn't even have time to process. His mind is reeling and he hisses between gritted teeth as the pussy becomes a vice around his member. It's so, so tight and warm and wet and it feels like a miracle he manages to fuck through it the entire time.

And then it relaxes. And he finally feels like he can breathe.

He pulls the toy closer to him, until the pussy presses right against the base of his cock. Feels the way the wetness drips all over him, the squelch of it audible, how it almost jerks uncontrollably around him. He doesn't know what the hell this function is but he knows if this was a real person, the reaction would make him chuckle. He presses down onto the top of the toy like he would someone's lower back —

And then he's slamming into it much faster than before. Pulls it down on him over and over again

~

You have never orgasmed from just penetration before, and yet this — this was insane. There's just one problem.

You still feel so wholly, incredibly full.

You came. You came. Whatever sex magic this is, shouldn't it end there? When bodily fluids meet the sigil? And yet you feel yourself get even fuller, like your hips are right against someone else's.

You find yourself falling uncontrollably, face-down and ass-up against your bed, as the thrusts get faster and faster. You're moaning against the sheets, mind so fucked out you can barely think.

And then you feel it. That sensation over your clit.

~

Sae wonders —

He touches the clit where he knows it's located, an engorged pearl that feels so much more nimble from the last time he tried touching it. He can't see it, so he can't tell for sure that it looks different, but what he does know is the way the pussy tightens around him immediately as he touches it. He runs his thumb in a circle over it and it's like the walls around his cock spasm, finds himself playing with it just to feel

And then something strange happens.

Sae doesn't have anyone. He doesn't have anyone to imagine. And yet he finds himself so clearly seeing hair splayed against the sheets, skin under his hands, can hear pretty gasps and moans falling from a mouth.

It drives him crazy. He wants to press his chest to your back, skin to skin. Lay a kiss over your shoulder and make you come on command. Wants to hold you up by your jaw so he can watch your face when you come.

"Oh, fuck," he says to no one, hair falling in his face from the sweat that drips down with the wetness over his cock. And then he comes hard, like vertigo, mind tilting at its axis as he spills into the pussy.

~

You're begging. You don't know for what, or what for, or who to, but your hands grip the sheets so tight that little crescent moon indents start to form through the material and onto your palm. The stimulation inside you and against your clit has your head heady and in the clouds and you're seconds away from having another orgasm.

That's when you see it, like a vision through a mist. You look over your shoulder like there might actually be someone there and see teal eyes like tumbled glass, wisps of red-brown hair. You can feel hands gripped tightly against your waist, slamming you back down onto him. A deep moan that makes white-hot sparks of satisfaction run up your spine.

You come shortly after, and it feels like you're coming around a hard cock and that has you dialed up even further, your open mouth pressed against the bed. You want to catch his face as he comes, you think you do almost barely through the corner of your eye, through the haze of your own orgasm as his thrust get sloppy and something wet spurts inside of you.

What?

When you press your fingers under the cloth and against your own pussy, there's nothing there but your essence. And yet you can feel it, the way it drips down, unable to be contained between your pussy squeezing around his cock. You gasp and moan as he seems to finally finish inside of you, working through your overstimulation with a few short thrusts.

Heavy breaths fill the air as clarity finally comes to your senses, the fog of lust and magic starting to ebb. You've soaked the bed with sweat, slick dripping down your cunt to the point it's started to slick down your inner thigh.

You'll meet the love of your life. You're not sure if this really counts as a meeting.

i have a rin version coming too btw :> just gotta go thru some last minute edits

[the-witchhunter]

DP x DC: Why summoning the Ghost King and Danny when he expects Pariah Dark might literally give John a panic attack

So, this would not be the first time John has summoned something and didn’t get what he expected. To explain that, I’ll have to explain the Newcastle incident, and I will but going to give a brief overview of what the consequences are before dipping into that… because it’s a bit intense

So during a summoning one of the things you need to do is name the being you’re summoning. The ritual and sigils are what brings the being forth. Naming the summoned entity is part of the binding. The binding is what gives you an amount of control over the being summoned and offers protection to the summoner

So having the wrong name means they have no control over what they summoned. Naming the spirit puts it on a leash and muzzles it, having the wrong name is just letting it in without the leash or muzzle

Let’s just say at this point, Constantine’s past experience with summoning would make him super against summoning “the Ghost King��� and one of the other magic users like Zatana would have to do it

John would be freaking out the moment the wrong guy showed up, he has some trauma around that. Even if it’s just Danny, this is going to dredge up some stuff and he’s going to have a hard drink afterwards

I will now be going into one of the most traumatizing moments of John Constantine’s life. As such, it’s going to get pretty intense and I’m toning it down a bit

Explanation of the Newcastle Incident Content warning sexual assault and abuse

In 1978 Constantine and his “magic gang” go to the Casanova Club to deal with a bit of a situation there. They arrive and there’s a lot of dead bodies in the basement and a very traumatized girl

Astra Logue’s father was basically a cult leader and an orgy enthusiast. He and his followers did some not so great things to Astra. Astra was psychic, so in her distress she summoned a hellhound named Norfolthing (actually a primordial elemental but that takes explaining) to protect her from the sexual abuse of her father and his followers. Norfulthing proceeded to commit sexual assault against the cult before killing them

John and the Magic Gang showed up to deal with the aftermath. In order to get Astra out of there and get rid of Norfulthing, they decided the best way to deal with this was to “fight fire with fire”

They then proceed to summon the demon/former god Nergal but the ritual didn’t have his name. Right ritual, wrong name. Nergal then proceeded to drag Astra’s soul to hell, Norfulthing raped one of the magic gang

John then spent the next two years at Ravenscar Mental Asylum and only managed to rescue Astra’s soul from hell about a decade later. She was still dead obviously but at least she wasn’t suffering in hell

So yeah

John has some baggage when it comes to summoning things with the wrong name

[theflorasdiary]

The problem with this show are not the characters or how the episodes are made,but the writers that decided to develop a literal masterpiece into a circus.

The campaign for season two literally started with making the audience choose between team black and team green:we had two trailers,two official posters and even the actors were “divided” to promote their teams.

So they basically told us to pick a side since the beginning.

Then they procede to turn team black in the saint team:making them the victims of the patriarchy,the heroes of the story.They showed us team black as if they are more Targaryen then the other team only because they know a prophecy and use this fact to excuse them from anything they do.

They made team black loved and worshiped by the small folks after Rhaenys killed hundreds of them during her dumb and useless girl boss scene and after Rhaenyra starved them.When in the book the small folks hates Rhaenyra and her incompetence,they will literally kick her out of the city and she has to run away or they will kill her just like they did with the dragons.The small folks instead loved team green,they loved Helaena as their queen and blamed and hated Rhaenyra for her death.

They forced use to like Rhaenyra just because she is one of the main characters,pushing on her the role of strong female character that is fighting a male society and then again just because she is a woman she is excused for everything that she does.We had to sit and watch two scenes of her giving birth and two of her weddings because we needed to empathize with her.We need to see her on her dragon constantly so that we can see Daenerys resemblance.They had to make her a saint,of course she wouldn’t want to kill a child she is too good,she would never hurt Helaena,everyone is loyal to her and she can do no wrong.They even took down Nettles to not show us Rhaenyra racism and the way she wanted to have a little girl killed because her pedo uncle-husband was rumored to be her lover.

On the other side we have team green that was completely dehumanized,stripped down of every good aspects they had in the book,changing and canceling everything.

We had never saw Alicent give birth to children that came to her out of marital rapes,we also did not see her getting married as a child bride to a man that will abuse her.Apparently the love of her life is Rhaenyra instead that her own children,she betrays them and her own side of the family in favor of her ex best friend that didn’t do anything to help her in the past and instead laughed in her face about her trauma.They keep telling that Alicent has never sacrificed anything when she has sacrificed her all life for duty and family unlike Rhaenyra.

Healena is totally marginal as the “weird bug girl” that just rants things out.She was a dragon rider that enjoyed being with her dragon Dreamfyre,yet in the show apparently she doesn’t like that.Even her dragon legacy was taken by team black,because now Dany dragon eggs comes from Syrax.In Viserys last days Helaena used to visit her father with her children but again this was taken from her and put on Rhaenyra instead.She was also stripped down of her coronation,of the way she was loved as a queen and how Aegon made sure that she was remembered as the true queen during the dance.They took from her the grief and mourning of her son one of the things that will literally drove her to death,because only Rhaenyra can cry her son and no one else.

Aegon was transformed into a rapist,because you can’t like him,you can only like Rhaenyra.There was no scene of him and Sunfyre beside the battle of Rook’s Rest,they have the strongest bond between a dragon and a dragon rider,he loved Sunfyre to the point he changed the family sigil to a golden dragon.They took down his will to fight,his family support and loyalty to him,his rage as a father that had lost his son.They took two of his sons,because Maelor do not exist and now he can’t have any more children because in the show he had lost his penis.They made him useless and pushed him on the sidelines in his own story.

I still don’t understand why they had to make Aemond betray his brother when in the book he was loyal to him,also in the book there was no indication of Aegon bullying him so again i don’t understand why choose this path.Daemon had a “redemption arc” after his betrayal one but of course Aemond can’t,only team black can.

Criston Cole is portrayed as an angry incel that still hates one woman that coerced him into having sex with her after he told her no multiple times.So much wasted potential in this character,when in the book he was one of the masterminds of team green,convinced Aegon to take the crown,took care of Sunfyre and served his king just right.

Daeron…sorry who?What do you mean that there is a third brother?I just know that his character will be completely destroyed,he probably will be a bastard with dark hair and we already won’t have the Maelor storyline for him,we definitely won’t see him making Ser Hugh and Ulf change sides or any of his victories with Tessarion.He will probably be marginalized like he already is,because again you can only like team black and only them can have the best.

How can you “pick a side” like they desperately want you to do,when they do shit like this?Literally forcing you to like team black because they are paint as the saints/good guys and assassinated every good thing about team green?

Keep telling me that this show is not team black propaganda and that’s is fair like this.

[alohajix]

Marked by Midnight [1]

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight's Masterlist

Summary: in the fog-drenched town of Willowridge, [Y/N] has always felt the pull of the supernatural. She doesn’t know why—only that it thrums beneath her skin, whispers in her blood, and haunts her dreams. She’s spent her life searching for answers, for meaning in the symbols and shadows that call to her… and then she meets him.

Harry Styles is the last living heir of a bloodline the world believes to be extinct. A hybrid born of vampire and wolf, he’s lived in silence, hidden behind the iron gates of Styles Estate, a crumbling estate thick with history, power, and curse. He doesn’t take mates. He doesn’t fall in love. Not anymore.

But fate doesn’t care for rules.

When she stumbles into his world, a bond awakens between them—raw, ancient, irreversible. What begins as curiosity spirals into obsession. And as secrets unravel and darkness rises, one truth becomes terrifyingly clear: she was his long before they ever met, and now… she may never leave.

[Chapter One] Warnings: this chapter contains mild psychological unease, including feelings of being watched, supernatural elements like a mysterious sigil and unseen presence, implied tampering with personal belongings, a subtle fear of the unknown, and emotional isolation as [Y/N] navigates these events alone.

[Chapter One] Words: 4,519

***

Chapter One — The Sigil

The house was quiet. It usually was in the mornings, especially before my aunt woke up, but today it felt different—like the walls were holding something in, or maybe waiting for me to notice. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and maybe I wouldn’t have, if everything else hadn’t felt so normal.

I wrapped both hands around my coffee, the chipped mug warming my fingers. The glaze was cracked near the handle, but I couldn’t bring myself to use anything else. I made it when I was a kid—my aunt still had the matching one, though hers didn’t have the lopsided base or the faded blue streaks that never quite came out right. It was one of those things I held onto, like the books on the shelf or the music I played through the same half-broken earphones. Little things that didn’t matter to anyone else, but kept me steady.

I moved through the morning like I always did, careful not to make too much noise. My aunt liked to sleep in when she could, and I liked having the house to myself for a little while. I opened the window just a crack, letting the cold air curl in and wake me up more than the coffee did. It was colder than yesterday, with that edge of late-autumn that always made the mornings sharper. Familiar. Easy.

I sat where I always did, tucked into the corner near the bookshelf, legs curled under me, notebook in my lap. The pages were half-full of notes, scribbles, thoughts from class or things that stuck with me after reading too long at night. I studied what most people didn’t take seriously—occult sciences, old symbols, the kind of history no one talked about out loud. But it never felt strange to me. If anything, it made more sense than the rest of it.

I didn’t open the notebook right away. I just sat there, earphones resting in my lap, letting the morning settle. The house was still, no creaks from the floorboards or sounds from the street. Just quiet.

But it didn’t feel right.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, or maybe I was just listening harder. I glanced over at it, then to the small table by the window. The photo frame was still face down, exactly where I’d left it. I didn’t need to flip it over—I knew the picture by heart. My aunt, younger then, standing next to my mom. My parents. It’s the only photo I have of them together. I never met them, not really—just stories and that one image, frozen like they’re still here. Like the world hadn’t already taken them before I had the chance to know them.

Some days I wondered if they’d get it—the way I was drawn to things that didn’t make sense to anyone else. The symbols, the old texts, the strange pull I couldn’t explain. My aunt didn’t talk about them much, not more than she had to, but I always felt like there was more she wasn’t saying.

I shook the thought away and finally flipped open the notebook.

It wasn’t where I’d left off.

There, in the corner of the page, just beneath some half-finished notes from class, was a mark I didn’t remember making. Sharp lines, layered in a way that looked deliberate, too precise to be random. I stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the paper, like maybe it would feel familiar if I touched it.

It didn’t.

But still, there was something about it—something I couldn’t pull away from.

I stared at the mark, waiting for something to click. It wasn’t the first time it had shown up—this wasn’t new. I’d seen it before, tucked into the margins of my notes, half-formed in dreams I couldn’t fully remember when I woke up. Sometimes, I thought maybe I’d drawn it without realizing. A nervous habit, a strange piece of something I’d read that stuck. But it wasn’t just a doodle. It never had been.

This time, it felt sharper. Closer.

I ran my fingers over it, slower now, tracing the edges without meaning to, like I was trying to pull something out of the paper. It was still ink, still flat—but it didn’t feel like it. Something about the lines felt… deeper, like they weren’t just written. Like they’d been waiting.

Why now?

I didn’t remember putting it there, not today, not ever. And it wasn’t just the mark. It was the feeling that came with it—this low hum in the back of my mind, steady and constant, like a sound just out of reach. It hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had, and I was only hearing it now.

The air shifted. Not cold, not sudden. Just… aware. Like the room wasn’t empty anymore, even though I hadn’t heard a sound.

I looked up, eyes flicking to the hallway, then the window. Nothing. Just the same soft light, the same stillness pressing in from all sides. But my skin prickled, and I held my breath without realizing it, waiting for something to move.

Nothing did.

I glanced back at the notebook, but the sigil didn’t change. It just sat there, dark against the page, like it was watching me. Like it had been waiting. Like it knew me.

A sharp pulse ran through me—not fear exactly, but something close. Recognition, maybe. Or the edge of it. Something about the mark stirred a memory—not a clear one, more like a feeling. Like I’d seen it somewhere else, maybe before I ever picked up a pen, maybe in one of those half-formed dreams that slipped away the second I opened my eyes. A place I’d never really been. A voice I couldn’t quite remember. I didn’t know what it meant, but I felt it. Deep. Heavy. Like a name I’d forgotten but was still mine.

Maybe I was overthinking. I did that sometimes—let my mind get ahead of me, especially when things didn’t add up. I wasn’t one of those people who believed in fate or signs, not really. But the longer I stood there, the harder it was to believe this was just… nothing.

The air felt heavier now, pressing against my skin like humidity, though it wasn’t hot. A tightness coiled at the base of my neck, the kind that came just before a storm. The light through the window seemed duller, like the house itself was holding its breath.

My aunt used to say that some things don’t make sense until they already matter. That by the time you ask why, it’s already too late. I’d always thought she meant people, choices. But now I wasn’t so sure.

I shook my head, trying to break the weird weight that had settled over me. This wasn’t anything. It couldn’t be. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I needed to get out, get some air, shake it off before I lost the whole day to whatever this was.

But part of me didn’t believe that. Not really.

I told myself I could leave it here, forget it, just walk away like it didn’t matter. But the thought sat wrong, like a stone in my chest, too heavy to ignore.

I closed the notebook, slower than I meant to, and stood. The floor creaked under my feet—normal, expected—but the sound still made me jump. I told myself it was fine. Just nerves. Just the quiet getting to me.

Still, I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door, the old denim one I always wore when I didn’t want to think too hard about what I looked like. The notebook went into my bag without a second thought, the page still burning in the back of my mind, even with it closed.

I lingered by the door longer than I meant to, hand tight on the knob. If I left now, it would be easy to forget. Pretend it didn’t mean anything. But part of me knew, as soon as I stepped out, that nothing was going to be the same when I came back.

I tightened my grip on the doorknob, heart knocking louder now, as if leaving would answer something I wasn’t ready to ask. One step, just one, and I could forget the way the mark still pulled at me from inside the bag. But as I stood there, the house seemed to shift again—not loud, not obvious, just a faint creak behind me, like it had exhaled.

Or like something in it had finally let go.

I stepped outside before I could change my mind.

The air hit me differently than I expected. It wasn’t colder, not exactly, but it bit sharper against my skin, curling down my spine like it was looking for a place to settle. I paused at the edge of the porch, pulling my jacket tighter around me, the weight of the notebook pressing against my hip through the canvas of my bag. It didn’t feel distant now—it felt like it was still open, still pulling.

I hadn’t meant to go anywhere. I told myself that as I took another step, and another. I just needed air. Just a little space. But the pull didn’t ease up. If anything, it got stronger the further I moved away from the house.

I followed the narrow path that curved around the back, past the old fence that never stayed upright for long, and into the edge of the woods. My feet knew the way, but nothing about it felt familiar now. The trees seemed taller, like they’d grown overnight, their branches heavy and close enough to scrape against each other with every shift of the wind. Only… the wind didn’t follow me here. It stopped somewhere behind me, like it wasn’t allowed past the line I’d just crossed.

I glanced back, half-expecting to see something, but the yard was still. The house stood quiet, exactly as I left it, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to me anymore.

I turned back toward the woods and kept walking.

The sound changed first. My footsteps didn’t crunch like they should have—not on the leaves, not on the soft dirt that had always marked this trail. Everything dulled, like the world was closing in around me, muffling every step, every breath, every reason I had to turn back.

I didn’t know where I was going, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The path wasn’t clear anymore, but my feet still found it, like it had always been there, waiting for me to follow.

I passed trees I should have known, the ones I used to see every time I came this way, but now they looked older. Worn in a way I couldn’t explain, like they’d been watching for a long time. The air thickened as I moved deeper, the kind of weight that didn’t press from outside but from within, settling into my chest with every step.

I tried to tell myself this was nothing. That it was just a walk, just a way to clear my head. But I didn’t believe it. Not anymore.

A memory flickered—something I’d read once, a line from one of the old texts I kept meaning to return to. “Paths chosen by the heart, not the eyes.” I didn’t remember where I’d seen it, but it stuck now, sharper than before, like it belonged here.

The deeper I went, the quieter it became.

No birds, no wind, not even the rustle of leaves beneath my feet. Just the steady beat of my pulse in my ears and the low hum that hadn’t left me since I’d seen the mark. The kind of quiet that felt deliberate, like something had made it so.

I stopped, hand resting on the rough bark of a tree, trying to catch my breath. I could turn back. Right now, before I went any further. Nothing was stopping me. But even as I stood there, the thought of leaving felt… wrong. Like I’d be missing something. Like I’d already gone too far to pretend I hadn’t.

The trees ahead shifted, pulling back just enough for the path to open wider, and there—just beyond the line where the light didn’t quite reach—I saw it.

The gate.

It wasn’t grand, or new, or even fully intact, but it rose from the ground like it had grown there. Twisted iron, dark and worn, wrapped in ivy and shadow. My breath caught, not from fear, but from recognition. I didn’t need to see the center to know what was there. I could feel it already, humming through the air the same way it had in my notebook.

Still, I stepped closer.

The vines tried to hide it, curling tight through the bars, but the sigil was there. Carved into the metal, sharp and perfect, like it had been waiting for someone to see it. For me to see it.

I reached out, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t have a choice. My fingers brushed the iron—cool, rough, alive—and the hum deepened, wrapping around me like a second skin. It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t comfort, either. It was knowing. The kind that didn’t need words.

Something was waiting on the other side.

I stopped again, this time longer, my breath catching in my throat like something wanted to push its way out. The air around me was thick, the kind of thick that made it hard to move, like I was wading through something invisible, heavy. I pressed my hand against the nearest tree, grounding myself, trying to shake the feeling that I was being drawn forward—not by choice, but by something older than thought.

The path ahead darkened slightly, not with shadow, but with stillness. Like light didn’t want to go there. Like sound had already given up.

I could still turn back. My feet hadn’t crossed yet. I could leave this—all of it—pretend it was a mistake, a strange dream I hadn’t fully woken from.

But I didn’t. Because even though I didn’t know what was ahead, part of me already knew it was meant for me.

And that scared me more than anything.

The gate opened without a sound.

No creak of iron, no rust flaking off the hinges—just a slow, smooth shift, like it had never really been closed to begin with. The vines pulled back as if by their own will, loosening their grip just enough to let me pass, then settling again, wrapping tight around the bars like they hadn’t moved at all.

The air on the other side was different. Heavier, but not oppressive. Warmer, like the sun had reached here even when it hadn’t touched the rest of the forest. I stepped through before I could think too hard about it, and the moment my foot crossed the threshold, the quiet deepened. Not empty, not hollow, but full. Like I’d entered into something alive.

Ahead, through a thin mist that clung low to the ground, the manor came into view.

It wasn’t ruined, not like I expected from something buried in the woods. The stone was dark, but whole. Vines crawled along the outer walls, creeping up the sides as if the house had grown up through them, not the other way around. The roof was steep, shingled in black slate that shimmered faintly even in the muted light, and the windows—tall and narrow—were intact, though most were clouded over by dust and time.

It stood waiting.

Not abandoned, not forgotten. Just… paused.

I took another step, my boots sinking slightly into the softened path, no longer gravel or dirt, but something in between—stone worn smooth by years, maybe centuries, of footsteps just like mine. The trees here were set back, their trunks arching like ribs over the path, and the air didn’t move. Even the mist seemed to hold still, wrapping the ground in quiet.

Every instinct I had told me to be cautious. But something else—something older, something deeper—told me to keep going.

The front steps were worn, but solid, leading up to a heavy wooden door framed by black iron hinges that spiraled outward like roots. I paused at the bottom, eyes tracing the carvings along the edge of the doorframe—symbols, almost like the one I’d seen, but different. Older. More complex.

I didn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Instead, I stepped off the path, moving slowly along the side of the manor, my fingers brushing against the stone wall, cool beneath the ivy. The silence followed me, but it wasn’t empty. It was expectant. Like something was waiting for me to reach a place I hadn’t yet found.

The windows here were lower, some of them open just a crack, as if someone had left them that way on purpose. I leaned in closer to one, trying to peer inside, but the glass was too warped to see through, just shapes and shadows behind the smear of age. Still, I felt something stir beyond it—a shift, faint, like breath.

I pulled back, heart thudding harder now, but not in fear. Not exactly.

It felt like I was supposed to be here. Like every step I’d taken had led to this, even if I hadn’t known it until now.

A faint sound caught my ear—a rustle, soft, like fabric brushing against stone, just beyond the corner of the house. I didn’t move at first, listening, holding still as the air seemed to pull tight around me. The sound came again, a little closer, a little more deliberate.

I rounded the corner, careful, eyes scanning the garden that opened behind the manor. Overgrown, but not wild—flowers still bloomed here, though faded, their colors muted beneath a layer of dust and time. Stone benches sat in a half-circle around what must’ve once been a fountain, now dry, its basin cracked but not broken.

The air thickened again, almost humming. The sound came again. I turned toward it, breath caught, and froze.

A figure—just for a second—half-seen through the mist near the edge of the garden. Tall, still, watching.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The figure didn’t move.

Then, like smoke in the light, it was gone.

I stood frozen, the silence roaring back around me, but it wasn’t empty anymore. It pressed in, full of something I couldn’t name.

I stepped forward, slowly, into the garden’s center. My hand brushed the edge of the fountain’s stone lip—it was cold, rough, but whole. The moss that clung to its sides felt damp, alive, as if time had passed differently here. As if this place had never truly been abandoned.

A breeze lifted, soft but insistent, carrying a weight with it, curling around my shoulders like it meant to turn me back. And then—the voice. Not loud. Not whispered. Just there.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

The words hit like stone, dropping into the silence between my ribs, heavy and sure, like they belonged to this place more than I did.

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t fear. It was something older, deeper—inevitable. A truth I hadn’t known I was walking toward, but now that I’d heard it, I couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t step away from it.

I turned, breath tight, searching the garden’s stillness—but there was no one. No shadow. No shape. Just the weight of knowing I’d crossed into something I wasn’t meant to touch. But it had touched me now.

The silence stretched, thick and full, long after the voice faded.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every part of me felt like it had been caught in something unseen, held tight not by force, but by the weight of knowing—something old, something certain.

The air shifted again. It wasn’t just around me now. It was behind me. I turned slowly, every breath sharp in my throat, eyes scanning the space I knew was no longer empty.

He was there. Not in the shadows this time. Not half-hidden by mist or distance. Just… there. Standing at the edge of the garden, where the stone met the trees, his frame still, his gaze fixed—on me. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. It was him. I knew it, somehow, the same way I’d known the mark, the same way the gate had opened for me like it was always meant to.

He stepped closer, not fast, not threatening, just enough to pull the space tighter between us.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said again, softer this time, but no less heavy.

I swallowed, breath catching. “I didn’t mean to.”

A flicker of something—pain, regret, I couldn’t tell—crossed his face before it settled into something harder.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The wind stirred behind him, catching the edge of his coat, pulling at the leaves that lay scattered across the stone path. But he didn’t move. His eyes never left mine.

“Who are you?” I asked, the question barely more than a whisper.

His jaw tightened. “That’s not what you need to know.”

“Then tell me what’s happening. Why I’m here. Why—why this keeps pulling me back.”

He looked past me then, toward the manor, toward the trees that held the garden in their grasp. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, threaded with something almost like sorrow.

“You were supposed to stay away. You were supposed to stay safe.”

I took a step forward, heart pounding, the cold of the air forgotten now beneath the heat rising in my chest. “Safe from what?”

He didn’t answer—not right away. He only watched me, as if searching for something in my face, some reason to turn away. But he didn’t.

“They’ll know you’re here soon,” he said, quieter now, as if the trees might listen. “And when they do, I can’t stop them.”

I stared at him, heart racing, every nerve screaming for me to move—to run, to speak, to do anything but stand here waiting for the rest of a warning that didn’t make sense. But I didn’t move. I didn’t want to.

“You keep saying I shouldn’t be here,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “But I am. I didn’t plan this—I didn’t even know this place existed. So stop talking in circles and tell me why it’s pulling me. Why you are.”

His eyes flickered, something behind them sharp and sudden, but it wasn’t anger. It was something heavier.

“I don’t want this for you,” he said, the words barely more than breath, but I felt them, like they landed beneath my skin.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

I took another step toward him, the space between us narrowing. The closer I got, the more real he became—not just a figure in the mist, not a voice out of nowhere. Flesh. Breath. And something more.

“Then tell me,” I pushed, desperate now, the weight of everything pressing in. “What is this?”

His gaze dropped for a moment, his hand flexing at his side like he might reach for me, but didn’t.

“It’s already started,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The mark wouldn’t have called to you if it hadn’t.”

My throat tightened. “The mark… you know what it is?”

He nodded once, slow, reluctant. “It’s not just ink. Not just something you dreamed up. It’s a bond—an old one. One that shouldn’t have touched you.”

“But it did.”

“Yes.” His voice hardened, like it hurt to admit it. “And now, you’re part of something you can’t walk away from.”

The silence stretched again, thicker now, not just between us, but around us—as if the air itself was listening, waiting for me to understand something I hadn’t yet seen.

“I might not have a choice,” I echoed, voice lower now, steadier. “But neither do you.”

His jaw tightened again, the muscles working like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to deny it—but something in his eyes shifted. A flicker of something raw. Familiar.

For a breath, we just stood there, caught in the tension that wasn’t fear, wasn’t curiosity. It was something else. Something deeper. Something that felt like it had always been there. I didn’t know him. But I knew him. And he felt it, too.

I stepped closer, the space between us barely there now. The air pulsed once, low and strange, like it recognized us before we did. He didn’t step back. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for me—but still, he didn’t. His eyes never left mine.

“Why does it feel like this?” I asked, the question no longer about the manor or the mark or the warnings. Just this. Us.

His breath hitched, barely.

“Because it’s not just starting now,” he said, voice rough, like the truth cost him. “It’s been happening longer than you know.”

A shiver ran through me—not from the cold, but from something deeper, something I couldn’t name yet. I could feel it in my chest, in my hands, in the air between us, like a string pulled tight. Like I’d waited a lifetime to find him. And maybe… he’d been waiting, too.

The space between us felt fragile, like one more word, one more breath, might tip it into something we couldn’t take back. I could feel him, not just near me—but in the pull that hummed low under my skin, in the way the air seemed to bend around us, waiting. His eyes darkened, like he felt it too. Like he didn’t want to.

“I don’t know what this is,” I whispered, the words falling between us, unsteady but true.

He did. I saw it in the way his hand finally lifted, hesitating, hovering just near mine—but not touching. Not yet.

“You’re not ready to know,” he said, voice barely there.

But just as the air tightened, just as the moment stretched too full—the ground shifted. A sound cracked through the trees—sharp, wrong. Like something tearing through the quiet that had held us.

His head snapped toward it, eyes narrowing, body coiled.

“They’ve found you.” And just like that, the pull between us snapped. “Run.”

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk199o @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Choice (Halbrand x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you try to persuade Halbrand to follow you to the Southlands, regardless of his past

Warnings: surprise kiss, heavy make-out, implied smut (in a public place)

You don’t even receive a greeting. Before he even turns to face you, the first words out of Halbrand’s mouth are:

“Has she sent you to persuade me?”

He sounds bitter, and you don’t fault him after Galadriel had promised his service to the Queen of Númenor without his consent. She thought it might coax him into following her to the Southlands, but all it had done was earn her his supposed king’s sigil, unceremoniously dumped into her hand as he told her to find someone else. Now, that pouch rests in your hand, but it wasn’t what drove you to come find him in the smithy.

“She meant to persuade you herself,” you tell him. “I pointed out that what she had to say would most likely not be well received.”

Halbrand gives a mirthless chuckle. “In that, you were correct.” He finally looks up from the table of daggers he has forged, and fixes you with a displeased gaze. “Yet here you stand, prepared to speak in her name.”

“Not in her name.”

“Why did you seek me out, then?”

There’s a challenge in his voice, and any other time you would gladly take it up. But, however much you might enjoy it, there had been enough playful banter between you. Now is the time for honesty, even if it doesn’t come easily.

“Galadriel is a dear friend of mine. I trust her. However, I... do not always agree with her.” That confession seems to spark his interest, if only a little. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to go on speaking. “She has convinced herself that you are the lost king of the Southlands. And, once a thought has entered her mind, well... it isn’t easily dislodged.”

“She has ‘convinced herself’?” he repeats pointedly. “So, you believe me when I say that,” he points to the pouch in your hand, “was never mine?”

“I believe...” With a sigh, you set the pouch down on the table, leaving it behind as you step closer to Halbrand and hold his gaze. “It doesn’t really matter what I believe. It doesn’t matter who you were. Only who you choose to be. The path ahead of you. And the one behind you, whatever it held, it has put you in a position where you can reclaim what was once yours and put an end to the suffering of so many.”

He eyes you with a mix of intrigue and disbelief, crossing his arms over chest and moving closer to you himself. “You would have me lie to the Númeóreans and Southlanders alike? Claim a crown that is not my own? I did not take you for such a deceiver.”

“I would not have you do anything,” you counter, undeterred by his skepticism. “You are your own person. But I would hope to see you lead. Inspire. Unite. Not because of your blood, but because... Because I can see that you have the makings for it. Because, even if the sea didn’t put a born king in our path, it certainly revealed to us one who can become it.”

Something shifts in his gaze. You think there is some sort of hope in it, mingled with sorrow, but you can’t quite read it. As long moments pass without a response from him, you begin to feel discouraged, thinking you have overstepped.

“It’s a great deal to ask, I know,” you admit apologetically. “It wasn’t right of Galadriel to deceive you into leaving the island, regardless of her belief. If you truly wish to stay here, I will speak with her and—”

It happens in a flash—one moment you are speaking, the next he has taken your face in his hands and pressed his lips to yours. There is a moment of surprise, a small sound that escapes your throat, and then you’re kissing back, matching his urgency.

You hadn’t expected this. You’d felt the tension, the occasional flirtation in the words and looks exchanged between you. You may have denied to Galadriel, but not to yourself that you were beginning to harbour desire for this man you had met at sea. Yet somehow, whether because he wished to stay on the island, or because of your different natures as man and elf, acting on those feelings always seemed out of your reach, and you had put such thoughts aside.

Now, however, all thoughts of restrain are shattered. Under his kiss, demanding and deep, you can’t help but savour his taste, tighten your fists in the fabric of his clothes to pull him closer. He smells of fire and metal and some musky personal essence that captivates your senses, and his stubble is rough against your cheeks in the most delightful way. You’re not sure whether he is the one pushing or you’re the one pulling, but you stumble back until your thighs meet the edge of the worktable. Consumed by desire, you have half a mind to toss aside all the knives laid out there and hoist yourself up onto it—but then he suddenly pulls away, leaving you wanting. The hunger in his gaze scorches you to the bone, but beyond it is a sentiment yet more feral which seems to hold him back.

“You say these things,” he says, breath heavy and voice gruff as if frustrated to the point of rage. “You say I should be king. You return my kiss, you welcome my touch. But if you knew what I did before I ended up on that raft... If you knew how I survived...” His thumb grazes your lip, his eyes dropping to it with a kind of tragic longing. “You would sooner plant a knife in my chest than put a crown upon my head,” he all but whispers, “let alone give yourself to me.”

His touch is gone then, and he pries himself away from you—or rather means to, for you catch his hand at the wrist and keep him still, holding his gaze unwaveringly.

“Do not presume to know my mind, Halbrand,” you say sharply. “I’ve had my fair share of fights. Of deeds I wish I could undo. It’s all ashes in the wind now.” You release his hand, trying to tame the fire he had stoked within your own chest and speak calmly. “If you wish to turn away from me, that is your choice alone. But don’t pretend like I asked it of you. Because I would not.”

For a while, there is only the crackle of the forge to fill the silence. It’s as if both of you are waiting to see which one of you will leave first—if one of you will leave. Your skin still sings where he has touched it. The air feels charged with promises not yet made. But you want to make them. This alliance, this passion—this folly, if that is what it is—you want it regardless.

In the end, it’s Halbrand who breaks the silence. His eyes stray from you to the pouch that is still on the table, and he speaks as though from a distant dream.

“A man once told me that being good is a choice you make every day.”

“So?” you ask, patiently. “What will you choose now?”

He looks back to you then, and it really shouldn’t take so little for your breath to catch in your throat after all your years of living, but he seems to have a talent for it. It’s because of the intent written plainly in his eyes, even before he returns within your closeness and leans in slowly, until his breath falls warmly on your cheek. This time, he makes no further move. It’s as if he offers himself, waiting for you to decide whether you want to take him or not. There’s a vulnerability to it that makes your heart ache.

You allow your lips to ghost over each other, relishing the thrill of anticipation for a moment before you close the remaining distance. This kiss, unlike the first, is gentle and unhurried. You bring your hand to his cheek, fingers sinking in his hair, and he gathers you into his arms as you taste each other at leisure. So content he seems taking his time that it comes as a surprise when, suddenly, he reaches behind you and clears the table of daggers in one fell swoop of the hand. You break the kiss with a gasp when the metal clatters to the floor, earning a short laugh from you that is cut off by the return of his lips on yours. Finally, he lifts you onto the table, hips bracketed by your thighs. His lips stray to your cheek, then wander to your neck, and you moan his name softly as his hips press into yours. It earns you a groan of your name in return, and a gentle nibble of your skin before he lifts his head slightly, cheek pressed to yours.

“You want this,” he murmurs lowly in your ear, “regardless of what came before?”

Eyes shut, you nod without hesitation as you breathe out, “Yes.”

He hums, and plants a short kiss on your lips. You chase his, but he keeps frustratingly out of your reach before lowering his head to kiss the other side of your neck as well.

“Are you certain?” he murmurs against your skin, and you know from his tone and from the slowness of his movements that he means to tease you, to stoke your desire for him even further.

“If you tease me too long, I might change my mind,” you warn, even if your voice is breathy with need.

Halbrand chuckles softly. “Well,” he says, “I would not risk that.”

And he doesn’t. Any more talk of Númenor, or Southlanders, or of anything at all is firmly postponed until morning. For now, he lays you down on the table, and you shed whatever darkness lies in your past the same way you do your garments. And, for better or worse, you choose to become one. If only for now.

Sequel -> Decision

[lurochar]

Before It All (Pt. 2)

Warnings: Obsessive Alastor. References to racism, sexism, and racist terms

Part 1 + Part 3

-----------------------------

Hell.

So it actually did exist.

The pure elation, raw euphoria, and sheer mania completely overwhelmed Alastor when it finally did sink into him that, yes, he was dead – savagely mauled by a pack of hunting dogs and then shot in the head by an utterly incompetent hunter.

Pathetic.

But Hell, it was real, absolutely truly one hundred percent a reality he was now living and he couldn’t be any more ecstatic that was the case.

(He certainly had a first class ticket).

Because if Hell was real, that meant demons were real and if demons were real…

You were real. You existed.

Alastor had never been a religious person before his encounter with you. He hadn’t really changed his mind afterwards either. God had never done anything for him, so why should he ever bother to devote himself to a being who clearly didn’t give a fuck about him or his Mama?

A demon cared more about him, if only briefly, than Heaven ever did in his lifetime.

You probably had no idea what impact you had on him, you may not even think of him, or even remember him, the kid whose soul you had spared on some sort of whim born from pity.

Alastor obsessed over you.

He had felt cold the moment you had pulled away from him and that chill had never left him – only his Mama’s hugs could temporarily relieve him of the complete indifference he possessed for the world around him.

Ah, his dear Mama.

He never understood it, he still didn’t understand now. 

That day, that night was a blessing in his eyes. He had met, if only for a few minutes, the only other person(?), being, other than his Mama, that had actually cared, held any concern for his well being. You had even gone against your demonic instincts and let him keep his soul, just so you didn’t condemn him to Hell.

(He condemned himself, but those were his choices alone).

You had killed a human being for him.

His father was a monster – so why did his dear Mama cry and grieve over the man who had abused them both horribly over the years? Why wasn’t she happy that he was finally gone? She no longer had to endure being hit, slapped, or even worse because of that man’s unpredictable mood-swings.

She could never properly explain it and honestly, Alastor didn’t want to understand that mindset of hers.

Because of you, his Mama could be free of the misery his father put her through. Alastor could take care of her on his own, just as you told him to do.

Because of you, he was free from hearing his father’s muttered insults about his skin – how he might've passed as ‘right’ if his skin was a little lighter. 

Those cruel remarks grew more and more frequent and so did the homicidal thoughts Alastor harboured for his father.

If not for the book he found containing old magicks, strange symbols and sigils, and a ritual for summoning demons, Alastor was sure he would have snapped sooner rather than later and would have ended up strangling that drunk waste of life in his sleep.

He would have been caught, no doubt, and put to death. Lynched even.

Who would take care of his Mama then?

But because you had killed his wretch of a father for him, he had been free to grow and pursue his passion for radio. Hunting had become something of a secondary hobby, it was the only thing his father had done him good by – even if the man had only taught him how to track and hunt small game, claiming he wasn’t nearly ‘good enough’ for bigger game.

Well, he could always teach himself.

Alastor had never really preferred any particular type of meat before, always happy to eat whatever his Mama put before him, but when he remembered the tingle on his fingertips, the feel of your soft ears…

He remembered he used a deer skull he found in the forest in the ritual he used to summon you.

Deer.

He probably has eaten venison before, but he honestly could not remember what it tasted like since he just didn’t have a preference then.

He wanted, needed, to learn every detail about that animal.

Alastor really did find the taste of venison to be the most satisfying over any other meat he stripped from the game he hunted. Deer quickly became his favoured target.

He never shot at a doe.

His life was looking rather bright – his career in radio was taking off, he had learned to blend in better, socialize by watching people, and he was frighteningly good at it. He was charming, despite the prejudices and racism, his skin tone and creole heritage didn’t seem to matter much anymore with how successful he was, men and women were clamouring for him in different ways.

It was entertaining to watch.

Still, his homicidal thoughts never left his mind.

Abuse of women by men who were just like his father was rampant and it angered Alastor more than he imagined it would. Only this time, there would be no you to correct things, you were just a lucky break for him.

(And only him. He wouldn’t share you even if he could summon you again).

He’s perfected his hunting skills over the years and hunting humans wasn’t much different, it just took a little longer and a little more patience to assure he wouldn’t be caught.

If there is a Hell, Alastor will burn.

But he doesn’t mind so much, not if he can burn alongside you.

~00~

Is it ironic?

That he is a deer demon too?

From what he has gathered, one’s appearance changes depending on what happened in their human lifetime and how they lived it. Some Sinners have very mundane changes due to mundane sins and deaths.

A traumatic death has a large impact on the soul and being mistaken for a deer and shot dead can certainly be counted as traumatic and impactful.

Alastor is just relieved enough he doesn’t spawn as a dog demon.

Would you be happy he’s a deer like you? 

Alastor has to wonder if you would even recognize him, his appearance is quite different from his human one and it has been over twenty years since your encounter.

If there was one thing he regretted about summoning you, it was that he never asked for your name. He had been much too blinded by his rage for his father and his fascination for your ears to even think to ask and he always lamented about it.

Nothing would get done regretting the past, however.

He needed to figure out his new body and the structuring of Hell and how it works before he can even begin to think of looking for you. 

He needs to amass power.

Hell, with no doubt, is a dangerous place with powerful demons lurking about. Besides the pure thrill of eliminating those very demons by his own hand, Alastor will assure your safety as long as you stay at his side. 

He can pay you back for what you did for him, he can be your saviour this time around, whether you needed one or not.

It’s time to get to work.

~00~

“Another one?”

The man before you shivers at the sound of your voice before giving a shaky nod, looking every which way but you, clearly wanting to leave your presence as quickly as possible.

You couldn’t blame him.

He deserved every second of torment upon his miserable soul.

“I would like for you to go and take a look at this demon toppling Overlords like they’re nothing more than a child’s plaything. You can come back when you have an adequate description of this demon.” You flippantly waved him off.

“Are you fucking kiddin’ me, you little bitch?” The man cursed, his previous meek behaviour gone at the thought of having to go and put himself in danger just so he could get a damn glimpse of whoever this new demon was. There was no fucking way he was doing tha–

A collar materialized around the man’s throat and he lost his footing and his face was smashed into the ground when you abruptly tugged on the chain that materialized at the same time the collar did.

“Did you forget something important?” You stared down at the man in disgust. “If so, let me remind you now. I own you. I own your soul. If I want you to do something, you do it without question. Do you understand, Hartfelt?”

The man, Hartfelt, simply could not keep his mouth shut. “You murdered me in cold blood, you fucking slut! And now you think you can order me around like some dog because you have my soul too? Killing me wasn’t good enough for you? Go back to the kitchen where you belong. Goddamn whore.”

“You made a deal with me. It doesn’t matter if you were newly spawned in Hell and didn’t know how it worked – a deal is a deal. I only took your filthy soul for one thing, otherwise I wouldn’t have touched it with a ten foot pole.” You huffed. “And yes, I can order you around like a dog. It fits your appearance, doesn’t it?”

Hartfelt stood up when you allowed him to, growling like the mutt he appeared to be. “What was that one thing?” He asked, cursing in his mind. If not for that ‘one thing’, he wouldn’t have been under this damn deer bitch’s control for the past twenty plus years.

It's laughable that he has to take orders from a woman.

“I gave your son a pass then, but I saw it in his eyes. I hope I’m wrong, but I do believe Alastor will end up in Hell.” You sighed, glancing over to see pure terror flash across Harfelt’s face. “Figured it out now?”

“You kept me on a chain just so you could give me to that shitskinned boy!?” Hartfelt attempted to lunge forward to unleash his fury on you, but you wouldn’t have it.

You speared your claws into his muzzle and he howled in pain. “Say something like that again about Alastor–no, I’m already tired of your voice. You don’t need that foul tongue to see what this new demon looks like, so I’ll be taking it. I’m sure it will grow back soon enough… if I allow it to.”

No one batted an eye when screams of pain were heard from an apartment before they abruptly stopped.

Hartfelt stood on shaky legs, blood dripping everywhere from his mouth and you didn’t even glance at him. “You know what to do.” You said coldly, waving him off once more and he went without complaint this time around.

Not that he could if he wanted to.

~00~

The Radio Demon.

It wasn’t exactly an original name, but it fit him to a tee, whomever he really was. Hartfelt could never get close enough to get a good look at the Radio Demon and could only give a vague description of the male.

Red. Lots of red. Tall ears maybe? Or a part of his hair, Hartfelt couldn’t be sure. Big, creepy smile with yellowed fangs, and he always carried some sort of cane. His voice was filtered like he was talking on air through a radio.

It was expected, Hartfelt did a crappy job.

It would have to suffice for now, you would rather save Hartfelt for Alastor rather than hearing him scream on the Radio Demon’s broadcasts.

In any other circumstance, that would have been preferred. 

You just needed to pay careful attention, it's how you survived Hell unscathed as a prey-based demon thus far.

The Radio Demon’s rampage was coming far too close to the district you lived in for your comfort and you have no idea if the Overlord in charge would be able to hold on to his power or not.

You had to be prepared for any scenario.

Beyond his insane broadcasting of the screaming souls of the Overlords he had conquered, the Radio Demon was almost pleasant to listen to. His voice was definitely made for radio and his taste in music was exceptional (well, considering you had been dead for some number of years, you had no idea how music evolved in the human world).

“This next song is dedicated to the one I hold dearest to me. I have yet to locate you, my nameless Doe, but I do hope you are listening to this.”

Your ears twitched and you opened your eyes in surprise. It was a bit of a shock to hear that the Radio Demon, of all demons, had a lost lover out here in Hell. You had thought he was a sadist through and through.

You supposed some sadists could love too.

(You did hear rumours that Overlords Zestial and Carmilla Carmine were… something, so much was possible in Hell).

“It has been twenty-four years since our last encounter, brief as it may have been. You have been on my mind ever since. If you truly are listening, my nameless Doe, then know the Radio Demon is Alastor Hartfelt.”

You fell off your couch.

No.

No way.

The Radio Demon and Alastor Hartfelt were one and the same?!

“H-he died?” You said out loud to yourself and to no one. ‘It's only been twenty-four years. He… he didn't even make it to forty years!’

What happened!?

Your ears flattened against your head, not sure what to think of this situation. 

He held you dearest to him?

You've been on his mind ever since?

Your encounter was brief, barely even five minutes long and somehow, Alastor thought the world of you?

That kid twenty some years back definitely had a screw or two loose and you think you just made the problem worse. 

You should not have let him touch you.

You should not have hugged him.

He was an adolescent boy probably starving for positive attention and a soft touch outside his mother and you unwittingly fucked up what normal development he should have gone through.

Well, you couldn't undo the past, but you could try to make up for it by giving Alastor complete control over the man who once controlled him.

You supposed it could be a start.

~00~

He hoped.

But he really expected nothing.

Alastor was rapidly gaining territory, toppling numerous Overlords with his newfound powers within just a year.

Along with wailing souls, Alastor always sent that little message out on his broadcasts, hoping you would hear and respond to him by showing up to the radio tower he built.

But the amount of power he had grown into wasn't enough yet, he could only hijack a portion of Hell’s radio waves at a time, not the entirety of it like he needed to.

You may not have even heard his message.

How irksome.

These were the times he actually craved Mimzy’s company and the atmosphere of her speakeasy.

Mimzy would just keep the whisky flowing until he was intoxicated enough to allow a couple select women a few touches here and there, barely even considered lewd by any means.

Getting drunk was the only way he could handle those touches without flinching or feeling a deep need to shatter the other person's hand – an unfortunate side effect of his father's beatings.

Your touch was the only one he longed for.

It only happened a few times, Alastor stopped as soon as Mimzy casually pointed out that he had a clear type, that the few women he chose all had similar traits.

The same hair colour and length, the same eye colour, and the same height.

All features you possessed.

Back then, the last thing Alastor had wanted was to end up drunk in some random woman's bed calling out for you, ‘my Doe’. Rumours of that nature just wouldn’t be good for his image and career.

And really, saying that whilst in bed with another was just plain weird.

Alastor would have to find a decent bar here in Hell, he could use a drink to take the edge off.

A chirp catches his attention.

His shadow, a magick he has just recently begun to delve deep into, chitters at him and Alastor raises a brow and tilts his head, his smile remaining in place despite his bewilderment.

A guest?

A guest at his radio tower?

Could it possibl–?

Hope, but expect disappointment.

~00~

You're nervous.

(Why?)

You just want to turn around and run.

(Why?)

The Radio Demon and Alastor Hartfelt may be one and the same, but the Alastor you met was just barely on the cusp of manhood, someone so trapped by his shitty situation that he was desperate enough to summon a demon of all things to get him out of it.

He was extremely lucky he had gotten you, very few demons, if any, would have let him keep his soul.

You didn't know Alastor anymore. He was the Radio Demon now, a being quickly becoming infamous and feared for his ruthlessness.

If this was a trick to lure you here, you just hope Alastor has it in him to spare you like you did him.

You tense and your ears and tail stand straight up when you can feel and hear static before he speaks.

“How I've missed your wonderful ears, my nameless Doe.”

What a peculiar greeting.

--------------------------------

Sorry, thought it would be fun to end it here. Part 3 soon.

Tags: @alishii @yourdoorisunlocked @godsent69 @eris-norwega @catticora @tayraedoll @michi-keinz @martinys-world

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 7 part 3

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

chat what would be *your* reaction if you woke up and found agatha straddling you? (love that she has sensible pants under the skirt)

this is what sex after 50 looks like ladies, take notes

regular timeline: lilia has already joined the trial and was just doing a reading for billy.

lilia's pov: this is the first time she sees billy after he kinda sorta tried to kill her

this delivery from sasheer destroys me

lilia goes from anger to shock to recognition while billy reads her mind and responds to her thoughts

billy sounds so young here. of course he would have saved alice, if he could. of course he's reading her thoughts: he can't help it. he cannot help any of this. it's up to his coven to help and guide him, it was never the other way round.

now that the sigil is gone, lilia recognizes the lost boy from three years ago. not a scary monster, not the son of the scarlet witch. just a boy in a lot of trouble.

and look what jen does here. now that she knows what lilia's going through, she can step in and help her along

meanwhile agatha is making a scene, per usual. and lol she puts the hat back on, she really likes that outfit

love how jen is now 100% lilia's champion. same, girl, same

and jen being jen, she doesn't coddle or anything, she's very practical. she's like, hey girl, focus! you were in the middle of something important. I got your back and I'm going to fill the gaps for you. we can do this together.

yes I know babe the glinda halloween costume is cultural appropriation. could be worse. jen's dressed as snow white's fugly witch forchrissake.

does she have an eye on her crown? that's so neat

THIS shot. billy supporting lilia with his physical strength. jen supporting lilia with her no nonsense attitude. hell, even agatha just jumped in to save her from the falling sword.

agatha realising all that lilia did to protect billy. but also detective agnes getting another precious clue re: billy getting a new body.

lilia cast the sigil to protect billy from any external threats, and to give him the time to adjust to the shock of a new body and new life. again, lilia knew this was the son of the scarlet witch, someone that on paper terrified her. but when she actually met billy, she didn't see danger. she saw a young member of her own community in an impossible situation, and she stepped in. you know if she had met agatha as a teenager in salem she would have done the same thing.

pay attention now. lilia needs to find out what was her past/future self's mistake while reading for billy.

something interesting happens: while looking for answers, she jumps in rapid succession to episode 5 and episode 2. stop, stop, stop, stop, she repeats, like she is trying, for the first time, to direct her jumping. before, she was just a passenger. she's starting to become the Traveler

and where does she land? back to her maestra, where she can find answers to her current problem. she brought herself there, and only half accidentally.

and there's the crucial question.

che peccato, what a shame. a witch requires a coven.

the latin sentence on the table, in nave expeditus sis tam celer quam ventus, translates to something like "on a ship, may you be unimpeded and as fast as the wind". but there's another sentence in front of lilia, we can only read the first word behind her hand: mors. Death.

it's sure not going well now. despite the little step forward with jen, lilia still feels the odd person out, the one that's just too different to fit in. I know many of us, especially on this site, especially with our various but similar issues, have felt like that.

lilia's words are angry, resentful. but she's not angry, she's afraid. she's lashing out because looking in is too much. but like lilia herself said to alice: sad is better than angry.

when an actor gets that single tear forming in their eye... that's the good shit.

YOUR TASK IS NOT TO CONTROL, BUT TO SEE. you were born with a burden? turn it into power. if people don't accept you, show them what they were missing. do it in your own, unique way.

go to episode 7 part 4

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hey!

I was wondering if you could write a platonic fic for Nico with and older Hades kid (nb) who's jealous of Reyna?! I literally need it more than air

I added Clarisse cuz I fear I don’t write for her enough. So I guess pre-established relationship(?) or pinning at least.

In recent memory it seemed as though your brother wanted to be with anyone other then you.

Did it hurt? A little bit you weren’t going to lie as you felt as though you held some importance in Nico’s life, seeing as you’ve practically taken care of him on behalf of a promise you made to Bianca, yours and Nico’s sister who unfortunately passed on.

‘Take care of him for me.’ She told you.

‘He’s your brother.’ You tried to retort, not feeling quite equip in raising someone else when you could hardly keep yourself together.

‘He’s your brother too, just as I am your sister.’ Bianca pushes back, ‘just be there for him.’ She adds with a smile and that was the last time you’ve talked to her.

Now you felt like you were letting your sister down at this too because all Nico wanted to do was spend time with Reyna, anytime you asked whether he wanted to hang out with you, his replies were all the same. ‘Actually I was going to meet up with Reyna today, I’m sure we can hang out another time?’ You weren’t given much time to respond before he was already away with the shadows and you were left alone in the empty cabin. You didn’t know if it was something you did or weren’t doing for him that made him run to Reyna for anything and everything, so much so to the point you were starting to think that Nico saw her more of a reliable older sibling then you.

You’d scoff and act indifferent, you knew this day would come, but it still hurt knowing just how easily replaceable you could be when you didn’t met to their expectations. Then again this was Nico you were going on about, he tended to be quite brittle and fearful of change, even if he didn’t want to admit to it but it seemed that the moment he met Reyna: all of a sudden he was perfectly fine and would go to her for important advice or just any form of comfort.

‘Reyna this, Reyna that, SOMONE MIGHT AS WELL SMITE ME WHERE I STAND BEFORE I HEAR THAT DREADED FUCKING NAME AGAIN!’ You screamed as your powers got a little out of hand as shadows flickered beneath you like black flames, disappearing all together when you finally manager to calm down and sat yourself down on your bed, eyes glued to the ceiling as you wondered as to where it was that you weren’t wrong.

The door to your cabin opened and a voice came through.

‘Y/n?’

You glanced over at the open doorway and saw the last person you expected to come and greet you at your own cabin; Clarisse.

‘What’re you doing here Clarisse,’ you started, ‘can’t you see I’m brooding in the comfort of my own cabin?’ Clarisse scoffs at your dramatics and made her way to your bed where she sat on the edge before putting your feet across her lap. You and Clarisse didn’t get along when you first came to camp all by yourself, shirt tone to shreds and nothing to fed yourself but your powers, of which only garnered more fear from your fellow demigods then reassurance that another one of them was safe the second your fathers sigil appeared above your head.

However sooner or later down the line you’ve come to tolerate each other to the point where you could somewhat say that you were friends, well friends who had a penchant of being utter assholes to one another but in a playful sense. However during moments like these, you got to see the softer Clarisse who often scolded you for being too much of a loose cannon, child of the big three or not.

‘When are you ever not brooding about something, or who wronged you this week.’ Clarisse replies but you could tell her bite wasn’t as sharp as it usually is whenever you were brooding. ‘Where’s your little shadow?’ She asks upon noticing the distinct absence of the young boy and you groan.

‘He’s with Reyna.’ You mocked, lips becoming an undignified snarl, ‘he can stay with her at this point. Not that I care.’ You added grumbling as you cross your arms over your chest to ignore the pain that was surging through you still.

‘Again? He does know you’re his sibling right?’ Clarisse says rhetorically as she runs her hands up and down your legs in an attempt in providing you comfort, knowing that beyond the facade you put up you were very much hurt by the fact that Nico didn’t even consider you an option anymore, not when Reyna was right there at least.

‘Try telling that to him yourself because he’s seemed to have forgotten that himself.’ You spat as you sat yourself up from your bed, just to rest your forehead against Clarisse’s shoulder and just focus on her and her presence in hopes of clearing yourself down from exploding again. Clarisse got the message and moved her hand to your back and began to rub it soothingly as she felt you breathe in deep and exhale just as quickly. She knew that you hated being abandoned by the people who you loved, she remembered how you opened up to her about the group you were with before coming to camp, they seemed to knew who your goofy father was by your powers alone and were quick to abandon you; claiming you were a bad omen if they were to ever be safe from monsters.

So Nico pulling off this stunt was only making your situation worse. Clarisse remembered you talking about her once and the venom, the envy you had within your words when you spoke about Reyna and her perfect hair, eyes and steadfast and levelheaded personality only made you feel all that more insecure of yourself as Nico’s older sibling.

‘He’ll come back.’ Clarisse says with certainty.

‘How can you be so sure?’ You asked, unsure if you’ll ever get your brother back from Reyna, having already given up the fight before it even began for you didn’t think you measure up to her.

‘He’ll remember who raised him, who delved in to the labyrinth for him, who risked it all to get him back safely.’ Clarisse reassured you but it was obvious to her that you weren’t going bother getting back something that you felt was too far gone and out of your reach, an inability of trying was your weakness but it was only because you were shown nothing but hostility and fear because of your father, so you didn’t bother with interacting with most campers who still looked at you as though you’d release an army of the undead when annoyed.

You looked at Clarisse and admired her shamelessly, as though you didn’t already do so beforehand, but it wasn’t everyday that you got to spend quality time with her: that and you rarely participated in anything.

‘I just miss the days where he’d use to cling onto me for everything…’ you say lowly as Clarisse hummed in agreement. ‘I miss when he use to come to me with paper cuts and questions about his powers and how he’d always want me to play mythomagic with him despite not knowing the game as well as he does,’ you press yourself even further against the Ares girl, not that she minded as she only aided in shifting you so that you’d be more comfortable on her lap before she went back to stroking your back. ‘I miss the days where he would call me his sibling and now with Reyna in the picture…I fear that I might’ve lost him forever.’ You finished in a soft whisper.

…

Meanwhile with Nico and Reyna, Nico came to her with an idea to show you how much he adored you as his older sibling, his protector and confidant. Thankfully Reyna was all for helping him as she couldn’t help but smile whenever she heard him speak about you with such enthusiasm and respect that it made her thankful that Nico had you in his life.

You held a lot of meaning to the boy and Reyna could see that as clear as day when she noticed that he fiddled with a clay bead necklace from his camp, something you made him he had told her once with fondness as he thumbed the handmade jewellery. You made him feel welcomed and loved and all Nico wanted to do was repay that forward.

‘I’m sure they’ll love it Nico.’ Reyna assured when she saw Nico look down at his gift with concern.

‘I feel like I haven’t been a great brother to them lately, coming here to you and all.’ Nico admits to her as he recalls the dejected look upon your face whenever he told you that he was going to visit Reyna, it was a look that only made him wonder what was going on through your mind, seeing as you could see through his with effortless ease.

‘Try to see it from their perspective Nico,’ Reyna began, ‘imagine if they went to someone else for advice or guidance more than you, seeking someone else out for comfort and support. How would you feel?’ She asks and she watched as Nico’s face goes through a variety of different emotions such as anger, sadness, betrayal and disappointment.

‘Like shit.’ Nico responded, sounding all too much like you in that moment he was quick to release. ‘Like I’m not enough to be their sibling.’ He adds before groaning. ‘Gods I’ve been a fucking idiot to not see it before.’

Reyna smiles sympathetically at the boy, patting him on the shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault for not realising, you’ve just gotten carried away with wanting to make them something that comes from your heart, so I’m sure that when you give them it they’ll realise that their little brother always carried them with him. Always.’ She finished and Nico felt a tad better than he did moments prior.

‘Thank you Reyna, for everything.’ Nico said with an awkward smile upon his face before disappearing into the shadows, back to camp half blood.

‘It is my pleasure, now go show your sibling how much you care.’ Reyna says to no one in particular before going back to her duties that she had put aside temporarily to aid a friend.

[vigilante24ish]

🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Chapter 1. - Chapter 2. - Chapter 3

Chapter 4. - Chapter 5. - Chapter 6

Chapter 7. - Chapter 8. - Chapter 9

Chapter 10. - Chapter 11. - Chapter 12

Chapter 13. - Chapter 14. - Chapter 15

Chapter 16. - Chapter 17. - Chapter 18

Word Count: 1786

Chapter 18:

After you healed the boy, you all helped put him down on some leaves and let him rest; waiting until he would wake up to check up on him once again.

There was no hurry to move to the next trial, and after the tiring trial, you all finished, rest, and a break sounded good.

While the witches settled down and started to gather ingredients for a fire, you chose to go find Agatha; who had not let the boy's side, showing everyone a far more sensitive side they did not have her for.

Except for you. You knew she had it in her, simply hiding beneath sarcasm and the fake persona of an evil person; a defence mechanism to protect her already wounded self from further harm.

Your steps made faint noise against the wet ground and dead leaves, drawing her attention from the sleeping teenager.

"Hey," you greeted softly, as if approaching a baby deer.

"Hey, sugar" she greeted, doing her best to hide her worry but you easily saw right through it.

"He will be fine, you know" you said as you sat next to her, shoulders touching against one another. "My magic is not that weak"

Agatha offered a weak smile. "I know it's not. It never was, " she commented and glanced at the sleeping boy. "Thank you again. I know you don't like taking such risks"

You gently nudged your shoulder with hers, earning her attention. "Well, someone once told me; there is no fun in life if I don't take any risks"

She could not help but crack an amused smile, remembering the many times she had told you those exact words.

She took a good look at you at the same time, remembering the young girl she had taken under her wings all those years ago.

Back then, you were more innocent and shy; often hesitating to show your magic or use it, afraid you would be judged or make a mistake.

It took a lot of effort from Agatha and patience to make you trust her enough and listen to her. Then, you truly had your fun with your shenanigans, your crazy plans, and ideas.

Of course, you also got into plenty of trouble, but Agatha never let you feel guilty about what happened.

You did not speak anything else for a few minutes, enjoying the silence and the fact that you were next to each other. Agatha, even, leaned andrm rested her head against your shoulder; your presence always having this supernatural energy that calmed her down.

Sometimes it was what she needed, when her own mind was torturing her with thoughts and scenarios. Sometimes, it was what she craved when she needed to stop for a moment and breathe; think carefully of what she wished to do next.

And sometimes... it was what she feared. Being so quick to let go of her defences and open up to you, being so willing to lay in your arms and sleep; without worrying, you might harm her while she rests.

She feared feeling vulnerable and attaching to you, for you might as well turn and betray her one day or perish and leave her with another crack on her already wounded heart.

As if feeling the turmoil of emotions within her, you dared to spread your hand and hold hers; fingers interlocking into a secure grip. Your thumb gently caressed her skin, and you noticed the soft smile that formed on her face.

However, despite that sweet moment between the two of you; you had to speak up, and you had to take the step.

"Ags" you started gently, earning a faint humming response from her. "This boy... who is he? The sigil is not your design"

Agatha took a moment to answer, clearly debating everything in her head. "I... I don't know, honestly. I just feel like I know him"

You frowned faintly. "You think he might be Little Nicky?"

The nickname left a bitter after taste in your mouth, being so long since you had called her son that way.

It was a nickname you had come up with when you first met, and you had used it a few times for the time Agatha and him spent time with you. Then, out of the blue, Agatha had to leave and took the boy with her.

You had declined the offer to join, thinking it was not a good idea. Now, you regretted it.

You had no idea what happened to the boy, but you felt that had you been present, had you joined back then... that boy might still be alive.

Agatha pulled her head from you, an instinctive reaction to block any affection when she felt a wound reopening. However, she kept her hand locked into yours; offering the faintest of hope.

"I... I don't know, " She confessed, leaving a heavy sigh. "I mean... he could be, right?"

Considering she never told you what happened to him, you were not exactly the best person to answer that question. But you could see that Agatha needed closure; she needed reassurance.

So, you dared to play along. "Maybe" you lied.

It was then a faint groan let Teen's lips, earning your attention. Immediately, Agatha was on alert; letting go of your hand.

You stood up, choosing to let her have her time with the boy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You did not walk astray, always remembering what would happen if you did. However, the Road gave you the feeling you had walked quite far; time being a mere illusion to you now.

You came to a halt, suddenly feeling on alert, but your gaze never stopped looking forward. Your hair at the back of your neck stood on end as a familiar presence and voice seemed to come directly from your own shadow; choosing to approach you from your most blind spot.

"Why the sour face, baby?" Rio asked, her hand slowly dragging itself across your back, making you shiver.

"I don't have a sour face," you argued, taking a few steps forward to remove her hand and put some distance between you and her.

Sometimes, it confused and infuriated you how both your magic and your body were reacting to Rio's presence.

You finally turned to face her, back in her normal earthy colours. "You did before. I guess the situation between Agatha and the Boy is not sitting well with you, " she said, her word sounding slightly more comforting and sincere, rather than the mockery you would expect.

Tired from everything, you could not help but sigh. "Come on, you can't tell me it doesn't sit odd with you," you said, and suddenly, something popped up in your mind.

You slowly walked towards her, steps condifent as there was this gleam in your eyes; one that akwsys intrigued and challenged Rio.

"I mean." You started, never breaking eye contact with her. "You made it so clear that you saw me as an obstacle between you and Agatha. Who says the boy isn't one as well?"

Perhaps it was wrong, to try and throw Teen under the bus that way. Perhaps you would regret it later on, considering what Rio was capable of. But you could not help it.

You had nothing against the boy, but perhaps you were tired of letting Agatha and everything slip through your fingers, always too afraid to tighten your grip and hold them there... hold them with you.

With the way the Road was going, you realized this might be the last chance for you to actually be brave and take the step... and that's what you were intending to do.

Rio watched you as you halted in front of her, neck craned up faintly as you stared deep into her dark eyes, no sign of fear; never fearing her, even when you first met.

"Because the boy is not hers," she replied.

Her gaze was not mocking, and neither was prideful at that moment, opposite of what you expected of her. Instead, you swore you saw regret in them; something you had rarely seen in Rio.

"How do you know?" You asked quickly, trying to save your futile attempt, but the moment the words left your mouth; you felt like an idiot. "Of course you do know," you sighed.

You felt her hand gently caressing your cheek, going as far as to gently push some of your hair away from your face and neck. The move was gentle, careful, and yet her cold skin made goosebumps appear on yours.

"You should be wary, baby girl," she started, taking half a step closer. "The way you are heading, you will get hurt again"

You focused on her, trying not to react or focus too much on her touch; which you swore was slowly growing bolder. "Only if I choose to stay behind but I don't have such plans. I am done being a coward," you confess, your voice threatening to crack by the last sentence.

"You are not a coward for doing what was expected of you," she cooed, words so sincere and caring you would not believe would come from the same witch that came through a freaking grave. "You are not meant to be here, Y/N."

You frowned at the certainty of her words. "What? Why?"

Rio didn't answer your question, holding back the answer you suddenly needed. "Join me, instead. Let me show you what you truly are meant to do."

Those words made you have a sense of dejavu, unlocking a memory locked at the very back of your mind.

The very first time you had heard her say those words, you stood between corpses of men; tired and blooded.

They were dead, and she had come to collect, having also enjoyed your magic outburst that ended your tormentors. Your magic was glowing and flowing wild, bright white eyes staring at her form.

She had told you those exact same words back then, trying to lure you intl trusting her; into giving in. You fought her at first and even later you never truly accepted.

Though you will admit, her lessons and influence had rubbed on you; helping you with your magic but also making you more careful of her 'true' nature.

"You and I are nothing alike" you managed to comment, feeling your self restrain getting more and more lost thanks to Rio's touch; that had moved towards your tie and threatened to take off some buttons from your white shirt.

"Aren't we?" Rio smirked, eyes landing on your parted lips as her hand stopped moving; fingers holding the side of your upper arm to ensure you would not move away.

Before something could take place, someone cleared their throat.

Chapter 19

[djadins]

— A R G H U R Y S 🗡️ • 3

+ pairing | ser harwin strong x f!princess!reader

+ a/n | not me posting this as if i didn’t up and disappear for a year o o p s

It was getting late enough that the sun’s light no longer adequately lit the book you had been staring at. Rubbing at your eyes, you yawned and stretched out your arms. You had been out here since after morning’s end at least. Supper would have to consist of whatever you could convince the chefs in the kitchens to cook for you.

The roots at the back of the heart tree, or rather, where you joked the ass should be carved (to the Septa’s annoyance and your later punishment), had a nice dip in them that served as a hammock for your body. Add in the many pillows and blankets that had a permanent residence under the tree, and you had yourself a nice little hiding spot that you had frequented for as long as you could remember. Unless one walked all along the side of the heart tree, it was likely a passerby wouldn’t notice you.

“Ser Harwin was looking for you.”

A yelp escaped your lips, much to your sister’s delight. Her airy laugh floated amongst the trees in the Godswood.

“Seven hells Rhaenyra!”

She giggled again, sitting down next to you. You playfully pushed her arm. She feigned offense, then wrapped her arms around you and placed a delicate kiss to the top of your head.

“Ser Harrold told me he was the one who took you hunting in the Kingswood for Aegon’s nameday.” She looked at you expectantly. You shrugged in response.

“That was over a fortnight ago! You weren’t going to mention it to me,” she paused, pressing her flattened palm against her heart, “big sister, best friend, closest companion?!”

“Well you didn’t exactly talk about your night in the Kingswood with Ser Criston, bloodied and disheveled. I thought we were going to drink and leave Aegon’s nameday behind us.”

Rhaenyra gave you a knowing look. “This,” she waved her hands in a circle, “is different. You’re already blushing at the mere thought of him.”

You rolled your eyes at her. “The dramatics are over the top tonight, Rhaeny.”

“Dramatics or not,” she turned her body to face you, grabbing your forearm, “you two would make a fine match someday.”

“Match?! Rhaenyra, he’s Lord Lyonel’s oldest boy. Don’t you think a marriage proposal would be for you?”

Rhaenyra smirked. “See, that’s another thing Ser Harrold told me. When father was discussing my future matches,” she paused at the word to stick out her tongue and fake sick, “with Lord Lyonel, he joked that the Lord would advise I wed his son, Ser Harwin.”

“…And?”

“And,” she leaned in closer to you, “He disagreed. Instead, he counseled Father that he believed I should wed another.”

“Who?”

Rhaenyra slapped your arm. “It doesn’t matter who sister, point is, Lord Strong is not putting his son up for my hand. Furthermore,” she continued, while you rubbed your stinging arm, “Ser Harwin is not interested in me. As soon as we ran into each other, the first thing out of his mouth was to ask if I’d seen you.”

You rolled your eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything, Rhaenyra.”

“Is that right? Well, answer me this — whose dagger has been occupying space in your chambers? Because I know you did not convince the smiths to craft you one with the sigil of House Strong in the hilt.”

“You went in my room without me!” you pushed her.

“Sister,” she grabbed both of your shoulders, “you keep missing the point.”

“Which is?”

She lowered her voice. “That not only would the two of you make a handsome match, one that father would actually consider and if need be, we could sway him toward, but, that you could also be happy. You could wed for love. You could,” her voice cracked and she cleared it, “you could have what mother and father had.”

Tears welled at both yours and Rhaenyra’s eyes at the mention of mother. She pulled you in and hugged you tightly. “I just want you to be happy,” she whispered.

You squeezed her back and inhaled her familiar scent. “I love you, sister.”

“And I, you.” She pulled back and smoothed out your hair. “Now head to the library. With any luck, you might still find him there searching for you.”

You grabbed your book and hopped up to your feet. You began a brisk pace towards the library, the halls of the Red Keep surprisingly empty during the walk there.

You rounded the corner into the library and saw a familiar, tall, dark knight pacing the shelves in the back, looking at the various volumes on hand.

“Can I help you find what you’re looking for, Ser?”

Harwin turned on his heel, clearly a little startled by the sound of your voice. He took in your appearance as you returned the book you had been reading back to the proper shelf. The corners of your mouth were upturned into a smile.

“Princess,” he greeted.

You picked up a different book and offered it to him. Flora of the Seven Kingdoms by Maester Tollett.

“Hmm… I think I would rather have lessons from the expert than read about flowers from a Maester who’s been dead half a century.” His smile was large, his eyes bright as he looked down at you. You put the book back down on the shelf and began walking around the library, running a stray finger along the spines of the books.

“Expert, hmm?” you questioned. “I’m surprised a man of the City Watch has time for something as silly as flowers.”

Harwin walked over to you, the soft patter of his boots with every step emphasizing just how slowly he was moving. He lifted a hand to your cheek. “I make time for the things that are important to me, princess.”

You smiled up at him as he gently brushed his thumb against your cheek. “What brings you to the library?”

“Well,” he dropped his hand from your face, bringing it instead to his and rubbing the length of his stubble. “I had dinner with father and Larys. Father said I should learn what it means to be Master of Laws if that is the path I want to follow someday.”

“What about the City Watch?” you tilted your head slightly.

“Mmm, I intended to climb up the ranks, princess. However, it seems father wants me to have all my options open. Says I could make for a fine politician like him.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate he didn’t believe that. “I asked for a transfer to the barracks here at the Red Keep to be closer.”

“You’ll get to patrol inside the Keep?”

He nodded. “Both inside and out now, yes.” He took a deep breath in.

“Oh Ser Harwin, that’s wonderful. You’ll get to see Lord Lyonel and Larys a lot more now.”

“Yes, princess,” he paused, reaching a hand out to brush some hair behind your ear. “My family, and others who are dear to me.”

Your cheeks grew hot. You eyes left Harwin’s and looked down at your feet. His feet stepped in closer to yours and you could feel his breath against the crown of your head. His hand gently wrapped around to the back of your head…

He jumped back like he had been burned at the sound of feet behind you. Maester Runciter had entered the library, oblivious to the princess and knight who currently occupied it. He began scattering various papers around his workspace and talking to himself.

You cleared your throat and peered up at Ser Harwin through your lashes. “Would you accompany me on a walk through the Keep? Or are you on duty tonight?”

He offered his arm out and you took it. “I am free tonight, princess.”

You waved to Maester Runciter on your way out of the library but you were pretty certain he did not hear or see either of you during his time in there. You giggled at this and Ser Harwin could be heard chuckling under his breath.

“You know, I have a book on the small council in my chambers. You’re welcome to it, Ser Harwin. Admittedly, I have been using it to press flowers.”

His laugh was more audible this time around. “Thank you princess. I will be sure to find you a heavy replacement.”

The two of you walked what felt like the length of the entire castle, talking and laughing. The evening air brought with it a cold front that had the hairs on your arm standing up tall. A shiver ran through you as the wind ripped your silver hair behind your shoulder. You let go of Ser Harwin for the first time to rub your own arms.

“Princess,” he stopped you. You turned around to face him. His gold cloak had been pulled from his own shoulders and he was holding it out to you like a blanket. You nodded and turned, letting him wrap his cloak around you.

“We should get you inside,” he murmured in your ear. You shivered again, admittedly not from the cold this time. Not wanting the night to end but knowing he was right, you reluctantly agreed. You nuzzled into the gold fabric, breathing in the woody smell of Ser Harwin as you followed alongside him.

Ser Criston had a strange look upon his face as the two of you rounded the corner towards your chambers. He nodded wordlessly to you before eyeing down Harwin. Harwin, who had also taken notice of the way your Kingsguard had been watching him, placed a firm hand at your back, rubbing up and down tenderly.

You twirled around, having reached the double doors to your chamber. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight,” you smiled up at him. Harwin simply bowed and you took this chance to stand on your tiptoes and place a soft kiss upon his cheek. When you both pulled back, Harwin’s eyes found the floor, his face flushed. Ser Cole cleared his throat.

He looked at you after a moment, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Good night, sweet flower.”

You curtsied before opening the doors behind your back and pushing yourself in. When they were closed and at your back, you brought your fingers to your lips where they still tingled from the scratchiness of Harwin’s beard. It took your full willpower not to run back outside after him.

It was then that you realized you still had his gold cloak. You fingered it lightly for a few moments before throwing it atop your bed. When you were ready to tuck yourself in, you brought the cloak underneath the covers and wrapped yourself in it.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 22 Chapter 22 | healing sigils⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The next day, you found yourself walking down to the palace halls, yawning softly. You were dressed for an outing, draped in a comfortable shawl and a light cloak to ward off the morning chill. Instead of your usual satchel, you carried a basket with blankets stuffed inside, prepared for a day outside the palace walls.

Earlier that morning, while delivering breakfast to Queen Penelope, she had paused and turned to you with a task. She asked if you could head into town to retrieve something special for King Odysseus after you finished your chores.

She explained that she had his old bow tightened and had two metal arrows created to go with it, entrusting you with the errand since Eurycleia, the old nurse, was busy and not available at the moment.

You had nodded, understanding the importance of the task, and agreed to handle it with the care she expected.

Now, you were currently standing at the gates, waiting for the guards to open them when you heard your name called. Turning, you saw Callias jogging over, coming to a stop panting slightly before standing upright, a playful pout forming on his lips.

"Did someone forget that the two of us were supposed to hang out after finishing our morning duties?" he asked, his tone light but carrying a hint of mock accusation.

You sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt as you'd hoped to have finished this task before Callias came looking for you. "I'm sorry," you apologized, shifting the basket on your arm to a more comfortable position. "Queen Penelope asked me to head into town to pick up something special for King Odysseus."

Callias' form relaxed slightly at the mention of Penelope. "The Queen?" he sniffed, his expression softening. "I suppose that's an important errand."

He then sighed, throwing his head back with a theatrical groan as he kicked a stray pebble along the ground, muttering about how he guessed he could go bother Kieran and the others instead.

On a whim, driven by a mix of wanting his company and not wanting to head into town alone, you offered, "You could... come with me if you'd like."

His face brightened instantly, the previous disappointment vanishing as if it had never been. "Really? I mean, if you're sure I wouldn't be intruding..."

"It's just picking up a bow and some arrows," you reassured him with a smile. "I'd enjoy the company."

With a grin now splitting his face, Callias quickly adjusted his stance, his previous sulk forgotten. "Well, when you put it like that, how could I refuse an adventure with Ithaca's finest handmaiden?"

The guards at the gate gave you both a nod as they pulled the heavy doors open, allowing the cool morning air tinged with the scent of the sea to brush against your face. Together, you stepped through the gates, the promise of the bustling town ahead filling you with a renewed sense of purpose.

With Callias by your side, the day seemed a bit brighter, the task less daunting.

.☆.     .✩.         .☆.

Inside the blacksmith's shop, you stood alone, draped only in your shawl. The earlier walk with Callias had been brisk, and amidst his playful whining about the cold, you had wrapped your cloak around him, insisting he take it despite his objections. His promise to meet up after grabbing a few things in town left you by yourself to collect the queen's order.

The shop was a cavern of rough work, all heat and iron, filled with the smells of sweat and burnt metal—a place of coarse hands and blunt words. It was a stark contrast to your own presence, like a lone flower stubbornly blooming in a swamp.

The shop setup was straightforward, with a wooden desk and a worker in front overseeing the transactions, behind which a large archway led to the bustling workshop. Through the arch, you could see several blacksmiths at work, sparks flying occasionally as they hammered and shaped metal. The ambient noise of clanging and the roar of fires created a backdrop to the rhythmic hammering, a symphony of industry and craft.

Approaching the counter, a young receptionist with soot smudging his face looked up from his ledger, giving you a tentative smile. His hair flopped over one eye, and he leaned casually against the desk, making him seem less formidable in this rough environment.

"What can I get for you today?" he asked, his voice friendly but carrying the din of the background work.

Feeling slightly awkward, you cleared your throat, adjusting the shawl over your shoulders. "My name's, ____, and I'm here to pick up an order for Queen Penelope," you started, trying to sound more confident than you felt. "She had an old bow tightened and metal arrows made to accompany it."

As the blacksmith behind the desk called to a colleague to retrieve the items, your eyes wandered to the back room, where the true work of the forge was conducted.

The sight of glowing metal and the sound of relentless hammering were oddly mesmerizing, a stark reminder of the hard labor that went into crafting even the smallest tools that made daily life smoother in the palace.

While you waited, a cloaked figure leaned lazily against a workbench, an observer to the symphony of sparks. Their presence was unassuming at first, a mere shadow among the flickering flames.

But then, a voice cut through the din—a rich, smooth tone that purred more than it spoke, sliding between the clangs with an ease that felt both practiced and natural. "You're quite the delicate little thing to be in a place like this."

The words, tinged with amusement and something indefinable, drew your attention. With an easy, unhurried motion, the stranger pushed back her hood, revealing herself. A woman. Beautiful, but in a way that felt ripe, indulgent—like something too much yet just enough. Her thick curls were tangled with wild vines, framing a face that held deep violet eyes hooded with amusement.

You stood still, feeling a flutter twist in your stomach. She was gorgeous, her presence commanding yet oddly inviting, drawing your eyes and holding them captive. Her gaze met yours, and the corner of her lips tilted in a knowing smile, as if she could read the flurry of thoughts racing through your mind.

The woman then stretched comically, her movements exaggerated as if she was in a playful performance. She sauntered over to the shop's desk, leaning heavily on it with a casual grace. Her voice drawled out as she called to the man behind the counter, "And when will my order be ready?"

The shop attendant glanced up, his expression a mix of amusement and resignation. "The gorgets should be done by the end of the day, ma'am," he replied, his tone professional yet tinged with familiarity.

The woman groaned, a theatrical sound that filled the small space. "Bummer," she exclaimed, but her annoyance seemed more playful than genuine. Her head then turned, her gaze landing back on you. Her lips pulled back into a smirk, and she walked towards you, her movements fluid and almost predatory.

She circled you slowly, her presence thick and lazy but sharp—like honey that dragged slow but clung persistently. The air around her was saturated with the scent of wine and overripe grapes, an intoxicating aroma that seemed to stick to everything it touched.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?" she purred, her voice low and smooth, sliding between words with a practiced ease that was both compelling and slightly unnerving.

You cleared your throat, feeling your face heat up. Your hands grew clammy as you averted your eyes briefly before regaining your composure. "I'm here on business for the queen," you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady.

Her eyebrows raised slightly, a mix of amusement and a hint of respect coloring her expression. "Royals, huh?" she hummed, her voice rich with curiosity. Leaning forward, her deep violet eyes gleaming with mischief, she asked, "Ever seen them at their parties, feasts? Got any stories about them making fools of themselves all drunk and merry?"

Before you could respond, the blacksmith at the counter called out, signaling that your order was ready. You were about to thank her for the chat and move on, but the moment was abruptly cut short by a man's rough voice calling from the doorway, "Thyessa."

The woman—Thyessa—sighed, a look of exaggerated weariness crossing her face as she stretched her arms lazily. "Mm, already?" she murmured, her tone tinged with reluctance. Turning back to you, her smirk deepened, her voice a warm, velvety purr, "Well, guess I'll leave you to it, little flower. You just looked too pretty to ignore."

With that, she walked away, her steps slow and deliberate. Over her shoulder, she gave a casual wave, adding with a teasing sparkle in her eye, "Try not to wilt without me."

As she disappeared, leaving only the lingering weight of her presence and the ghost of her scent behind, the blacksmith cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to the counter with a repeated call of your name. You jolted slightly, shaken by the encounter but relieved to focus on the task at hand.

The interaction with Thyessa left you a bit disoriented, her presence like a whirlwind that had momentarily swept through your calm routine. The weight of the bow and arrows in your arms grounded you, a tangible reminder of why you were here.

Paying the blacksmith, you tried to steady your nerves. As you handed over the coins, the clinking sound seemed overly loud in the now quiet shop.

Suddenly, Callias burst into the shop, munching on something with wide eyes, clearly excited. "You won't believe the sexy woman I just saw walking out of here!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with awe and a bit of mischief.

You couldn't help but laugh at the sight of him wearing your cloak, which stopped just above his knees, compared to how it hung much lower on you. It looked almost comical on his taller frame, but he wore it with an exaggerated pride that only Callias could manage.

He walked over, giving a low whistle as he eyed one of the sharp arrows you'd just acquired. "So, how are you planning to get all of this out of here?" he asked, his tone playful yet genuinely curious.

You smiled, already handing him one of the large blankets to wrap around the bow. "With your help, of course," you replied, a teasing glint in your eyes.

Callias playfully narrowed his eyes at you, taking another bite of his apple. "I knew you were using me," he muttered, but he went ahead and carefully wrapped the bow, showing more care than his words suggested.

Together, you managed to secure the bow and arrows, Callias joking about being your personal pack mule as he adjusted the load in his arms.

Stepping out of the blacksmith's shop, you felt the evening breeze cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the forge's stifling heat. Callias chattered beside you, his spirits high, and you found yourself drawn into his infectious enthusiasm, the weight of the bow and arrows now just another part of your shared adventure.

☆

☆

After delivering the meticulously wrapped parcel to Queen Penelope, who had received it with her usual gracious nod, you and Callias made your way towards your chamber to retrieve your divine lyre for the evening's potential use.

The hallways of the palace echoed with the quiet hum of daily life, the soft clatter of servant's feet and the distant murmur of courtiers blending into a familiar tapestry of sounds.

Just as you were about to turn down the corridor that led to your quarters, you caught sight of Telemachus approaching. He was wearing a bright and infectious grin that matched the mood of the day, his eyes sparkling with an energy you hadn't seen in him for some time. Your own cheeks warmed slightly, the memories of his near-confession the day before coloring your perception of his cheerful demeanor.

Telemachus' gaze lingered on Callias briefly, an indecipherable flicker of emotion passing over his features before his face smoothed into a polite smile. "Callias," he greeted warmly, then his excitement seemed to double as he turned towards you.

"I almost forgot to mention—Peisistratus is arriving into town today with the other exports from the kingdoms we trade with," Telemachus announced, the name sparking a light in his eyes. "I'd love to take you into town. He would be thrilled to see you, I'm sure."

Peisistratus—a name you recognized well; the youngest son of King Nestor of Pylos. You had seen him sparingly throughout the years, his visits to Ithaca always marked by the sort of fanfare that accompanied someone of his status. You had met him once or twice before, his charismatic presence leaving a lasting impression each time.

Internally, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement at the prospect of seeing him again, especially under such pleasant circumstances. The memory of your last brief meeting, his easy charm and laughter, came back to you vividly, painting your anticipation with bright strokes.

You hesitated, mouth half-open to accept Telemachus' invitation, when you suddenly remembered your plans with Callias. A tinge of regret shadowed your expression as you softly let Telemachus know about your prior commitment. "I'm actually supposed to hang out with Callias today," you explained, the reluctance clear in your voice.

Telemachus' face fell slightly, his disappointment palpable. Just as you were about to reassure him, Callias, ever the peacemaker, chimed in cheerily, "It's alright, really. I don't mind at all." But you shook your head, adamant, "No, we agreed to hang out today. It's hard to find time with our schedules."

The prince watched, a bemused spectator to your gentle argument with Callias, until you proposed a solution, turning back to Telemachus with a hopeful look. "How about this? Can Callias come along?"

Telemachus blinked, taken aback for a moment, as if the idea of including Callias hadn't crossed his mind. After a brief pause, where it seemed he might refuse, he finally relented with a stressed but genuine smile. "Sure... the more the merrier," he said, though his tone carried a hint of resignation.

Pleased with the compromise, you beamed, "Great!" Then, remembering the basket you were still carrying, you added, "Just let me drop this off in my room, and I'll be ready to go."

Leaving Telemachus and Callias momentarily, you hurried down the hall as you prepared to set out for what promised to be an interesting day.

.☆.     .✩.         .☆.

When the three of you arrived in town, the port was alive with the hustle and bustle typical of a busy trading day. Ships of various sizes bobbed at the docks, their sails fluttering in the breeze, while merchants shouted over each other, trying to attract customers to their stands piled high with exotic goods and local crafts.

The air was thick with the scents of salt from the sea and spices being unloaded from the latest arrivals.

As you paused, taking it all in, a wave of nostalgia hit you.

For a moment, the marketplace twisted, distorting like a view through rippled glass, and you were a child again, clutching your mother's hand. You turned at the sound of your name, half-expecting to see her there, her warm smile and bright eyes looking down at you. But when you blinked, the illusion shattered—instead, it was Telemachus, concern etching his features.

"Are you alright?" he asked, studying your face closely.

You gave a small chuckle, pushing away the momentary daze. "Yeah, I am," you assured him, pointing ahead where a familiar figure stood atop some barrels, animatedly speaking to a group of men. "Look, there's Peisistratus!"

Telemachus' face lit up with a wide smile. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out the man's name, waving eagerly to catch his attention. "Peisistratus!"

As Peisistratus' eyes scanned the crowd, his gaze finally settled on you and Telemachus, his face breaking into a broad, delighted grin. With a joyous roar that drew the attention of several nearby traders, he leaped down from his perch atop the barrels and strode energetically toward you both.

The two friends met halfway, crashing into a hearty embrace that involved vigorous back-patting and laughter, clearly overjoyed at their reunion.

You and Callias approached more slowly, giving the friends a moment to catch up without intruding too much. Yet, as Peisistratus looked over Telemachus' shoulder, his eyes landed on you, and his smirk grew wider. He excused himself from Telemachus and walked over, stopping a few feet away to give Callias a respectful nod of greeting before turning his full attention to you.

Tall and a bit more muscular than Telemachus, Peisistratus' presence was imposing yet friendly. His dark blonde hair, interwoven with strands of gold that caught the sunlight, framed a face marked by a summer's tan and a sharp, playful smile. His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned down slightly and took your hand, raising it to his lips for a gallant kiss on the back. "My, my, if it isn't the radiant jewel of Ithaca," he exclaimed, his voice rich and melodious. "How have you been, my dear?"

Before you could respond, Telemachus cut in with a warning tone, "Easy there, Peisistratus."

Unperturbed, Peisistratus chuckled, shooting Telemachus a mischievous look. "Oh, don't mind him," he said, his gaze flicking back to you with an impish twinkle. "Tell me, has our noble prince finally mustered the courage to court you properly, or is he still playing the part of the ever-dutiful, unclaiming royal?"

Telemachus' face flushed a deep red, and he reached out to give Peisistratus a light shove, eliciting a hearty laugh from his friend. "Careful, or I'll start telling stories you'd rather forget," Telemachus retorted, though the embarrassment was evident in his voice.

Peisistratus' laughter rang out, clear and joyful, as he turned back to you with an apologetic yet still playful grin. "Truly, though," he continued, "it's always a pleasure to see you shining so brightly, ____. Ithaca's sun seems dimmer compared to your glow."

He then shifted his attention to Callias, his gaze giving the man a once-over, lingering a moment on his clothing. With a sly smile, he remarked, "And what brings a servant of Bronte all the way to Ithaca? If I recall correctly, your royals are a bit... possessive, no?"

Callias scoffed, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in amusement. "That's not even the half of it," he replied, shaking his head slightly.

Peisistratus laughed heartily again, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Well, you'll have to catch me up on it later, yeah?" he proposed, the lightness in his tone belying the depth of his interest.

Turning back to Telemachus, his demeanor shifted from playful to earnest as he leaned closer to the prince. "There's a matter I must discuss," he began, his voice lowering slightly. "One of the men on the ship is seriously injured. We're not sure he'll make it back to our kingdom without help. Could Ithaca spare a physician?" His brow furrowed with concern, highlighting the gravity of the situation.

Telemachus' response was immediate, his voice filled with ready assurance as he started, "Of course, we can arrange—" but his words trailed off as a sudden realization struck him. His gaze snapped to you, a spark of inspiration clear in his expression. "Actually... ____ could help."

You balked at the suggestion, feeling a wave of uncertainty wash over you. "I-I'm not sure that's a good idea," you countered, your voice tinged with hesitation. Your hands fidgeted at your sides, betraying your nervousness. "I'm not exactly trained in medicine... I mean, I've never done anything like that before."

Telemachus stepped closer, his presence reassuring. He gently grasped your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "You might not realize it, but you have a natural talent for healing," he insisted, his tone earnest. "Remember all those times you helped patch me up after sparring? Somehow, I always seemed to recover faster when you were the one tending to the wounds."

Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, and you averted your eyes. The memory of those intimate moments—being so close to him, tending to his bruises and cuts—flashed through your mind, making your heart flutter despite the seriousness of the situation.

Then, Apollo's words echoed in your mind, strengthening your resolve, "You have an affinity for medicine, for soothing what is broken and helping it mend... simply being there—offering your light, your warmth, your presence—is enough to heal what cannot be mended by mortal hands."

With a reluctant sigh, you finally nodded, though still not fully convinced. "Alright, I'll do it," you murmured, then added with a half-teasing, half-serious tone, "But you'd better have a real physician on standby in case your theory about my 'healing abilities' isn't as solid as you think."

Telemachus chuckled, the sound rich with warmth. "Deal," he agreed, his smile reassuring. "Thank you, ____. You're doing a great thing." The warmth in his voice and the certainty of Apollo's blessing combined to chase away the last of your doubts.

You didn't miss the appreciative gleam in Peisistratus' eyes either as he nodded in agreement, obviously relieved by your willingness to help. The serious ambiance briefly lifted, allowing a moment of camaraderie among you all.

Callias, who had been following the conversation with a slightly confused look, finally spoke up. "Umm, what are you two talking about?" His tone carried a mix of curiosity and slight exasperation, as if he'd been left out of an important secret.

Realizing that you hadn't explained the situation to Callias, your lips pressed into a tight line before releasing a resigned sigh. You turned towards him, your shoulders dropping slightly as you decided to reveal your unique connection with Apollo. "Well, it turns out I have a... certain favor from Apollo. It's supposed to help with healing... among other things."

Instead of reacting with shock or disbelief, Callias simply blinked, shrugged, and said, "Oh." You stared at him, bewildered by his nonchalant acceptance.

"That's it? You believe me just like that?" you asked, your tone a mixture of surprise and a slight challenge.

Callias scoffed lightly, his eyes twinkling with humor. "____, you've got a divine lyre from Hermes. I think you being Apollo's favorite is pretty much to be expected by this point."

Telemachus, who had been quietly observing the exchange, suddenly interjected, confusion lacing his words. "Hermes? Lyre?" His brow furrowed, clearly puzzled by the new pieces of information that seemed to have slipped past him.

You waved off his confusion with a quick gesture, not wanting to delve into another lengthy explanation right then. Turning back to Peisistratus, you said, "Let's go. Take me to him."

Peisistratus nodded, clearly eager to get moving. With a swift motion, he gestured for you to follow him, leading the way with purposeful strides towards the docks where the injured man awaited your uncertain but necessary aid.

Telemachus and Callias fell into step behind you, the former still looking a bit perplexed but trusting, the latter entirely at ease with the unfolding events.

As you followed Peisistratus through the cramped corridors of the ship, the tang of seawater mixed with the acrid scent of illness and medicine.

The make-shift infirmary was a small room, barely larger than a storage closet.

Upon entering, you immediately noticed the young stable boy lying on the cot. His face was pale, his chest rising and falling unevenly, sweat beading his forehead. The bandage wrapped around his leg was stained and slightly unraveled, hinting at the severity of the wound beneath.

Peisistratus spoke up, his tone suddenly lacking its usual joviality. "How's he holding up?" he asked, nodding toward the boy.

The sailor, a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper beard, looked up from his task. His expression was grim as he replied, "Not well. Goes in and out of consciousness, high fever, and sweats a lot. We've done what we can but..."

His gaze then shifted to you, confusion clear in his eyes. "And you are? The nurse?"

Before you could answer, Peisistratus intervened. "This is ____. She's here to help."

As Peisistratus confirmed your role there, Telemachus smoothly took charge of the situation. "She'll need a rundown of what's been done and what needs to happen next," he instructed the older sailor, who gave a respectful nod in response to the prince's directive.

The sailor, his face lined with years of sea and sun, looked initially skeptical as he beckoned you closer to the makeshift infirmary setup. You stepped forward, feeling the eyes of other sailors at the door, their curiosity piqued by the unusual sight of a young woman taking on such a task.

The space was cramped but functional, with a single window that let in just enough light to illuminate the small cot and the table beside it, where various salves and bandages were laid out. A pungent smell of seaweed-based salve filled the air, a concoction that the sailors used in emergencies, its green paste stark against the weathered wood.

The young stable boy on the cot was pale, his brow glistening with sweat as he drifted in and out of consciousness. His breathing was labored, the rise and fall of his chest uneven and strained. The infected cut, a jagged tear on his leg, looked angry and red, oozing signs of infection.

The old sailor explained, his voice gruff but not unkind, "Cut himself on a line. Thought it was just a scratch, but it got worse. We've been trying to keep it clean with what we've got here," he gestured to a bowl of mashed seaweed paste.

With a nod, you approached the table, your hands steady as you began mixing the paste anew, enhancing it with some of the clean bandages to create a more absorbent, medicinal dressing. The room was silent save for the occasional creak of the ship and the soft murmur of the sailors outside.

As you worked, focusing intently on cleaning and dressing the wound, you found yourself slipping into a rhythm. With each swipe of the cloth, your movements became more confident, more assured.

You were vaguely aware of Telemachus conversing quietly with the sailor, pulling him back slightly to give you space, his presence reassuring but unobtrusive.

As you applied the paste and secured the bandage, your focus was so intense that the rest of the room seemed to fall away. You barely noticed Telemachus' quiet discussions or the slight shuffle of the other sailors at the doorway. Your fingers moved with a precision you hadn't known you possessed, tracing patterns instinctively, almost as if guided by some unseen force.

Suddenly, as you murmured an indistinguishable phrase under your breath—a chant or prayer you didn't consciously recall learning—the air around you seemed to thicken. The change was almost palpable, the atmosphere charged with a strange energy.

The boy on the cot gasped, his body reacting instantly. His legs twitched, his face contorting in discomfort, and he let out a sharp yelp. "It's burning!" he cried out, his voice laced with sudden panic.

You pushed his leg gently but firmly back down, maintaining the pressure as your hands continued their work, still caught in a trance-like state. Your focus didn't waver, even as cries of concern erupted around you.

The old sailor, along with a few others who had crowded around the door, started shouting, alarmed by the boy's reaction. They made motions to intervene, their faces marked with worry and confusion.

However, Peisistratus, Telemachus, and Callias quickly moved to block them, forming a human barrier between you and the sailors. Peisistratus cast a worried glance over his shoulder but remained steadfast, his posture showing a trust in your actions despite the apparent chaos.

Telemachus' voice, low and calm, reassured the onlookers without pulling your attention away from your task. "Give her space," he urged them, his tone firm yet soothing. "She knows what she's doing."

Callias, though clearly anxious, nodded along, adding his assurance to the murmuring crowd. "Just wait," he said, his voice a blend of hope and confidence.

Eventually, the boy fell silent, and you let out a sharp gasp, exiting the trance. Breathing shallowly, you backed away from the bed, disoriented.  Telemachus was the first to come to you, his voice cutting through your haze, "Are you alright?" His hand was on your arm, steadying you as you took a deep, shaky breath.

Callias hurried over, looking equally worried, waving his hands frantically at the other sailors. "One of you muscleheads bring a damn chair!" he called out, then turned back to you with a concerned frown. "You need to sit down for a moment, yeah?"

Just then, the old sailor who had been attending the boy rushed back to the bedside. His attention was fixed on the young boy, who began to stir, his eyes blinking open weakly. The room fell into a tense silence as Peisistratus slowly peeled away the bandage, revealing the wound beneath.

There was a collective gasp from everyone on that side of the room, and their heads snapped around to look at you. It was only then, as you looked up, wondering why everything had gone silent, that you noticed their stares.

You took a step back, your voice trembling with growing anxiety as you asked, "What happened? Why is everyone staring?" The room was unnervingly quiet, every eye locked on you, their expressions a mixture of astonishment, disbelief, and something else you couldn't quite place. It made your skin prickle, your heart thudding erratically in your chest.

A familiar hand found your shoulder, its warmth steadying you just enough to turn. Telemachus was there, his grip firm but gentle, his expression somewhere between awe and worry. But what struck you most was where his gaze was fixed—not on your face, but on something above your head.

"What is it?" you asked, your words faltering as his lips parted, though no sound came out. His hand dropped from your shoulder as his attention remained riveted on the space just above you.

Unable to bear the suspense, you followed his gaze, tilting your head slightly upward. The breath hitched in your throat.

Above you, faint but undeniable, a shimmering sigil seemed to hang in the air. It pulsed softly, glowing like the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon.

The symbol itself was indistinct, shifting in form like ripples on water, yet it radiated a golden light that bathed the room in an ethereal glow. The sunlight streaming through the window behind you only amplified the effect, cascading over you in a heavenly beam that made the glow more vivid, more otherworldly.

The silence was broken by a low, breathless exclamation from Callias. "Zeus' blazing balls!" he murmured, his usual lighthearted tone replaced with raw disbelief.

You blinked, disoriented, as the rest of the room began to move. The sailors and Peisistratus instinctively stepped back, parting like waves as though giving you space—or maybe distance. Their wide-eyed stares spoke volumes, their astonishment palpable in the air between you.

It was only then that you noticed their movement revealed the boy on the cot, now fully visible. Your heart pounded as you forced yourself forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. The glow around you persisted, but your focus zeroed in on the boy, on what everyone else seemed to be fixated on.

You reached the side of the cot, your breath shallow, your pulse hammering in your ears. The old sailor knelt beside the boy, his weathered hands trembling as he carefully peeled away the remaining bandage from the wound. What lay beneath made you gasp.

Smooth skin, unmarred and whole, stretched where the infection and gash had once been. Not even a scar remained. It was as if the injury had never existed.

"Gods," someone whispered, the word reverent and heavy in the stillness.

"It's gone," another voice said, louder this time, the disbelief clear.

Your knees felt weak as you stared, your mind struggling to catch up with what your eyes were telling you. The boy's chest rose and fell in even, steady breaths, his fevered flush now replaced by a soft, healthy hue. He stirred faintly, mumbling something under his breath, but his pain was gone.

You glanced around the room, searching for answers in the faces of those present, but all you found were awestruck expressions and more questions than you had yourself.

Telemachus' voice broke through the haze, soft but steady. "____," he said, his tone filled with both reassurance and wonder. "That... was you."

Before you could process his words, the old sailor, still by the boy's bedside, drew everyone's attention. His gaze was fixed on the shimmering sigil floating above your head as he straightened, his hand trembling slightly as he pointed toward you.

"This... This hasn't happened since Delphi. The oracle..." He trailed off, the weight of his words filling the room like a tangible presence.

The moment he finished speaking, the sigil above your head began to dissolve. It shimmered faintly, scattering like golden dust that drifted down and disappeared as it touched your skin. You felt an odd warmth, almost like a soft embrace, as the energy dissipated into the air around you.

The weight of their stares, the enormity of what had just occurred—it was too much.

Telemachus must have seen the panic in your eyes because his hand was suddenly on your shoulder again, grounding you. "____," he said softly, his voice steady. "You've done enough. Let Callias take you back to the palace. You need to rest."

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words caught in your throat. Callias stepped forward, his usual lighthearted demeanor tempered with concern. "He's right," he said, his tone surprisingly firm. "Come on. Let's get you something to eat. You look like you're about to keel over."

Reluctantly, you nodded, the weight of the moment still pressing heavily on your chest. Callias gently took your arm, guiding you away from the cot. As he led you toward the ship's exit, you could feel the eyes of everyone in the room following your every step, the air heavy with unspoken questions.

The last thing you saw before leaving was Telemachus, still standing by the boy, his expression a mixture of pride and quiet determination as he faced the sailors.

Callias' hand was a steady presence on your arm as he walked beside you. "We'll get you sorted," he said quietly, his usual teasing tone absent. "Don't worry about anything else right now."

You didn't respond, too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you.

As you walked away from the ship, the commotion and intense emotions slowly faded into the background, replaced by a quieter tension that hung between you and Callias. He seemed to sense your need for distraction, his usual banter giving way to a silence that felt both heavy and comforting.

"Hey," Callias suddenly broke the silence, a hint of his usual mischief creeping back into his tone. "Think you could heal a cut on my finger I got earlier?" He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers with a poorly masked grin.

You glanced at his hand, then up at his expectant face, and despite everything, a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. Shaking your head slightly, you rolled your eyes at his dramatics, letting out a faint chuckle. "It's not as simple as just touching you and going 'heal'," you replied, playing along. You reached out and mockingly grabbed his hand, waving your other hand over it with exaggerated mystical flair.

For a moment, you both stared at his hand, the playfulness of the act hanging in the air. Then, to your mutual surprise, the small cut on his finger seemed to fade right before your eyes.

Both of you paused, your eyes widening as you looked from his now smooth skin back up to each other's faces.

"Did you—" Callias started, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe.

"I—I didn't think that would actually work," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, a nervous laugh escaping you as the reality of your new abilities began to sink in a little more deeply.

The levity of the joke gave way to a deeper, more profound awareness of the power you might truly possess.

☆

☆

Later that night in the courtyard, the chill of the evening seeped into your bones as you strummed your divine lyre, trying to recapture the comfort it usually brought.

Throughout the afternoon, you and Callias had playfully tested your newfound healing ability—repairing small scratches and soothing minor aches: a scrape Callias had from brushing too roughly against a stone wall, a small burn on your finger bringing dinner.

Each attempt involved a touch, a whisper, a concentration that felt deeper than thought, and each time, the skin under your fingers knit together seamlessly, leaving behind no trace of injury. The success left you both exhilarated and a bit bewildered. Callias, in particular, seemed to find it a mix of fantastic and terrifying.

But the moment Callias jokingly suggested leaping from the palace's highest wall to see if you could mend a broken bone, you had firmly put an end to the testing. His laughter echoed in your memory, light but laced with an edge of genuine curiosity about the limits of your powers.

Now, as you sat alone under the vast, star-strewn sky, the notes from your lyre didn't flow as they usually did. The strings vibrated under your fingers, producing the correct sounds, yet they felt hollow, disconnected from the magic that usually danced in their harmonies.

Sighing, you set the lyre down next to you on the cool stone, the instrument emitting a soft, mournful twang as it settled against the courtyard's floor.

Leaning back on your hands, you tilted your face towards the heavens, a breeze sweeping across the courtyard, carrying the crisp promise of winter. The cool air tugged at your shawl, pulling it tighter around your shoulders.

Despite the cold, you remained outside, gazing upwards, lost in thought. The day's revelations—the glowing sigil, the undeniable proof of your divine favor, the way people had stared—had weighed heavily on you, a blend of wonder and worry that was hard to untangle.

But as you gazed up at the stars, your mind drifted to Telemachus, causing a different kind of flutter in your heart.

Strumming the lyre, a familiar warmth pooled into your fingertips, the notes resonating under the starry canvas. Instinctively, you began to sing softly, your voice barely above a whisper, crafting lines about Telemachus—about how what you once feared was unrequited love might not be so unreturned after all.

"In the quiet night, under the watchful stars, Whisper his name, a wish spoken to the sky, Could the heart's silent yearning be heard afar? In the soft glow of Venus, might love reply?"

Each note wove through the cool night, a silent confession to the stars, a hope whispered to the cosmos that perhaps, just perhaps, your heart's desires were not as distant as the stars you spoke to.

As the last notes of your song drifted into the cool night air, you released a heavy sigh, feeling a mix of relief and lingering nerves. Just then, a voice as smooth and sharp as a blade sliced through the quiet. "So you're the 'muse' that has caught my brother's eye?"

Startled, you sit up straight.

From around the shadow of a towering cypress tree stepped a figure—tall, imposing, her presence commanding the space as if she owned it. Her skin glowed under the moonlight, a deep, rich bronze, and her eyes, a piercing and vibrant shade of gold, fixed on you like a predator eying its prey.

Sleek black hair fell in waves down her shoulders, with strands subtly braided with silver threads that glinted in the dim light. Her attire was a mix of elegance and practicality, a dark, flowing robe that did nothing to hinder her graceful, assured movements.

With a few deliberate steps, she circled you, her gaze never wavering, her body language exuding a mix of curiosity and barely restrained power. Finally, she stopped in front of you, giving a small, almost mocking bow of her head. "I am Artemis," she stated bluntly, her voice holding a trace of challenge. "Tell me, what intentions do you harbor towards my brother?"

Caught off guard, you scrambled to find words that might soothe the goddess' evident suspicion. "I... I respect him deeply," you began, your voice quivering under the intensity of her stare. "Apollo has shown me nothing but kindness. I admire him, truly, but my feelings... they are of respect and gratitude, nothing that would dishonor him or the divine."

Artemis circled you slowly, her movements deliberate, like a huntress stalking her prey. "Respect and gratitude," she repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. "Yet those are words easily spoken. What of actions? Apollo might be swayed by mortal affections, but do not think such affections hold weight without true reverence."

Your heart pounded as you attempted to defend your stance, aware that every word would be scrutinized. "I-I'm learning, Artemis. Every day, with every encounter. I want to honor him properly, to show my reverence not just in words but in deeds. If I have faltered, it is not from a lack of will."

Her gold eyes locked onto yours, searching, probing for any hint of deceit. "And will you commit to learning our ways? To truly understanding what it means to honor a god?" she asked, her gaze unyielding.

With a nod, you replied, your voice steadier as resolve strengthened your words. "Yes, I will. I promise to learn and to honor him as is fitting. Not just Apollo, but all the gods."

Finally, staring at you, Artemis chuffed softly, her head tilting as her lips pulled up into a half-smirk. The skepticism in her eyes seemed to melt away, replaced by a flicker of amusement, perhaps even a trace of respect. "He could have chosen far worse," she admitted, her voice carrying a rare warmth. "It seems my brother sees more in you than I first believed."

With a graceful nod, she stepped back, the moon casting her long shadow across the grass. "Prove yourself worthy of his favor... and perhaps mine as well," she added, her tone now carrying a challenge that seemed more playful than daunting.

Then, in a display befitting a goddess of the hunt, Artemis transformed. Her form shimmered, and where the mighty huntress had stood, a majestic silver stag now took her place. The stag glanced back at you once, its eyes glowing with the same intense gold as Artemis', before it turned and leapt gracefully into the trees, disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared.

Left alone in the quiet of the night, you were left to ponder her words and the surreal encounter, the image of the silver stag etched into your memory, a reminder of the divine world that had briefly intersected with your own.

A/N: trying my hand at being mythcial and shit 😭 also, if you guess haven't seen my version of artemis from 'catch me if you can' i just was trying my creative hand to make artemis embody the complete opposite of apollo—where he's (supposedly) all blinding light and overwhelming ego, she's cool moonlight and quiet, commanding authority. literally leaning into their polar opposites—day and night, sun and moon—really brought her to life for me. 😩

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre

[entitled-fangirl]

A change of sigil.

Robb Stark x Baratheon!reader

Summary: After wedding Robb Stark and becoming the Lady of Winterfell, the reader learns about the king's death and the treason of Ned.

Masterlist

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The newly wedded Y/N Stark (once Baratheon) ran through the corridors of Winterfell. 

Her eyes fell upon the Stark's Maester. Her eyes lit up. "A letter from my father? Has he finally written me back?"

The older man's eyes softened with guilt, "I'm afraid not, my lady."

Her face fell but she quickly recovered it, "oh. M… May I still see it?"

"This," He held it back from her, "Is for Lord Stark to read."

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks and she nodded. "Right. How foolish of me."

His lips pulled into a smile and he held his arm out. The North did like the gentle girl, after all, "C'mon, my lady. Walk to me to him so we may discuss the reason for such a letter."

She smiled back and took his arm.

…

"Treason?" Robb's brows furrowed and his teeth grit, "Sansa wrote this?"

"It is your sister's hand, but the queen's words."

Y/N's eyes remained on the table, unsure of what to think. Her mother was a cunning woman, and it did not surprise her of such a thing.

"You are summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new king."

"My father is dead?" She interrupted quietly.

The men's eyes flickered to her.

Robb's anger did not falter, "Joffrey puts my father in chains, now he wants his ass kissed?"

The Maester sighed, "This is a royal command, my lord." His eyes flickered between the lord and lady, "If you should refuse to obey-"

"-I won't refuse," Robb quickly butted in. "His grace summons me to King's Landing, I'll go to King's Landing. But not alone."

He rolled the letter up and handed it back to the maester. "Call the banners."

"All of them, my lord?"

"They've all sworn to defend my father, have they not?"

"They have."

"Now, we see what their words are worth."

"Very well." The maester left quickly.

Y/N's eyes remained on the table, not once wavering. Robb noticed it and rounded the table to sit by her. His head tilted to study her further. His hand reached up to gently grab her jaw, moving her head to face him.

Her eyes connected with his, and they were filled with tears, "My father is dead?"

His lips pull into a line as he looks to Theon and back, "I'm afraid so."

She took a shaky breath in to keep the tears from falling. "Murdered?"

Theon stood at her words, angered a bit inside. He quickly bowed his head and left the room in a huff.

Robb shook his head, "No. Animal attack while hunting is all Sansa wrote."

She was quiet a while before she spoke again, "He loved me."

Robb gritted his teeth. "He had a funny way of showing it."

"But he did love me. I am worth nothing now."

"Hey." His voice lowered at his words. His grip on her jaw tightened. "Do not say such things. You are worth everything to me. Winterfell is your home. Its people are your people. They are loyal."

"Loyal to you. To your name."

"No." He pushed. "They will be loyal to you. You are still a princess after all, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"And more importantly," he kissed her forehead gently, "You are my wife."

She nodded again before a thought came to her. "What is keeping those that rule from killing your father and sisters just the same?"

His eyebrows raised and he shook her head, "Nothing, I suppose. I must hope they fear the North enough or I drive my sword through your brother before they can touch the Starks." He tilted his head, "I need your loyalty. I know I have it. But the people need it."

"I am loyal to you, Robb. You are all I have."

He smiles and caresses her face before shaking his head, "I don't want loyalty for fear or power. Your loyalty should be of trust and honor. I ask again, are you loyal to me, my love?"

"Without my father, the Baratheon sigil means nothing to me. I belong to House Stark now."

His smile grows and he kisses her gently, "I will win this. For you. For my family. I promise you."

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A/N: I feel a series coming onnnnn

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Heaven and Hell | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, ANNNGGSSSTTTTT, name-calling, mentions of self-hate, depression, anxiety, all the things. all of 'em.

Word Count: 4935

A/N: I will never forgive them for not giving us tatted-up Dean. I would literally sell my left leg for that to exist.

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

“(Y/N),” Uriel ordered, eyes icy. 

Your stomach dropped. 

“Kill.”

All eyes in the room turned to you. 

“What?” you breathed out. 

“Remember what we talked about?” Uriel taunted, referring to the threats he’d made to you. “Kill.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean butted in. “Okay, I know she's wiretapping your angel chats or whatever, but it's no reason to gank her.”

“Don't worry. I'll make her be gentle,” Uriel smirked, nodding at you.

“You're some heartless sons of bitches, you know that?” Dean snarled. 

Castiel spoke up. “As a matter of fact, we are. And?”

“And?” Sam scoffed. “Anna's an innocent girl.”

“She is far from innocent,” Castiel argued. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” questioned Sam. 

Uriel was quickly losing patience. “It means she's worse than this abomination you've been screwing. (Y/N)?”

“(Y/N), no,” Dean begged, eyes flashing to yours. 

You were terrified, unsure of what to do. You didn’t want to hurt Anna, but you didn’t want to find out what happened to Dean or Sam if you didn’t listen.

“Who's gonna stop her? You two? Or this demon whore?” Uriel spat. He threw Ruby against a wall with his powers, and Dean attacked him. 

“Dean, no!” you pleaded, trying to pull Uriel off Dean. 

Uriel snarled, “I’ve been waiting for this.” With little regard to you, he punched Dean across the face. 

Suddenly, a bright light engulfed the room. When it cleared, Castiel and Uriel were gone. 

“What the fuck?” Dean cursed, standing hesitantly. He helped you to your feet while Ruby tended to Sam. “Anna. Anna!” He headed into the back room where Anna was on the ground, covered in her own blood.

The concern he was showing her was slightly worrying you. 

“Are they— are they gone?” she breathed out.

“Did you kill them?” he asked. 

Anna was sitting next to a sigil drawn in her blood. “No. I sent them away; far away.”

“You want to tell me how?” Dean pressed. 

“That just popped in my head.” She nodded at the sigil. “I don't know how I did it. I just did it.”

Your skepticism of Anna was growing by the minute. Maybe Uriel was right. Maybe you should kill her. 

****

Thankfully, the Winchesters shared your skepticism. Still, they thought it best to put Anna in Bobby’s panic room. You sat with Sam researching Anna while Dean put her in the warded room. 

“How’s the car?” Dean asked. 

“I got her,” you replied. “She’s fine. Where’s Bobby?”

“Uh, The Dominican. He said we break anything, we buy it,” Dean answered. 

“He working a job?” questioned Sam.

“God, I hope so. Otherwise, he's at hedonism in a banana hammock and a trucker cap.”

Sam grimaced. “Now that's seared in my brain.”

“Alright, what’d you find on Anna?” Dean asked, leaning over the back of your chair. 

“Uh, not much,” you answered. “Her parents were Rich and Amy Milton: a deacon and a housewife.”

“Riveting.”

“Exactly,” you nodded.

“But there is something here in the report,” Sam added. “Turns out, this latest psych episode wasn't her first.”

“No?” 

“When she was two and a half, she'd get hysterical any time her dad got close. She was convinced that he wasn't her real daddy.”

“Who was? The plumber, hmm? A little snaking the pipes?” Dean smirked deviously.

“Dude, you're confusing reality with porn again,” Sam deadpanned.

“Look, Anna didn't say. She just kept repeating that this real father of hers was mad. Very mad; like wanted-to-kill-her mad.”

“Kind of heavy for a two-year-old,” the older brother noted. 

“Well, she saw a kid's shrink, got better, and grew up normal.”

“Until now. So, what's she hiding?” you asked. 

“Why don't you just ask me to my face?”

You rolled your eyes, keeping your back to Anna who’d obviously just walked into the room. 

“Nice job watching her,” Dean told Ruby.

“I am watching her.”

“No, you're right, Anna,” said Sam. “Is there anything you want to tell us?”

“About what?” she asked innocently. 

“The angels said you were guilty of something. Why would they say that?”

“You tell me. Tell me why my life has been leveled; why my parents are dead. I don't know. I swear. I would give anything to know,” she replied. 

You stared her down. “Tell me why I don’t believe you.”

“Maybe because you’re buddy-buddy with someone who wants me dead,” she stated. 

“And I’m close to wanting you dead, too,” you snapped. “So give me some real answers.”

“Okay!” Sam tried to break up the tension. “(Y/N), take a lap.”

“Happily.”

****

Almost an hour later, Dean was leading a psychic named Pamela into Bobby’s house. She’d helped the boys identify Castiel, and her eyes had been burned out as a result. “We’re here!” the older brother called down into the basement you were hiding in. 

“Pamela, hey!” Sam said, standing from his chair. “It’s me; it’s Sam.”

Pamela felt her way over to the younger Winchester. “Sam, is that you?”

“I’m right here,” he told her. 

“Oh. Know how I can tell?” She grabbed his ass. “That perky little ass of yours. You could bounce a nickel off that thing. Of course I know it's you, grumpy. Same way I know that's a demon, and that poor girl's Anna, and that you've been eyeing my rack.”

Sam began to stammer. 

“Don't sweat it, kiddo. I still got more senses than most,” she snickered. Then, she turned toward you. “Oh, (Y/N).” She slowly made her way over to you, and you held your hand out for her to grab. Despite your attempts to steady her, you yourself were trembling. “Shh, darlin’, it’s okay.” 

Your bottom lip trembled. The last time you’d met a psychic, she’d revealed family secrets to Sam and Dean. There was a lot more this one could reveal now.

“Sweet girl,” she said quietly, “those angels are dicks. Forgive yourself.”

Tears sprang to your eyes, but you fought hard to keep them at bay. 

The woman turned back to Anna. “Hey, Anna. How are you? I'm Pamela.”

“Hi,” the redhead replied. 

“Dean told me what's been going on. I'm excited to help,” the psychic smiled.

“Oh. That's nice of you.”

“Oh, well, not really. Any chance I can dick over an angel, I'm taking it.”

You snorted. 

“Why?” Anna asked. 

“They stole something from me,” she replied, taking off her glasses, referring to her white eyes. “Demon-y, I know. But they're just plastic. Good for business. Makes me look extra-psychic, don't you think?” She laughed. “Now, how about you tell me what your deal is, hmm? Don't you worry.”

After several stress-inducing minutes, Anna sat up from the hypnotic state Pamela put her in. 

“I’m an angel,” the girl revealed. “Don't be afraid, I'm not like the others.”

“I don't find that very reassuring,” Ruby responded. 

“Neither do I,” murmured Pamela. 

“So, Castiel, Uriel— they’re the ones that came for me?” Anna asked. 

Sam piped up, “You know them?”

“We were kind of in the same foxhole,” she answered.

“So, what, were they like your bosses or something?” Dean questioned. 

“Try the other way around.”

“Look at you,” you mocked. 

Pamela spoke up next. “But now, they want to kill you?”

“Orders are orders. I'm sure I have a death sentence on my head.” 

“Care to explain?” you sneered. 

“I disobeyed. Which, for us, is about the worst thing you can do. I fell.”

You nodded, clicking your tongue. “You became human.”

“Wait a minute. I don't understand. So, angels can just become human?” asked Sam.

“It kind of hurts,” Anna replied. “Try cutting your kidney out with a butter knife. That kind of hurt. I ripped out my grace.”

Dean snorted. “Come again?”

“My grace. It's…” she trailed off, searching for the words, “energy. Hacked it out and fell. My mother, Amy, couldn't get pregnant. Always called me her little miracle. She had no idea how right she was.”

“So, you just forgot that you were god's little Power Ranger?” Dean remarked. 

“The older I got, the longer I was human, yeah,” she explained. 

Ruby chimed in, “I don't think you all appreciate how completely screwed we are.”

“Ruby's right. Heaven wants me dead.”

“And Hell just wants her. A flesh-and-blood angel that you can question, torture: that bleeds. Sister, you're the Stanley Cup. And sooner or later, Heaven or Hell, they're gonna find you,” Ruby told her. 

“I know. And that's why I'm gonna get it back,” Anna said vaguely.

“What? Your grace?” you asked. 

She nodded. 

You scoffed, shaking your head and turning away. 

“You can do that?” Dean asked her. 

“If I can find it.”

“So, what, you're just gonna take some divine bong hit, and, shazam, you're Roma Downey?”

The angel shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Alright. I like this plan. So, where's this grace of yours?” Dean asked. 

“Wait, you do?” you scoffed.

Anna spoke over you. “Lost track. I was falling about ten-thousand miles per hour at the time.”

“Wait. You mean falling, like, literally?” Sam questioned, seeming to have realized something. 

You couldn’t even be bothered to focus on what they were talking about and strode out of the room. 

Needing some solace, you went out to the junkyard and sat on top of one of the cars in the middle of the lot. You looked up at the stars, taking in the beautiful and peaceful night sky. You missed when life felt like that: beautiful and peaceful. 

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Pamela called. 

You turned over your shoulder to see Pamela, helped by Dean, heading over toward you. “Uh, hey,” you said, turning forward again. 

“C’mon, talk to momma,” Pam urged you, coming up beside you. Dean stood off to the side with his hands in his pockets. You tried your best to ignore the fact that he was even there. 

“No offense, Pam, but I don’t really know you,” you said.

“Dean, sweetheart, give us just a second, okay?” He nodded, going to stand by his car. When she couldn’t hear his boots on the gravel anymore, she said, “You’re right. But I know you.”

“So, what, you can see into my mind’s eye?” you joked. 

The woman laughed softly. “I can. And I can see what’s troubling you. And I won’t say it out loud if you don’t want me to.”

“I appreciate that,” you told her dejectedly. 

You knew she could tell by your tone you didn’t believe her. “You’re shouldering all this responsibility,” she said. “But it’s not yours to shoulder alone, alright?”

Tears welled up again. “It is,” you argued. “I can’t— They’ll never forgive me.”

“Who won’t?” she asked. “Sam and Dean? Please, those two teddy bears love you.”

Your bottom lip trembled. “I appreciate you trying to help.”

“But?”

“But I’m too far gone.”

****

You watched Anna and Dean from afar as they sat on top of the Impala’s trunk. It hurt your heart a bit given that was what the two of you did when you had your serious talks. 

Rationally, you knew your jealousy wasn’t based in reality. You didn’t think he trusted her, and he wasn’t the kind of person who would cheat on his partner. Still, it hurt to watch the two of them together while your relationship with him felt so strained. 

Sam walked up beside you. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you said. Neither of you looked at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Sam told you.

“I’m sorry, too,” you replied. 

He sighed. “I know you know more about Dean’s time in Hell than you’re letting on. And I let that get under my skin.”

“Sam,” you started, “trust me when I say you don’t wanna know.” 

You saw him nod and look at the ground out of the corner of your eye. “Uriel’s got you fucked up, man.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “I know.” 

“And I know what he told you to do.”

Your heart nearly stopped. You took a moment to steady yourself before saying, “How?”

“C’mon, (Y/N),” he said. “You’re my best friend. Things have been… different, but I still know you.” Tension hung thick in the air while you waited for Sam’s next words. “He told you to kill me if I used my powers again, didn’t he?”

You nodded.

You heard him draw in a breath. “Are you going to?”

You hesitated. 

Sam scoffed.

“It’s not like I want to, Sam,” you stated evenly, still staring out at Dean and Anna. “If I don’t do what Uriel says, he’s gonna make me torture Dean.”

All function in Sam’s body stopped; you could almost feel it even though you still weren’t looking at him. “What?” he breathed out.

“Why do you think I do anything he says?” you laughed through the lump welling up in your throat.

“Does Dean know?” Sam questioned.

You shook your head.

“(Y/N/N), we gotta tell him—”

“No, Sam, we don’t have to do anything,” you cut him off, turning toward him for the first time. “He’s got too much on his fuckin’ plate right now. I won’t do that to him.”

“Don’t you think he could maybe… take away some of the guilt you’re feeling?” he suggested.

You turned away again. “No. It’d only make it worse.”

****

Sam brought you back inside to show you what he’d found; a tree had popped up in an empty clearing within a week in Union, Kentucky. He theorized that’s where Anna’s grace was, and Anna agreed.

However, her grace wasn’t there.

You, Anna, Ruby, and the Winchesters headed into an abandoned barn beyond the tree. 

“We still got the hex bags. I say we head back to the panic room,” Dean suggested.

Ruby scoffed. “What, forever?”

“I'm just thinking out loud!”

“Oh, you call that thinking?”

You squeezed the bridge of your nose, a pounding headache forming. 

“Hey!” Sam protested. “Hey, hey, hey. Stop it.”

“Anna's grace is gone,” Ruby stated, clearly ignoring him. “You understand? She can't angel up. She can't protect us. We can't fight Heaven and Hell. One side, maybe, but not both. Not at once.”

“Um… guys? The angels are talking again.”

The four of you waited for Anna to explain. 

“It's weird; like a recording, a loop. It says, ‘Dean Winchester gives us Anna by midnight, or…’ “ she cut herself off. 

“Or what?” you asked. 

“ ‘Or we hurl him back to damnation.’ “

“Alright, time’s up, sister,” you said, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her outside. 

“(Y/N), (Y/N), wait!” Dean grunted, stomping after you. 

Anna tried to wriggle away. “(Y/N), let me go! You’re hurting me!” 

“Uriel!” you called. 

Dean clapped a hand over your mouth, your surprise giving Anna the opportunity to get away from you. You shook him off you and spun around with your eyes burning in anger. “The fuck, Dean?!” 

“The hell is wrong with you?!” he shouted. 

“Me?” you argued. “What’s wrong with you?! Do you want to go back?”

“No, but I’m not gonna send some girl to her death off-rip!” he scoffed. 

You rolled your eyes, turning away from him. 

“What?” he probed, seeing you had something more on your mind. “(Y/N), what?!”

“Nothing, I just find your protectiveness of her really interesting.” You licked your teeth, quirking a brow. 

Dean scoffed and shook his head. “Seriously?” he nearly deadpanned. “You’re pulling that card?”

You furrowed your brows. “It’s not a card, Dean, I can see it! If fucking her is worth going to Hell for, then, by all means.” You threw your hands up in Anna’s direction, noticing that Sam, Ruby, and the angel had all backed away from you and Dean. 

“Where is this coming from? Is this really the time to pick a fight?” he asked. 

You closed your eyes, frowning. “You’re right. Let me go waste my fucking time researching how to kill and angel or a demon with no knife and take on multiple at once. All over one bitch.” You stormed away in complete fury. 

Anna tried to say something to you as you passed. You wheeled around to her and got in her face. “You say one more fucking thing to me, and you’re gone, you got it? I will get Uriel down here so fucking fast, it’ll make your head spin.”

****

You took a machete out to the surrounding woods and just hacked at as many trees as you possibly could. You stood in the center of a ring of six, almost like you were staging a battle, and swung at each with all your might. 

Then, you sat down against one of the trees you’d hacked at. You closed your eyes and rested your head against the bark of the tree. Then, you heard talking a little ways off from you. It was just barely there, but you heard enough murmurings to get your attention. As you crept closer, you felt your blood begin to boil. 

“A little scared, I guess,” the voice you identified as Anna’s was saying. “So, um... Dean... I just wanted to thank you.”

You were close enough now that you were a tree trunk’s distance away from the two figures standing near the Impala.

“For what?” he asked. 

“Everything. You guys— you didn't have to help me—”

Dean cut her off. “Hey, let's can the ‘thanks for trying’ speech, y’know? Participation trophies suck ass.”

She sighed. “I don't know. Maybe I don't deserve to be saved.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Dean told her. 

“I disobeyed. Lucifer disobeyed. It's our murder one, and I knew it. Maybe I got to pay.”

“Yeah, well, we've all done things we got to pay for,” he said, his voice carrying a weight. 

“I got to tell you something. You're not gonna like it.”

“Okay. what?”

“About a week ago, I heard the angels talking,” she started. “About you. What you did in Hell. Dean, I know. It wasn't your fault. You should forgive yourself.”

“Anna, I don't w-want to, uh... I don't want to... I can't talk about that,” Dean stammered. You knew him well enough to know he was keeping tears at bay.

“I know. But when you can, you have people that want to help,” she said. “You are not alone. That's all I'm trying to say.” 

Then, you heard something that nearly had you slitting her throat. She kissed him. Your Dean. 

Thankfully, you didn’t need to reveal yourself. 

“Whoa,” Deans said. “Uh, Anna, you’re great, and all, but (Y/N)’s my girl.”

Despite everything, he still called you that. That made you incredibly grateful, and you were angry at yourself for doubting him. 

“Oh, uh,” she said, “I’m sorry. I just thought— I mean, you never denied being attracted to me when she said something about it earlier.”

“Yeah, I know,” he replied. “And I should have.”

Anna clicked her tongue. “Guess I misread things, then.”

A silence followed. 

“I’m sorry,” she finally told him. Then, you heard leaves crunching as she walked away and back toward the barn where Ruby and Sam were preparing for war. 

When she was far enough away, you walked out from behind your tree, apparently scaring the hell out of Dean.

“Jesus, (Y/N),” he said when he saw you. “You scared the crap outta me.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Need to go change your drawers?”

He snorted. “I think I’ll be good.”

An almost awkward silence passed between the two of you. 

“Guess you heard all that, huh?” he asked. 

You nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. 

“I’m sorry, too,” you replied. 

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets. “What’s goin’ on with us, sweetheart?”

You felt both hurt and warmth from his familiar nickname. “It’s not you, Dee, it’s me.” Your lip trembled. 

“Then, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on,” he begged. 

“I can’t.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me,” Dean probed. “We can’t fix us if you don’t tell me.” “He wants me to kill Sam,” you finally said. 

Dean froze. “What?”

“If Sam uses his powers again, Uriel wants me to kill him,” you told him. “And, Dean, I can’t promise you that I won’t if he does.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “What, why?”

“Because you know what he will make me do to you if I don’t listen,” you reminded him. 

“You realize if you… kill Sam, I will never forgive you, right?” Dean said in complete disbelief.

“It’s not like I want to! But I will not put you through what I’m capable of. I won’t do it.” 

He took a moment to think but finally nodded. “Okay.” You cocked your head to the side. “Okay?”

“We’ll find a way out. He won’t use ‘em again, I promise,” he told you. 

You nodded. “Okay.” The relief he was bringing to you made you feel safe enough to let it all out. Tears started flowing freely, and Dean brought you into his chest. “I don’t wanna have to hurt him, Dean,” you hiccuped. “He’s my best friend. And— And I don’t want you to hate me if Uriel makes me hurt him.”

“Hey, let’s not even go there, alright?” Dean said. “We’re not even gonna consider that possibility.” 

You nodded against his chest and sniffed. You looked up at him, eyes still shining as you tried to collect yourself. 

Almost as if spellbound, he said, “You are so beautiful.”

Immediately, you wound your arms around his neck and kissed him. He reciprocated the action, tugging your waist closer to him and biting your lower lip. 

You pulled on his hair with one hand and slid your other down his chest. Then, you slipped your fingers between his belted jeans and stomach, making him suck in a sharp breath. 

“Backseat?” he asked you. 

“Backseat.” 

Every time you and Dean had sex, it was an out-of-this-world experience. He always made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered to him. Each roll of his hips, each kiss down your neck conveyed everything his words couldn’t. He completely worshipped you; not just your body. Everything in the way he treated you told you he loved you from the inside out. 

You tried to give him that same love. He was your everything, and you wanted him to feel that, too. Despite the storm going on inside you, he was the one thing you were completely sure of. He was the one person you enjoyed fighting with. You’d rather fight with him than love anyone else. Dean Winchester was it for you, and you hoped the way you held him to your chest while he slept conveyed that. 

Soon, your breathing began to match his, the way you stroked his hair slowed, and you drifted off to sleep as well. 

****

When you and Dean woke up, he seemed a lot more stressed than he had been the night before. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked him. 

He shook his head. “Just a bad dream.”

“I’m sorry,” you told him. 

He sat up between your legs and tugged on a fresh shirt from his duffel bag. “It’s fine.” At your concerned look, Dean rubbed the inside of your bare thigh to reassure you. “It’s fine, I’m good.”

The two of you went inside the barn to see if Sam had found anything interesting through the night. 

“I don't know, man,” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

“So, nothing, then, I’m guessing,” you said. 

He shook his head. “Where's Ruby?”

“Hey, she's your Hell buddy.” Dean took a swig of his flask. 

“Little early for that, isn't it?” Anna laughed, the sound of her voice making your blood boil. 

“It's two a.m. somewhere,” Dean replied, voice distant.

“You okay?” she asked him. 

“He’s fine,” you snapped. 

Then, the doors flew open. 

“Hello, Anna,” Castiel said, voice as gravelly as ever. “It's good to see you.”

“How? How did you find us?” Sam asked, confused and startled.

“Dean?”

Dean turned to Anna. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Sam asked. 

“Because they gave him a choice. They either kill me or kill her,” Anna explained, nodding at you. “I know how their minds work.” She looked up at Dean, who couldn’t seem to meet her eyes. “You did the best you could. I forgive you.” Then, she stepped forward. “Okay. No more tricks. No more running. I'm ready.”

“I'm sorry,” said Castiel. 

The angel shook her head. “No, you're not; not really. You don't know the feeling.”

He shrugged. “Still, we have a history. It's just—”

“Orders are orders, I know.” She drew in a breath. “Just make it quick.”

Then, a bleeding Ruby appeared with a demon and Alastair. “Don't you touch a hair on that poor girl's head,” the latter sneered. 

“How dare you come in this room, you pussing sore?” Uriel growled. 

Alastair chuckled darkly. “Name-calling. That hurt my feelings, you sanctimonious, fanatical prick.” 

“Turn around and walk away now,” Castiel ordered.

“Sure,” the demon shrugged. “Just give us the girl. We'll make sure she gets punished good and proper.”

“You know who we are and what we will do. I won't say it again. Leave now, or we lay you to waste.” 

“Think I'll take my chances.”

You couldn’t hold yourself back anymore. You drew one of your knives from your jacket and threw it at Alastair. He caught it easily, chuckling. Then, all Hell broke loose. Castiel attacked Alastair, Uriel exorcised the other demon, and you stood back near Sam. 

Then, Alastair tried to exorcise Castiel. Dean reacted by picking up a crowbar and hitting him over the head with it. 

Alastair turned around slowly. “Dean, Dean, Dean... I am so disappointed. You had such promise.”

Your attention was quickly taken away from Dean and the demon by Anna rushing Uriel. She smashed the pendant from around his neck on the ground, and a brilliant white light began to flow into her mouth. “Shut your eyes,” she said, quietly at first. “Shut your eyes! Shut your eyes!”

You cowered into Sam’s side, the two of you shielding each other with your jackets. When it seemed the light had gone away, you reopened your eyes. Uriel, Castiel, and Ruby’s knife were all that remained of the battle. 

“Well, what are you guys waiting for? Go get Anna. Unless, of course, you're scared,” Dean taunted. 

“This isn’t over,” Uriel said.

“Oh, it looks over to me, junkless,” your partner retorted. 

Castiel and Uriel disappeared. 

“You okay?” Sam asked Ruby. 

She shook her head. “Not so much.”

“What took you so long to get here?”

“Sorry I'm late with the demon delivery. I was only being tortured,” she scoffed. 

You shook your head, smiling slightly. Of course, the Winchesters had a bigger plan all along. 

“I got to hand it to you, Sammy. Bringing them all together all at once; angels and demons. It was a damn good plan,” Dean told his little brother. 

The brunet shrugged. “Yeah, well, when you got Godzilla and Mothra on your ass, best to get out of their way and let them fight.”

You rolled your eyes. “Now you’re just bragging.”

“So, I guess she's some big-time angel now, huh? She must be happy; wherever she is.”

“I doubt it,” you murmured. 

****

When all was said and done, you and the boys were off again. 

About four hours into your drive, Dean pulled off to the side of the road for a bit of reprieve. 

Sam took the opportunity to get a beer out of the trunk, and the three of you sat on the hood of the car together. 

“I can’t believe we made it out of there,” Dean said. 

“Again,” you snorted. You reached across Dean to clink your beer against Sam’s. 

Dean broke the momentary silence. “I know you heard him.”

Sam cocked his head to the side. “Who?”

“Alastair. What he said... about how I had promise.”

You stared down at the pavement in front of you knowing exactly where this conversation was heading. 

“I heard him,” Sam nodded solemnly.

“You’re not curious?”

“Dean, I'm damn curious. But you're not talking about Hell, and I'm not pushing.”

Your partner took a deep breath. “It wasn't four months, you know.”

“What?”

“It was four months up here, but down there…” Dean trailed off. “I don't know. Time's different. It was more like forty years.”

“My god,” Sam murmured. 

“They, uh... “ Dean choked out. “They sliced and carved and tore at me in ways that you— until there was nothing left. And then, suddenly, I would be whole again; like magic. Just so they could start all over. And Alastair, at the end of every day— every one— he would come over. And he would make me an offer.” You could hear him holding back sobs. “To take me off the rack if I put souls on; if I started the torturing. And every day, I told him to stick it where the sun shines.” He paused, taking in a shuddering breath. “For thirty years, I told him. But then I couldn't do it anymore, Sammy. I couldn't. And I got off that rack. God help me, I got right off it, and I started ripping them apart. I lost count of how many souls. The— the things that I did to them.”

“Dean,” Sam tried. “Dean, look, you held out for thirty years. That's longer than anyone would have.”

The older Winchester couldn’t hold back his tears anymore. “How I feel— This— Inside me— I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-nesmith @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

[alicentofhightower]

the dragon and the crab

pairing: aegon targaryen x fem!celtigar!reader

synopsis: boys seem to catch your eye more, as of late. you wonder if that’s the reason why you’re helping this drunken fool of a prince.

includes: drunk aegon, he’s actually not that bad here. so sorry if this is ooc this is my first time writing a oneshot for him!

WC: 1.5k

a/n: this was written with ty tennant’s aegon in mind because it’s set during laena velaryon’s funeral, but you can envision tgc’s aegon too i don’t really care. i did not proofread this so im sorry for any mistakes, i literally just wrote this on my phone in bed because i miss aegon and im bored. i might write a part 2 idk

-

The first time Aegon sees you, he cannot help but wonder why you take such a liking to Helaena.

Laena Velaryon’s funeral had been an uneventful one. A bore, to be honest, but his mother would smack him if he’d ever voiced that thought aloud. He’d never known the noblewoman well. Honestly, his mind was more preoccupied with the looming thought of his upcoming wedding.

It was tradition for Targaryens to be married to relative. They’d practiced it for hundreds of years, long before the doom of Old Valyria. His mother had always seemed so intent on practicing the customs of her Andal forbears, and Aegon wished she’d been the same for his marriage.

Deep down, he knew why Helaena would be his wife. It was to keep her close to Alicent. If she’d been wed to some fat lord in the Riverlands, or a foolish one from the Reach, it would make no difference; there was no real confirmation that she’d ever be kept safe. His mother would not have another Aemma be made of her only daughter.

“We have nothing in common,” Aegon complained, constantly having to brush his silver waves away from his face. The wind from the beach was relentless.

He stood off to the side next to Aemond, away from where you yourself sat next to the Princess. She seemed to speak in riddles, with the way she mumbled of ‘spools of green and black’, but you did not mind. You could tell she was of a sweet nature.

Helaena handed you another shell to hold, her fingertips tracing the texture of it. “She’s our sister,” interjected Aemond.

Everything about Aegon was improper. The way he could not seem to let go of his cup of wine for even a minute, the way his eyes wandered towards the skittish maids, even down to his posture; hunched and lazy. “You marry her, then,” The elder prince said, his fingers loose around his chalice. If he wasn’t careful, he’d probably drop it, make a fool of himself as he always had.

“I would perform my duty. If mother had only betrothed us.” Aemond did not speak out of genuine desire for his sister, only his yearning to be the firstborn son. To be given the duties of his unwilling brother.

“If only,” He scoffed.

His blue eyes traveled to where you were, listening closely to every word of his weird soon-to-be wife. Aegon did not pay much attention to his Old Valyrian lessons, much less his history, but even he could recognize which house you were from by the dress you wore; ivory and scarlet, the colors of House Celtigar.

Your house was a Valyrian one itself, though far less proud than the one of his own or the Velaryons. You wore a veil of mourning to honor the late Lady Laena, but he could see the earrings you adorned beneath it; crabs, closely resembling your sigil.

You could not hear what the young princes spoke of, but your eyes had averted over to them occasionally, though most of your attention was paid to Aegon. His face was scrunched together as he studied you, trying to figure out why you’d ever willingly be in the company of Helaena. Mayhaps you were just as off-putting as she was.

Blooming into womanhood, you could not help but take notice of boys your age; Aegon himself was quite handsome, though lustful and foolish, and your mother had personally warned you to stay away from him on the way to Driftmark. It only made you want to talk to him more.

Soon enough, Aegon made his way over to another servant, grabbing the pitcher on the platter she held and pouring himself more Arbor gold… away from where you were. You wondered if that’d be the last you saw of him.

-

It wasn’t.

Sleep had escaped you. Taking a stroll outside was far more appealing than tossing and turning in your bed, so you’d wrapped your robe around your nightgown and snuck out of your chambers.

You almost gasped when you saw him. There he was, at the end of the stairs, drunk and hiccuping with his eyes closed. He sat against the stone of the railing, head drooping and hands still grasping his goblet tightly.

“My Prince?”

No response.

Descending down the steps, you poked his hunched shoulder. He did not even start. It took a harsh shake of his forearm to wake him, and Aegon threw his head back when he did, smacking it against the marble behind him.

Aegon’s pale hand flew to cradle the back of his skull. He hissed, features squeezing together as he let out a sharp breath. It reeked of wine, and he appeared to be startled that he hadn’t been smacked yet. “Grandsire?” He asked, eyes still scrunched shut.

“No,” You said softly. “It’s just me, my Prince.”

His eyelids shot open. It took a moment for him to recognize you. “Why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be abed?”

Gods, maybe your lady mother was right about avoiding him. He’d already begun to irritate you, and you’d been speaking to him for less than a minute. “Shouldn’t you?”

His head lolled to the side, falling to rest on his shoulder. “What will you do? Tattle on me to my mother? I’ve already been scolded today,” He grumbled, his words slightly slurred.

Really, you should just leave this fool of a prince alone, act like this never happened, and climb back into bed. You won’t. It’s normal for men of his age to indulge in their vices, but some part of you tells you that this is wrong; that he shouldn’t be out here in the cold night, slumped into a mess of his own limbs. You feel bad.

Boldly, you reach forward again, grasping his wrist. “Come on,” You say to Aegon, your tone softer. “I’ll help you back to your chambers.”

“I’m too tired.”

He yelps when you yank him up, stumbling forward, his hands scrambling to grab your shoulders to keep him upright. “You should not treat a Prince so roughly.” Despite his words, Aegon allows you to wrap an arm about his shoulders, guiding him forward.

His eyes are wide as he looks down at you, seemingly trying to figure out why you’d pour this much time into someone you don’t even know. There’s a flush becoming all the more apparent on his face, and unbeknownst to you, it’s not because of the wine.

You’re sure there will be a scandal made out of this. An unmarried young noble-lady taking King Viserys’s firstborn son, drunk, back to his chambers during the hour of the owl? Certainly the maids will begin to whisper false tales of your relationship with the Prince, and your father will reprimand you on the ship back to Claw Isle. He might have you married even sooner to dispel them. You cannot find it in yourself to care.

“This way,” You whisper, walking towards where the innermost hall is, where the royal chambers are. Aegon’s steps are uneven and irregular. If you’d not been holding him, he’d probably have fallen twice already.

He’s even more beautiful under the torchlight. Soft cheekbones and plush lips, he’s the very image of his mother, though he certainly does not act like it. Your lips almost part at the feeling of his nose nudging against your cheek, though you attempt to ignore it.

He’s drunk, you tell yourself. Pay no mind to him.

The knights on patrol raise their brows at the sight of you when you make your way past them. An awkward position you’re in. Both his and your arm are wrapped around the other’s shoulders, and his knees are bent so he can be at the level of your face. He’s not even looking forward to where you’re trying to go, his eyes analyzing the look on your face.

He was so talkative when you woke him. You wonder why he’s gone quiet, but reason it to be that he’s exhausted. “What’s your name, again?” He sputters.

He nods rapidly when you tell him it, as if he’ll remember it on the morrow.

Finally, you make it to his room; even the doors to it are grand and tall, befitting one of his status. Yours are farther away from his, in the corridors practically across the keep. It’ll be a long walk back.

You find you don’t know what to say. “…Well, good night, my Prince,” You say softly, letting go of him to let him stand by himself. He wobbles.

Aegon turns to leave, but whips his head around before his pale hand can grasp the handle of the door, his eyes darting around the features of your face. He wants to remember you, it seems.

“You won’t stay?” He can barely pronounce the words correctly, let alone stand up, choosing to lean on the door behind him to keep his balance. Somehow, it’s both endearing and pathetic.

Your cheeks flush at the mere idea of following him into his bedchamber. What was he thinking?

“No, my Prince. It’s best I leave you be.”

Aegon nods solemnly at that, tongue running over his slightly chapped lips. He bows his head in thought, then raises it again, a peculiar glint in his eye that you cannot decipher.

“….’s Aegon. Just Aegon,” He says, quiet, like it’s a secret only the two of you know.

“Good night, Aegon.”

[myocsfanfictions]

THE WRATH OF FIRE

House of the Dragon

MASTERLIST

Princess Ysilla Targaryen is the only daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce. The affection that she felt for her mother was strong, while her father had never been there, acting as if Ysilla was not even his. But she was. The dragon egg that had been put in her cradle hatched. An outcast of a dragon was born. A dragon with no legs. An outcast of a dragon for and an outcast of a dragon rider. Ysilla’s hair was dark but streaked with white. She was a Targaryen, and her wrath was not different from the one that burned inside the members of the House of the Dragon.

《 Previous - Next 》

CHAPTER 9

Ysilla was walking up the stairs of one of the many secret passages of the Red Keep. Ysilla had explored the castle with her cousins since they were all just babes, and they used them frequently to move around unnoticed.

Ysilla liked to do it. Those dark and lonely places led to different parts of the castle. Every time she walked through those corridors, she felt like an adventure. She knew it was childish, but she enjoyed it.

But those were even the fastest ways to move in the castle, with no people watching or asking where she was going. She liked life at court, but people could be very inquisitive and curious. And she didn't want to show people the anger she was feeling. Aegon really knew how to be cruel when he wanted to be, and Aemond seemed to be the target of his jests and the Velaryon brothers, even if they were younger. Aemond felt left out from all of them, he was different. He would always following them to the Dragonpit even if he lacked a dragon, wishing for his egg to finally hatch or for a new dragon to be found.

What is a Targaryen without a dragon? Ysilla was not stranger to that thought. She still remembered how she cradled Darysir’s egg when she was just a babe of five, knowing that a dragon was the true legacy of a Targaryen. That was their sigil and symbol of power. No one but them could bound such terrible beasts to their will, no one was as strong. And yet a Targaryen without a dragon was just a human. No different from anyone else. That was a frightening thought, a saddened one too, and she felt for Aemond since he had to indulge in such pain.

“Are you alright?” She had asked him following him, to make sure he didn’t felt alone. She knew how loneliness hurt to the heart and the spirit.

His posture was stiff. Ysilla could not see his face, but she didn’t miss how he quickly pass a hand over his dirty face, “Yes, cousin.”

The girl looked down at her hands, she was picking at her nails, sometimes she did that when she felt uncomfortable. Out of words. Those situations were the hardest to handle, since she felt like her every word could make no difference.

“I’m sure you’ll have a dragon one day, my prince,” she whispered, not daring to get any closer.

Aemond scoffed shaking his head, “Don’t lie to me,” He asked turning to her, the dirt on his cheeks were stained, giving away the tears he had shad, “My egg will never hatch and there’s no dragon for me to claim. Don’t be cruel, Ysilla.”

Ysilla observed the boy in front of her, he desperately wanted to prove himself to all of them, to himself and the hurt on his face was so visible as if Ysilla was feeling it herself. Her words must have felt like another jest, and of that she felt bad.

“Aemond,” she spoke softly taking a step towards her cousin, “I was not trying to to be cruel, I hope you know that,” she assured, “What I meant is that mayhaps here in King’s Landing there are no more dragons to claim, but on Dragonstone there are. Vermithor, Silverwing, or the three wild dragons as well.”

Aemond looked at her skeptical, “And I could bend one?”

“You are a Targaryen, my prince,” she said looking at him in the eyes, “There is nothing you cannot do.”

“Other Targaryens do not think so,” he answered with frustration, “They see me fit for a pig.”

Ysilla moved her hand so that she could lift Aemond face with her fingers, “Velaryon are not Targaryen. They seem rather strong to me, but they are not us.” Her words seemed to surprise him, and when he saw her lips turn up into a smile, he timidly did the same. “Don’t be bothered by those kids.” As for his brother however…

Aegon liked to jest, never thinking about consequences. He never thought about consequences. He never cared about consequences, not until he had fun with it. She wanted to speak to her cousin, they had grew up together and he was probably the one she knew best, the one she was the closest to, the one who made her angry the most.

But when she arrived behind the hidden door of the passage, Ysilla heard a voice.

"Aemond is your brother."

It was the Queen. She must have already talked with the King.

Ysilla wondered if the King would have done something about what had happened—at least scold his son and nephews. The Queen had been so angry after Aemond had left for his chambers to clean himself. Ysilla understood how the Queen felt, and she would have liked to have a chance to talk with Aegon before his mother wanted any explanation.

"Well, he's a twat," Ysilla shook her head, hearing Aegon's muffled voice.

Gods, Aegon, she thought in silence.

"We are family," the Queen spoke, "You may cuff him about as you wish at home, but in the open world, we must defend our own."

"It was funny," she heard Aegon answer simply.

Ysilla took a deep breath. Sometimes, even the family itself can be dangerous. But that was not the case with Aemond and Aegon. They were just boys. Ysilla wished that Aegon had paid a bit more attention to his own siblings. He should cherish his family.

"Do you think Rhaenyra's sons will be your playthings forever?" The Queen asked, not trying to hide her irritation. “As things stand, Rhaenyra will ascend the throne and Jacaerys Targaryen will be her heir.” Ysilla got closer to the wall to hear at her best.

“So?” Aegon seemed lost and that made her mother groan out loudly.

“You are nearly a man-grown. How is it that you can be so shortsighted?” The Queen’s tone was full of frustration, anger and disappointment. But Ysilla could understand Aegon’s confusion. He would never think about the consequences, and Ysilla herself had found herself lost when the Queen had spoken to her about the danger their family was running into.

Does every family plot on killing each other for power? Or is just our prerogative? Ysilla thought as her mind went back to the last time she had seen her mother ride away for hawking, coming back as a corpse; cold and still, as a little girl of five found out that her own father had been the cause of that tragedy. And for what? To be wed to Rhaenyra? Become prince consort? Was that his plot?

Daemon Targaryen had left her motherless for a whim, and as he gained nothing, Ysilla had lost everything. The wrath that she felt every time she thought about her father was something that light such a fire within her, a fire that she desperately wanted to free somehow. But she had learnt the art of dignity and the taste of patience. She knew that the King would have never done anything to his precious brother, and yet Ysilla still dreamt of a day where her father would face the consequences of his crimes.

“If Rhaenyra comes into power your very life could be forfeit. Aemond’s as well,” the Queen spoke again, “She could move to cut off any challenge to her succession.”

Would Rhaenyra commit such crime against her own brothers, to secure her position and the one of her bastards sons? She once was so close to Daemon Targaryen, wearing the shiny Valyrian neckless that he had gifted for her as if it hold some kind of a promise between them. Such a beautiful neckless, Ysilla thought bitterly. My neck still remains unadorned.

A bond like the one Rhaneyra and Daemon shared, could lead them to the same crimes? Ysilla did not wish to learn the answer, she would have not learnt the answer. She had already lost her family. She could not lose another. She refused to. Aegon and his siblings would not pay the price to let bastard ascend to the Iron Throne. She could see it. But Aegon…

“Then I won’t challenge…” Aegon was cut of but the Queen’s screams. A sound that made Ysilla shiver.

“You are the challenge!” She yelled, “You are the challenge, Aegon! Simply by living and breathing!” Ysilla felt her breath labour as she slid down against the wall. It could happen. It would happen. Politics could be cruel, it knew no mercy, it knew no family. If a succession war was to happen, the first to die would always be the male heir.

“You are the King’s firstborn son,” the Queen kept saying, “And what they know, what everyone in the realm knows in their blood and in their bones is that one day, you will be our King.” Ysilla closed her eyes with a heavy sign as she heard the Queen leave Aegon’s chambers. That future didn’t seem so far. The King did not possessed the best of health, having lost an arm and getting paler by the day. He still smiled though, and she wished that his body would keep living form many years more, because once the King would leave that world, not everyone would bent the knee to a woman, especially after giving birth to bastards, and at that point her cousins’ life could be at risk.

"Aegon," she spoke quietly, stepping into the room. She heard the boy take a shaky breath. He was about to cry, and that sound pained her heart.

"My mother had already scolded me, Ysilla," he said, pushing his head back as he stood up. Ysilla was quick to turn her back to him, noticing that he wasn't wearing any clothes. It had already happened before, so she was not surprised to see him like that, but she flushed anyway.

"I'm not here to scold you," she said, hearing him cross the room to get his clothes. In truth, she was, but after what she heard, Ysilla felt for him, and suddenly, she didn’t feel the need to argue with him anymore. You never think about the consequences, Aegon.

“So my brother had not come to cry to you as he did with Mother?” He asked with frustration, but Ysilla did not answered to that.

"I wished to ride on dragon back,” she said turning to look at Aegon, “Do you want to come with me?” His eyes widened in surprise as he observed her frame, but he nodded none the less.

They were strangely quiet as they made their way to the carriage that would bring them to the Dragonpit. Ysilla quite enjoyed that silence though. Quiet sounds, quiet times. Maybe they would all shout too much. She could feel Aegon’s eyes on her though, unsure of what to do or say. That behaviour made her smile.

“I was thinking about something,” she said suddenly, smiling when she saw her cousin take a relieved breath.

“Finally,” he said, “I wasn’t sure if you were angry with me.” Ysilla observed him.

“You get on my nerves quite easily,” she answered making him roll his eyes, but the smile never left her lips. “So, do you want to hear my thoughts?” She asked fixings her black riding clothes.

“As long as you don’t shout to me like Mother.” He mumbled looking outside the carriage.

“I was thinking about how lucky we are,” she said ignoring his scoff, “How lucky I am.” That made him frown as he turned to look at her, “After my mother I thought I would be alone for the rest of my life, but then you, all of you let me in this family,” she took a breath, “You are my family, Aegon.”

His eyes stayed on her, observing Ysilla with a confused stare, “I… I don’t understand…” Ysilla smiled, standing up as the carriage came to an halt.

“There’s no need,” she said, “I do.”

The door got opened by the guard that had escorted them. The man showed her his hand for her to take, so that she could safely get out. Ysilla knew she needed to no help, but the gallant gesture was much welcomed, so she accepted the hand. As she walked towards the Dragonpit, she could hear Aegon quick steps coming from behind her.

“You said you wanted to share a thought, but you said nothing I didn’t know,” he argued, still confused. Ysilla laughed.

“I’m glad it is no news to you,” she answered fixing the clothes of the gloves around her fingers. Suddenly he took her by the arm, making her turn.

“What did you understand that I didn’t?” Ysilla could see the confused frown upon his face, how his lips would pout when he got frustrated. That expression made her smile, as she swiftly caressed his cheeks.

“Many things, my prince,” she said freeing herself as her eyes went to Dārysyr. He was being brought to her by the Dragonkeepers. He would slither beautifully on the ground, his purple wings lapping in excitement as he saw her, like he had done since he was just an hatchling.

“Zȳhon belma qogror",” she said as Dārysyr would get close so that she could touch his snout. His scales were so hot against her gloved fingers. “Gaomagon ao jaelagon naejot sōvegon rūsīr issa?” At her question, Dārysyr growled, moving his dark wings. (My beautiful friend. Do you want to ride with me?)

Then another growl could be heard, but it was different from Dārysyr’s. Its pitch was higher and clearer. She knew who it belonged to.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon said with a genuine and happy smile on his face as his beautiful golden and pink dragon would get closer to his rider. Sunfyre was the most expressive among all the dragons and he absolutely adored Aegon. He playfully pushed Aegon as a greeting and Ysilla’s heart got full with fondness as she watch how Aegon caressed his dragon. Her hand would stroke Dārysyr’s neck as he’d protectively went around her as he always did.

“Is my prince ready to take flight?” She asked getting Aegon’s attention back to her.

“Are you ready, my lady?” He dared her as he moved to get on Sunfyre’s back.

“Don’t start something when you do not know how it will end,” she warned him playfully her securing the belt around her waist as she got comfortable on her saddle, but he just scoffed before giving Sunfyre the order so that the dragon could start moving towards the exit.

“Tolot zȳhos ābra, zȳhon ñuha.” She said patting Dārysyr’s neck, “Sīr zābūbys ābra, dārys. Targot dāeri, Dārysyr.” (He never thinks about the consequences, my friend. I’ll think about consequences, then. Fly now, Darysir.)

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